But that did not seem to be the limit of Uvoren’s machinations. Roper had also come to wonder whether the captain was having him followed. Twice now, when he and Keturah had been at the mess, he had caught the eye of a couple of legionaries whom he had spotted regularly during the day, always nearby, always seemingly otherwise engaged. They had looked away swiftly, and Roper wondered what their intentions could be. Were they just reporting his movements? Or were they waiting for a moment when he was unguarded? Roper did not know, but his was a devious enemy and, as he and Keturah had discussed, the captain must be destroyed soon.
Roper and Keturah had taken to walking the streets of the Hindrunn together in the mornings. Keturah had lived in the citadel for longer than Roper, having returned to her father’s household at the age of sixteen when she had completed her time in the freyi (the female equivalent of the haskoli). She seemed to know everybody, while Roper had only recently returned from an extended apprenticeship with the Pendeen Legion and thus had an extremely small pool of acquaintances. He thought it might do his support base good if he could build on Keturah’s already impressive networks, and so they toured the streets together. When Keturah was not introducing him to someone or other, Roper liked to bounce ideas off her, with the level of her derision a good yardstick for whether he might be able to propose it at one of the afternoon councils. The standard for rejection was if she laughed raucously at the suggestion. If she only tutted impatiently, then Roper considered it a good idea.
“They’re following us again,” said Roper one morning. Keturah did not react for a moment, then she glanced behind her and gave an apathetic wave at the two legionaries who were once again stalking them. They did a devoted impression of being in deep conversation with one another, as though Roper’s affairs were none of their business, but they had been spotted nearby once too often for that to be convincing. Roper wondered again what they had planned, though he did not greatly care any more. “They’re not very subtle, are they?”
“Uvoren needs better spies,” said Keturah scornfully. “Perhaps we should just spend the entire day walking in circles around the outer track and amuse ourselves by seeing when they give up.” Roper deliberately did not laugh: he had an idea that it might be bad for Keturah to have too much positive feedback. She smiled and threaded her arm through one of his. “You don’t have to laugh, Husband. I know you find me funny.”
“You’re quite funny,” said Roper. “I don’t want you collapsing under the weight of your own head.”
That was exactly Keturah’s kind of joke and she shrieked uncontrollably, startling two women picking crab apples from a nearby garden. Keturah waved her free hand apologetically at them.
“Perhaps I should hold a march through the streets?” pondered Roper. “In celebration of the victory over the Sutherners. We missed it on our return because everyone thought we were going to sack the fortress.”
Keturah had recovered herself. She frowned at him with total bafflement. “Why?”
Roper did not bother to develop the half-formed idea. She would just laugh at him. He changed the subject. “Do you smell that?” There was something bitter on the air.
Keturah sniffed. “It’s like the homecoming smell.” She meant the scent of herbs being crushed underfoot which accompanied the legions on their return to the Hindrunn.
“Harsher than that,” said Roper. There was something threatening about it. It grew thicker as they walked until it was completely overpowering. After a time they could even see it: a gentle grey blurring that hung over the streets. “Smoke,” said Roper. “They’re burning herbs.” The street was deserted. Each of the glassless windows had its shutters sealed and, unusually, all doors were shut.
“Look there,” said Keturah. She was pointing at one of the doorways. Beneath the lintel, something dark was turning in a gentle breeze. It was a tuft of hay. As Roper looked, the streets seemed to him like a gallows. Dozens of doorways had hay hanging above them. Roper and Keturah both fell still, looking across the deserted road.
“A tuft of hay,” said Roper. “Isn’t that the sign of plague?”
“There hasn’t been a serious plague here for fifty years,” said Keturah, dubiously.
“Away from here,” said Roper. They turned back from the deserted street, filled with the smoke of herbs burnt against the poisonous smells that led to infection, and hurried for the Central Keep. The direct route was blocked: more tufts of hay, more of that bitter smoke. They skirted around it, following the smell of fresh air and the more familiar trace of charcoal smoke. The two legionaries who had been following them had gone: perhaps they had recognised the scent earlier.
“Why now?” said Roper, once they were back within the reassuring form of the Central Keep. “If it’s been fifty years since a plague, why has it reappeared now?” They took the stairs up to Roper’s quarters to find Helmec, as usual, standing guard over the door, and Tekoa standing with him. The legate turned to look at Roper, scowling as he caught
