Froi of the Exiles (11 page)

But this castle was built for defence. Froi stared up at the soldiers with their weapons trained on them. They stared down at him. Up close he could see the castle was built on its own rock, a fraction higher and separate from the rest of the Citavita. Although it was a narrow space between the portcullis and where they stood, there was no moat surrounding it, instead there was a drop into the gravina separating them that seemed to go on forever. Rafuel had given him a strange description of how the gravina narrowed in a serpentine fashion past the palace and godshouse of the Citavita.

‘Gargarin of Abroi?’ a voice rang out towards them.

Gargarin raised his hand in acknowledgement. The drawbridge began to descend across the space, stopping short of where Froi and Gargarin stood. Once on the bridge, it was a short but steep climb up to the gate. On each side a thick braided rope provided a place to grip firmly. Gargarin’s staff fell to the steel beneath their feet and he struggled once, then twice, to retrieve it.

Waiting for them at the gate stood a man of Gargarin’s years, his hair longish around the ears, his mottled skin covered with a coarse, fair beard. He was all forced smile and Froi caught a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as Gargarin continued to struggle for his staff.

Froi picked it up instead.

‘Put your arm around my shoulder,’ Froi ordered, and for the first time since they had met, Gargarin didn’t argue. Froi wondered what it did to a man of Gargarin’s age to be hobbling like an old man.

‘Welcome back, Abroi’s Gargarin,’ the man at the portcullis greeted. There was mockery in the way he spoke the words. Froi remembered what Zabat had said. That Abroi had produced nothing of worth but Gargarin and his brother, the Priestling. Perhaps this man’s words were a reminder to Gargarin of where he came from.

‘May I present to you, Olivier, lastborn of Sebastabol. Olivier, Bestiano of Nebia, the King’s First Advisor.’

Froi held out a hand. But Bestiano’s attention was already drawn back to Gargarin. Lastborns seemed insignificant to the King’s Advisor.

‘The King wept when I told him the news, Gargarin. That the brilliant one who left us too soon is back in our midst.’

‘When one hears there is a price on their head, they tend to feel quite uninvited,’ Gargarin said politely.

Bestiano made a scoffing sound. ‘You exaggerate.’

Gargarin held up the scrolls. ‘I come bearing gifts. Perhaps my way of buying forgiveness for my long absence.’

‘Only you would consider words on parchment a gift,’ Bestiano said smoothly. ‘Eighteen years is a long time. You may have to offer him your firstborn if you truly want his forgiveness. Or your brother.’

Froi watched Gargarin stumble, saw the flicker of emotion on his face.

‘Then it’s true that he has returned to these parts?’ Gargarin asked flatly. They entered the barbican and, up above, Froi saw at least ten soldiers standing beside the murder holes just as Rafuel had described. On the ground, four soldiers approached and searched them thoroughly. Froi noticed they were more careful with Gargarin. They studied his staff and patted his entire body.

‘I could bend over if you prefer,’ Gargarin said, his voice cool, staring at one of the men. ‘Perhaps you weren’t thorough enough.’

Froi was beginning to feel better about Gargarin. The man seemed to dislike everyone, not just him.

Bestiano led them into a bustling courtyard, past the barracks where soldiers trained with practice swords. Two men carrying large vats pushed past them and disappeared into a doorway to their left. Froi imagined it must lead to the cellar, according to the sketches Rafuel had shown him in Lumatere. There was bellowing from kitchen staff – between the cook and one of the serving girls by the sounds of things – and when Froi wasn’t competing with servants for space, or tripping over the young man sweeping the courtyard grounds and the not-so-young page handing Bestiano a message, he found himself surrounded by livestock.

‘Your brother took up residence in the Oracle’s godshouse a year ago and refuses to meet with the King,’ Bestiano said, watching Gargarin closely. ‘It is the King’s greatest desire that there is peace between the palace and the godshouse after all this time. It’s what the people of the Citavita want.’

‘What’s stopping you or the King from entering the godshouse and dragging my brother out? It’s not as though you haven’t done it before.’

It was a taunt and despite Froi’s short hostile history with Gargarin, he was intrigued.

‘Let’s just say that the King has become a superstitious man and our only surviving Priestling is not to be touched. The King is frightened of consequences from the gods.’

Gargarin’ s laugh was humourless. ‘From what I know of the gods, they seem quite considerate and only send one curse to a kingdom at a time.’

Bestiano forced another smile. ‘From what I know of your brother, no one can irritate the gods more.’

Despite the politeness, the tension between the two men was strong. Froi would have liked nothing more than to see where it would take them, but his attention was drawn towards a figure standing half-concealed at the entrance of the first tower to their left. Her tangled hair was so long it seemed to weigh her down, forcing her to raise her head when peering.

Bestiano shushed her away with an irritated hand, before turning back to Froi and Gargarin. ‘It’s best that you go to your chamber before dinner.’

The King’s First Advisor walked away and they followed a guard into the first tower where the girl had disappeared. Froi saw her again, looking down from the stairwell, but each time they climbed closer to her, she would turn and disappear.

When they reached the second floor, they followed the guard down a dank narrow corridor until he stopped at the first of two doors.

‘Yours,’ the guard said.

‘Mine?’ Both Gargarin and Froi said at once, exchanging looks.

‘Both of yours.’

‘Both?’

They stared at each other again. Froi couldn’t imagine that his expression was any less horrified than Gargarin’s.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ Gargarin said, patiently.

‘No mistake, Sir.’

Gargarin made no attempt to enter the room. Instead he studied the ornate design of the timber door, a bitter smile on his face.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the guard.

‘Dorcas, Sir.’

Dorcas would have been around Rafuel’s age. He had a look Froi knew only too well. The look that said he understood nothing if it was not spoken as an order.

‘Well, Dorcas, I think it’s best that you place us in separate chambers and I’d prefer not to have this one,’ Gargarin said.

‘Not my decision to make, Sir.’

‘Bestiano’s idea, I suppose?’ Gargarin asked, and Froi heard a quiet fury in the question.

‘My orders are to take you to this room, Sir. Both of you.’

Dorcas walked away and Froi waited for Gargarin to enter the room.

‘Bad memories?’ Froi asked.

Gargarin ignored him and finally reached out to open the door. ‘It’s not your place to ask questions that don’t concern you. It’s your place to do what you’ve come here to do.’

‘And what is it, according to Gargarin of Abroi, that I have come to do?’

The cold blue eyes found Froi’s. ‘If you want a demonstration I would advise you to go down to stables and watch what the serving girls get up to with the farriers.’

Gargarin entered the room and Froi followed. It was small, with one bed in the centre, doors leading outside to a balconette and nothing else. Froi hated being cold and couldn’t imagine a guest room in Isaboe’s palace without a giant fireplace and rugs warming the chamber. Gargarin poked under the bed with his staff and pulled out a straw trundle mattress.

‘You take the bed.’

‘No, you take the bed,’ Froi said. ‘I do have a conscience, you know.’

‘And I prefer to sleep on the floor,’ Gargarin snapped. ‘So plunge that fact into your conscience and allow it to rotate for a while. Until it hurts.’

Froi walked to the doors that opened to the balconette. Across the narrow stretch of the gravina, the outer wall of the Oracle’s godshouse tilted towards them.

‘Is it that they don’t like me or that they don’t like you?’ Froi called to Gargarin inside.

Beside their own balconette was another that belonged to the room next door. After a moment the girl with the mass of awful hair stepped out onto it. She peered at Froi, almost within touching distance. Up close she was even stranger looking and it was with an unabashed manner that she studied him now and with great curiosity. Her brow furrowed, a cleft on her chin so pronounced it was as if someone had spent their life pointing out her strangeness. Her hair was a filthy mess almost reaching her waist. It was straw-like in texture and Froi imagined that if it were washed, it might be described as a darker shade of fair. But for now, it looked dirty, its colour almost indescribable.

She squinted at his appraisal. Froi squinted back.

Gargarin appeared beside him and the girl disappeared.

‘I’m presuming that was the Princess,’ Froi said. ‘She’s plain enough. What is it with all the twitching? Is she possessed by demons?’

‘Lower your voice,’ Gargarin said sharply.

‘Does she know what they think of her out in the provinces?’ Froi continued. ‘That she’s a useless empty vessel and that they call her a whore?’

After a moment the girl peered out from her room again.

‘Well, if she didn’t before, she certainly does now,’ Gargarin muttered.

That night, the great hall was set up with three trestle tables joined together to accommodate at least sixty of the King’s relatives and advisors. Froi had met most of the advisors, each titled according to their rank.

‘Why would you want to be the King’s Eighth Advisor?’ he said to Gargarin, as they were escorted to their chair by the King’s Seventh Advisor.

‘Once upon a time Bestiano was the King’s Tenth Advisor,’ Gargarin replied. ‘If you stay long enough, you get rewarded.’

‘And what were you back then?’ Froi asked.

‘A fool,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘With a bond.’

Froi was placed beside the strange Princess, who was dressed in the most hideous pink taffeta dress, bunched up in all the wrong places.

‘Good evening, Aunt Mawfa,’ she called out, her voice indignant where indignance wasn’t required. ‘Good evening, Cousin Robson.’

No one responded to her greetings. Most belonged to what Finnikin would have called the vacuous nobility, and droned on and on about absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Froi was hungry and before him were steaming platters of roasted peacock, salted fish, pastries stuffed with pigeon meat and the softest cheese he had ever tasted. He had been warned about the flatbread of Charyn and watched the way the others gathered their food with it.

But what caught his attention was most people’s reaction to Gargarin. He seemed to be the man everyone wanted to speak to.

‘Interesting talk in Paladozza, Sir Gargarin, of the Provincaro’s plans to dig up his meadows to capture rain,’ one man called out from the head of their table.

‘Not a Sir,’ Gargarin corrected, ‘and not so strange at all. I was disheartened to see the outer regions of the Citavita today. I drew up plans for water catchment here long ago, yet they seemed to have gone astray,’ he continued, his attention on the King’s First Advisor.

‘Would you contemplate visiting Jidia to speak to the Provincara Orlanda when you leave here?’ another asked.

‘No, he’s to visit Paladozza this winter,’ a man spoke up from the end of their table. ‘Is it not what you promised the Provincaro, Gargarin?’

‘Indeed.’

Gargarin kept his head down. Something told Froi that Gargarin was making no plans to go anywhere. The talking had caught Bestiano’s attention and he watched Gargarin carefully. Enviously? Was Gargarin a threat to Bestiano’s role as the King’s First Advisor? Gargarin hardly noticed. Once or twice, Froi caught Gargarin looking at the strange Princess Quintana, while the Princess blatantly stared in turn at Froi throughout the entire meal, with little apology or bashfulness.

As Rafuel had explained, the Charynites gathered their food with soft breads to soak up the juices and wipe their plates clean. The Princess chose to share Froi’s plate. Froi liked his food all to himself, it came from years of having to fight for his own. Worse still, the Princess made a mess around the dish. Her hair fell into the plate often and Froi was forced to flick its filthy strands away more than once. She resorted to leaning over to grab pudding from the plate of a whining duke who had called the servant over four times already to fill his cup of ale, complaining in a loud whisper that there was wine as per usual on the other side, but not theirs. When Quintana spilled food for the umpteenth time the Duke of Who-Cares-Where grabbed his cup and slammed it hard on the table, catching the tips of her fingers. ‘Beastly child.’

Bestiano excused himself from where he sat and walked down to them, tugging the Princess by the sleeve of her dress. ‘Perhaps you can show Olivier to your chamber,’ he hissed. ‘Make yourself useful rather than making people sick to their stomach, Quintana.’

One of the women tittered, putting a hand on Gargarin’s shoulder. ‘She’s no more useful in the bed chamber.’

Gargarin moved his shoulder away.

The Princess smoothed down the creases in the awful gown and stood, beckoning with a gesture for Froi to follow. Froi stared at the food before him, reluctant to leave it behind.

‘Good night to all,’ she called out. No one looked up except for Gargarin, and the noise of the big hall continued as though she had never spoken.

The Princess continued her farewells down the shadowy narrow passageway lit only by one or two fire torches that revealed a guard in every dark crevice.

‘Good night, Dorcas.’

‘Good night, Fekra.’

‘Good night, Fodor.’

Some muttered under their breath. No one responded. But she greeted them all the same.

Froi used the time to take in the various nooks and crannies and count each guard he passed.

When they reached their quarters, Quintana stood at his door and waited. He wondered if she was expecting him to perform tonight.