8Two Hanged Corpses
The fortress was always deathly still after a march-out. Even with only half the legions gone, the energy that usually animated the Hindrunn had dissipated. Those who remained were subdued, waiting for the moment their husbands, peers and brothers appeared again on the horizon. Many preferred it so quiet. The legions were absent more often than not and some of the Hindrunn’s women had become accustomed to the peace, the space and the community they had grown without the warriors.
Not Keturah. She loved the throng as the legions returned. She loved the vigour of the feast that followed a successful campaign and the euphoria of the markets as legionaries who had been on marching rations for months bought everything they had desired in that time. She loved the talk of what had happened at war: the stories that circulated of campaign and the inevitable rash of betrothals that followed. She loved the return of her friends and admirers among the legionaries. But most of all, she just loved that more happened when the legions were resident. She felt part of something greater: a community of souls with a synchronised purpose. There was a sense of cooperation; that they were contributing to the symmetry of the earth.
That day, Keturah walked alone up one of the Hindrunn’s cobbled roads, a leather sack over one shoulder and her face, though relaxed, stained with an expression of slight impatience. She was thinking about her father’s departure. She had thought of little else for the past several days, for it had been uncharacteristic. Clad in his mighty eagle-feather cloak for the march-out, a helmet held beneath one arm, he had fussed excessively over his equipment, claiming he could not locate his task-knife.
“You have a dagger,” Keturah had said, pretending not to know that her father had no equipment problems and almost never had. He delayed because he had something to say.
“Keep your suggestions to yourself, Daughter. God knows how the estate will look after a month or so in your hands but I take it you’ll do your best?” She nodded, looking at him flatly. “Don’t let anyone swindle you when you sell. And don’t buy anything either … And we need more rams at Loratun, but just leave that. And don’t talk to the estate manager at Trawden, he’ll just confuse you … Actually, it’s best if you just do nothing at all, Keturah.”
“Yes, Father.”
Tekoa looked sour. “You acquiesce far too readily. On my return, I shall look for the column of smoke which means you’ve attempted something unwise. Look after your mother.” He had turned away, preparing to stride from the room. Then he faltered and turned back to her. There was a brief pause. “Stay safe.”
Keturah was delighted. She laughed and took a few steps towards her father, placing an arm over his shoulder. “Are you worried for me, Father?”
“Worried for whoever has to deal with you while you’re unsupervised.” And then he had shocked her. He took her hand gently from his shoulder and held it in his own. “You have declared a side now, Daughter. And most of your allies are about to leave this fortress. They may never return.”
She rolled her eyes. “You will return.”
“Maybe. Whether or not that is true, Uvoren is the ultimate power in the Hindrunn as soon as we have left. You will have to tread carefully with him. As I said: stay safe, Daughter.” Then he had turned on his heel and was gone, his cloak lingering in the doorway for a brief moment before it too swept out of sight.
It had been sufficiently out of character to give Keturah pause for thought, but she had not taken it seriously until she had first encountered Uvoren two days later. There was more swagger in his walk. He was more insistent, more confident and had shown a great interest in Keturah. She supposed that her marriage to Roper had brought her to his attention, which was not welcome.
A right turn and the market appeared before Keturah. A rope trickled down the face of the building to either side of the path, each noosed about a corpse that hung fourteen feet from the ground. The sight had been shocking to Keturah when the bodies were fresh, their throats cut and their guts spilling out. Now the guts were gone, taken by carrion birds, and the corpses had shrunk and stiffened as the moisture left too. The mark on their forehead was still visible though: a spread-winged cuckoo.
The mark of the Kryptea.
These were the two legionaries responsible for stealing the Kryptean effects that had been used during Roper’s attempted assassination. They had been hanged unseen beside the market, one of the busiest places in the fortress, as a mark of Kryptean subtlety. They can act whenever and wherever they like, the corpses said. Do not steal from the Kryptea. Since then, nobody had dared cut the bodies down, not even the poor souls whose houses they hung against. They could not be sure whether the Kryptea considered them their own property so the corpses were left, staining the stone walls behind, teeth bared by shrivelled lips.
Keturah barely noticed them now. She had passed this way often enough and they were easier to look at now that they did not so much resemble living flesh. She was heading for the market, which was more subdued than usual but scores still moved among the covered stalls and voices called out to her as she passed. “Congratulations on your marriage, Miss Keturah!”
“Fruit leather for you and your mother today, my lady?”
“A sight for sore eyes, Miss Keturah!” She smiled at each of them, cocking her head and giving them a few words in return, though she could not linger.
“My dear!” called one woman from behind a stall laden with bolts of fabric, a
