Froi of the Exiles (32 page)

Froi waited for Arjuro to speak.

‘Arjuro?’ De Lancey said. ‘Give him something in return.’

‘No,’ Arjuro said. ‘I’m more interested in what Rafuel of Sebastabol had to say to … sorry, what did you say your name was?’

The stare from Arjuro was sharp and Froi fought back a shiver. He felt as if he was looking at Gargarin.

‘I didn’t,’ Froi said.

A hint of a knowing smile appeared on Arjuro’s face. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

‘I don’t trust anyone here.’

Arjuro looked at him shrewdly, eyebrows raised in contemplation.

‘You don’t trust anyone
here
in the Citavita? Or anyone
here
in Charyn?’

‘Are you saying he’s a foreigner?’ Lirah asked, studying Froi with confusion.

Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘You’re not so slow when you’re sober, Arjuro.’

‘He’s Lumateran,’ De Lancey said. ‘Who else would be training an assassin?’

Froi didn’t respond.

‘But why would Rafuel of Sebastabol go all the way to Lumatere to find an assassin when he could train one here?’ De Lancey continued. ‘I could have provided him with one or two myself.’

‘Didn’t say I was a Lumateran, and careful, Provincaro, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned the death of the King. You could be accused of treason.’

‘He can’t be a foreigner. He has Serker eyes, and a face from Abroi,’ Lirah said.

‘I disagree,’ Arjuro said. ‘In the times when nomads travelled throughout the land, a Sendecanese or Sarnak or even a Yut could be found with Serker eyes.’

Arjuro eyed Froi. ‘Your Charyn is flawless.’

‘Perhaps I’ve inherited a sharp mind from my father,’ he whispered mockingly in Arjuro’s ear. ‘Or perhaps from my uncle. Perhaps I’m gods’ touched.’

‘What else did Rafuel of Sebastabol have to say to your leaders?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Nothing,’ Froi said.

The Provincaro made a sound as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘It’s true. He said nothing more to my leaders. But he did make mention of something to me without my leaders knowing.’

The others waited.

‘But as part of my bond, my captain said I was not to interfere with the matters of another kingdom.’

De Lancey gave another humourless laugh.

‘They sent you to assassinate the King and that’s not interfering?’

Froi felt weary. He wanted more from Arjuro, but the Priestling was a man who had been betrayed too many times and Froi knew he would have to give a whole lot more before Arjuro spoke. Two of De Lancey’s guards appeared at the door.

‘My lord, it’s not safe for you here,’ one said, eyeing Froi.

‘Go check on Grij,’ the Provincaro said tiredly, and Froi heard the voice of a man concerned for his son. It made him hate everyone even more.

De Lancey’s attention was back on Froi.

‘Rafuel of Sebastabol made mention of … the lost lastborn of the Citavita,’ Froi said quietly.

‘A myth,’ Lirah said. ‘Used to dismiss the importance of Quintana as the lastborn.’

‘Not a myth,’ Arjuro said.

‘You can’t prove that,’ De Lancey argued.

‘I saw the lastborn of the Citavita. Held him. Do you need any further proof than that, De Lancey?’ Arjuro raged. ‘Or are we going to have a repeat of eighteen years past. Last time you refused to believe me about the King an innocent messenger was murdered.’

They all stared at Arjuro.

‘You held the lastborn?’ Lirah asked.

Arjuro nodded.

‘When I escaped from the palace after … after taking Gargarin’s identity.’

‘What?’ she gasped, stunned.

‘It was Gargarin who was imprisoned for eight years,’ Froi said. ‘Not Arjuro.’

‘I took refuge with the only people I trusted in this world. I knew where the Priests of Trist were hiding because they had found a way to send a message to me after my arrest the year before. When I arrived at the caves, they told me the strangest tale. That the night before, they had heard a sound outside and saw the figure of a young boy fleeing. And at their feet was a filthy basket that smelt of cats with a babe inside. A male. No note. Nothing. They had no idea where he came from.’

De Lancey moved away from the door, his eyes wide. Lirah placed a trembling hand to her throat.

‘That night, every Priest in the cave, whether gifted or not, woke up with the same words on their lips.’

‘That the last will make the first?’ Lirah asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘That if redemption was ever to be possible, a sign would appear in the palace. We had no idea what it meant. We didn’t know that at the time Charyn was cursed. All we knew was that the Oracle was dead. The Priests have always believed that even the gods were divided over this curse. That not one god has claimed it as their own.’

‘If no god claimed it as their own …’ De Lancey said.

‘Then no god could break it. Perhaps in their realm they’ve been searching for clues themselves.’ Arjuro sighed. ‘All we knew was that whoever left the lastborn with the Priests feared for the child’s life.’

He turned to Lirah. ‘Why would the palace have wanted your son dead, Lirah?’ he asked. ‘Was it because the King suspected it wasn’t his?’

Lirah made a sound of annoyance. ‘I was his whore and the whore of anyone he chose to share me with! Why would the King ever have thought it was his child over anyone else?’

‘Whose child was he then, Lirah?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Mine.
Mine.
He belonged to me,’ Lirah said. ‘What do you want me to say, De Lancey? I had no idea who the father was.’

‘Was it Gargarin’s?’ De Lancey asked again.

‘I hardly saw the babe,’ she said. ‘And even if I had, do you think I would have seen a resemblance from a newborn. “Ah yes,” ’ she mocked. ‘ “Here is the chin of the King’s favourite banker or the eyes of his favourite cousin.” ’

There was a strained silence. A reminder of what Lirah was forced to be all those years.

‘More, Arjuro,’ De Lancey said. ‘We need more.’

‘The Priests of Trist asked me that night to name the boy because I was gods’ touched and they weren’t,’ Arjuro continued. ‘A child named by one who is gods’ touched is blessed all their lives.’ Arjuro swallowed. ‘I knew this babe could not stand out in the world, so I gave him a name with no meaning, from a place with no meaning.’ Arjuro stole a look at Froi. ‘I called him Dafar of Abroi. He was smuggled into the kingdom of Sarnak where the Priestlings of Trist had a godshouse despite the Sarnak worship of the Goddess. After the random burning down of the Sarnak godshouse four years later, the boy disappeared from our lives.’

Froi’s breath was caught in his throat.

‘I am now sure that the child came from the palace and not the Citavita,’ Arjuro said.

‘A moment ago you said the Priests had no idea where he came from!’ De Lancey said. ‘Why would you change your words?’

‘Because Olivier the impostor,’ Arjuro said, pointing to Froi, ‘has just informed us that my brother claimed to have smuggled a child out of the palace. It could have only been your son, Lirah. Perhaps, without him realising, it was Gargarin’s son. You would not have known that then. But we can only guess it now. Our young impostor’s resemblance to my father is quite extraordinary.’

Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s and Froi could hardly breathe.
Lirah
. Not cold Lirah who had despised him from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Not Gargarin.

Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I’m not from this place.’

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Lirah’s body was rocking, her expression one of horror.

‘Lirah?’ Arjuro asked. ‘Who passed your messages to Gargarin when you lived together in the palace? Who was your go-between?’

Lirah couldn’t find the words to speak.

‘Lirah!’

She shook herself out of her stupor.

‘The Sixth Advisor’s boy,’ she said quietly. She stopped, agape, and Froi watched Arjuro nod.

‘Rafuel,’ she gasped. ‘Little Rafuel with the cats.’

‘A sensitive boy,’ Arjuro said. ‘Smart, though. He was shouted down daily by his father, by everyone whose path he crossed in the palace. It’s how he befriended my brother. He reminded Gargarin of who we once were. And do you want to know something else? In the early days of my imprisonment when there was trust between my brother and I, Gargarin was my messenger to the Priests. He was the only person to have known where they were hiding. Where to keep a babe safe from the palace.’

Froi, Lirah and De Lancey were too dumbfounded to speak.

‘I think our Rafuel’s been busy these past years searching for the lastborn.’ Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘Did he find you in Sarnak, or have I got it all wrong?’

Froi didn’t want to respond. If he said the words aloud it would all be true and he didn’t want it to be.

‘I live in Lumatere,’ he said.

Lirah’s shoulders sank. Was it relief or despair? De Lancey shook his head with disappointment, walking away. But Arjuro continued to stare at Froi, as though he was still attempting to work out the puzzle.

‘I’ve not lived in Sarnak for three years,’ Froi said quietly.

Lirah stared at him, stunned, and De Lancey turned back, hope flaring in his expression. Froi saw a ghost of a smile on Arjuro’s face. A nod of satisfaction.

‘But what of the babe you did see tossed on the night of the lastborn?’ De Lancey asked. ‘Who was that if not the daughter of the Oracle, or Lirah and Gargarin’s son?’

A cry was heard from above and moments later De Lancey’s men appeared at the door.

‘They’ve started the killings again.’ There was a desperate look of urgency in one of the men’s eyes. ‘It’s Gargarin of Abroi, my lord.’

Froi shoved through the crowded room and onto the landing.

Across the gravina, two men gripped Gargarin, pushing him to his knees. Froi recognised them. Donashe and his companion who had once stopped Froi on his way from the godshouse to the palace.

Froi knew what they would do next. Hold Gargarin by the legs, but not let go for a moment or two. He could imagine it was torture for the person hanging. Blood rushing to their heads, staring down into the abyss. For the women, the indignity of being exposed as their dresses flapped around their faces. The jeering, the laughter, and then at a moment’s notice, the street lords would let go.

‘We’ll pay a ransom. A ransom!’ De Lancey shouted across the space, squeezing in beside Froi. ‘One hundred pieces of gold.’

From the palace side of the gravina where they hung off balconettes and battlements, the street lords jeered. ‘For this bag of broken bones?’ Donashe called out.

‘Two hundred,’ another voice called out over Froi’s shoulder, trying to get through. The Ambassador of Sebastabol.

Lirah was suddenly there beside Froi, her nails biting into his hand. He heard Arjuro’s ragged breath beside her.

‘We don’t make deals,’ Donashe said. He seemed to have taken leadership of the street lords. ‘The worthless ones die now. The others get hanged in the main square for the whole Citavita to enjoy.’

‘He’s an architect, you fools,’ De Lancey shouted.

‘Three hundred pieces of gold,’ the Provincara of Jidia could be heard saying.

‘And where is this gold?’ the shorter of the street lords called out.

‘From our provinces,’ De Lancey tried, but Froi heard anguished defeat in the man’s voice. ‘It will take no more than a week to send a messenger and have him return.’

Donashe waved him away. ‘If we can’t see the gold now, friend, don’t speak another word.’

Two of the street lords yanked Gargarin’s head back by his hair and Froi saw a face covered with dried blood and bruises, heard the sobbing around him as those in the godshouse prepared for another day of death. But he saw a ghost of a smile on Gargarin’s face. He remembered their conversation in the chamber one night. Gargarin lived on his own terms. He would die the same way. With little fear. Would that be his gift to his brother Arjuro? To Lirah? To his son? A smile in death?

One of the street lords bent and lifted Gargarin by his feet, holding him head down over the balconette. Everything around Froi sounded strange and so far away. The Provincaro’s shouting, Arjuro breathing. His pulse pounding.

‘A ruby ring!’

Froi hardly recognised the voice as his. All he felt was the sudden weight of the ring in his pocket.

‘Belonged to the dead King of Lumatere. The Lumaterans would pay a Queen’s ransom for it!’

There was a hushed silence around him.

Donashe and the street lords stared at the ring. Despite the space between them, they were close enough to see its worth. Words were nothing to them. How many times had Froi heard that on the streets of Sarnak’s capital? ‘Show us the goods and then we talk.’

Froi climbed onto the iron trellis of the godshouse balconette amidst gasps and cries from those surrounding him. He leapt onto the protruding granite, his legs trembling. Someone screamed. Froi lost his balance. Found it again. One foot before the other.

He held up the ring and the light from the rising sun caught the stone and Froi thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. It was the ring that had given him a life he could never have imagined. It was all things magnificent about Lumatere.

Donashe stared at the ring. Stared at Froi perched over the gravina.

‘I’m a thief, friend, and so are you,’ Froi said. ‘If you don’t recognise the worth in this jewel, then you’re nothing but ignorant street scum, there’s nothing lordish about you.’

Perhaps the silence was only for a moment, but Froi felt as though he was perched on that thin stretch of granite for hours. He wasn’t much for praying to the gods, but he prayed all the same.

‘Throw it over,’ Donashe ordered.

Froi knew there was no more bargaining to be had today. He either obeyed the command or watched Gargarin die. He tossed the ring and the man caught it in his hand, staring at it greedily.

‘You get your architect back when I get my three hundred pieces of gold.’

They pulled Gargarin up, dropped him to the ground, kicking him into the chamber. Out on the stone, Froi crouched, straddling it a moment, trying to control the beat of his heart. He slowly turned around and balanced his way back into a standing position. He watched Arjuro shove everyone but De Lancey’s men back from the balconette. Froi leapt and gripped hold of its trellis as De Lancey’s men reached out to steady him, grabbing him by the hands, clothing and hair, and dragging him over the wrought iron.