by Leo Carew
“And are there other kinds of friends, beyond kipsanga?” pressed Bellamus. “Its opposite, perhaps?”
“We talk about three kinds of friends,” said Adras. “A kipsanga combines the two most important elements of friendship. An unga has only one of them: it is someone you get on with very well, but do not admire as a person.”
“Could you give me an example?”
Adras shrugged. “Perhaps they are kind to you but unkind to others. Or maybe they are good company but sometimes try to manipulate you. Or …” She thought carefully. “Maybe they are lazy and fearful, and unwilling to confront their own shortcomings.”
Bellamus was scribbling furiously. He saw Adras looking curiously at his paper and held it up to show her. “Writing,” he said. “We use it to store words. I suspect we Sutherners have less good memories than your kind, but it is helpful to be able to remember things exactly. Memory can twist what has happened. Please, go on.”
“The third kind is the opposite of an unga. A badarra: a person for whom you feel great respect, or distant affection, but with whom you don’t get on particularly well. They might be a serious person, but one who is especially kind and generous. Or one from whom you have very different opinions, but you appreciate how well reasoned theirs are, and that they think them for the right reasons. Or maybe just someone you don’t have much to say to, but you still greatly respect.”
“Fascinating, fascinating,” said Bellamus, absorbed in his parchment. “Your people have a very objective view on those they are close to.”
Adras shrugged. “Of course.”
Bellamus liked to start with the easy questions: the words. He had known what kipsanga meant. He had mispronounced it deliberately, to bleed the first little piece of information from Adras. He had known about unga and badarra too. It was how he opened his informant, and how he gauged how willing they were. It was just hard enough an explanation to require some effort, but not a difficult concept. By broaching the topic of friendship, Bellamus also hoped to positively dispose Adras towards this conversation. Then he could progress to the harder questions.
What was the significance of wilderness?
How was the Anakim manifestation of memory different from his own?
Why did the Anakim not run in the face of his advancing army?
Why was it, that in spite of their harsh and unyielding way of life, they never rebelled?
How was such tight control maintained in a land which had no writing?
Such questions were not easily answered and required an informant of unusual thought, willingness and eloquence. Bellamus had to use every advantage at his disposal so that, when one as promising as Adras came along, he was prepared.
He was learning more simply by being north of the Abus, in this place which had seemed so nightmarish from the other side of that dark stretch of water. The southern bank was tilled and manipulated: neat furrows creating levels on which crops could be raised and some measure of order imposed. Here, in the Black Kingdom, the land was so twisted by the roots of giant trees that there could be no hope of tilling it, or perched so steep on the sides of mountains that it was a wonder that earth clung there at all. And yet the Anakim clearly had no difficulty existing here. The forests the Sutherners torched were suffused with ghostly ruins—the stone skeletons of great towns and temples that had sheltered the ancient creatures who lived in these lands. Now the gaping houses were dens for the enormous, short-muzzled bears that terrorised his foraging parties, and the villages had been taken in by the trees, as though in solidarity. They grew around and atop one another, just as the Anakim roads grew around the landscape. They were seldom visible before one had stumbled upon them, and they seemed to go to painstaking lengths to accommodate the hills and trees, not cutting a clean line through the obstacles like many in the south, but twisting around them.
It was a land of unusual intensity, grown from earth so rich that it rotted when overturned. The birds that flew overhead called like phantoms. The cries of the animals that echoed between the trees were so strange that Bellamus was struggling to imagine what sort of beast they might belong to. His sleep, usually so deep and untroubled, was disturbed by exquisite dreams. At night, towering shadows, extraordinary creatures and smells filled his mind. Fear too, was present in his dreams to an extent and clarity that was utterly unknown to him. He would often think he had awoken with a start, only to hear strange, unearthly music beyond the walls of his tent. Three times now, in the dead of night, Bellamus had stumbled through the fluttering tent flap and into the land of silver shadow beyond, seeking the source of that distant music. But every time it had faded slowly, leaving him standing still in a silent and moonlit forest, wondering if the music had just been the afterglow of his bright dreams. It must have been, for each note had been heart-cramping, and Bellamus could remember none of the melody. He was left only with the memory of how it had made him feel.
History was altogether less distant here. In the south, the land was turned over and recycled so quickly, and the dwellings made of materials so readily consumed by earth and fire, that little survived more than a few generations. Bellamus was forced to breathe the Black Kingdom in with every mile he travelled. No matter how much he tried to brand his presence into the north, there was always more forest. Attacking the Black Kingdom was like venting rage on a mountain. It looked on at his efforts, indifferent to them. And look on it did. In some way, this land was powerfully reminiscent of a single organism; one of incalculable age and significance.
Bellamus shook his head, dismissing the encounter with Adras that morning and the alien world outside, and looking back towards his papers. The words written thereon were incomprehensible. Senseless chains of letters, randomly divided into unpronounceable words. Bellamus set down his cup and ran a finger along the top paper, staring up at his own furrowed brow. “Ah!” He glanced around the desk and, from beneath one of the papers, extracted a cracked rectangle of wood, scarcely thicker than the paper before him and with several dozen little windows cut into it. Bellamus laid the wood carefully over the parchment, each of the tiny windows perfectly framing one letter beneath. These letters, read in sequence and with some guesswork as to where the spaces and grammar were supposed to sit, were rendered thus:
My upstart—as requested I have twisted the Royal Arm very hard and you shall not be recalled, nor burdened with another earl. I—
Bellamus flipped the piece of wood over, being careful to hinge it about its lower edge, revealing the lines of text concealed further down the page:
… also seeded the idea of you as Master of the North in the Royal Ear. We will see how it grows. Don’t forget my present. A
Bellamus had many informants, and used many cyphers. This one was reserved exclusively for his correspondence with Aramilla. There were two copies of the piece of wood that Bellamus had used to decode it, and the other was with the queen.
Bellamus did not trust many people. He did not really trust Aramilla either. He knew she felt affection for him (based, he thought, on an interested regard), but he did not believe he was of particular importance to her. She would try to help him because she enjoyed this game and the risk that came with it, and she enjoyed him too. He entertained her, but if he were to task her with anything that might mean sacrificing something she valued, he knew he would face her cold amusement. He could not trust her, but he trusted her subtlety. He had never seen her pour words like wine into the king’s ear, but he had often relied on her efficacy. Once or twice, he had felt the force of those words and had noticed how she steered the conversation in such a way that the thoughts she wanted to plant were never out of place. If it did not go in the direction she wished, Aramilla would say nothing, preferring silence to discovery.
The entire court was in her thrall. The weapons she used shifted imperceptibly, so that as soon as you felt you were beginning to resist her, you would realise you were capitulating in some other way. If you were a man, she would start with a look of
undecided interest, as though you were somebody different, but she was not sure what to make of you. Impress me. When, inevitably, you made a clumsy joke, she would meet it with a laugh; a noise Bellamus thought he had only heard her make in earnest a few times. It sounded like a magpie, or the rattle of dice in a wooden cup. Her attention was entirely yours. Where she proceeded from there depended on how self-assured you seemed. For the confident: more encouragement, more laughter; then perhaps a prickly comment. You’re not there yet. Keep trying. For the fragile: they were hers already. Gentle teasing, stretching their relationship until, ultimately, they thought little of her requests.
If you were a woman, her methods were more relentless. She would shift between charm, humour and callous mistreatment, until you were persuaded of the futility of resistance. To argue against her was as exhausting as it was fruitless, and, if you did not, then she was good company. Capitulate and she could be a generous mistress. Just do not forget your place.
There were a score of minor houses in the Black Kingdom and perhaps three major ones. Roper’s own house, Jormunrekur, had faded in recent years despite being the lineage from which the Black Lord was drawn. The consummate leader elevates based on merit, which Kynortas had done in order not to show favouritism to his own kin. It had resulted in House Lothbrok, of which Uvoren was the foremost son, superseding the Jormunrekur in wealth and influence. Now Roper needed to break Uvoren, for which he would require support from the third major house: Vidarr.
Though it was necessary, entering into negotiations with House Vidarr was a daunting prospect. They were led by Tekoa Urielson; Pryce’s uncle and legate of the Skiritai Legion. Roper had never met him, but knew he was a man of unbending will. Roper remembered words that Kynortas had once spoken of him: “Tekoa would be a fine servant if he didn’t have such monstrous self-regard.”
When Roper had asked Pryce how he could best win over his uncle, the lictor had replied: “Entertain him.”
These thoughts circumnavigated Roper’s head as Helmec rapped on the door of Tekoa’s house. Roper had tried summoning him to his own quarters in the Central Keep but his messenger had returned shaken, delivering the news that if Roper wished to see Tekoa, he would have to go and meet where Tekoa could have a comfortable chair and goblet of birch wine.
The door before them was opened by one of Tekoa’s household warriors, a full legionary with the crest of House Vidarr: a monstrous serpent armoured in chain mail, destroying an even larger holly tree. “The Black Lord, Roper Kynortasson of House Jormunrekur, has come for an audience with Tekoa Urielson,” announced Helmec. The legionary smirked and stepped aside with an air that said: You’re welcome to him.
Roper, Helmec and Gray entered, finding themselves in a granite reception room. Chairs of split yew lined the walls and a fire stirred in a raised hearth. This house was larger than most within the walls of the Hindrunn. Tekoa was a wealthy man but a true subject of the Black Kingdom and had furnished it austerely. The walls were bare but for lamp brackets and a single silk tapestry of cream and black, showing the same tree and chain-mail snake that the legionary bore on his breast. As with all Anakim art it had no colour; only outlines. The stone floor was barely visible beneath an assortment of deerskins, though Roper could see a couple of carved footprints in the bare patches. Now he looked, Roper could see some handprints carved into the wall as well, including one very small and very low down that must have belonged to a child.
The legionary who had shown them in asked them to wait in the chamber whilst he went to fetch Tekoa. He departed through an oaken door, next to which was a low table. On this sat a spherical object supported in a wooden cradle. Roper moved towards it, reaching out a hand to examine it.
“Don’t touch it!” cried a voice behind him.
Roper’s hand recoiled and he snapped around. Standing behind him, evidently having emerged from one of the rooms that came off this chamber, was a woman. She was extremely tall—almost Roper’s own height—and had eyes of a ghostly pale green and extremely long, gossamer-fine blonde hair. Her skin was so fair as to be almost translucent; Roper could see the veins at her temples. And she was painfully thin, her white linen shift looking as if it contributed considerably to keeping her upright.
“My lady?” said Roper, noting that her hair was tied back in the manner of a married woman with children; a full subject of the Black Kingdom. “Why not?”
“You mustn’t touch it!” she insisted. A servant girl, appearing almost ludicrously short by comparison, emerged from the room to stand next to the woman and stared at Roper accusingly, as though he had disturbed her mistress deliberately. The tall woman strode forward, stopping uncomfortably close to Roper and almost staring right through him with her ghostly eyes. “Who are you?”
Roper took a half-step backwards before answering. “Roper Kynortasson. I have come for an audience with Legate Tekoa.”
“You want Keturah? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” demanded the woman.
“I just want to talk to the legate,” insisted Roper.
“Keturah is precious to us. You must not hurt her!”
“I’m not planning to hurt anyone,” said Roper. “Please, lady, I am just here to speak to Legate Tekoa.”
All at once, the tall woman seemed to have lost interest in him. She turned away in an arc like a ship under sail and shuffled towards the fire, holding out her hands as she approached the flames. “You mustn’t touch it,” she repeated, her voice thinner and calmer now. “That globe is unholy … sickening …” And then, very suddenly: “Why does he keep it?”
“What is your name, my lady?” tried Roper, speaking to the woman’s back.
“I am the lady of the house,” said she. “Skathi. Do not distress my husband, he is a good man.”
Roper was utterly nonplussed. The servant girl approached Skathi and took one of her outstretched hands, leading her in another gentle arc back towards her room. Skathi seemed quite happy to be steered in this way and did not glance at Roper on her way out.
“Let’s sit by the fire in your room, my lady,” said the servant girl kindly. “Your weaving is nearly finished.” She shot another cross-glance at Roper as she drew the door shut behind her, setting the latch into place with a click.
Roper glanced at Gray. “Tekoa’s wife,” said Gray softly. “She’s not had an easy life. Keturah is her eldest living child but she lost five sons before that; four on the battlefield, the last as an infant.”
“Ah.” Roper nodded abruptly and turned back towards the globe that sat on the table, more entranced than ever after what Skathi had said about it. He leaned close.
It took Roper some seconds to realise that this was a model of the Known World. He picked it up, turning it in his hands. Crammed into one tiny corner was an island, the outline of which he recognised from a captured Suthern map that hung in his quarters. His island. Albion. It was so small! A rock, surrounded by endless ocean. Above it was a great jagged crown of white, which at first left Roper confused. Then his memory sparked. Ice. Enough to cover the top of the world. South and east of Albion, across seas of varying width, stretched some lands he had heard of, most he had not. Landmasses and empires that shrank his island to insignificance. And in the west? A vast sea and a shadow. A mere sketch of coastline, behind which was darkness. Unknown lands. To the extreme south, across six inches of polished wood representing unimaginable stretches of kinetic ocean, lay another cap of ice, as if the world could be either way up.
Roper felt nauseous. The sensation this object gave him was like being at the top of the keep’s very tallest tower and standing leaning over the edge, one foot flirting with emptiness. The globe was swelling beneath his feet. It stretched out around him, each angle containing incalculable leagues running through lands that could not be more different from his own. That ice: there could not possibly be trees there. And there could therefore be no fire. The very ground would move beneath your feet. There would be nothing to connect you to the worl
d in which you existed; no scents, for every smell would be frozen; no mountains or hills, no plants, no memories. Just an endless sea of white, stretching out in every direction, and perhaps a barren wind for company.
Footsteps sounded from the stairs to Roper’s left and he recovered, withdrawing his imagination from the disturbing object whilst at the same time wondering who would choose to keep such an item in their home. He returned the globe to its cradle and had just managed to sit down in one of the yew chairs beside Gray and Helmec when someone who was unmistakably Tekoa Urielson entered.
It was the way he carried himself. Imperious. Energetic. He looked like an older version of Pryce; dark-haired, handsome and unscarred. He halted suddenly when he saw Roper still arranging himself on the chair and glanced down at the globe, which had been replaced lopsidedly, as though it had been as sickened as Roper by their encounter. Tekoa looked at Roper through furrowed brows and straightened the globe. “You little bastard,” he growled. Gray and Helmec made noises of anger but Tekoa flapped at them impatiently to be silent. He seized a chair and drew it towards the fire. “We shall talk by the fire,” he declared. Aware that he was on the back foot already, Roper stood and dragged his own chair to the fireplace. The legionary returned, furnishing Tekoa with a goblet of birch wine. “You are old enough for wine, Roper?” demanded Tekoa.
“I am old enough for wine and senior enough to be called ‘my lord,’” admonished Roper.
Tekoa glanced at him appraisingly. “Well, then, why are you bothering me, my lord? To what do I owe your magpie-like presence in my house?” He raised a hand to the legionary, who supplied Roper with his own goblet.
“Because I think neither of us wants Uvoren on the Stone Throne. We came very close to that state of affairs last night.” Roper sipped the birch wine. It was delicious. Tekoa’s house might be austere, but everything in it was made by the most devoted craftsmen.
