was godshouse-bound. He was considered a genius, and at the age of twenty-five he disappeared and has not been seen in these parts for the past eighteen years.’
‘Why did he leave if he was so precious to the King?’
Zabat was silent for a moment. ‘His brother was the Priestling arrested for treason and imprisoned after the Oracle godshouse slaughter. Some say that Gargarin of Abroi was ashamed of his brother’s actions. They say he left the Citavita because he felt himself unworthy of the King’s respect. Whatever the reason, he was considered a traitor to the palace. Only now has he been allowed to return.’
‘And what do others say? Others such as Rafuel?’
‘Who knows what Rafuel believes?’ Zabat muttered. ‘There is much he doesn’t tell us.’
Froi knew he was going to receive another tirade of self-pity.
‘I need more than that,’ Froi snapped.
Zabat shook his head, refusing to respond. Froi stepped closer, threateningly. ‘If you’re going to send me with him to do Charyn’s dirty work, then have the decency to tell me what he’s capable of!’
‘He’s a hermit. Refuses to align himself to the provinces. But they all want Gargarin.’
‘They all want
‘Every single Provincaro in this land. He’s designed waterways and was the architect of a cistern system in the province of Paladozza that helped them during the years of no rain. He knows the history of this kingdom and this land better than any Priestling. Stranger still is the fact that he is not gods’ touched.’
‘How is it that he’s not aligned to a province?’
‘He was born in Abroi. A place that no province will claim as theirs. It’s a wretched village between Paladozza and Sebastabol. The people there have been breeding with each other for so long because no one else will have them. A favourite saying in the kingdom is that a sheep turd has more intelligence. The only things of worth that Abroi has ever produced are the twin brothers, Arjuro and Gargarin. One was gods’ touched, the other an architect. Inseparable for the first half of their lives, enemies ever since.’
Froi couldn’t help but shudder each time he heard the word Abroi. After what Rafuel had said to him, was it too much of a coincidence that Froi’s name shared the same sound as a Charyn backwater?
‘I’ve heard that the names of Charyn men rhyme with the place they were born,’ he lied, fishing for some sort of truth.
Zabat made a rude sound again. ‘Are you a fool? Do we look like Osterians? They need to rhyme everything so they can remember which goatherd village they come from? Karlo from Sumario. Florence from Torence. Tinker from Stinker.’
‘You’re making that up,’ Froi scoffed. ‘There’s no such place as Stinker.’
‘What would you know?’
‘The Sarnaks are worse,’ Froi said, relieved that he was no Froi from Abroi. ‘They like to blend two names into one.’
Zabat looked at him, questioningly.
‘Jocasto from Sprie?’ Froi tried.
Zabat thought for a moment. Shook his head.
‘Casprie,’ Froi responded.
‘Ridiculous.’
Froi tried not to agree. It had taken him years to work out the strange logic of Sarnak name games.
‘Lester of Haybon?’ Froi continued. ‘Go on. You’ll never guess.’ He enjoyed the look of stupidity on Zabat’s face as he tried to work it out.
‘Straybon,’ Froi explained.
Zabat scowled. ‘Give me another. I’m beginning to see the pattern.’
‘Ah yes, a pattern.’ Froi lied this time. ‘What if our man Straybon was from the town Fletcher? The Sarnaks wouldn’t want to waste three words ordering a bow and arrow, would they?’
Zabat was lost, his face twisting as he tried to work out the puzzle.
‘Stretcher,’ Froi announced.
Zabat shook his head with disbelief. Froi nodded, solemnly.
‘He’s making a fool of you,’ they heard a voice say behind them.
Froi leapt to his feet. Gargarin of Abroi’s eyes were drawn to where Froi’s hand had reached for a weapon that was no longer there. Their eyes met for a moment before the man limped towards the stream.
‘Do you believe his Priestling brother betrayed the Oracle to the Serkers?’ Froi asked quietly, watching Gargarin.
‘It’s dangerous to believe otherwise,’ Zabat muttered.
Early the next morning, Zabat woke him.
‘It’s time for me to go,’ he said.
Froi yawned, thrilled to be leaving him behind.
‘Are you clear on the instructions, Lumateran?’ Zabat whispered.
Froi nodded.
‘In Rafuel’s letter, he says that your captain has reassured him that the kills will be clean. We’re not savages. But it’s important they are dead.’
Froi was suddenly confused. He sat up, his back aching. He tried to clear his head from sleep. ‘They? You mean, “him”. The King.’
Zabat cast his eyes down.
‘And her.’
‘And who?’ Froi snapped. ‘Who is her?’
When Zabat didn’t answer, Froi snarled ferociously enough for the man to step back.
‘The King’s spawn,’ Zabat said.
Froi stared at the man. ‘The Princess Quintana?’
‘You are squeamish about killing a woman?’
‘It’s not part of my bond.’
‘She’s to die,’ Zabat whispered. ‘She cursed the kingdom.’
‘I said it’s not in my bond,’ Froi said firmly.
‘Then you misunderstood your bond. Do you honestly believe your queen wants Quintana the whore to live? After what her father the King ordered thirteen years ago, when he sent those assassins into Lumatere.’
Froi thought of Trevanion’s words. Not to bed the Princess, but to do what was to be done. Is this what he had meant?
‘Rafuel said nothing of –’
‘There are many who agree that Rafuel does not give orders,’ Zabat said.
They both turned at the sound of Gargarin of Abroi shuffling out of his cave house.
Zabat held up a hand in a wave. ‘I’m off now, Sir Gargarin,’ Zabat called out.
‘Devastating, to say the least,’ Gargarin muttered, looking up at the grey sky.
Zabat stared back down at Froi. ‘I will say it again, lad. You misunderstood your bond. Your queen and her consort want Quintana the cursemaker dead.’
Chapter 7
It took almost two days to climb the ravine to what was called Upper Charyn. It had taken longer because Froi was slowed down by Gargarin of Abroi’s limp and half-dead arm. Most of the time, Froi would reach higher ground and wait, taking in the walls of stone that seemed to close in on him from the opposite side. He understood flatlands. He understood forests and rivers and mountains, even rock villages. What he didn’t understand was how anyone would want to live in the base of a ravine, except for the purpose of fishing in a stream. But, then again, as he watched this half-crippled man tackle the climb, Froi was beginning to suspect that Gargarin of Abroi was no ordinary sane man.
The path up the gravina was marked with surprises. Stones that infrequently became steps to their
