Froi of the Exiles (27 page)

Silently, Froi placed a hand over Gargarin’s mouth.

‘You’ll never get out of here alive, Gargarin,’ he whispered, wondering why he even cared.

Gargarin tried to shove him away, his movements furious.

He pulled Gargarin back to the grate and forced him down the hole. Froi followed closely behind. In the narrow tunnel he watched as Gargarin rested his head against the stone, wearily.

‘Lean on me,’ Froi said. ‘Lirah’s dagger wound must have triggered off spasms.’

‘Really. You’re gods’ touched, are you?’

Froi ignored the mood. ‘Not sure whether you noticed that I saved your life, fool.’

‘Not sure whether you noticed that I didn’t ask for saving, idiot!’

Gargarin was still clutching the dagger in his hand.

‘And where did you manage to get hold of that?’ Froi asked.

‘I’m not here to answer your questions.’

‘Then what are you here for, Gargarin?’

Gargarin stumbled away, his movements even more awkward in his fury. Froi grabbed him by the coarse woven cloth of his shirt, but Gargarin pulled away again.

‘Is this where you break your bond and kill me slowly?’ he asked.

‘Not today,’ Froi said. ‘I’m feeling too inquisitive.’

‘About?’

‘You. Your brother. The whore,’ he provoked.

Gargarin stopped and Froi walked into him. There was no room in so narrow a space for Gargarin to turn, but Froi saw the whipcord fury in the hands against the wall, the way they tightened on the staff and the dagger.

‘You watch what comes out of your mouth,’ Gargarin warned coldly. ‘Lirah of Serker was thirteen years old when she was sold to this godsforsaken rock. She deserves no one’s scorn.’

Froi reached forward and pounded the hand holding the dagger into the wall. Gargarin’s fingers convulsed and let go.

‘You’re nothing but a pathetic shell of a man who can hardly hold a weapon, let alone a woman such as Lirah of Serker,’ Froi said, picking up the dagger.

‘A pathetic shell of a man?’ Gargarin asked. ‘Is that what you call those from wherever you come from who don’t have power in their stride?’

Suddenly Gargarin twisted around, slamming Froi against the wall, the staff under Froi’s chin, the space so narrow they could hardly breathe.

‘See, now we’re speaking the same language, Gargarin,’ Froi said, excitement making his blood pound. They struggled for a moment until Froi had the upper hand, his arm pressed against the other man’s windpipe. ‘If you answer my questions, I promise I won’t snap your neck,’ Froi said.

Gargarin was silent.

‘Waiting for the nod.’

‘Well, you’re not going to get one. What’s your name?’ Gargarin demanded.

‘Doesn’t matter what my name is,’ Froi said, irritated. ‘I’m the one asking questions.’

‘There’s something you need to know about me,’ Gargarin said in an even tone. ‘Despite the wretchedness of this body, I stopped being frightened of thugs some time in my youth. The only people who frighten me are those who are smarter, and thankfully in this palace, there aren’t many of those, so I’ve managed to find some peace in this wretched life of mine.’

‘Would you consider me smart for wondering how you would possibly know where the King’s chamber is?’ Froi asked.

‘Because I once lived in the palace, idiot.’

‘You lived here eighteen years ago when his chamber was in the keep. Twelve years ago he was moved to the fourth tower. It’s where your brother was chained to his desk. Not the kind of information they hand out readily around here.’

Gargarin’s expression was bitter.

‘But perhaps your brother wasn’t chained to the King’s desk. At first I thought he was the grumpiest, meanest man in the land of Skuldenore. Who wouldn’t want to wave to Quintana, especially when years ago he wept while clutching her and Lirah in his arms, as though he was in love with Lirah? But, despite the fact that Lirah’s face makes one ache, Arjuro prefers the company of men in his bed, although these days I don’t think anyone is enjoying Arjuro’s presence in their bed. Then when I asked Arjuro to describe the King’s chamber where he spent two whole years chained to a desk, he claimed never to have been there. Said the Reginita was lying. Perhaps she was lying. Deep down, I think she’s telling a story or two.’

‘You have a lot of time for thinking. Is that what you do back wherever you come from?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Am I right?’

Gargarin’s eyes flickered with some sort of triumph. ‘And what would you say if I told you I’ve worked you out?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest,’ Froi said, ‘I could do with some entertainment.’

‘You’re an assassin made up of the garbage of this kingdom. You have Serker eyes and you have the face of scum from Abroi. I should know. I grew up amongst it. We’re probably related, most of Abroi is, and the reason I don’t look like the rest of you inbreds is because my brother and I took after our mother, who came from a nomadic tribe of pig-ignorant Osterians, who thankfully were blessed with refined features, but little else. You were taught to speak Charynite in the classic way, probably by a Priest or a scholar, and you’ve spent some time in Sarnak because when you curse, you say
Sagra
, and only that kingdom butchers the name of the Goddess Sagrami. The fact you pronounce your
z
with an s sound tells me you lived amongst the Sarnaks, and you end your sentences on a high note, which means you’ve spent some time with the Lumateran river people.’

Gargarin waited. ‘Did I get any of it wrong, whatever did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t,’ Froi said, impressed. ‘Anything else you’d like to add, you lying scum?’

‘I don’t lie. I just kill women and babies, remember.’

Froi pressed him harder into the stone. ‘How could you jest about such a thing?’ he said.

He felt Gargarin search his face.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘Tell me something, Olivier of Sebastabol. Was the other Olivier murdered to fulfil what it was you were sent to do?’

Froi hadn’t given the other lad a thought since he had entered the Citavita.

‘If I knew what you were talking about, I’d say no. Why kill an innocent lad, regardless of what an idiot he is?’

There was relief on Gargarin’s face.

‘Tell me, Gargarin of Abroi, did you throw the Oracle Queen and the babe from the balconette?’

‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ’And no, I didn’t. I’ll swap my truth for yours.’

Froi shook his head.

‘Who sent you?’ Gargarin demanded.

‘Why would I tell you that?’

‘Because I think we want the same thing.’

Froi remembered Trevanion’s warning about not trusting those with the same desire to kill the King.

‘You and I are not the same, Gargarin. I would never take the life of a babe.’

‘Is that what Lirah told you? Arjuro too?’ Froi’s grip loosened and Gargarin broke free, hobbling away as though he wanted to put the greatest of distance between them. ‘At least Arjuro saw events that tricked his eyes. Lirah made her decision based on hearsay,’ he said bitterly.

Froi wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. Gargarin was every man he trusted who had turned their back or betrayed him on the streets of the Sarnak capital.

‘Makes no difference to me because a child died that night,’ Froi said, coming up behind Gargarin. ‘But it makes a difference to her.’

He placed his mouth close to Gargarin’s ear so he would hear the words whispered for the rest of his days. ‘You killed Lirah’s son, Gargarin. They swapped the babes.’

Gargarin stopped, shook his head as though to rid himself of a thought that seemed incomprehensible. He managed to turn and face Froi. This time it was Froi who wanted to look away because the stare was a force beyond reckoning. Gargarin stumbled back over uneven ground. Froi leapt forward to grab him, but Gargarin pushed him away and still he stared. Froi didn’t see sorrow in the man’s eyes, but he saw something. Confusion, perhaps. Was that hope? Gargarin swallowed hard.

‘Wherever you’ve come from, leave this place and never return,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please.’

The plea was the last thing Froi expected to hear.

They were both silent as they walked out into the courtyard. Something Froi could not put into words had taken place in the bowels of the castle that had left them both shaken.

Around them, the courtyard was a beehive of activity. Servants swept the ground with vigour and the castle cooks carried a roasted pig on a spit towards the smaller drawbridge that led to the inner ward. Suddenly they found themselves face to face with Bestiano.

Gargarin passed the man without a word, but Bestiano’s hand snaked out and grabbed Gargarin by the arm.

‘The King has finally agreed to see you,’ the King’s First Advisor said coolly. ‘He felt it was best to do so with the Provincari here.’

Gargarin looked back to where Froi stood. Froi saw his eyes glance towards where he knew the dagger was hidden in Froi’s pocket. The fool wanted it back.

‘And what of me?’ Froi asked. ‘Don’t lastborns meet the King?’

‘You,’ Bestiano said, forcing a pleasant tone, ‘will travel home tomorrow with the Provincaro of Paladozza. I especially asked him as a favour on behalf of the absent Provincaro of Sebastabol.’

Froi knew that in the early hours of the morning he would have to return to the tunnel and do what he was sent here to do.

A parade of riders entered the courtyard through the portcullis. The Provincari, Froi suspected, here for the day of weeping. Froi turned to walk away, but saw Quintana standing by the gatehouse, peering out between the riders, into the Citavita below. He knew without asking that she was searching for him, believing him to have leapt to Arjuro’s godshouse.

She turned, her eyes finding Froi’s over Bestiano’s shoulder.

‘Get out of that filthy sack, you stupid girl,’ Bestiano grated. Quintana had taken to wandering through the castle wearing the calico shift Froi had stolen for her in the caves. It made her look even more ordinary. Even more human than the peculiar Princess in the hideous pink dress.

When Froi heard Bestiano’s footsteps retreat towards where the Provincari were dismounting, Froi approached her.

‘You’re going tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘Without having planted the seed.’

Froi tried to hide his frustration. Deep down he wanted her to be of a sound mind, but each time she mentioned the planting of the seed he knew she was nothing more than a half-mad girl.

‘If you fulfil the prophecy,’ she said, ‘we will let you kiss me.’

‘A kiss is the prize?’ he asked sadly. ‘Even more than giving me the rest of you? It should be the other way round, Princess. In the real world, it’s called courting. You let a lad kiss you and then you offer him more.’

‘Let me tell you something, Olivier,’ she said with tears of sorrow in her eyes, ‘this is my real world.’

Gargarin approached, returning from greeting the Provincari. He went to enter their tower, but stopped when he caught Quintana’s expression.

‘Has Olivier said something to distress you?’ he asked gently, noticing the tears in her eyes.

‘He has a wicked tongue, Sir Gargarin.’

‘Pity it’s not in our power to cut it out then,’ Gargarin said. ‘The Provincaro of Paladozza would like a word,’ he told Froi.

Froi looked back to where the portcullis was still raised and the drawbridge down.

‘I’ve someone to meet,’ he muttered, walking away from them both.

Froi hammered on the godshouse door for what seemed an eternity. He was always wary on this quiet part of the rock, away from the noise and business of the Citavita.

He stared into the peephole the moment he heard Arjuro slide it across. After a moment, the Priestling opened the door and stepped aside. Froi watched him look down towards the palace.

‘I suppose the Provincari have arrived?’

Froi didn’t answer. Arjuro shut the heavy door, pushing his weight against it before placing a piece of timber across the length of the entrance.

They stood silently in the dark.

‘Did you swap places?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro met his eyes. He didn’t pretend not to know what Froi was saying.

‘In a way.’

‘In what way?’ Froi demanded.

‘In the way where I beat him to a pulp and walked out of a prison as Gargarin of Abroi and the real Gargarin stayed locked up for eight years as the Priestling Arjuro.’

‘Oh,’ Froi said quietly. ‘That way.’

Arjuro was holding a bottle in his hand. He took a long mouthful. He looked worse than Froi had ever seen him. They both sat on the cold hard stone of the stairs.

‘Lirah told me the truth. About what Gargarin did all those years ago.’

Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Is there any chance –’

‘No,’ Arjuro said, as though he knew what Froi was asking. ‘I saw him do it. You’ve seen the distance between the godshouse balconette and yours. They shackled me to the railings outside mine and they made me watch. First he tossed my beloved Oracle, then her child.’

Froi’s heart sank.

‘It was Lirah’s child,’ he told Arjuro quietly. Respectfully. ‘They swapped the babes.’

Not even a day’s worth of ale could numb Arjuro from those words.

‘
Gods
,’ the Priestling muttered, hammering his head against the wall. ‘
Gods. Gods. Gods
.’

Froi grabbed him, taking the bottle out of his hand. Suddenly, a thought seemed to cross Arjuro’s mind.

‘Then the Princess …’

Froi nodded. ‘ … is the Oracle’s daughter.’

‘Well, that makes sense. There was no one madder than the Oracle.’

‘Was it quick?’ Froi asked. ‘The way they died, I mean?’

‘I could see the Oracle was already dead. The struggle had already taken place inside the chamber. Same with the babe.’

Arjuro took the bottle from Froi and was back on his feet, trudging upwards. Froi sometimes forgot that the brothers were no older than Trevanion and Perri and Lord August. But they walked like old men, as though the weight of evil stood on their shoulders.

Arjuro stopped at a landing that led to cell after small cell. Froi followed him into one of the rooms and watched the Priestling collapse onto the cot, the bottle hitting the ground, shattering into pieces. ‘They made me watch,’ Arjuro repeated over and over again. ‘They made me watch my brother kill innocence and goodness that day.’