Froi of the Exiles (37 page)

‘Thirteen years ago,’ he reminded, ‘your King and the Charyn King, amongst others, stepped in and made a decision about who would run this kingdom. Did you see any good coming from that?’

‘Regardless of what has taken place in the past, Charyn will be ruled by her own,’ she said.

‘A peasant heir from the mountains of Lascow or a Sorellian puppet from Avanosh?’ the Ambassador scoffed.

‘As opposed to a leader controlled by the strings of Belegonia?’ Isaboe asked. ‘We won’t be part of that. Take that back to your King.’

When they were finally gone, Isaboe sat back in exhaustion.

‘Give me names,’ she begged Sir Topher. ‘Of men inside Charyn who are prepared to be King. Fair men. Good men. If there is such a person, then I will be the first to offer them a neighbour’s recognition of their right to rule. Better that than a war between every kingdom of this land.’

‘I’ll find out what I can,’ Sir Topher said, 'but from what we know, Tariq of the Lascow Mountains could be our best chance for peace.’

Finnikin watched a grimace cross Isaboe’s expression. ‘Did I do the right thing with the Belegonians?’ she asked them both. ‘Or were my emotions ruling me?’

‘Nothing wrong with emotions ruling you,’ Sir Topher said gently. ‘I think the important thing is to keep our ears open to the events in Charyn. If it’s true what they’re saying we need to be cautious. A new King could be a good thing, but Sorel being involved causes me concern.’

She looked at Finnikin.

‘Would you have made the same decision?’ she asked. ‘That’s what I’m asking you, Finnikin.’

‘What I would have done differently …’

She bit her lip and he knew that look. They were never happier than in the moments when they acknowledged that they would have made the same decision.

‘ … is that I would have told the Belegonians what they could do with their plan using different words.’

‘What words?’

‘Shut your ears, Sir Topher,’ Finnikin said, speaking the words. He saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘Ah, my wife likes it when I speak filth,’ he said, and they all laughed.

Sir Topher excused himself. ‘We need to prepare for the Fenton lot,’ he reminded Finnikin.

‘The Fenton lot,’ Finnikin muttered, kissing her a quick goodbye. ‘I forgot about them.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Isaboe said.

He was quiet as they made their way down to the garden. She spoke to each person they passed. She would ask about a husband’s health, comment about the bloom in one’s cheek, gently remind another that the hounds needed exercising, marvel at the taste of the grapes served that morning at breakfast. Their people, in turn, would walk away beaming and sometimes Finnikin wished for the ease Isaboe possessed with the world.

Outside in the garden, they watched Trevanion with Jasmina and Vestie.

‘I’m worried about my father,’ he said. ‘I think he’s beside himself, although he’d rather not admit it. This thing with Beatriss. She’s not turned up for the last two meetings with the Flatland Lords and is rarely seen around her village. Lady Abian is out of her mind with worry.’

‘What’s he said?’ she asked. ‘Trevanion?’

‘He can’t get past Tarah. Each time she says Beatriss is resting.’

They watched Trevanion hand Jasmina to Moss before dismounting. A moment later their daughter was hurtling towards them. She’d go to Isaboe first. She always went to her mother first. Lord August had once told Finnikin that there were years when his children were so attached to their mother that he could hardly approach for fear of being cursed by their wails. Finnikin knew those moments well.

With her cheek pressed against Isaboe’s shoulder, his daughter stared at him. After a moment, she extended a hand and he pretended to bite at her fingers. Finally she smiled.

Trevanion approached with Vestie clinging onto his hand.

‘This situation in Charyn makes no sense,’ his father said quietly.

‘Isn’t it exactly how we planned?’ Isaboe asked.

Trevanion shook his head and looked at the little girls.

Isaboe placed their daughter on the ground. ‘Can you help Jasmina find a chestnut for Finnikin, Vestie?’

Vestie took Jasmina’s hand and went searching.

When the girls were a distance away, Trevanion continued. ‘They’re saying the King’s First Advisor, not a nameless assassin, has killed the King.’

Finnikin and Isaboe exchanged a look.

‘Then where is our nameless assassin?’ Finnikin asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

‘If he killed the King, he should have been back by now,’ Isaboe said.

Trevanion nodded and Finnikin knew his father didn’t want to voice their greatest fears.

Isaboe sighed. ‘You may need to speak to the Charynite up in the mountains again.’

‘Easier said than done. Lucian sends word that the Monts are making threats against Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

‘Well, he’s going to have to control them,’ Finnikin said, irritated with the Monts more than Lucian. ‘He has to be firmer. He can’t be one of the lads anymore.’

Isaboe turned to Trevanion. ‘I want you to find out anything you can about what took place in the Charyn capital and keep an eye on the situation with my cousins. If it worsens, send Aldron to take care of it and warn the Monts that if I have to travel up to speak to them, the regret will be theirs.’

W
hen Froi arrived back into the capital the streets were eerily quiet except for the strange autumn winds that had begun to shake the Citavita, whistling a tune that sent a chill through his bones. He found the godshouse ransacked, pages strewn everywhere, straw cots turned upside down and Arjuro’s garden torn up, stomped with the madness of those who no longer believed in anything. He imagined the street lords had come searching for him and Quintana and prayed the others had escaped without harm. He hoped they had at least managed to hide as many of the ancient manuscripts and Arjuro’s plants as possible.

He travelled down below to the bridge of the Citavita, which swayed dangerously from side to side over the gravina. Those who had been waiting in line for days were forced to choose between going back to their homes and losing their place, or staying in line at the mercy of the elements. Froi knew he could easily take the chance and cross now, but something held him back.

A week passed and the winds continued, managing to tear the sand from the stone of the caves and almost blind those who ventured out to scrounge for food. Even the street lords kept inside and Froi took his chance each day, wrapping a cloth around his face to search for Lirah and Arjuro.

He didn’t dare question what he wanted from Lirah. Was it an acknowledgement that she loved the son she had grieved for so many years? Was it a declaration of love, such as Lady Abian’s daily words to her children? If Lady Beatriss could love the child of a man who had violated her, why couldn’t Lirah love Froi?

Nevertheless he scoured the streets and caves for any sign of them, but if there was one thing those of the Citavita knew how to do, it was hide. On a day he was about to give up and chance a crossing on the hazardous bridge, he noticed one of De Lancey of Paladozza’s guards duck into a cave house and so Froi followed. Once inside, stone steps tunnelled down into the ground and soon enough he heard voices and arguing and tracked the sounds into a hidden inn.

The room was crowded and Froi recognised more of De Lancey’s men and some of those who had taken refuge in the godshouse when the street lords first took control of the palace. At a corner set of benches he saw De Lancey with his head down, speaking rapidly to the group of men surrounding him. Froi made his way towards the Provincaro, but was intercepted by one of his guards, who clearly recognised him from the attack in the godshouse corridors.

‘Leave,’ the guard said. ‘We don’t need trouble here.’

Froi pushed past him, but the man gripped his arm.

‘You have a very short memory,’ Froi warned. ‘Don’t let me remind you of what I can do.’

Suddenly De Lancey was between them.

‘Come,’ he said to Froi, holding up a hand to his guard. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

‘Sir –’

‘I said, I’ll take care of this.’

Froi followed De Lancey as he pushed through the crowd and resumed his seat.

‘We’ll speak later,’ the Provincaro told the men at his table, who eyed Froi suspiciously. They walked away, turning at intervals until they left the room.

‘What don’t they trust more?’ Froi asked, bitterly. ‘The fact that they don’t know who I am, or the fact that I saved her life and they didn’t want it saved?’

De Lancey didn’t respond.

‘Where’s Lirah?’ Froi asked, not wasting time.

The Provincaro shrugged, an effortless movement. ‘I’ve not seen her since the day of the hanging.’

‘And Arjuro?’

‘I’ve not seen him either.’

Froi shook his head, giving a humourless laugh. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Provincaro,’ he said as he stood.

‘If you ask me where Gargarin is, I can tell you that,’ the Provincaro said, his voice silky in its lazy drawl.

Froi stiffened. He wanted to walk away.

‘Sit,’ De Lancey ordered.

‘I don’t –’

‘Now.’

Froi sighed and sat and they eyed each other a moment or two before De Lancey pushed over the carafe of wine.

‘I’d prefer food.’ Froi hoped there wasn’t a plea in his voice. Food had been scarce during the week and he had taken to stealing whatever he could, regardless of who he was taking it from. Those in the Citavita had made it clear that it was each out for their own. De Lancey signalled to one of his men and gave him an instruction before the man walked away.

‘We think Lirah and Arjuro are staying at the Crow’s Inn, close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ he told Froi.

‘Think?’

‘Someone with an abundance of wild hair and clothed in black from head to toe was heard calling one of the street lords a horse arse of gods-like proportions. Could only be him.’

Froi closed his eyes a moment, feeling a relief that almost made him faint.

‘Are you going to take them with you?’ he asked, clearing his voice of its hoarseness.

‘No. Should I?’ De Lancey asked.

‘You’ll take Gargarin, but not Arjuro?’

Froi could tell by the narrowing of De Lancey’s eyes that he was unimpressed with his tone.

‘Well, they’re not exactly attached and Gargarin doesn’t owe Arjuro anything,’ the Provincaro said coldly.

‘But you do.’

‘Do I?’

Froi bristled. The man was too calm and cool-blooded.

‘I would have done the same to Gargarin in that prison cell,’ Froi said. ‘If I had seen Gargarin kill the child and the Oracle, I would have escaped the exact way Arjuro did.’

‘So would have I,’ De Lancey said. ‘I think Gargarin’s accepted that, too. But ten years ago, when they released Gargarin from the prison after they had broke every bone in his body, we searched this kingdom high and low for one of the most briliant young physicians in Charyn. And Arjuro refused to be found. Gargarin’s bones mended twisted.’

A plate of pigeon stew was placed before Froi and he wolfed it down.

‘How long since you’ve eaten, you fool?’

Froi burped and stood. ’Not your concern.’

De Lancey sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you and Grij and the lads are a punishment to us all for our wild youth.’

‘I’m not one of the lads,’ Froi said. ‘I’m just someone’s bastard, remember?’

There was regret on De Lancey’s face.

‘I did not mean for you to find out the way you did.’

Froi shrugged. ‘You had a dalliance with Arjuro and you wanted to pick a fight.’

De Lancey gave a bitter laugh. ‘Dalliance? Is that what he told you?’

‘I knew he was lying,’ Froi said with a sneer. ‘As if you would lower yourself. I know your type.’

The Provincaro was quick. He reached over and gripped Froi by his shirt, bringing him an inch away from his face.

‘No,’ De Lancey said through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t. Never presume.’

The Guard were at the table in an instant.

‘We’ll take him outside, Sir.’

The Provincaro shoved Froi back and waved them away. Froi studied him a moment. He wondered who was telling the truth. Arjuro or De Lancey?

‘He lied about the dalliance part,’ the Provincaro said quietly. ‘We were lovers from when we were sixteen years old until the night of the lastborn. Nine years. Not quite a dalliance, don’t you agree?’ he added bitterly.

‘But you betrayed him?’

A flash of regret crossed the other man’s face. ‘I betrayed many that night. But I believed I was doing the right thing.’

De Lancey poured wine from the carafe. ‘Do you have trust in your king?’

Froi pushed his mug towards the wine and De Lancey poured another. ‘I have a queen and you have caught me on a mellow day, De Lancey. Because if anyone dared to question my allegiance or trust in my queen and king I’d take a knife to their throat.’

‘I trusted my king. I thought Arjuro was mad and in his madness he was risking the life of our beloved Oracle. I felt there was no better place to protect her from the Serkers than in the palace. But I was a coward in my plan. It cost an innocent farrier his life and I realised afterwards that the Serkers were not involved.’

De Lancey looked up and Froi followed his gaze to where the three lastborns entered the crowded room. Froi watched Grijio speak to one of the guards, who pointed to the Provincaro.

‘Arjuro was your lover, but you had a wife who bore you a son?’ Froi accused.

‘No,’ the Provincaro said. ‘I’ve not had a wife. It’s far more complicated and tragic than you’d imagine.’

‘Everything in Charyn seems far more complicated and tragic.’

Froi stood, skolling the wine.

‘By the way,’ Froi said. ‘It’s no business of mine, but I would reconsider asking Tariq to travel into the centre of Charyn, regardless of how many men your envoy promises him.’

‘My envoy?’

Froi saw genuine confusion on the man’s face.

‘Lad, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The hairs on Froi’s arm stood tall as he stared at De Lancey.