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.’
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
