“Let me worry about that,” said Roper. “I have a plan.”
“I hope it’s a good one, lord,” said Gray as they reached the archway by which Helmec waited. “I said I’d die to keep Uvoren off the throne, but I’d really rather I didn’t have to.” He offered Roper his disarming smile. “Have you given thought to who you might marry, lord?”
“Many thoughts, few conclusions,” said Roper grimly. The thought disturbed him quite as much as taking on Uvoren.
“Pryce has a cousin; Keturah Tekoasdottir, who would be about your age. It is time she was wed, and that would be a worthy alliance.”
“Tekoasdottir?” said Roper, nervously. Pryce’s uncle, Tekoa, was the infamous head of House Vidarr. Roper had never seen him at the war council but had noted that a seat was always kept empty for him, even when the great table was crowded, lest he should decide to attend.
Gray suddenly relaxed his face into a look of childlike terror, causing an unexpected peal of laughter to escape Roper. “Don’t worry, lord,” he said. “His bark is worse than his bite. But all the same, winning him round will be a challenge.”
“Thank you, Gray Konrathson,” said Roper holding out a hand, which Gray took with a bow. “Perhaps Pryce could speak to his uncle on my behalf and soothe the beast before I come face to face with it.”
“Lord, safe to say that nothing enrages the beast more than talking to Pryce.”
Roper smiled and departed, leaving Gray to walk back to the centre of the hall where the Guard still trained. Pryce was sparring with another guardsman so Gray took a skin of water and sat and watched his young protégé. He was not very refined. Many of the Guard could do extraordinary things with a blade, bewildering opponents and onlookers in ways which Gray knew he could not achieve with a lifetime of training, but Pryce was not one of those. His movements were often wild and savage. Those who could defeat him easily in training were the technically advanced swordsmen, who could spot and exploit an exposed wrist or throat. The likes of Vigtyr the Quick or Leon Kaldison should be able to cut him down with relative ease.
Even so, there was a saying among the legions: “Never fight Pryce.” His movements might be wild, but they were an order of magnitude faster than any man Gray had met. He was also well-balanced, with exceptional footwork and any who had seen him fight in combat understood the saying all too well. Never fight Pryce. His brutality and energy overwhelmed most of his opponents, and he appeared invulnerable to pain. The theory was that even if you could deliver a lethal blow to Pryce, he would still have the time and inclination to savage you with his own sword or, if you had somehow disarmed him, simply tear into you with his teeth and fingernails.
The Second Trumpet blasted across the hall, indicating that the legionaries should cease training to eat. Gray waited as Pryce clapped his opponent on the shoulder and laughed with him, gesticulating rapidly in an impression of one of their bouts. The guardsman looked absurdly pleased that he was laughing with Pryce; everyone was pleased when Pryce showed an interest in them. Gray had his own measure of respect, but knew that people did not fawn for his approval like they did for Pryce’s. The young sprinter was a force of nature.
Pryce clasped his opponent’s hand, bade him farewell and re-joined Gray. “So how was your conversation with Boy-Roper?”
“Satisfactory,” said Gray as they began to walk together to the mess hall. “He knows what he has to do.”
Pryce frowned. “So you’re going to back him? That child who inflicted the ignominy of a first ever retreat on a full call-up?”
“That was the correct decision,” said Gray without hesitation. “We might still have won the battle if he’d advanced, but at a terrible price. Honour is everything, but I refuse to accept a definition of honour that places higher regard on tactical suicide than it does on the security of future generations.”
“You may be right,” deferred Pryce. “But still: a boy, on the Stone Throne?”
“He has shown much promise, growing up. And the alternative is a bleak one. Your uncle won’t rule; it’s too much like hard work for him. So that leaves us with either Roper or Uvoren. I know which one I’d choose. With the right support, he may even be exceptional.”
“How can you tell?”
Gray smiled into the distance. “I don’t know. Once you’ve had as many peers standing next to you in the battle line as I have, you learn to tell very quickly who you can trust with your life. There’s something about Roper. He’s clever, he understands leadership and, most importantly, he’s calm. His emotions are differently calibrated from most here.” Gray waved an arm at the chattering legionaries, all moving for the mess hall. “He masters himself, and those can be the best leaders of all.” Gray smiled again, tapping Pryce in the small of the back. “You are with me?”
“You know I am.”
The Black Lord would usually have had a pair of guardsmen standing watch over his quarters, day and night. However, as far as Roper knew, there were only two, perhaps three guardsmen he could trust not to turn on him if Uvoren gave the word. Since he could not have Gray and Helmec guarding him at all times, Roper had dismissed any sentries. He would sleep unguarded and simply trust that Uvoren was not as underhanded as Roper believed he was. He was trying desperately not to hate the captain, but simply saying to himself over and over again: “There’s no need to hate him; just defeat him” was having no effect. He despised Uvoren.
It was late. The moon was high; the sun long since submerged beneath the horizon. The Central Keep was indented with small alcoves, purpose-built to provide shelter for a population of
