Roper sat at a table that faced a leaded window. He had done his best to banish the dark from this little corner of his quarters and the collective effort of three oil lamps was providing him with light by which to plan a speech. Anakim had no writing, but when memorising long verses they used small, crude pictograms in linear fashion to be broadly representative of a theme and to ignite the memory. Roper scratched out a chain, the ink black as the night. It smelt faintly of soot, making Roper pause, standing the quill in the ink pot and staring through the rippled glass. A feathered, moonlit knife cut the dark as an owl slid past the window.
This would be his first speech. He had no idea whether he would get a chance to deliver it, but he must be ready to take the opportunity when the time came. Roper could not afford to leave to chance anything that was within his control. He took up the quill once more and carved another symbol onto the page: a warrior, this time. It sounded odd. He looked at the tip of the quill, frowning.
And heard the noise again.
It was a creak. The slight strain of thick leather as it is stretched; insignificant as a cat’s footfall. But Roper heard it. And I wouldn’t have done if I was asleep.
As quietly as he could, he extinguished the lamps by retracting the wicks and slid his legs to the side of his chair so he could stand without the need to move it. Three quick, silent strides in the dark and he had reached his weapon chest; iron-bound oak behind the door, on top of which lay Cold-Edge, its handle rich with wax from his ministrations.
The noise came again from outside the door: a boot contracting slowly as its owner brought their weight down upon it. Roper eased Cold-Edge from its scabbard, eyes wide as he tried to adapt to the gloom. The window glowed with just enough moonlight for Roper to be able to see the latch on the door lift (for he could not hear it). It swung open by ten inches: enough for a dark-clothed figure to slide through and re-latch the door. Whoever it was had not seen Roper; their attention was focused on Roper’s bed and the un-made woollen blankets, piled enough to give a passable impression of a figure sleeping within.
Roper was certain that the assassin must hear his heartbeat. He could hear almost nothing else as the blood roared through his ears and his hands jumped in time with the savage thump. The figure was masked. He must act. He must kill the man, who would realise at any moment that Roper’s bed was empty.
Roper stepped forward. Fear slowed his movements as though his blood had turned to tar. The assassin had heard him at last, was turning, drawing a short sword with a black blade and Roper screamed, swinging Cold-Edge with all his might at the man’s neck.
Roper did not see where the sword struck but he felt the impact. It was less the jolt of blade clashing on blade, more firm resistance. The assassin was knocked flat; poleaxed by the blow. Roper’s darting eyes saw the black sword drop oddly noiselessly onto a deerskin on the floor. He roared again, raising Cold-Edge, wanting to keep his advantage; waiting for the next attack. It did not come.
The man lay prone, flooding Roper’s floor with thick, dark blood. His head, still masked, was tipped right backwards, like a flower that has had its stem broken. Roper had half-decapitated him.
It was over. He was dead.
Roper shook, hauling in deep breaths. Cold-Edge’s tip dropped slowly until Roper released the handle and it fell to the floor. He dropped onto his knees and each heartbeat was so wild that it felt like a hiccough. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”
He had killed a man. He had caught him unawares and struck before he had time to defend himself with the black short sword that now lay next to Cold-Edge. Almighty god.
Roper leaned forward and pulled off the mask with shaking hands. He did not recognise the slack face beneath; did not want to look at the inanimate features that so resembled the decapitated head of his father. He examined the mask instead. It was dark-brown leather, supple and soft. There were only two holes: one for each eye. Not for the mouth or the nose. Instead of a face, the wearer of this mask would bear the stamp imprinted on the dark leather: a spread-winged cuckoo, head turned to one side.
The mask of the Kryptea. Roper recognised the black-bladed short sword as well. Easier to use at close quarters and alloyed matt-black to make it near invisible in the dark. Kryptea.
Jokul, for all his words, wanted to kill him. The Kryptea could not be stopped.
5House Vidarr
Roper spent the remainder of the night positioned behind his door, Cold-Edge propped in the corner next to him. After much searching for a better location, he had placed the Kryptean agent’s body in his own bed; replacing the mask and covering him in rough woollen blankets. If there was another attacker, perhaps they would believe it was Roper.
Dawn filled the room with painful reluctance. The walls of Roper’s quarters were bronzed by the early light, illuminating the pool of congealed blood on the floor and the wool-covered corpse in his bed. Being able to see the remnants of last night’s panicked slaughter scarcely improved matters, but furnished an exhausted Roper with sufficient courage to strap on his armour
