Froi of the Exiles (35 page)

‘Quiet,’ someone whispered, and Froi realised their breathing was coming out in sobs. He closed his eyes to regain his breath and when he opened them he could only see the bottom half of whoever had dragged them into the room. The rest of the man was peering up through the hole in the roof.

‘Have y … y … you lost th … th … them?’ Satch asked.

The trapdoor was secured in place and the room was dark. A candle was held towards them and Froi found himself face to face with the keeper of the caves.

‘Follow,’ Perabo ordered.

Froi was surprised to see an underground river in the bowels of the city. Perabo led them to one of two small rafts, helping Quintana step onto the first. He then placed a hand on Froi, but it was no hand of assistance. The grip tightened until Froi felt pain. ‘Did I not tell you to get her out of Charyn?’ the man snarled.

‘He’s n … not Olivier,’ Satch said.

‘He would have known nothing of Tariq’s plan to take her out of the Citavita,’ Grijio added.

‘Then who is he?’ the keeper asked.

Grijio hesitated in replying. ‘He’s a foreigner. We don’t know what his name is.’

‘Froi,’ they heard a hoarse voice say behind them.

Froi stumbled towards Quintana, realising with horror that part of the noose was still around her neck. He removed it and in the dim light, he could see that her throat was burnt from the rope. She was shivering and he took off his coat and placed it around her.

Perabo gave Froi the oar. ‘Listen to my instructions. You follow this river until it branches into two. Steer the raft left and travel a while. When you come to a bend, they will hear you. So wait for two sounds of a rock against rock. Five beats apart. In return, you tap your oar on the roof of the cave. Three taps. Five beats apart. You ask for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn. You tell them Perabo sent you.’

Grijio helped Quintana onto the raft and Froi gripped her as it swayed from side to side. He looked up at the lads standing beside Perabo. ‘You’d be safer with us,’ he said.

‘We n … n … need to get back and see if Olivier escaped.’

Froi scowled. ‘You don’t have to be nervous, Satch. I’m not going to hurt you!’

He saw a flash of irritation on the lastborn’s face.

‘It’s a st … st … stutter, idiot. N … n… not fear.’

It was a strange path to the hidden compound of Lascow. The roof of the cave was little more than a handspan above their heads, the sides of the raft at times scraping against the wall until Froi was forced to lay the oars aside and push his way down the cave river. There was nothing to be heard, except for the lapping of the water and Quintana’s rasping. When they reached a section where the river’s current seemed to carry the raft along, Froi stumbled to where Quintana was. He sat down and gathered her in his arms. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe. I promise you.’

Perabo’s instructions were precise. At the bend, Froi heard the sound and waited and despite the firm grip Quintana had on his arm, he managed to retrieve the oar and tap the cave ceiling three times. A moment later the pitch-black space was illuminated by a lantern. Froi held Quintana’s face to his chest, his eyes blinded by the light.

‘We are here for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn,’ he said. ‘Perabo sent us.’

The lantern was lowered, revealing the face of a man. He stared from Froi to Quintana and then gave a nod.

T
ariq of Lascow was tall for a Charynite. And striking. Froi wasn’t expecting tall and striking. For some reason he wanted Quintana’s beloved Tariq to be short and ugly. The heir placed a hand against Quintana’s cheek tenderly and then led them down a dank corridor of stone, speckled with a substance that lit their path. They followed him into a large chamber, the floors and wall adorned with beautiful woven carpets of blues and gold and red. There were books and drawings and ochre sticks for writing scattered over the cot that lay on the ground. A mandolin sat in the corner. A small altar was in the centre of the room, built upon a piece of rock that extended from the ground. Carved into the rock were symbols Froi had seen in Gargarin’s books about the gods. Tariq of the Citavita worshipped Agora, the Charyn goddess of wisdom. A poet, a musician, a peacemaker. Froi wanted to hate him.

Tariq pushed the books and sketches from his cot and took Quintana’s hand. ‘Little cousin, speak. I beg of you,’ he said, as Quintana stared up at Froi. Tariq placed a blanket over her and she lay down.

‘Will you be here when I wake?’ she asked Froi, her voice broken.

‘Of course,’ he lied.

Quintana closed her eyes and turned to the wall.

Tariq stood and Froi saw tears in the eyes of the heir. And anger.

‘How was it that you didn’t get her out in time?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been waiting for weeks.’

‘I was careless,’ Froi said. ‘For that I’ll always be sorry.’

Tariq stared, but didn’t speak. Too much seemed to be going on in his mind and Froi wondered if the heir of Charyn had to count in his head to control his fury. Or was he just a good man who could walk a path through life without a bond?

‘Then forgive yourself now, for we do not need laments of guilt sounding through the air,’ Tariq finally said.

Froi took one last look at Quintana and fought the urge to reach out a hand to where her throat was red-raw.

‘I’ll take my leave,’ he said huskily, walking out of the chamber.

In the light-speckled tunnel, Tariq was on his heels.

‘Stay,’ the heir said. ‘Eat with us.’

It was not an order, but Froi found himself turning back because he realised he had nowhere left to go.

In an adjoining chamber, Tariq introduced Froi to his childhood nurse, a woman named Jurda, who was stunned to hear the story of the escape and rushed to where Quintana lay. Froi watched Quintana as she woke from a half-sleep with a hiss and a snarl. He stepped into the room, but Tariq held him back. ‘Jurda was my nurse in the palace. She is well-acquainted with Quintana’s … ways.’

Froi followed Tariq through the nooks and tunnels of the underground village-in-exile of Lascow. They passed women weaving, men working at a kiln. One chamber housed the cattle, another stored the grain. In the kitchen there was chaos and all things familiar. Bread was baking in a large oven, its smoke tunnelling through a hole into the level above. The cook was barking out insults and instructions to a man milking a goat in the corner, whilst the serving women peeled eggs, giggling amongst themselves when they saw Froi. Tariq reached over the bad-tempered cook’s shoulder and she slapped his hand away, but he took the bread all the same, pecking her quickly on the cheek.

Froi was confused by the language. Although he picked up a spattering of Charyn, it seemed to sing a different tune.

‘What are they saying?’ he asked.

‘We speak a dialect of the mountains of the north, different to the Turlan mountain folk of the east,’ Tariq said.

The women continued to speak, looking in their direction. Tariq hid a grin.

‘My cousins say that for someone so plain it’s a good thing your build is so pleasing. You have the shoulders of an ox, according to Liona.’

‘Your cousins are servants?’ he asked, his face reddening from the attention.

‘This is my family. On my mother’s side. Twenty-seven of us in total. We’ve not dared return home, for we know that if the King found me there, he would not think twice about annihilating all my people on that mountain.’

Tariq pointed to a cushion on the ground and Froi sat. A moment later a plate of flatbread, gherkins, soft cheese, sliced eggs and olives was placed before him. Froi waited politely for Tariq to choose first.

‘You don’t seem the type to follow etiquette,’ Tariq said.

‘I follow a bond that says I grab food after the host,’ Froi said honestly, staring at the small feast hungrily.

Tariq grinned again. ‘I have a rule that says whoever is stupid enough not to grab food first, deserves to die of starvation.’

Froi grinned in response and reached for the cheese.

‘Could I ask, Sir,’ Tariq said, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘if you have heard news of Gargarin of Abroi?’

Froi remembered De Lancey’s words. That Gargarin had been a mentor to Tariq.

‘I’m not a Sir,’ Froi said, after swallowing the last of the egg. ‘My name is Froi, and to answer your question, De Lancey of Paladozza paid a ransom and they let Gargarin go. I can’t promise his body is in one piece, but he is safe for now.’

Tariq sighed with relief. ‘Is he not the most honourable man you have ever encountered?’ he asked.

Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘He’s a hard man to get to know.’

‘But once you get to know him, he is hard to forget,’ Tariq said. ‘I’ve never seen so many calf-eyed women in the compound following him around the year he stayed with us. “Gargarin, would you like me to rub your twisted bones?” ’ he mimicked. The cook came to deposit pieces of cooked pig rind on Froi’s plate. ‘ “Gargarin,” ’ Tariq continued, looking up at her, feigning seriousness. ‘ “Would you like me to rub the bone that’s not so twisted?” ’

Froi laughed. The cook grabbed Tariq’s face. ‘Do you want me to wash this filthy mouth out?’ she snapped.

‘Even Cousin Jurlista here was not immune to his humble charm.’ Tariq did a perfect impersonation of Gargarin’s awkwardness that not even Arjuro could have matched.

One of the older men sat opposite them. ‘What news of above?’ he asked. ‘Is it is as bad as they are saying?’

‘It is very bad,’ Froi said.

Tariq’s expression was pained as he cleared his throat. ‘Despite my feelings for the King and my father’s kin, is it true … that they’re all dead?’

Froi nodded. ‘Except Quintana.’

‘Thank the gods for that. She’s my betrothed, you know.’

Froi nodded. After a moment he cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s best that you end the betrothment,’ he said.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed. Froi met the heir’s stare.

‘And why would you suggest such a thing?’

‘Because the people you will rule brayed for her blood,’ Froi said angrily. ‘They stood in the marketplace and cheered when a noose was placed around her neck. Why would you subject her to life in the palace after what she has endured? Why would you not want to set her free?’

Tariq looked contrite. ‘Because we made a vow to each other,’ he said. ‘She would break the curse and I would do everything to bring her to safety.’

‘Forget the curse,’ one of Tariq’s kinsmen said. ‘The people of this kingdom will accept you as the rightful heir, but they’ll not want to see the face of Charyn’s greatest failure alongside you.’

‘To you, a failure, Gisotte,’ Tariq said with a gentle reprimand. ‘To me, a most-beloved betrothed, regardless of our youth at the time we were promised.’

‘How is it that she escaped the noose?’ one of the serving cousins asked from where she was grinding beans.

Froi told the story. He left out the part where the lastborns were laughed at, but by the time he was finished, a crowd had gathered around him, stunned.

‘You’re all heroes,’ one of the women said, smiling prettily.

Froi felt awkward from all the attention and Tariq grinned.

‘Come,’ the heir said, jumping to his feet. ‘Let me show you around.’

They left the room amidst cries of, ‘Stay for more.’

Tariq laughed as they stooped down into a low damp corridor. ‘I’ll confess to you, we’ve not seen many outsiders these past three years,’ he said, ‘and apart from my correspondence with Grij and Satch, sometimes I feel as though I’m an old man who knows nothing but books and keeping out of harm’s way.’

‘There’s not much you need to know about the world,’ Froi said. ‘Except how to use a sword and trust very few.’

Tariq was silent a moment. ‘Well, something tells me that both my betrothed and I can trust you.’

They reached the end of the tunnel and Froi could see Tariq’s eyes blazing with determination. ‘You must come to the palace with my queen and I. To protect her as you did today. To be her personal guard so I need never worry for her safety.’

Froi shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry at the idea of Tariq and Quintana lying side by side, night after night. He looked away, wanting to speak of other things.

‘How is it you survive here?’ he asked.

‘Perabo in the Citavita sends us food. He travels to us once a month. We have a water spring, we have a healer and we have faith in the gods that Charyn will have a new beginning now that the King is dead.’

‘Is Perabo’s tunnel the only way in?’ Froi asked.

Tariq shook his head. ‘Follow.’

Froi followed when his heart told him to leave. But with Tariq, he believed the people of Charyn could find hope. Strangely, he didn’t see traces of Finnikin or Lucian in this new King, but a boy he had once met on his travels with Finnikin and Isaboe through Yutlind. Jehr, heir to the throne of Yutlind Sud had been the first to teach him how to use a bow and arrow. He was a lad of great strength and Froi saw the same decency of character in Tariq. He needed to believe there was goodness in Charyn after the carnage, so he followed the heir through the underground world of the Citavita and listened to his stories.

They stood at a shaft and Tariq held out his hand beneath it and Froi did the same.

‘Do you feel the air? It’s the only other way out of the compound. Gargarin had it built for ventilation and for lowering goods and messages.’

‘From who? Who do you trust?’

‘The people of Lascow have an envoy who lives in the province of Paladozza. He is a passionate advocate of my people and travels to the Citavita each month to bring us news, amongst other gifts. When Bestiano left the palace with the riders, we received word from our envoy that the Provincaro of Paladozza pledged an army if we were willing to speak face to face.’

Froi looked at him, confused.

‘Wouldn’t the Provincaro have sent a message through his son Grijio?’

Tariq laughed again. ’De Lancey of Paladozza would kill Grij if he knew he was risking his life.’

‘Well, after today’s display I think the Provincaro knows everything. Tell me more of Paladozza’s promise.’