‘Leave,’ the guard said. ‘We don’t need trouble here.’
Froi pushed past him, but the man gripped his arm.
‘You have a very short memory,’ Froi warned. ‘Don’t let me remind you of what I can do.’
Suddenly De Lancey was between them.
‘Come,’ he said to Froi, holding up a hand to his guard. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
‘Sir –’
‘I said, I’ll take care of this.’
Froi followed De Lancey as he pushed through the crowd and resumed his seat.
‘We’ll speak later,’ the Provincaro told the men at his table, who eyed Froi suspiciously. They walked away, turning at intervals until they left the room.
‘What don’t they trust more?’ Froi asked, bitterly. ‘The fact that they don’t know who I am, or the fact that I saved her life and they didn’t want it saved?’
De Lancey didn’t respond.
‘Where’s Lirah?’ Froi asked, not wasting time.
The Provincaro shrugged, an effortless movement. ‘I’ve not seen her since the day of the hanging.’
‘And Arjuro?’
‘I’ve not seen him either.’
Froi shook his head, giving a humourless laugh. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Provincaro,’ he said as he stood.
‘If you ask me where Gargarin is, I can tell you that,’ the Provincaro said, his voice silky in its lazy drawl.
Froi stiffened. He wanted to walk away.
‘Sit,’ De Lancey ordered.
‘I don’t –’
‘Now.’
Froi sighed and sat and they eyed each other a moment or two before De Lancey pushed over the carafe of wine.
‘I’d prefer food.’ Froi hoped there wasn’t a plea in his voice. Food had been scarce during the week and he had taken to stealing whatever he could, regardless of who he was taking it from. Those in the Citavita had made it clear that it was each out for their own. De Lancey signalled to one of his men and gave him an instruction before the man walked away.
‘We think Lirah and Arjuro are staying at the Crow’s Inn, close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ he told Froi.
‘Think?’
‘Someone with an abundance of wild hair and clothed in black from head to toe was heard calling one of the street lords a horse arse of gods-like proportions. Could only be him.’
Froi closed his eyes a moment, feeling a relief that almost made him faint.
‘Are you going to take them with you?’ he asked, clearing his voice of its hoarseness.
‘No. Should I?’ De Lancey asked.
‘You’ll take Gargarin, but not Arjuro?’
Froi could tell by the narrowing of De Lancey’s eyes that he was unimpressed with his tone.
‘Well, they’re not exactly attached and Gargarin doesn’t owe Arjuro anything,’ the Provincaro said coldly.
‘But you do.’
‘Do I?’
Froi bristled. The man was too calm and cool-blooded.
‘I would have done the same to Gargarin in that prison cell,’ Froi said. ‘If I had seen Gargarin kill the child and the Oracle, I would have escaped the exact way Arjuro did.’
‘So would have I,’ De Lancey said. ‘I think Gargarin’s accepted that, too. But ten years ago, when they released Gargarin from the prison after they had broke every bone in his body, we searched this kingdom high and low for one of the most briliant young physicians in Charyn. And Arjuro refused to be found. Gargarin’s bones mended twisted.’
A plate of pigeon stew was placed before Froi and he wolfed it down.
‘How long since you’ve eaten, you fool?’
Froi burped and stood. ’Not your concern.’
De Lancey sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you and Grij and the lads are a punishment to us all for our wild youth.’
‘I’m not one of the lads,’ Froi said. ‘I’m just someone’s bastard, remember?’
There was regret on De Lancey’s face.
‘I did not mean for you to find out the way you did.’
Froi shrugged. ‘You had a dalliance with Arjuro and you wanted to pick a fight.’
De Lancey gave a bitter laugh. ‘Dalliance? Is that what he told you?’
‘I knew he was lying,’ Froi said with a sneer. ‘As if you would lower yourself. I know your type.’
The Provincaro was quick. He reached over and gripped Froi by his shirt, bringing him an inch away from his face.
‘No,’ De Lancey said through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t. Never presume.’
The Guard were at the table in an instant.
‘We’ll take him outside, Sir.’
The Provincaro shoved Froi back and waved them away. Froi studied him a moment. He wondered who was telling the truth. Arjuro or De Lancey?
‘He lied about the dalliance part,’ the Provincaro said quietly. ‘We were lovers from when we were sixteen years old until the night of the lastborn. Nine years. Not quite a dalliance, don’t you agree?’ he added bitterly.
‘But you betrayed him?’
A flash of regret crossed the other man’s face. ‘I betrayed many that night. But I believed I was doing the right thing.’
De Lancey poured wine from the carafe. ‘Do you have trust in your king?’
Froi pushed his mug towards the wine and De Lancey poured another. ‘I have a queen and you have caught me on a mellow day, De Lancey. Because if anyone dared to question my allegiance or trust in my queen and king I’d take a knife to their throat.’
‘I trusted my king. I thought Arjuro was mad and in his madness he was risking the life of our beloved Oracle. I felt there was no better place to protect her from the Serkers than in the palace. But I was a coward in my plan. It cost an innocent farrier his life and I realised afterwards that the Serkers were not involved.’
De Lancey looked up and Froi followed his gaze to where the three lastborns entered the crowded room. Froi watched Grijio speak to one of the guards, who pointed to the Provincaro.
‘Arjuro was your lover, but you had a wife who bore you a son?’ Froi accused.
‘No,’ the Provincaro said. ‘I’ve not had a wife. It’s far more complicated and tragic than you’d imagine.’
‘Everything in Charyn seems far more complicated and tragic.’
Froi stood, skolling the wine.
‘By the way,’ Froi said. ‘It’s no business of mine, but I would reconsider asking Tariq to travel into the centre of Charyn, regardless of how many men your envoy promises him.’
‘My envoy?’
Froi saw genuine confusion on the man’s face.
‘Lad, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The hairs on Froi’s arm stood tall as he stared at De Lancey.
‘Are you saying you haven’t sent an envoy to meet with Tariq of Lascow?’
The lastborns arrived to hear Froi’s words.
‘Who told you that?’ De Lancey asked.
‘Tariq.’
‘What?’ De Lancey asked.
Froi bolted, shoving through the crowd. He heard the Provincaro call out Grijio’s name and felt someone at his shoulder and knew it was one of the lastborns. They clambered up the stairs and out of the cave. Once outside, the wind tore at their skin, but they raced up the Citavita wall, flying over cave tops to reach Perabo’s home.
‘He’ll not let us in,’ Grijio shouted over the wind. ‘The rule is that we are never to search him out.’
Froi ignored him, fighting the images that came to his mind. You should never have left her, he raged to himself.
When they reached the roof of Perabo’s cave, Froi grabbed a piece of stone and hammered, shouting out the man’s name over and over again, his voice raw. Olivier and Grijio and Satch collapsed beside him, their voices joining in with his. Until finally they heard a sound from inside and the trapdoor was lifted to reveal Perabo.
‘They’ve been betrayed,’ Froi shouted at the man. Perabo ushered them in. Froi leapt down into
the room, pushing aside the chest placed over the trapdoor.
‘How can you be sure?’ Perabo said, crouching down to where Froi pulled at the ring to lift the door.
‘They’re waiting for De Lancey’s envoy.’
‘And Father sent no envoy!’ Grij said.
Perabo grabbed Froi’s arm. ‘Then we do nothing!’ he said, anguish in his voice. ‘That was the plan. That if there’s been an ambush we do nothing.’
‘You do nothing, Perabo,’ Froi said, climbing into the narrow cavern below. He landed on his feet and began to run down the tunnel. A moment later he saw the flicker of light and knew the others had followed. At the place where two rafts were docked, Perabo pointed Grijio towards Froi and handed them a lantern before pushing their raft along. Perabo, Olivier and Satch took the second raft and there was a sickening sombre silence for too long before someone spoke.
‘When?’ Grijio whispered, as they approached a familiar turn in the underground river. ‘When did he believe this so-called envoy was to come?’
‘He said a week,’ Froi said. ‘That was eight days ago.’
Froi looked back to the others. ‘I’ll go in first,’ he said. ‘I need your sword, Perabo.’
‘No one goes in unless it’s secure.’
‘Give him your sword, Perabo,’ Olivier protested. ‘If they live, the Lumateran has a better chance of getting them out alive.’
When they reached the place where they had heard the three beats last time, they waited for the sound. But there was nothing. Perabo tapped the roof of the cave with his oar, but still no one came.
‘Gyer,’ Perabo whispered. ‘Gyer.’
Still nothing.
‘This is not good,’ Froi heard Olivier whisper. ‘This is not good.’
Froi stepped out of his raft and Perabo reached across from the second vessel and handed him the sword with shaking hands.
In the tunnel of speckled light, Froi began to clear his mind of all things that could spell doom and concentrated on what brought hope. He knew that if whoever had infiltrated the compound was smart, they would take Tariq’s people hostage and ransom them to the Provincari. The Provincari would pay for the heir and his family. Any day now, De Lancey or one of the other Provincari would get news and deals would be struck and Tariq would be safe. But would Quintana? Would the enemy have recognised her or would they believe her to be one of the Lascow compound, waiting in exile?
And then he saw the first corpse. Recognised the face of the gatekeeper. What had Perabo called him? Gyer. A small distance away was another corpse, throat slit from ear to ear. Froi’s legs almost buckled as he entered Tariq’s chamber where they had first placed Quintana, his heart catching in his throat when he saw that Tariq’s nurse lay on the ground, her wounds identical to the men’s.
Froi heard a sound and spun around, his sword pressing against the base of Olivier’s throat.
‘I told you to stay behind,’ Froi said quietly.
But Olivier could only shake his head.
‘We found others,’ he whispered. ‘In the kitchen.’
It was quick. They had been taken by surprise. The cook still had flour on her hands, the once-giggling cousins were clutching their grinders. Every one of them had the same wound and Froi’s only consolation was that the deaths were quick. He reached over to an egg that had been shelled. Felt it was cold.
‘You don’t know how smart he is,’ Grijio said. ‘He would have found a way to live. He would have.’
Doesn’t matter how smart you are, Froi wanted to tell them. When you face the end of a sword, it has little to do with smarts.
He walked amongst the dead. Sometimes he thought he saw her, recognised her dress, and his heart would sink as he crouched to gently turn the body towards him, and then for a moment, all he could feel was relief. Until the next girl and then the next.
Some were still holding hands, as though they had gripped onto each other with fear as the dagger cut the breath out of them. Froi’s eyes swelled with a fury of tears. Knew they never had a chance.
He heard a cry of anguish and he followed the sound into the tunnel where only a week ago Tariq had stopped to weep for his dying cousin. At the end, where Froi knew there was nothing but steps leading down to the crypt, he saw the others. He couldn’t breathe. He could only watch. Olivier crouched down in sorrow. Satch stood with hands to his head, bewildered horror on his face. Grijio was weeping bitterly, his arms clasped around himself, while Perabo’s fist pounded at the stone wall until Grijio pulled him away before he could do further damage. When they heard Froi’s slow footsteps, they turned, and he saw the faces of men who had lost hope. Not even amongst the Lumaterans when they had discovered that their heir, Balthazar, was truly dead had he seen such desolation.
Sprawled at the top of the steps was Tariq of Lascow’s body. Close by a girl lay dead. Froi could see by the colour of her hair that it was Ariel. He fell to his knees beside Tariq, saw the way one arm lay lifeless against the top step.
‘Perhaps they took Quintana,’ Froi managed to find the words, staring down at the young King who had shown him nothing but kindness. Who had promised nothing but peace.
Perabo shook his head, blood dripping from his fists. ‘You know better than me, Lumateran. This was a hunting party. No one was to survive. They would have had no idea she was here. They would have killed her not knowing who she was.’
‘There’s another chamber,’ Olivier said, pointing further on. ‘Where the corpses are piled onto each other.’
Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I need to find her,’ he said.
There was a trail of blood between the bodies, as though the wretched assassins couldn’t allow the two cousins to die side by side. Froi gently dragged Tariq’s body closer to Ariel’s and turned him on his back.
He heard the swallows of grief around him as he reached out to close the young King’s eyes. He couldn’t help noticing that although Tariq was cut from ear to ear, much the same as everyone else, the assassins had also hacked at the inside of his arm, as though with a blunt sword.
Froi had been taught that dead men sometimes spoke louder than those who breathed. He searched the space around them for a sign, and saw it there, close to Ariel’s body. A small decorative dagger, sharp enough to slice paper and do little else. Had Tariq tried to fight the assassins with a letter opener? And if so, why cut his arm so crudely? Suddenly Froi’s eyes were drawn to the wound on Ariel’s throat. Crudely hacked, much the same as Tariq’s arm, but unlike the precise wound at the heir’s throat.
‘What is it, Froi?’ Grijio asked.
Froi shook his head, unable to speak. He needed to think. Had Tariq’s visit to his cousin’s deathbed been interrupted by the assassins and had they tried to escape together? Had Tariq tried to fight them with the only weapon he had, which was then used against him? Yet the wound to his throat was delivered by the sharpest of weapons.
‘We need to find her corpse,’ Perabo said, his voice rough in its sorrow. ‘And then we get out of here. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Come, Froi,’ Grijio said. ‘We’ve seen enough.’
The lastborn glanced at the two bodies one more time.
‘She was a beauty,’ Grijio said softly. ‘I knew her before her illness. She had the brightest eyes I’d ever seen.’
Froi had to agree about the beauty. Despite Ariel’s ghastly pallor, she looked peaceful, almost a hint of a smile on her face. But then a strange thought struck him.
‘Her eyes are closed,’ he said. ‘Perabo, stop!’ Froi called out to the keeper of the caves, who had already begun to walk away.
‘What are you saying?’ Grijio asked.
‘Every body we’ve passed has had eyes that are wide open in death. Except for Ariel’s.’
He reached a shaky hand to touch the girl’s face and froze. The others were back alongside him. Froi grabbed Perabo’s hand, placing it on Ariel’s face.
He watched the man flinch. ‘She’s been dead f
or at least a day or two. The stiffness has already entered her bones!’
‘Why would they slit her throat if she was already dead?’ Olivier demanded.
‘Fro,’ Satch said urgently, his voice a gasp.
‘It’s Froi.’
‘There!’
They looked back to the step where Satch pointed and where Tariq’s hand had first rested when they found him. And they saw the letters F – R – O written in blood. Froi studied Tariq’s hand. A finger was stained with blood.
‘He cut himself to bleed,’ Froi said urgently, looking around for something else. Anything. ‘He hacked himself with the paper dagger so he could write those letters, but he was interrupted and even after they slit his throat, he dragged himself from here to there,’ he said, pointing to the trail of blood.
‘So he could finish your name?’ Olivier asked.
Tariq would have known that nothing would keep Froi away the moment he heard Quintana’s life was in danger. The young King was speaking to him beyond death.
‘Why hack at Ariel’s throat?’ Froi asked the others, needing them to think with him.
‘He wanted them to believe she was already dead,’ Perabo said. ‘That one of their own had already come across her.’
‘Because then …’ Olivier’s eyes blazed with excitement. ‘ … then they wouldn’t go near her body!’
‘Because they’d realise she had died much earlier and he didn’t want them to know that,’ Grijio suggested. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why?’
‘Sagra!’
Froi flew down the steps, the others following. Tariq hadn’t dragged himself to the steps to complete Froi’s name. He had done so to point him in the direction of the crypt.
‘Quintana!’
‘Be as smart as you were kind, Tariq,’ Grijio prayed.
Froi burst into the crypt where two bodies wrapped in white linen were lying on a slab of stone. He began to tear at the cloth around the face of the smaller of the two.
Froi of the Exiles: The Lumatere Chronicles Page 30
