Froi of the Exiles

‘You are indeed the lastborn,’ she said, her tone abrupt. No indignation now. ‘It’s written all over you.’

Froi didn’t respond. He could only stare at her. It seemed as though he was facing a completely different girl. She had the same dirty-coloured hair and eyes, but her stare was savage.

‘You’ll have to come to our chamber this night,’ she said.

Froi could have sworn he heard her snarl in disgust at the thought before she turned and disappeared into her room.

‘Our?’ he questioned, and for the first time since he had left Lumatere, Froi wondered what he had got himself into.

The day went from bad to worse. Gargarin of Abroi was in a wretched mood and they almost came to blows over an ink pot that Froi spilled on the man’s papers. Not that it was Froi’s fault. If it wasn’t Gargarin’s staff tripping Froi, it was his scrolls and quills laying everywhere, or his muttering filling the small space of their chamber.

‘Let’s make a pact, Gargarin. I keep completely out of this room today and every second day, and you do the same on the other days.’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Gargarin said, without looking up from his work.

Froi spent the rest of the morning avoiding the Princess, who had returned to being the indignant girl who had escorted him to his room the night before. Everywhere Froi turned, the Princess was there. Peering. Staring. Squinting. At every corner. From every height. It almost became a game of him watching her watching him.

Later that day he hovered around the well, which seemed the perfect place for talking rot and finding out vital information from people whose ancestors had spent too much time breeding with each other. The King’s very simple cousin, for example, pointed out that the tower Froi could see from where he was standing was the prison and currently held only one prisoner. ‘The rest of the scum are kept in dungeons close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ the man explained.

‘And the King?’ Froi asked.

‘We try not to refer to him as scum out loud,’ the cousin whispered.

‘No, I mean, where is he kept?’ Froi said.

The King’s cousin shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen him since the last day of weeping.’

Froi looked around hastily, not wanting to be obvious about his scrutiny. There were five towers as well as the keep. He had seen the Duke of Who-Cares-Where walk into the keep and knew for certain that if the man didn’t get wine at his table then there was no possible way he slept in the same compound as the King. So apart from the tower Froi shared with Gargarin and the Princess opposite the godshouse, and the prison tower alongside of theirs, that left the third, fourth and fifth towers as possible locations for the man Froi was sent to assassinate. He knew that if he could get up to one of the battlements, he’d at least have a better view of the entire fortress. But as he excused himself from the King’s cousin, he walked into Dorcas.

‘Just the person I was looking for,’ Dorcas said, full of self-importance. ‘I have a message.’

‘For me?’

‘The banker of Sebastabol is passing through on a visit to Osteria,’ Dorcas advised. ‘He would like a word. Apparently your families are acquainted.’

Froi’s heart began to thump against his chest. Less than a day in the palace and his lie was about to be discovered.

‘Did you hear me?’ Dorcas asked.

‘You mean Sir … Roland is here? In the Citavita?’

‘Sir Berenson,’ Dorcas corrected, his eyes narrowing.

‘Oh, you mean Sir Berenson the banker, and not Sir Roland the baker?’

‘Since when is a baker a Sir?’ Dorcas asked.

‘In my father’s eyes, he is,’ Froi said, nodding emphatically. ‘ “Yes, yes, that man deserves a title,” Father says, every time my mother comes home with a loaf.’

Dorcas didn’t seem interested in stories about bakers. But Dorcas was intent on following instructions.

‘He’s in Lady Mawfa’s sitting room in the third tower,’ Dorcas said. ‘Run along.’

‘The third tower?’ Froi asked, eliminating it as the King’s residence. He had watched Lady Mawfa the night before whispering gossip to anyone who came close to her. He couldn’t imagine the King sharing his residence with such a parrot.

‘Are you sure it’s not the fourth tower?’ Froi tried. ‘Didn’t you say he was visiting the King?’

‘I didn’t say that at all,’ Dorcas said, irritated. ‘And he won’t be staying for long, so run along, I say.’

Froi had to think fast. Dorcas wasn’t moving until he did and the Princess Indignant had just revealed herself from behind the well, beckoning Froi with an impatient hand. Then he heard the tapping of Gargarin’s staff and looked up to see the man limping towards the steps of their tower. Froi took his chance.

‘The proud fool,’ he said to Dorcas, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. ‘I’ve told him again and again to rest. Gargarin!’ Froi called out, before running towards him. He reached Gargarin halfway up the steps to their chamber and placed an arm around his waist to assist him, despite the fact that Gargarin neither wanted nor needed help.

‘What are you doing?’ Gargarin growled, trying to pull away. They both balanced unsteadily on the spiral steps.

‘I’m here, nothing to worry about,’ reassured Froi loudly, waving Dorcas away as the guard approached, looking slightly concerned.

‘Do you need assistance, Sir?’ Dorcas asked Gargarin.

‘Did I ask for it?’

‘No Sir,’ Dorcas said.

Regardless, Froi dragged a fuming Gargarin up the rest of the steps, causing them both to trip forward. Froi turned back to Dorcas, mouthing, ‘Too proud,’ rolling his eyes and shrugging haplessly. ‘I’ll take care of this, Dorcas.’

Dorcas watched them for a moment, holding up a hand of acknowledgement to Gargarin, whose teeth were gritted. When Dorcas descended the steps, Gargarin struggled to pull free of Froi with a fury that almost had them both tumbling down.

‘Are you an idiot?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Let go of me now.’

‘You look pale. Let me just get you to our chamber,’ Froi said. So I can avoid seeing Sir Berenson the banker, he added to himself.

‘I was born pale! I’ll die pale!’

At the top of the steps, Gargarin finally broke free and hobbled away.

‘I thought the room was mine for the day,’ he said, as Froi followed him to the chamber.

‘A decision I regretted the moment I left the room,’ Froi said. ‘I can’t bear the idea of you staggering around tomorrow with nowhere to go.’

Gargarin stared at him coldly. ‘A decision I have not regretted agreeing to. Go. Away.’

Froi spent the rest of the day in the stables avoiding the Princess, the banker of Sebastabol and Dorcas. As Gargarin had predicted, he was given a lesson or two by the stable hand and scullery maid about mating, as well as picking up a few choice words that the Priestking hadn’t covered when he taught him the language of Charyn.

When he arrived back at his room that night, feeling anything but amorous himself, the Princess was standing outside her chamber. Waiting. The cold stare was back.

‘You are certain you have nothing to tell the Reginita?’ she asked sharply.

‘The who?’ he asked.

She thought for a moment, her mouth twisting to the side. It was the strangest type of contemplation he had ever seen. She was waiting for something and Froi couldn’t understand what.

Unimpressed, the Princess beckoned him into her room with an arrogant wave of her hand. Her chamber, much like Froi’s and Gargarin’s, was simple, with a bed in the centre and no fireplace in sight.

She began to undo the hooks that fastened her dress.

‘Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot,’ Froi said. ‘I don’t want this week –’

She stopped for a moment. Squinted. ‘A week? What needs to be done should only take one night.’

What needs to be done.

Froi would need more than a night to understand the intricacies of this palace and to do what he was sent to