Uvoren did not introduce Roper. Indeed, he did not acknowledge him. “We have plans to make,” he said shortly.
“Make them quickly,” said the man with the long ponytail. “Jokul has summoned me for two hours at my earliest convenience. I don’t want to spend this entire night in council.”
Uvoren smiled at the man. “Two hours with Jokul? Just one might kill you.”
The ponytailed man nodded. “I’m worried it might not.”
There was a slight pause and then the table rippled with laughter.
“That man gets thinner every time I see him,” said one of the Sacred Guardsmen.
“I’ve seen buzzards follow him around when he goes outside,” said Uvoren. They all laughed again. Roper joined in, but stopped when Uvoren stared at him, that smile on his lips again. “You shouldn’t laugh at Jokul, Roper.” Roper. “He is a public servant of many years. Nor should you be sitting in the Stone Throne. It remains unoccupied for three days after the death of the Black Lord as a mark of respect.” He gestured to one of the places further down the table.
Roper did not move for a moment. He did not believe Uvoren and stared at him stubbornly. He felt the combined gaze of the table focus on him and realised this was a contest of will he could not win. Retreat, again. He stood and moved further down the table. The ponytailed man watched him dead-eyed as he sat down. “What is your name, Guardsman?” Roper asked, looking for some initiative.
“Lictor,” responded the man.
“That is a title,” said Roper.
“Yes. It is my title.”
And my title is Lord, thought Roper, though he said no more. He knew this man by reputation, if not to look at. A lictor was the disciplinarian of a fighting unit, charged with ensuring that the soldiers do as they are told. He had the remit to beat his fellow soldiers to death if he wished, though they could not lay a hand on him. It was an influential position, traditionally given to a man of surpassing self-confidence and bravery. Evidently the role fitted the ponytailed man like a glove: it was he who had killed Earl William.
Roper knew his name and his reputation well: this was the sprinter Pryce Rubenson, twice honoured with a Prize of Valour. He was almost as famous as Uvoren himself; known throughout the Black Kingdom as one of the finest athletes it had ever produced and as much a hero to the young women of the land as to its warriors.
Roper learned much over the next hours.
The legate of the Blackstones told what had been happening beneath the flood waters. “Clever bastards. Caltrops. I’ve seen them before in Samnia: jagged iron spikes which always face upwards, sprinkled in front of my legionaries, thick as grass. They baited us with a false charge to make sure we were running when we hit the trap.” The legate had shaken his head. “Now that was clever. And the nerve, to get the timing just right. I’m rather sorry you killed Earl William, Pryce. It can only hasten the rise of Bellamus. In him, we have a worthy enemy.”
“I’m not sorry,” said Uvoren. “The bickering between Bellamus and Lord Northwic was all that stopped our retreat turning into a full-blown disaster.” He had turned to look sourly at Roper.
“I ordered the cavalry to keep clear of the Blackstones,” Roper blurted. This elicited a stony silence from the other men at the table.
“Be silent, Roper,” said Uvoren finally. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Your father was just passable as a leader; limited, but passable. You have absolutely nothing going for you.” Everyone at the table besides Pryce laughed. Uvoren grinned. “What are you doing here?”
“You told me to come,” said Roper. He wanted to say more, but knew Uvoren would undermine him, whatever his words.
“He told you to come?” put in another guardsman with a sweaty face. “If you can do exactly as you’re told, you might rule after all, Roper.” The table laughed again.
Roper kept quiet. He knew his first taste of command could scarcely have been worse, but he had not expected it to be met by this naked aggression. Uvoren, who had seemed so charming and friendly under Kynortas’s gaze, had turned on Roper. This was his enemy: Uvoren the Mighty. The most esteemed man in the country and its most glorified warrior. They had started playing a game and Roper had not even known. That was why he had told Roper to change his armour: so that it would look as though he had commanded and panicked from afar, and not been involved in the fighting. That was why he had asked Roper to ride at the head of the column: so that the blame was placed squarely on his shoulders.
The laws of succession were clear; Roper must rule. But Uvoren, one of the most influential and respected warriors of the age, at the head of the Lothbroks, one of its greatest houses, was trying to make Roper’s position so untenable that an exception would be made. Uvoren had seemed to support the retreat but it was Roper who had taken the blame for it. After that, and with such an obvious and capable rival to his succession, who would support Roper? What chance did a nineteen-year-old with no experience and no name other than that bequeathed to him by his father stand against the greatest warrior alive?
He had no idea where to begin; no idea where he would find the allies to support his claim. But he knew where to find his enemies.
They were right here; at this table. Uvoren’s war council.
Roper memorised them all. He remembered their names, their stations, their countenances. He observed who was personally close to Uvoren, who merely a crony. He watched the way they sat,
