It was in this position that Helmec discovered Roper. Finding his knocks ignored, Helmec entered hesitantly and first spied the cracked puddle of blood on the floor before travelling up to see Roper, searching the young lord for any sign of a wound. “What happened, lord?”
Roper could not bring himself to admit last night’s scene. Who would support a man being targeted by the Kryptea? Instead, he nodded curtly at the bed. Helmec crossed to it and drew back the blankets, staring at the masked face beneath. He glanced at Roper, noting Cold-Edge’s blood-stained blade, and removed the mask.
“I know this man,” said Helmec, quietly. “You have killed one of Ramnea’s Own, my lord. Aslakur Bjargarson; House Algauti.” Roper had not digested Helmec’s words. Helmec was looking at him, and then crossed the floor to place a hand on Roper’s shoulder. “It’s over, lord. You killed him.”
Roper’s eyes were glazed for a moment and then flickered into life, glancing up at the guardsman. “House Algauti?” he said, finally seeming to register what Helmec had said. A possibility was stirring in his mind. “Helmec, fetch the guardsman Gray Konrathson for me at once.”
“Lord.” Helmec bowed and departed, returning before long with Gray. Aides from Roper’s own house, Jormunrekur, were summoned to clear away the body, watched closely by Gray and Helmec, both resting their hands on their sword-hilts. “Strip it,” commanded Roper. “Find a pike, plant it in the ground and impale the body.” Gray looked at Roper quizzically but did not question him in front of others. “And summon Jokul,” said Roper, grimly.
He could not hide the fact that he had been attacked, so he would use it as best he could. Impaling a Black legionary might make him hated, but it also gave him an edge; the beginnings of something approaching respect. He had killed one of Ramnea’s Own in single combat. At that moment, Roper preferred hatred to contempt. Perhaps he would no longer be thought of as a boy.
Jokul arrived without delay. His pale eyes took in the blood on the floor before staring at Roper, flanked by Helmec and Gray. “Are you going to execute me, lord?” he asked in his dry, quiet voice.
“So you admit that in spite of your words, you have tried to have me killed,” said Roper vengefully.
“I admit nothing,” said Jokul. He knelt before Roper, who kept the surprise from his face. “On my honour,” said Jokul, holding forward supplicatory hands that Roper took. “On my station; on my life. That assassin was no Kryptean.”
“He wore the mask,” said Roper sternly. “He carried the sword!”
“Stolen,” said Jokul. “I do not want you dead. I do not want Uvoren.”
“Rise, then,” said Roper and Jokul stood, becoming hardly more physically imposing than he had been on his knees. “The man was Aslakur Bjargarson of House Algauti.” It was almost a question. If anyone could confirm Roper’s suspicions, it was the Master of the Kryptea.
“That tells you all you need to know, my lord,” said Jokul simply. House Algauti were vassals of House Lothbrok, Uvoren’s family. They were a minor servile house, rewarded by the Lothbroks for their loyal support with wealth, status and protection. This assassin, if Roper believed Jokul, would have been sent by Uvoren and tricked out as a Kryptean. If the assassination were successful, it would be the Kryptea who bore any heat for the murder and Uvoren would be best placed to occupy the Stone Throne. If it were unsuccessful, then it could not be traced to Uvoren and might have the added benefit of driving a wedge between Roper and Jokul, whom Uvoren had seen parley.
It was brutal and clever. It had Uvoren written all over it and Roper was reminded forcibly of the Chief Historian’s words when they had met in the Chamber of State: The greatest warriors can fight in any theatre. Roper needed a response. He needed to become someone who could not be killed without uproar ensuing, making Uvoren think twice before attempting such a tactic again.
“I am by your side from now on, my lord,” said Gray. “Send for Pryce as well. You need him.”
“Do not dismiss me again, lord,” echoed Helmec. “We’ll keep you alive until you can take Uvoren.”
Roper looked at the pair of them, quite moved. He had few reasons to trust anyone at the moment, but he trusted these two. “What have I done to deserve the service of two such fine warriors?” he asked. “Thank you.” He turned to Jokul. “Uvoren has abused the reputation of the Kryptea for his own ends. What are you going to do about it?”
Jokul gazed at Roper for a moment. “We preserve the stability of this country. It is certainly not in our interest to kill him. But this will not stand. We will find out who took the mask and blade and they will die. We will warn Uvoren. And …” he examined Roper a moment longer—“you have a reprieve, for the moment, Lord Roper. I will give you a month to gather your strength and then we shall reassess.”
“It’s all I need,” said Roper.
Bellamus sat within a pavilion, his desk adrift in an inky sea on the little island of light cast by two oil lamps. The rain thrashed onto the canvas walls, beading them with cold glass droplets that slipped from the roof and down the sides to pool at the edges. There were no windows, the opening was sutured tight, and within, little daylight was admitted. The only connection with the twisted acres that stretched beyond the walls was the drum of the rain, rolling through the darkness.
This was where he met with his spies, where he interrogated his enemies, where he disciplined his soldiers and where he interviewed captured Anakim. The character of each conversation was much the same, and the pavilion was
