The Cuckoo, page 9
“That is Uvoren?”
Keturah did not reply. She felt a sudden foreboding. Someone had erected this statue so that it was the first thing anyone saw when entering the stone heart of the Black Kingdom. That was not good news, and nor were the bundles of herbs and copper offerings left at its fired clay feet.
The statue had real hair set into its head and metal armour covering its cracked orange flesh. It was highly stylised, little resembling real human proportions: twice the size of any living man, with the shoulders very broad, the arms held wide in a stiff spread-eagle, the hands huge and lumpen, and the face entirely blank. It was clearly Uvoren, though. There was an Almighty Eye over his right shoulder; a replica of Marrow-Hunter—the captain’s famous war hammer—in its fired clay hand, and something skilfully Uvorenish in its stance and posture.
“What’s it doing here?” asked Ormur.
Keturah did not answer, having no further desire to look upon the likeness of their old enemy. She clicked her tongue and they rode onwards. Bystanders halted what they were doing to stare as they went by, and Keturah fancied there was something hostile in those looks.
She wanted to find one of her friends and discover more, and soon encountered an old ally by the name of Sigurasta. Small, pale and plump, Sigurasta dropped the sack of wool she was carrying, and assessed Keturah from head to toe with a look of disbelief.
“Keturah! It is remarkable you would show your face here. But I suppose face is one thing you always had.”
Keturah observed Sigurasta haughtily to give herself a little time to think. “You’ve lost me, my dear.”
“Oh,” said Sigurasta, bristling now. “So you and your over-excitable husband take the legions permanently abroad, without so much as the opportunity to say goodbye, and now that they are defeated by ruin and starvation, thought to just crawl back here? You thought those of us left to carry on were just fine with that, I should imagine.”
Keturah stirred. “Ruin and starvation?”
“You’re a poor liar, Keturah. You have been with the army. You know what has befallen it.”
“But I haven’t been,” said Keturah, gesturing at Ormur behind her. “Not for many weeks. I went north to Lake Avon. Come now, there’s been word on the army?”
Sigurasta looked triumphant. “Plague has all but wiped them out, with those few who remain, starving and mired in central Suthdal.”
Keturah had been leaning towards Sigurasta, and now straightened. Though she could not be certain, those sounded like lies. “What would you know about any of this?” She heard the anger in her own voice and tried to suppress it. “The plague struck while I was there. The army survived it. And when I left, the army had just triumphed in the field, and was marching for Lundenceaster. Whatever else happened, I am quite certain they made it there.”
Sigurasta evidently had no desire to surrender her righteous indignation. “Hogwash, Keturah. You’ve been playing politics with our men. The details will not redeem you.”
A few bystanders had stopped to listen, and began heckling Keturah, pointing accusatory fingers up at her.
Keturah felt another flare of fury. The whole fortress was evidently gripped by possession—that cardinal sin, where emotion overwhelms clarity. The subjects of the Black Kingdom were discouraged from venting rage, jealousy or grief: because emotions are contagious. Left to their own devices, a crowd was perfectly capable of whipping itself into a mob, based on nothing but wildfire supposition. People in such a mood, Keturah knew, would not be troubled by the truth: that last she had seen, the army was intact.
“So, you people here,” Keturah called over the top of the jeering—a measure of quiet falling as some tried to listen. “You no longer cheer victories over the Sutherners? You would rather that Uvoren had inherited the throne? If your view is that he would not have marched on Suthdal, I agree—he refused even to defend us from the Suthern invaders last year!”
“Liar!” came a shout. “It was your husband who ruled then, and prevented us marching!”
“How nice for you, that you’ve returned to birth your child in safety!” added Sigurasta, pointing at Keturah’s swollen belly. “While our sons fall on alien soil!”
There was a roaring in Keturah’s ears now. “You know nothing!” she bellowed. “How you even have an opinion on this is beyond me!” But now she could not hear her own words over the jeering. Impotent in the face of their hysteria, she jerked the horse about and rode away, panting with rage as mocking cries followed them down the street. Heads started appearing in the windows above, looking down curiously to see the source of the commotion. “Stick your heads back in,” she spat under her breath.
Ormur was frowning. “So that’s what the statue means,” he said. “That Lord Roper is so unpopular, people would rather Uvoren had won the contest for the Stone Throne.”
It was her turn for silence now as she fought to overcome her rage. “Almost,” she said eventually. “What it really means is that those fools are being manipulated. Roper should’ve taken steps to avoid this. I should’ve told him. Every minor skirmish, and every pace marched south, we should’ve sent a herald north to proclaim it a magnificent triumph. As it is, someone has been working against us while our backs were turned. And I bet I know who.”
“Who?”
Keturah felt as though her jaw were clamped shut, and Ormur had to ask again before she would answer. “There were two legates left behind when we went south. They were the ones who’d have made most trouble if they’d come with us. The first is named Skallagrim, of the Gillamoor. He’s a reluctant old fart, but harmless. The second is Tore, one of Uvoren’s childhood friends, who despises Roper. He commands half the fighting men left in the kingdom, and that makes him powerful. He will have lobbied for the statue, and Old Skallagrim isn’t dynamic enough to stand against him.” Keturah was breathing hard through her nose. “But we’ll convince him to take it down. We just need to wait for the right moment.”
“Which will be when?”
“When I’ve delivered this child.” She rested a hand on her belly. “If it’s healthy, and especially if it’s a boy, my position will become rather more secure. In any case, there is no need to act at once.”
But that assertion was tested on arrival at the Central Keep. Standing guard over the entrance were a pair of Dunoon legionaries: Tore’s men, since he had been stripped of the Greyhazel the year before. So certain was Keturah that they would not let them through, that she did not bother to take the horse to the stable and instead left it with Ormur, climbing the steps alone.
As feared, the legionaries stepped in front of her before she could cross the threshold into the keep. “No further,” said one of them.
Keturah had already decided this was not a battle worth fighting, and mustered a smile. “Perhaps you’d tell me where to find your master? There seems to have been a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding,” said the legionary. “Your husband is a public enemy. I’d no sooner let you into the keep than the King of Suthdal.”
Keturah gave her practised laugh. “Now really. When did a legate acquire the power to declare anyone a public enemy? And now you’re telling me the Black Lady isn’t welcome in her own keep?”
“You’re no lady,” said the legionary, truthfully. “Be gone.”
Keturah shrugged and turned away, affecting carelessness. She was shaken, though. First Sigurasta, now this. Did she have any allies remaining? Or would they all have disavowed her? And her baby, due any time now—would she need to deliver that alone?
Her head was slightly bowed as she descended the steps, taking the reins Ormur offered without a word. “Where now?” asked the boy, as she hauled herself into the saddle. He did not seem worried, clearly assuming Keturah would handle this.
She raised her eyebrows in imitation of her usual sardonic fashion, but she did not want to ride back through those streets and through that vicious jeering. “My father’s house,” she declared after a pause. “Come on.”
As Keturah had feared, when they left the honeycomb of stone surrounding the keep, some of those who had jeered them before were still standing there. Among them was Sigurasta, who now pointed at the returning Keturah. “Too humble for the keep, now, Keturah? You’ll have to live like the rest of us!” A dozen people who had come with her began to hiss, attracting the attention of others nearby who came to add to the scorn.
Keturah did not acknowledge them, all her attention spent suppressing a boiling rage. The crowd did not just let her pass, instead keeping pace alongside them, forming a forty-strong guard of dishonour. The faces staring up at her were terribly animated, spitting curses and jabbing fingers like knives. They were largely women, the men being either away with Roper, or serving in Tore and Skallagrim’s overworked legions.
“Shall we move faster, my lady?” Ormur called over the jeers.
“What? Have we done something wrong, Ormur? Don’t give them a single inch.” But she had no idea how to react to this ferocity. She noticed her left hand was shielding her belly, and dropped it to her side.
“My lady!” There was a warning note in Ormur’s voice. A strange fixity had come into the faces staring up at her, as each individual fed off the rage around them and surrendered their identity to the mob. Their horse had started dancing and snorting as though swarmed with wasps, and the crowd, more than sixty now and screaming, began to press very close.
A hand clutched at her boot and she withdrew it sharply, accidentally kicking the horse. The panicked beast lunged forward and those nearest shrank back, opening up a channel before them. The horse lurched into a gallop, in which Keturah’s only choice was to hold on grimly or be hurled onto the cobbles. Ormur’s fingers crushed into her shoulders and they jostled clear of the crowd and clattered round a corner.
They were going the wrong way and Keturah fought to regain control of the horse, dragging at the reins and telling it furiously that it would receive a terrible thrashing if it did not stop at once. It was not until they had streaked through the gate to the bakers’ district that she finally succeeded in bringing the beast to a halt. For a moment, she and Ormur just panted.
“Savages,” she spat, chest still heaving. “Barbarians!”
“Did you see their faces?” asked Ormur. “I’ve never seen people look like that.”
“A first insight for you, Ormur,” she said acidly, “into why possession is such a sin.”
Keturah disguised her short hair and distinctive profile with a cowl, and turned the horse back towards Tekoa’s house. Neither of them spoke again before dismounting in front of the familiar oak door. Keturah tugged on the cord which lifted the latch and leaned into the wood, but it did not budge.
“The boards must have swollen,” said Ormur.
“It’s barred,” Keturah snapped, then felt immediately ashamed. “You may not have encountered that in the haskoli,” she added, more gently.
“The people here bar their doors?”
“Not usually. But things are changing.” She looked up and down the street, noticing a few curious onlookers staring from the far end. “We need to find another way in.”
Keturah looked up at the large glassless windows above. The stones of the wall were laid very tight, with few obvious holds. Even if she gave Ormur a boost, she could not see how he would climb the final six feet.
A grating noise from behind the door made her take a pace backwards. It swung inwards, and was swallowed by a dark pool of shadows behind. From this gloom appeared a flashing sword, followed by the armoured figure which held it.
“Miss Keturah?” The sword was lowered at once.
“Oh, Harald, bless you!” She stumbled over the threshold and embraced the legionary.
“By the storm, what are you doing here?” Harald had been Tekoa’s retainer since Keturah was a baby, and had clearly been left in charge of the premises while the legate was away. He was stocky, and short enough that their embrace pressed his face into Keturah’s shoulder. They broke apart and he looked up at her, with a countenance that might be callous if she were not so familiar with it.
“Come in, girl, come. Don’t linger out there.” Harald stepped aside. “The boy is with you, is he?”
“This is Roper’s younger brother,” Keturah explained, pulling back her cowl and leading the way into the living quarters. She heard the boy yield his name behind her, and the sound of Harald barring the door once more.
Entering the familiar parlour felt like piloting into the calm waters of port following a tempest. A fire was slumbering in the hearth, casting orange light over the great tapestry on the far wall and making a black kettle hung above steam. Pulled up next to it was a chair, in which Tekoa had sat so often. The whole room smelt of the pine tar he used to wash, and Keturah rested a hand on the back of the chair. “If only you were here,” she murmured. It was only recently that she seemed to have lost her blind optimism that the plague which had infested her father’s legion would have spared him.
Harald followed her in. She thought he would ply them with questions, but instead he just stared into her face for some while with an expression of horror. For the first time she considered how careworn she must look, after fighting and travelling and starving for so many months. Abruptly he shook himself, banked the fire and drew up an extra chair for Ormur. “Sit, both of you.” He vanished, and returned some while later with two goblets of steaming elderberry wine. “You’ll need that,” he said. “Food’s on the way.”
“Harald, I’m perfectly capable—” but Harald had gone. Keturah sipped the wine and felt warmth spread to her toes. She shot a glance at Ormur, who had taken a gulp and started coughing violently. “Ever had wine, Ormur?”
The boy shook his head, eyes watering.
“The treats that lie before you.”
When Harald reappeared, he was holding two plates laden with cold ham and warm bread. “Really, Harald,” said Keturah, sternly accepting the plate. “We are hardly at death’s door.”
“You look like you need it. And it’s the very least I can do,” he added quietly, and she knew he too was thinking of Tekoa.
“You heard about my father?” She tried to sound carefree, but found she could not hold his eye. She looked away to sip at the wine again.
“Yes, Miss Keturah. I heard.”
“Perhaps not everything?” Keturah suggested. “I do not know for sure that he was claimed by plague.”
Harald, who had been piling more wood on the fire, froze. He straightened up and turned to face her. “I heard he was dead.”
Keturah looked back at him, and at the word dead found she was fighting back tears. “He might be.”
“But not definitely?”
“The sickness was thick among the Skiritai. Tekoa took the whole legion into exile to let it run its course, and spare the rest of the army. I haven’t heard from them since.”
Harald gawped at her, and Keturah thought how it must have been for this loyal man to wait here alone, certain his master was dead. She was amazed that he had stayed. Eventually he sniffed grimly. “Just like the legate to put the army first. Much good it did them.”
“But it did, Harald. The army was intact when I left. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the sickness was contained with the Skiritai.”
“When did you leave?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“No,” said Harald abruptly. “I heard the whole force had succumbed! Truly?”
“Truly,” Keturah confirmed. “They were marching to Lundenceaster, last I saw. But what has been going on here?” she demanded, sitting forward now and resting cup and plate on the floor. “Where are these rumours coming from? Why is there a ghastly statue of Uvoren behind the gatehouse? And why is Roper now a public enemy?”
“Oh!” Harald made a violent shooing gesture, as if to say Do not speak to me of that! “It has been awful since you left, Miss Keturah. Skallagrim was named regent, but it was like putting a sheep in charge of a wolfpack, and Tore soon saw him off. The Gillamoor were sent to work on the canal, Skallagrim went with them, and hasn’t been able to find an excuse to come back. Tore’s been plotting ever since, though he didn’t put up the statue.”
“No, I suppose that would’ve been too obvious,” said Keturah. “Who did it at his request?”
“Vinjar Kristvinson,” said Harald, naming one of Uvoren’s old allies, and Sigurasta’s husband, who had been toppled in Roper’s efforts to secure his throne.
“Vinjar!” said Keturah. “He was disgraced long ago! What authority would he possibly have for that?”
“He’s now Master of the Hindrunn,” said Harald.
Keturah’s lip curled involuntarily. “There is no such post.”
“There is now. The Ephors created it.”
“The Ephors are thick with Tore?”
Harald, never politically minded, shrugged, and Keturah shook her head and answered her own question. “Of course, they’d have been slighted by Roper launching an invasion without their permission. So Vinjar was exonerated.”
Harald nodded. “He appeared in one of the honeypots and made a speech in his defence. It was good,” he admitted. “And the Ephor ruled that the evidence against him had been fabricated by Lord Roper.”
“Which it wasn’t,” said Keturah, angrily, though this news at least explained why Sigurasta, Vinjar’s wife, had reacted so ferociously to Keturah. She was trying to convince herself that he had been innocent of the crime that brought him down: adultery.
Harald shrugged again. “I think they planned the whole thing. Once Vinjar had been cleared, he turned to the crowd and said that the story—that Uvoren had tried to take command at Harstathur and nearly lost the battle—was a fabrication, and that when Pryce killed him it had been nothing other than murder. It whipped the crowd into a frenzy; folk have been saying for a long while that it was wrong to obliterate his body.” And there, Keturah agreed. By destroying Uvoren’s corpse, Pryce had denied his soul its chance on the Winter Road: the great traverse, which all Anakim must navigate to reach the Otherworld. Instead, Uvoren had been condemned to a tortured, earthly existence and to the many who venerated Uvoren as a hero, that had been exceedingly harsh. “So it was decreed that Pryce should be arrested, and that Lord Roper should appear before the Ephors when he returned,” Harald finished.
