Froi of the Exiles (33 page)

Once on his feet, Froi pushed through the hushed room. Suddenly Lirah was there.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice hoarse as she gripped his arm.

‘I’m Abroi shit and Serker garbage, Lirah,’ he said, his eyes smarting. ‘Thank God I’m motherless, remember, because any woman would be shamed to call me her son.’ He pulled free and walked away.

At the end of the hallway, Arjuro sat hunched on the stairs leading down. Froi was forced to climb over him.

‘All our young lives, Gargarin and I counted our blessings that we didn’t have to see him in each other’s faces, and then you turn up and sometimes I can’t bear to look at you, lad.’

Froi kept on walking down the steps.

‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro asked, his voice ragged.

Gargarin of Abroi was his father. Regardless of who Gargarin smuggled out of the palace, Gargarin was a murderer. That’s why Froi was so base and damned. That’s why he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere by force. Because bad blood flowed through his veins. And what Froi despised the most about himself was that he had resented Gargarin and Lirah’s indifference. Even without knowing who they were, Froi had wanted something from them. His heart knew first. He longed for Trevanion and for Lord August and even for Perri. They were the men he wanted to have sired him, not Gargarin with his cold stare and awkward ways. Those men made sense with their rules and orders.

‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro shouted.

Keep on walking. Don’t turn back.

‘Olivier!’

‘Froi,’ he shouted back. ‘My name is Froi. Dafar of Abroi. A nothing name. From a nothing place.’

At the bottom of the steps he took a turn and found himself in the ancient library. Realising he had taken the wrong exit, Froi turned back to where he had seen a narrow entrance close to the steps. But within moments he was confronted by two lads. Behind him he heard a sound, and another lad came out of the shadows from the library. He knew he was in no danger because the three looked useless. They all wore their hair shoulder-length and one had ridiculous golden curls. Froi would have liked nothing more than to drag them back to Lumatere and throw them in amongst the Monts.

‘You think you can impersonate me and not suffer the consequences?’

Froi sighed. Olivier of Sebastabol. Froi couldn’t have looked less like the lastborn.

‘What did I stop you from doing?’ Froi asked. ‘Prancing into the palace and planting the mighty seed of Charyn. Did you honestly believe you would be the one?’

‘We had a better purpose, assassin,’ Golden Curls said. ‘A different purpose, blast you.’

‘Blast you?’
Froi mocked, bitterly. ‘That’s the best curse you can come up with?’

A doe-eyed lad stepped forward, his pale, slight fist clenched at Froi’s nose.

‘If you d … d … did anything to hurt her, I’ll k … k …’

‘K … k … kill me?’ Froi sneered, cruelty in his voice.

Fatigued, he pushed through them. It was too easy to crush these lads. He wanted to go home. There was nothing left for him to do here.

The fist that came out to connect with Froi’s jaw was weak in its delivery and he heard a grunt of pain come from the doe-eyed lad, who rubbed his knuckles.

‘We had a plan, a year in the making,’ Grijio of Paladozza said. ‘Satch and I had a means to smuggle her out. We knew her life was in danger the moment she came of age with no child.’

‘We w … w … wanted to save her.’

‘I would have saved her,’ Olivier of Sebastabol said. ‘Perabo of the caves would have saved her. Taken her to Tariq of Lascow, who would have protected her with his life.’

Froi’s head rang from what he was hearing.

‘My father just told me who you are,’ Grijio said. ‘Good work done in Charyn, Lumateran,’ he spat, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘You go home and tell your people that their assassin did good work in Charyn.’

Another fist to his jaw and a boot to his face, and one to his chest. And on his knees, Froi finally understood the truth. That by impersonating Olivier, he had written her death sentence.

He had foiled an attempt by the lastborns to set Quintana free.

‘Have you got something to tell me, Olivier?’

Froi woke with a start. He had spent the night sleeping by the side of the road that led down to the bridge of the Citavita, joining the throng of people who were desperate to leave. Not even outside the Lumateran gates three years ago, when Finnikin and Isaboe prepared to enter and break the curse, had Froi seen a people so desperate, clutching each other and their possessions. Back then there was at least hope. Here there was desperation.

This is where it begins, he realised. For some it would end in a valley between Lumatere and the Province of Alonso. ‘Why live like a trog at the doorstep of an enemy kingdom?’ Lucian had asked on the day Froi left.

Because it was safer than living at home.

He patted the pouch he had hidden in an inside trouser pocket. The night before he had gone back to what he did best. People who were running for their lives were less concerned with their pockets and the pickings were too easy; he had enough coins in his pouch to prove it. He wondered what would have happened to him if he was still on the streets of the Sarnak capital. Stealing had become too boring. Where would that boredom have led him if Isaboe of Lumatere had not come across him in that square in Sprie?

He shuffled amongst the crowd and tried to shut out the crying from those who were turned away by another set of cutthroats taking bribes to allow people out of the Citavita. Froi was amazed how swift some men were in plotting out a way to take advantage of human despair. He realised that what he despised the most about the street lords and the cutthroats at the gate was that he was looking at himself in another life.

It was on the next morning that he finally reached the bridge. He thought of Trevanion and Perri. Of the tale he had to tell. He thought of Lord August and Lady Abian and the crops and the ideas he had for planting them. He thought of Lucian of the Monts and how he would warn him that what was taking place in the Citavita would bring danger to the valley and Lucian’s mountain. He thought of Finnikin and Isaboe and the Priestking and he thought of Tesadora with her Serker eyes. Which made him think of Lirah, and Lirah made him think of Gargarin, and Gargarin made him think of Arjuro. And then all he could think of was her. Princess Indignant. Quintana the ice maiden. Quintana the Savage. The Abomination. The Cursemaker. The Whore. The Lastborn. The girl who could make rabbits appear on walls.

And before Froi could change his mind, he turned and walked back up to the Citavita, sensing in his deepest core that he would not be returning to Lumatere for some time.

L
ife in the Citavita each day began with a hanging. One by one, the King’s close advisors, physician, banker and anyone else the street lords found hiding in the King’s solar were dragged out into the marketplace where a crowd would gather around a makeshift hanging gale. The onlookers would jeer and chant and clap with a frenzied glee that had little to do with enjoyment and much to do with malevolence. It had been a week since the events in the palace and every day Froi held his breath the moment the drawbridge was lowered, wondering who the next victim would be.

Those from the Citavita who weren’t part of the vicious crowd or the never-ending stream of people shuffling their way out of the capital, stayed hidden in their dwellings, fearful of what it would all mean. ‘Lad,’ they’d whisper, their heads suddenly appearing from rooftops. ‘Lad, what’s happening in the marketplace? Will they come for the merchants next?’

During the first days, Froi exchanged his doublet jacket for loose-fitting trousers and a tunic as well as a cap that covered his hair and came close to covering his eyes. But the wool of the tunic itched against his skin, so he stole a flannel undershirt. Although it was a relief to leave Olivier of Sebastabol behind, something inside of him couldn’t help wondering how much he looked like the old Froi. The thief. Street scum.

Most days he saw Lirah and Arjuro in the crowd. Arjuro wore his cape and cowl and reminded Froi of the sketches in the Priestking’s books showing the spectre of death who visited a plague-ridden Lumateran village hundreds upon hundreds of years ago and left no one alive. Standing far enough away from Lirah and Arjuro were De Lancey and his men. Froi had discovered through talk around the Citavita that the gold had arrived safely from the provinces and the Provincaro of Paladozza was waiting for the release of Gargarin before he and his men took their leave.

Apart from his mornings at the hanging gale, Froi spent the rest of his days searching for the man named Perabo, who had once tried to warn Froi about Quintana’s fate. In his memory, he saw the scene over and over again. Quintana had stepped towards Perabo, but some sense of duty had made her return to the palace with Froi. Froi wished that Perabo had yanked her out of his arms. He wished that the lastborns had been there, all their weak strength combined, holding Froi down so Quintana could escape.

In the second week the street lords began to hang the King’s extended family: cousins, uncles, aunts. Froi watched an entire bloodline disappear from existence as the days passed. As yet, Gargarin had not been released and Quintana had not been hanged, and on a particularly sickening day when the rope half cut off the head of the King’s third cousin from Jidia, Froi looked away, and Arjuro caught his eye. The Priestling pointed to the road leading down to the bridge before walking away with Lirah.

Froi fought the urge to follow. Despite having to talk himself out of returning to the godshouse each day, he felt a pull towards them. Perhaps he had felt that pull from the first moment he clasped his eyes on these damned people.

Regardless, he trailed Lirah and Arjuro down to a cave house he recognised as the soothsayer’s dwelling. The two stopped outside and Froi knew they were waiting for him.

‘Where have you been?’ Lirah asked, her voice harsh.

‘I don’t answer to you or anyone else in this kingdom,’ he said coldly.

Arjuro entered the cave and Froi and Lirah followed. It was small, one room only, with stems and saplings hanging from the ceiling and a smothering odour that seemed to be trapped in the cave walls. In the corner was a grubby bedroll and in the centre of the space was a large pot of water in which the soothsayer was stirring a foul-smelling substance amongst leaves and petals.

He thought of what this wretched woman had done to Quintana year after year, and realised he wanted to hurt her, could easily kill her with his bare hands. But his bond to Trevanion and Perri stopped him.
You only kill those who are a threat to Lumatere, Froi.

But Lirah of Serker had no such bond. She grabbed the woman by the hair, shoving her head into the pot of water. Froi watched the soothsayer thrash, struggling under Lirah’s strong grip. He saw the fury and hatred on Lirah’s face.

‘Do you like the feel of that?’ Lirah said.

‘Froi,’ Arjuro said, somewhat calmly. ‘Stop her, please.’

‘Why would I want to do that, Arjuro?’ Froi said, his heart beating fast at the satisfaction of what he was watching.

‘Because I’d like to know a thing or two and that may not happen if Lirah kills our only source of information.’

Froi sighed and stepped forward, grabbing Lirah’s arm and dragging her back. She struggled against him, and although she had strength, Froi easily overpowered her.

The soothsayer collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, and Froi couldn’t help imagining the child Quintana was, struggling for the same filthy air, year after year.

Arjuro walked towards the woman and stooped, contempt in his expression. When she regained her breathing, the soothsayer struggled to her knees and spat in the Priestling’s face.

‘Oh, the gods’ blessed,’ she mocked viciously. ‘Aren’t those from the godshouse mighty now, Priestling?’

Arjuro wiped the spittle from his face. ‘These two are here to kill you and I am here for answers,’ he said. ‘So what if we make a deal, old woman? You tell me what I need to know and I may just spare your life.’

‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Lirah snapped, struggling to free herself from Froi’ s hands.

‘Answers,’ Arjuro repeated. ‘Why did the King order the murder of the male child born to the palace eighteen years ago?’

‘No male child was born to the palace,’ she said.

‘On the night of Quintana’s birth.’

‘There was only one babe born that night and she’ll be hanged soon enough.’

Froi knew she was lying. The woman hardly made a pretence of it. Her eyes met Froi’s and she inhaled deeply, as if in a rapture.

‘And if the King did order the murder of a child,’ she said, her voice drowsy, ‘what makes you think he told me?’

Lirah pulled free of Froi’s arms and gripped the woman by the throat. ‘He was frightened to piss without consulting you.’

Froi placed an arm around Lirah, pulling her back once more. The soothsayer leaned forward, her face an inch away from Lirah’s.

‘Spit in my face and I will tear out your tongue,’ Lirah threatened.

‘Oh, there’s the Serker savage,’ the old woman said, closing her eyes and inhaling. It was beginning to sicken Froi. ‘I smell those of Serker. Waiting. It’s what I can do. Smell the dead. And you have the smell of the dead on you, Lirah of Serker. Because you’ve been there amongst them.’

Froi felt Lirah shudder.

‘Do you know what happens each year I lead our abomination to the lake of the half-dead? Of course you’d know, Serker whore. You saw them yourself that time you tried to drown the child. The way the dead clambered onto the shores, screeching out their pain. They want to go home and unless the song is sung to lead them there, they will never have peace and nor will Charyn.’

‘What is she talking about?’ Froi asked.

‘Those slaughtered in Serker died voiceless,’ Arjuro said. ‘Their names were left unspoken. Only the gods’ touched standing on Serker soil can sing them home to their rest.’

Froi felt Lirah tremble again. Through all her talk of Serker savages, Froi could sense Lirah grieved for her people.