Froi of the Exiles (18 page)

‘We’ll speak of it when I return,’ Trevanion had assured her. He had been off to escort Finnikin to Balconio for a meeting with the Sarnaks. She knew there had been an incident in the mountains with a Charynite that day. A week later Froi had been dispatched to Sarnak, according to one of her villagers who was courting a girl from Froi’s village of Sayles. Beatriss suspected that something had happened on the mountain to change everything.

Today, Trevanion seemed a stranger except for the familiar rumble of his voice in her ear. ‘They’re waiting for you, Beatriss,’ he said quietly.

Inside, the Flatland Lords were already seated. Beatriss found a place beside August. He took her hand.

‘Abian says she’s not seen you for some weeks, Beatriss.’

‘There is too much work to be done,’ she lied, squeezing her friend’s hand.

She avoided looking across the table to the others. Lord Freychinet, Lord Castian and Lord Artor had been in exile during the ten years and were said to have deserted their people to live comfortable lives in foreign courts. Lord Nettice, who had been trapped inside the kingdom, had acted even worse, but Beatriss couldn’t bear to think of those days. She felt humiliated to be in the presence of these people. Although she had never spoken the words aloud, she despised them. None more than Lord Nettice. She felt a blackness come over her until suddenly a hand was on her shoulder and a kiss on her cheek. She knew it was Finnikin. In the short years Beatriss had been his father’s betrothed before the unspeakable, she had mothered the boy and loved him as her own. He had always been a child of great substance and here he was leading them with their beloved Isaboe.

Finnikin walked around the table, winking as he caught her eye before sitting down.

‘Well, I think it’s obvious why we are here,’ Lord Freychinet said. ‘There’s the matter of Fenton and the matter of Sennington. So let’s not waste time.’

Beatriss stiffened. ‘Sennington? What has my village to do with today’s meeting?’

Lord Freychinet stood without responding, disregarding the presence of the Queen’s Consort. Beatriss sensed Trevanion’s fury at the lack of respect shown, but Finnikin seemed unperturbed.

‘Split Fenton between its two neighbouring villages,’ Freychinet demanded. 'And collapse Sennington.’

Beatriss fought to hold back a gasp and heard a sharp intake of breath from August behind her.

‘Only two of her small fields yield a crop and it’s not enough for her and her village to survive on,’ Lord Freychinet continued. He turned to Beatriss. ‘So sell the southern paddock to Sayles and the northern paddock to me and count your losses. If Nettice and I are to split Fenton for the good of this kingdom, we’ll need your workers.’

‘My workers?’ she asked, horrified. ‘They are my villagers, Sir Freychinet. Not my workers. They have minds of their own and if they choose to accept your offer of a home on your land, then there is no one holding them back, but I will not – what was the word? – collapse my village, just because you need them working your land.’

‘Work it yourself, Freychinet,’ August said facetiously. ‘It’s surprising the effect it has on your villagers’ morale to have you working amongst them.’

Lord Freychinet shook his head with disdain. ‘Sometimes I believe you still think you’re in exile, August, and that there is no true difference between you and your peasants. Your father would be rolling in his grave.’

‘Oh, I count on my father rolling in his grave over and over again,’ August said. ‘If anyone deserves an uneasy sleep for eternity, it is a lord who doesn’t lift a finger to take care of his villagers.’

Finnikin cleared his throat. ‘Let us begin with my confusion, Lord Freychinet,’ he said, his tone even. ‘You see, I’m not quite sure who “her” is. “Her small fields” and enough for “her and her village”.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands,’ Lord Freychinet responded.

‘Then I think it may be in your best interest to refer to the Lady Beatriss by either her title, or her name, if she ever invites you to.’

Finnikin’s voice was hard. ‘Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good.’

Finnikin looked down at the pages in front of him. ‘I know how much of a stickler you are for protocol, Lord Freychinet, and unfortunately there is no mention of the topic of Sennington here before me, so Lady Beatriss’s village is not up for discussion during this meeting.’

Finnikin looked up. ‘Perhaps if you allow me to take over proceedings we can discuss the village of Fenton.’

He looked around the room, taking in all of its occupants. ‘Fenton will be sold.’

‘Sold?’ Lord Nettice bellowed. Beatriss flinched at the sound of his voice.

‘It’s what Lord Selric wanted,’ Finnikin said. ‘His surviving villagers will all receive a profit from the sale.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Lord Freychinet said. ‘And who informed you of Lord Selric’s
want
, my lord? One of his villagers? Was it their decision?’

‘No, actually I do believe it was the decision of my wife,’ Finnikin said matter-of-factly. ‘You remember her, don’t you, Lord Freychinet? The Queen? Tallish. Dark hair. Not the type to say things twice, so when she speaks the words, “Tell them that if they have a problem with my decision I may be forced to look into the crimes against my people that took place whilst my lords turned their backs,” I tend to take them to heart.’

He was no longer Little Finch, Beatriss thought, with proud sadness. Here was a man born to lead alongside his beloved queen.

‘If you want to look at behaviour during the ten years perhaps you should be looking at others,’ Lord Castian said with a cough, his eyes meeting those of Beatriss. ‘According to Nettice here, not every woman was as virtuous as they claim.’

Beatriss heard August’s hiss of fury. She dared not look up at Trevanion. The hairs on her arm stood tall and she felt her stomach churn.

Finnikin’s eyes were a cold grey as they stared from Lord Nettice to Lord Castian and then back to Lord Freychinet.

‘You push my patience, gentlemen.’

‘What of Fenton?’ Lord Nettice said, smart enough to bring the conversation back to its agenda.

‘Fenton will
not
be split between any of you. The village now belongs to the palace. If you want Fenton, you buy it at a fair price,’ Finnikin said. ‘And the survivors of that village will have the right to stay on and work for whoever buys it if they please. If not, they can take their share and set up home elsewhere in the kingdom.’

He looked around the room, his eyes cold, his teeth clenched. ‘Is that clear?’

Outside, Trevanion caught up with Beatriss, gripping her arm.

‘What was that?’ he asked, fury lacing his words. ‘Have they spoken to you in such a way before? Has that dog Freychinet slandered you behind your back?’

No, he has actually done it to my face, she wanted to say to him. She shook free of his grip.

‘It’s about the past,’ Beatriss said bitterly. ‘The past is not important, remember? We don’t look back.’

H
ours passed and eventually Froi supposed that Gargarin was not going to appear. The boredom made him want to beat his head against the stone. He tried to imagine the Flatlands and its never-ending sky, and sitting with Lord August at the end of a back-breaking day, a mug of ale in his hands and a sense of satisfaction in his heart. But the strength of such imaginings only worked when he was actually under a never-ending sky in the Flatlands and not in a dungeon in a stone palace dug out of a mountain in the middle of a gravina, inside a godsforsaken kingdom.

He looked out of his window and craned his head to see the one above. It was a short distance up, but at least Lirah of Serker had the roof garden, which was a whole lot better than what Froi had. Before he could talk himself out of it, he removed his boots and hoisted himself up onto the windowsill. He climbed out to stand on the ledge with his face pressed to the outer walls, his fingers feeling for grooves, his toes gripping stone. Slowly he made his way up to the window above. Despite the short distance and Froi’s expertise, according to Trevanion, in climbing all things impossible – all things impossible took on new meaning when there was nothing beneath him but unending space and the promise of death.

‘Sagra!’ he muttered, perspiring. Finnikin had once boasted that the stone he climbed to find Isaboe in Sendecane was beyond anything Froi had conquered, and Froi had said he would find a grander stone one day and challenge his king to a battle.

‘Battle of stupidity,’ Isaboe had said. ‘They’ll have to summon me to identify your splattered pride. They both look the same, I’ll say.’

Not a good thing to be thinking of, Froi
. He reached Lirah’s window, fingers gripping any furrow he could find.

He fell into the room, headfirst. It was much bigger than Froi’s cell and was furnished with a cot, books and a fireplace. On the wall he saw that someone had sketched the image of a newborn babe, and beside that another of a child of about five or six. A mad one, judging by the hair and the savage little teeth. He could only imagine that it was Quintana as a child, her eyes blazing as she held up a thumb and its two closest fingers. Another image was of Quintana, younger than she was now, perhaps fourteen or so. It was a good resemblance.

There was a door to the left of the fireplace and then a narrow stairwell up to the roof, where a hatch lifted to give more light to the space. Froi climbed up the steps and found himself in a roof garden that afforded him a view of the entire Citavita. A figure knelt at one of the flowerbeds.

When she stood to survey her work he could see she was tall, almost boyish in her form. Lirah of Serker, the King’s whore. He couldn’t determine her age, but if she was Quintana’s mother he imagined her to be somewhere later in her thirty years. Her hair was thick and long and the colour of mahogany. Her eyes were a deep grey and their shape made Froi think of Tesadora, although the women looked nothing alike. Serker eyes, Rafuel had said, and the type of beauty that made a man ache despite his age. Froi knew the moment Lirah felt his gaze on her, and she looked at him with a cold penetrating stare.

‘I wouldn’t plant that there,’ Froi said.

She studied him suspiciously.

‘I planted some … back in Sebastabol. They don’t like the areas out of the sun.’

Froi felt studied. It was a habit these Charynites had. Lirah’s Serker stare was hard and vicious.

‘Olivier of Sebastabol,’ he said, bowing.

She gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘You have the eyes of a Serker, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘Those from Serker no longer exist.’

‘This one does and she recognises the eyes of a Serker lad.’

‘Between you and Gargarin and Quintana when she’s in a mood, I’m beginning to feel most unloved in Charyn.’

This time she flinched. Was it at the mention of Gargarin’s name?

‘In Charyn?’ she asked. ‘You speak as though you’ve just arrived in your own kingdom.’

‘I meant in the Citavita,’ he corrected.

Froi looked out. The battlements of his tower seemed close enough to leap across. But the towers he suspected to be the King’s were too far away.

‘Have you used force with her?’ she asked bluntly.

Froi bristled. ‘What makes you think I’m the sort who uses force?’ he demanded.

‘Because I grew up with Serker pigs such as yourself. It’s in the blood,’ she spat.

‘And is it in the Serker blood for the women to be whores?’ he taunted.

‘Oh, we’re all whores in Charyn, Olivier,’ she mocked in return. ‘In some shape or form.’

She went back to her planting and he watched her dig into the soil and press the roots of the plant down.

‘It will die, I tell you,’ he snapped. ‘I know the cratornia. It will not survive in so small a plot.’ She looked up, surprised, and after a moment she pulled it out slowly and deliberately, holding it up. He searched the garden and pointed.

‘By the bristle tree,’ he suggested.

She shook her head. ‘So he knows his bristle trees,’ she said, half to herself. But she refused to look up again. One would think she’d crave company, but Lirah of Serker seemed to want him to disappear.

‘You’d best be gone,’ she said, dismissing him. ‘I can imagine that the climb down is worse in the dark.’

Froi was kept prisoner until the next afternoon and on his release was confined to the chamber he shared with Gargarin.

‘Happy that you irritated Bestiano?’ Gargarin asked, not looking up from where he was scribbling furiously.

Gargarin’s sketches carpeted the floor and were strewn all over Froi’s cot.

‘You couldn’t come and release me?’ Froi grumbled.

‘Why would I want to do that when I had peace and quiet for at least a day?’

Gargarin discarded yet another page with frustration, dipping his quill into the ink pot to begin again.

‘You may as well tell me about them,’ Froi said. ‘You know you’re dying to.’

A moment passed and Gargarin looked up. After seeing Arjuro, Froi found it strange to face this man.

‘You know much about water, I presume?’ Gargarin asked. ‘Because a lad from the shipping yards of Sebastabol would be an expert.’

‘Ships? Water? There’s a strong connection in my mind. Anyway, what’s there to know? Charyn’s cursed. You either get too much rain and it floods the plains, or not enough, which causes drought.’

Gargarin studied him, eyebrow raised. ‘You? As in the rest of Charyn and not you, Olivier?’

‘Words,’ Froi scoffed. ‘Are they so important?’

‘Isn’t the Princess waiting for you?’ Gargarin said.

‘Which one? I’ve now met them all,’ he said, studying the maps and plans on his cot. Froi had never seen such a grand plan. Water meadows, larger than he had ever seen, and giant human-made rivers and lakes. He came around to where Gargarin sat and looked over his shoulder.

He pointed to an area beyond the planned water meadow. ‘What about these villages?’

‘The floodings of the last couple of years have crippled the farmers,’ Gargarin said. ‘Before that we had years of drought. The gods are determined that nothing is to grow in Charyn and I’m determined to challenge them on that. We need to find a way to harness this water in the rainy season so we can use it during the drier months. If we build troughs to collect the rainwater in the drier areas, the soil could stay moist all year long.’