The Wolf

by Leo Carew

  “Of course,” said Roper, resuming his seat heavily. He still felt a penetrating ache whenever he employed leg or shoulder. The Chief Historian strode nearer and Jokul drifted in her wake, both taking seats on Roper’s left.

  “Do you know who we are, lord?” the historian asked, her voice steady.

  “You are the Chief Historian,” Roper said. “Frathi Akisdottir. And I know your name,” said Roper, turning to Jokul. “But not your station.”

  “No,” said Jokul, his voice small and crisp. “My title is Master of the Kryptea.”

  And suddenly this figure made sense.

  Roper stared at him for a moment, his mind swirling. He glanced at the old historian, who looked back unshakeably, tapping a finger on the table as though trying to raise the tempo of this meeting. Roper turned back to Jokul and, in the end, managed a slightly aggressive: “Well?”

  “You know of the Kryptea, but our function is purposefully obscure. I would not kill the Black Lord in front of the most reliable witness in the kingdom.” Jokul gestured at the Chief Historian.

  Roper licked his lips. “Then why are you here?”

  Jokul sat back in one of the yew chairs that lined the table, legs folded over one another. He was excessively thin. Had a tangle of veins not wound around his forearms, he might have looked like a corpse. Roper remembered Uvoren’s words about him a few days before: I’ve seen buzzards follow him around when he goes outside. Jokul was playing with a silver coin of some sort, twirling it between thumb and forefinger. “We preserve the stability of the Black Kingdom,” replied Jokul. “It is true that in the past this has sometimes manifested itself in assassinating members of your family who enjoyed their power excessively. But you have no power at the moment. Do you?”

  “None,” admitted Roper. “None.”

  “Well, then, you are hardly a threat to the country.”

  “You’re interested in stability,” blurted Roper. “It would make everyone’s lives easier if I wasn’t here and Uvoren commanded.”

  “That is not our opinion,” said the Chief Historian. Jokul, still playing with the coin, shifted to a new position in his chair that made it look as though he was trying to see how little of it he could take up with his narrow shoulders. Roper’s gaze switched to the woman, but found her no easier a resting place. She was more rigid, resembling a scaffold of oak in comparison to Jokul’s mess of coppiced willow. And to look at her, Roper had to meet those unshakeable, white-blue eyes. “We’ve both kept eyes on you as you grew up,” she went on, her voice softer than her glare. “We were hopeful that you might become a leader some day. Not a ruler. A leader. Somebody who might command the love of the legions, as proficiently as your father had their respect. Unfortunately, your father died before you were prepared to take command. Doubtless, Kynortas thought he had more time, but time is short for us all.

  “What do you know of the Sutherners?” she demanded unexpectedly, leaning forward to hear his answer.

  “They’re small,” offered Roper, shrugging.

  “Eh? Small?” She sat back again and pretended Roper had not spoken. “The most important thing you must know about them is that they do not live longer than a century. That is why they are such a voracious race. They have no time, and so they must consume. They each want to see change in their own lifetime. We know that we just have to wait and change will come.”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” said Roper.

  “Nobody seems to. The Academy,” she said, referring to the sisterhood which she led, “and the Kryptea,” she gestured at Jokul, who sat scrunched into his chair, “have a similar complaint. We have fought against the Sutherners for thousands of years and nobody has bothered to interpret them.”

  Roper had little interest in the Sutherners at that moment. He glanced at Jokul. “So you will just sit by in the contest between me and Uvoren and do nothing?”

  “It is very rarely that the Kryptea is required to act,” replied the pale man. “Most of my task is to gather information, and of late the Sutherners have presented a much more real threat to the stability of our lands than your family has. Between the Wolf and the Wildcat …” Jokul named Roper’s and Uvoren’s house banners, his eyes narrowed. “There is no need to intervene just yet.”

  “So can’t you make us march on the Sutherners?” demanded Roper.

  “That would be an abuse of my position,” replied Jokul. “The Kryptea is not here to rule; but we make certain that the right person does.”

  “I am the right person—”

  “Are you?” Jokul cut Roper short, pale eyebrows flying upwards. “Certainly not in the opinion of the Black Kingdom, which mostly regards you as a coward.”

  “I did the right thing,” said Roper quietly. He had no idea if that was true.

  “I wasn’t there,” said Jokul, managing to imply that he still knew more about what had happened than Roper did.

  Of course you weren’t, thought Roper. He had never seen anyone so un-warrior-like.

  “Neither of us was,” cut in the historian. “Where we agree is that we don’t much want Uvoren to succeed your father. He has his talents. He knows the business of war, he is well supported and he brings the welcome backing of the Lothbroks.” Uvoren’s house. “But his temperament is a problem. He acts in his own interest and he is not wise. I do not want him ruling the Black Kingdom. Do you understand why he delays?”

  “Self-interest,” said Roper bitterly. “He won’t risk anything for others.”

  Jokul gave a little tut. “Do not despise Uvoren,” he said. “Hatred is not a man’s emotion.”

  “Don’t patronise me,” snapped Roper. It did not surprise him that Jokul did not believe in excessive emotion.

  The historian waved a hand at Jokul, dismissing his intervention. “Do not react,” she said, still unfazed. “Just think. Uvoren does not leave this fortress because he knows that it is you who takes the blame while the Black Kingdom burns. You are nominally in command and he is waiting until frustration against you reaches boiling point. He is waiting, Lord Roper, for the point when he can usurp you and know that the reaction will be one of relief. Time is against you, so you must act fast.”

  “If a single man would support me,” said Roper, “I’d happily lead the army to attack.”

  The historian raised an eyebrow. “What do you need?” she asked, watching the effect of her words closely. It was an obvious test and Roper, cornered by the pair of them, did not respond to it. “We’re not going to secure the Stone Throne for you,” continued the historian, manoeuvring round his resistance. “I don’t have that power. But I’d like to see if you can do it for yourself. Uvoren has influence, wealth, reputation and allies. You’ll need all of those, if you are to take him on.”

  “I need allies first,” said Roper, “and my house does not have the power to challenge the Lothbroks.”

  “Your father was a strong ruler,” said the historian. “Strong rulers have no need to elevate their family any more than another, but it has left your throne precarious. Even those in House Jormunrekur who do still enjoy positions of status will be reluctant to support you; they must join other powerful factions or find themselves smothered. But Uvoren has many enemies. They are quiet now, fearing a rise in his power. You must wake them up and bring them into the open.”

  “So who are these enemies?”

  The historian gave a little shrug before answering. “Finding out is your task. This is your test. It looked as though the throne was to be yours by birthright but you’re going to have to earn it. Let us see if there’s enough talent in you to topple Uvoren.” Her tone was soothing, but her gaze unsettled Roper. “If there is, you will be the most deserving Black Lord for centuries, because you’ll need everything you’ve got. This will take all you can muster, and I doubt even that will be enough. All your charm, all your strategy, all your luck. He is a mighty warrior and the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre.” By her side, Jokul had finally stopped twirl
ing the coin and slapped it flat upon the ancient oak table.

  So let us begin, thought Roper. “He is a mighty warrior and one with many times my experience, who knows infinitely more than I about this ‘theatre.’ This is not an even contest, but I will make it one. Where do I start?”

  Jokul, seemingly more reluctant to offer help, stayed silent. Again, it was the historian who answered Roper. “With a guardsman named Gray Konrathson,” she said. “He was Uvoren’s greatest competition for Captain of the Guard and, had sense prevailed, he would have won the contest. He has no great house, it is true, and holds little formal power. But he is Uvoren’s most vocal opponent and is highly respected. Win Gray and you will have secured two valuable allies.”

  “Two?”

  “Gray’s protégé: the lictor named Pryce Rubenson.”

  “Pryce?” said Roper blankly. He had committed the name and the face to memory in this very room. “He’s a member of Uvoren’s war council. And he doesn’t seem interested in helping me.”

  “I doubt he is,” agreed the historian, with a heave of her brow. “But he sits on Uvoren’s war council because he is the most admired man in the Black Kingdom, so Uvoren wants him on his side. People fawn for that man’s approval in numbers that Uvoren can only dream of. And Pryce listens to just one man. So win Gray. That is where you start.”

  Roper ran his fingers over the stone arm rests. “There can be only one conclusion to this,” he said.

  “Civil war,” finished the historian.

  “At a time when we face invasion. My father declared it the greatest evil a nation can succumb to. And it has happened on my watch …” Roper turned his head to stare bleakly into the fire.

  “This is your father’s fault,” said the woman. Her unfaltering presence reminded Roper of Kynortas. “You have been left in a poor position. That is why we are helping. Uvoren has made it clear that he would allow this country to burn to the ground in order to occupy that seat beneath you.” She indicated the Stone Throne. “So you need allies. Public allies especially.”

  “Marriage?” asked Roper.

  “Marriage,” she said, nodding slightly. “Work out with whom.” She stood and Roper was astonished to discover that Jokul was already on his feet behind her. The pale man’s presence was so faint that Roper had not noticed him rise. Roper struggled up to join them and it was Jokul who spoke next.

  “Your most immediate concern is a man whom you can trust to defend you. Uvoren has seen us meet; you are in more danger now than ever before. Do you know a warrior who may help?”

  Roper thought hard. “Perhaps.”

  Jokul nodded. “Make him your man. Uvoren has informants everywhere.” He folded a fraction at the waist and turned for the door, leaving the historian still standing by Roper.

  “Do not disappoint me, lord,” she said. “I suspect we will need you.” She turned to follow Jokul, who was holding the door for her. As she passed through it, Jokul turned back towards Roper, one hand resting on the handle.

  “You were, of course, correct, lord. Stability would indeed be improved by your death. And one way or another we will need firm leadership in the times to come. Do what you must, my lord. Or the Kryptea will do what they must.”

  4

  The Severed Head

  Queen Aramilla processed down an aisle of trees, a gaggle of courtiers trotting behind her and the king in front, restraining a pair of hounds. Copper leaves strewed the filthy path, which bisected a royal forest. Aramilla did not care for the hunting for which this forest had been preserved. Her sport this day would be with her retinue. The elaborately frocked and painted women who followed her were engaged in a constant struggle to adapt to her wildly varying fashion. On the last occasion they had walked here, the weather dry and mild, Aramilla had appeared in the most outlandishly extravagant piece she had been able to lay her hands on; bristling with so many pearls that she resembled a hail-cloud and fairly rattled as she walked. She had declared to her pragmatically dressed ladies-in-waiting that wherever they were, their standards must never drop. Now, to her great satisfaction, all had attended this muddy march absurdly overdressed, flinching away like sheep from the mud that speckled their costly skirts. Aramilla had reverted to darker and more practical garb, and threw amused glances over her shoulder at those who trotted unhappily in her wake. By her side was the only other woman in on the joke: a dark-haired favourite of hers enfolded in a dusky cloak much more appropriate to the day.

  “Some fun, Maria?”

  “Of course, Majesty,” said the dark-haired woman.

  Aramilla reached out and grasped a low branch that overhung the path, dragging it with her for a moment before releasing it, allowing it to jerk back into position. The leaves shivered and displaced the droplets they carried over the two women who followed behind, dousing them in a freezing shower.

  There was a silence.

  Aramilla looked back to see both women with their shoulders hunched by their ears, faces twisted with shock. The queen smiled and there was a smattering of nervous laughter, most of it relief from those who had not been singled out for the jest. One of the women who had been doused smiled quickly in response to Aramilla. The other simply met her eyes, face in open horror and disdain. Aramilla stopped walking, fixing the horrified woman with an expression that fairly dripped with sympathy. “Oh my dear, Lady Sofia; I didn’t mean to shock you so.” She advanced to Lady Sofia and captured her arm, dragging her back into motion. Lady Sofia’s countenance was determined, furious calm as the queen squeezed her elbow and fell into step beside her. “There, it isn’t so bad,” she said, sweetness giving way to impatience before the sentence was over. “The walk will warm you again. Are you enjoying the country air?”

  “I’d be enjoying it more without your claws in my arm, Majesty,” said Lady Sofia, staring straight ahead.

  Aramilla only smiled in response. “You’ll calm down soon and feel silly that you reacted so to a few drops.”

  Lady Sofia tried to drag her arm away but Aramilla’s fingers tightened on her elbow, hard enough to make her gasp. Lady Sofia struggled for a moment more, but the queen was relentless and she sagged, allowing herself to be drawn along in the royal wake. There was silence for a time and when Aramilla examined Lady Sofia’s face from the corner of her eye, she saw unhappiness but no longer rage. On reflex, she shifted her approach. “I very much like your dress, my dear,” she said, admiring the other woman. “Where was it made?”

  “It’s Frankish,” said Lady Sofia dully. “A tailor in Massalia.”

  “You must give me his details. Such silk: it appears he can train spiders into willing employment.” That drew an unwilling smile from Lady Sofia, who was capitulating. Aramilla left it there, squeezing her elbow once more. “I think I shall go and speak to my husband.”

  The queen broke into a trot, leaving her ladies behind to join the plump King Osbert ahead. He was as preposterously dressed as most of Aramilla’s retinue, wearing a helmet circled by a gilt rim and a vast shaggy bear fur about his shoulders. Each hand gripped the leash of a straining hound and the king was fussing over the hurt they might be causing themselves.

  “May I have your arm, my love?” asked Aramilla, drawing level.

  The king bowed elaborately. “My queen.” His mighty voice made the air around Aramilla quiver. The dogs were passed to a nearby steward and the queen threaded her arm through her husband’s proffered elbow. She could feel the damp heat as he sweated beneath the fur.

  “How wonderful to be away from Lundenceaster,” she said with a sigh, leaning into him as they navigated a tawny puddle.

  “Quite so,” said King Osbert, approvingly. “I have rarely felt so light.”

  “The city is restless,” Aramilla agreed sympathetically, giving his arm a squeeze. “There are fewer worries here without the courtiers and priests constantly demanding your attention.”

  The king flapped a gold-weighted hand. “The Anakim, the Anakim. That’s all I ever hear
from them.”

  “Maybe the day is approaching when you will not hear those words again. The tidings sound well, from the north.”

  King Osbert raised a finger and waggled it before him, twisting his head to give her an indulgent smile. “Not so, my dear lady. I fret about my men north of that dark river, now that they are no longer steered by the experienced hand of dear Earl William. A fine man: may God take him. I am minded to recall them all. The campaigning season is over already. We bloodied their noses and we can retreat with the loot we have claimed and the wrath of God placated. And without wise Earl William there to guide them … I fear for those soldiers.” His melodious voice sounded close to breaking under the pity that loaded it.

  “Quite so, Your Majesty,” said Aramilla, nodding. “A seasoned warrior. Which campaigns did he lead? I recall him being at Eoferwic. And in Iberia, of course.”

  The king shook his head a little. “Indeed, indeed, but neither was his finest hour.”

  “No,” said Aramilla sadly. “I fear both are remembered fondly by the Anakim. At least more so than the campaign currently under way.”

  “Well, quite,” said the king. “Look what he achieved in the first battle. But when one leads from the front, one takes great risk upon oneself.”

  “So what did he achieve? What did the dispatch from Lord Northwic say?” probed Aramilla.

  “Oh, it paid tribute to his bravery. It was most warm on that subject.”

  “How did he defeat them?”

  The king’s head wobbled from side to side on its neck. “Well, Northwic claimed that Bellamus of Safinim was instrumental in that, and that his plan crippled the Anakim and forced them to retreat. I can scarcely believe that of a commoner, though there is little doubt that he is a capable man.”

  Aramilla snorted. “I am thankful Northwic leads our men in the north. Bellamus? A mercenary upstart able to defeat the Anakim? There is little he is good for. He has no business anywhere near a battlefield.”

  “Now, now, my queen,” rebuked King Osbert. “Let us not be unkind. I often believe he is cleverer than others recognise.”