arm.
Tippideaux met them by the door.
‘Aren’t they hideous?’ she said, yanking at a piece of Quintana’s hair as though willing it to grow longer. ‘Froi said you would never believe the charm and lies,’ Tippideaux continued. ‘You deserve better than that.’
‘Lies?’ Quintana asked, looking at Froi. ‘And what part was the lie? The sweet face or the pretty eyes?’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said, feeling the need to choke the life out of Tippideaux.
The very annoying Feliciano was back between them, holding out a hand to her.
‘My uncle insists that you enjoy our hospitality, Your Highness.’
Quintana caught Froi’s eyes and he shook his head, but he knew the damage was already done. He watched her place her arm on Feliciano’s sleeve.
Froi and the others stood beside De Lancey watching the Avanosh party walk out of the dining room.
‘What on earth did they give you in the box, Father?’ Tippideaux asked. ‘When they arrived?’
‘Sand,’ he said. ‘From their island. Sand. As if we don’t have enough sand in our stone here.’
Froi’s mood was flat, his mind not able to get around Quintana and her consort alone in their residence. So later that night when Olivier suggested stealing out into the city below with a promise of ale, women and good conversation, Froi readily agreed.
They found themselves in the bawdiest ale house in Paladozza, according to Grijio, who looked worried. He was recognised instantly as the son of the Provincaro and they were offered ale all night, although the offer always came with the words, ‘Perhaps a favour from your father, young Grijio.’
But the ale did nothing to alter Froi’s mood.
‘You’re in love with her?’ Grijio said quietly.
Froi didn’t respond.
‘I don’t mean to give offence, Froi,’ Olivier said, ‘but she’s not an easy person to like. One doesn’t always warm to her.’
‘There’s more to her,’ Froi said, not denying either of them. He wanted to explain it, hoping they’d understand.
‘Until three years ago I couldn’t read and write, I couldn’t ride a horse or shoot an arrow and didn’t know the difference between a turnip seed and grain. The men who have taught me everything back home, they often say to me, “Froi, what if all your talents were left undiscovered?” ’
He looked up at them. ‘It’s the same with her. Imagine who she would be if we unleashed her onto the world. I think she would rip the breath from all of us.’
Froi drank more that night than he had ever drunk in his life. Drinking was forbidden by the Guard in Lumatere unless off-duty, and even then it had to be in moderation. But Froi was sick of bonds. Sick of moderation. Sick of having to hold back.
The next morning, however, Froi wished he had held back. With little memory of what they did the night before, all three of them were summoned to the Provincaro’s library.
De Lancey was there to remind them of everything, fury in his expression.
‘Exposing yourselves? To the locals?’
Froi vaguely remembered that part.
‘Drunk? Singing bawdy songs about the gods of other kingdoms? Pissing in the prized gardens of Lady Orsa?’
Grijio looked shamefaced. Olivier pretended to. Froi’s head was spinning too hard for anything to make sense.
‘The Avanosh puppets think this is a province of debauchery!’
Grijio looked up. ‘You’ve never cared what people say about us, Father. About the way we live.’
‘But the rule has always been to conduct yourself with dignity, Grij. To have respect for others so you can demand respect back. There was nothing, nothing dignified about your behaviour last night, or those women.’
Women? Why didn’t Froi remember women? How could he not remember women?
‘What women?’ he asked Olivier, as they walked out.
‘They want to meet us tonight,’ Olivier whispered. ‘Are you in, Grij? Froi?’
‘They are so much older,’ Grijio said. “What do you think they’ll want from us?’
At the entrance to the courtyard they bumped into Feliciano of the Red Tights, as Olivier insisted on calling him. Froi had a hazy memory of strands of a song they penned for Red Tights the night before at the inn. Words to suggest that Feliciano’s trousers resembled a sock and Froi was sure that the word describing Feliciano himself rhymed with sock.
‘My betrothed and I would appreciate less noise when you arrive home,’ the heir to Avanosh said pompously. ‘It woke us last night.’
Feliciano was pinned to the wall before Froi could count out his bond, a hand to the other lad’s throat. Olivier and Grijio pulled Froi away before his fist could connect.
The moment he could escape, Feliciano scampered down the stairs. Froi pulled free of the others and walked back to his chamber. The image of Quintana and that idiot together last night, today and forever, made him want to kill someone.
Suddenly Lirah was at the top of the steps, her hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Where have you been for sunrise these last days, Froi?’ Lirah’s voice was always blunt, emotionless. ‘Gargarin says you’re not yourself.’
‘Gargarin doesn’t know who I am,’ he snapped, ‘so how could he possible know I’m not myself?’
‘Well, he would like you to come visit,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘He needs to speak to you urgently. This business with Avanosh is a worry.’
‘I’m not his messenger boy,’ Froi said. ‘He has you for that. A good deal for him, indeed,’ he added spitefully. ‘He gets to bed you and you run errands for him.’
She stared at him, a flash of anger and hurt in her eyes. She nodded, as though comprehending his words. ‘Well, there it is,’ she said. ‘There’s the Serker male. Can only express pain through bitter words.’ She let her hand drop and walked away.
Froi took a deep breath and turned back down the steps again. He was in the mood to find Feliciano again and tell him exactly what he thought of him. But outside in the courtyard he could only find Olivier and Grijio.
‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it again, I’m in.’
Chapter 38
No matter how hard they tried, Froi and the lads were unable to lose De Lancey’s guard that night. The three had to settle for drinking in the ale house under close watch.
‘I can’t believe that if I take a woman tonight, my guard will probably stand at the foot of the bed and give instruction,’ Grijio said, forlorn. ‘I need to get out of Paladozza.’
Olivier laughed. ‘And there are those who would die to live here. Our lad,’ Olivier explained to Froi, ‘is frightened that the Princess will be the only girl he’ll ever have laid with.’
‘We didn’t actually lay with each other,’ Grijio said. ‘She made me leave the moment it was over, and believe me, it was over in the blink of an eye. She was very particular about not sharing her bed. Wasn’t she, Froi?’
Froi looked from one to the other. ‘What impression have I given either of you that I want to hear or discuss anything about the Princess and lastborns and Consorts?’ he said, anger lacing his words. He was fighting with all his might not to think of Quintana and that idiot Feliciano.
Olivier called for another round of drinks and the subject of Quintana was finished with. But after a pint or two, Olivier leaned forward and ushered them towards him.
‘I don’t trust the Avanosh lot. Why would the Provincaro of Sebastabol not have sent that note through me?’
‘The seal was there. My father saw it,’ Grijio said.
‘I still don’t trust them.’
Froi studied the lastborn. ‘What are you thinking, Olivier?’
