Froi hesitated. Would his question reveal a weakness in him? ‘When Gargarin first saw me, he reacted in much the same way you did,’ Froi said. ‘No one else has. Who do I remind you both of?’
‘Someone we despise beyond understanding,’ Arjuro said flatly with no hesitation. He said little else and Froi knew the discussion was over.
Arjuro pushed open the door and they both squinted when the light poured in.
‘My brother … he’s the best man to ask,’ Arjuro said.
‘Ask what?’
‘I’m figuring that a lad with eyes like yours could have been sent by the hidden Serkers to kill the King. So talk to my brother.’
Froi didn’t respond for a moment.
Arjuro looked past Froi to the cluster of cave homes below. ‘Twenty-five years ago, a young lad from Abroi with nothing to his name but a brother who was gods’ touched, impressed the King with his drawings and plans.’
Arjuro watched Froi for a reaction. ‘He was sixteen at the time and the envy of every ambitious advisor employed by the King.’
‘Gargarin worked on the palace when it was built?’ Froi asked.
Arjuro shook his head. ‘No. Gargarin was the architect. He knows every hidden tunnel, every mouse hole. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to break out of an unbreakable prison.’
Froi stared at Arjuro and then gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Who are you people?’
It was a steep descent over the roofs of cave dwellings from the godshouse to the Citavita. At times, Froi could look into the homes beneath his feet, where entrances were dug out of the ceilings and the smell of bread from ovens wafted through the air. Still, it was a secluded area of the capital and under the piercing glares of those they called the street lords, Froi felt less than safe with little means of protection.
He could see that the street lords spent much of their time sitting and watching. The men sat on the uneven roofs of the cave houses, studying the palace below and the godshouse above. Unlike the farmers, who dragged oxen up the backbreaking path or the women who stumbled with armloads of linens, the street lords did nothing much at all but sit around looking threatening.
‘Friend,’ one called as he passed, and Froi itched for his dagger that lay buried in the cave at the base of the gravina.
‘You,’ the man called out again. ‘I’m talking to you.’
A leg went out and Froi stumbled. Counted to ten.
‘You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in,’ the shorter one said.
Froi would never understand the sameness of the world. Thugs or street lords or thieves were all the same, whether they hailed from Charyn or Sarnak or even Lumatere. Some of the wild orphans, as these kinds of people were called in Lumatere, had returned over the past years to cause havoc after too many years on their own. Trevanion put them straight into the army and trained them to exhaustion. ‘If they’re going to hate, it may as well be for the good of Lumatere,’ he’d say.
‘The Priestling rarely gets visitors, so care to explain,’ the first man said.
Froi knew they would watch him travel back down to where the palace drawbridge met the Citavita. He knew he couldn’t lie about where he was heading.
‘Messenger,’ he muttered, keeping it simple, remembering what everyone seemed to say about how too perfect his Charyn sounded. He took another step, but a hand snaked out and grabbed Froi’s arm.
‘I’ll ask again, friend. You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in.’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Froi said politely. ‘You’re not actually asking a question. More of a statement.’ He looked at the man and then stared at the hand on his arm. ‘So what is it you want to know?’
The man’s companion laughed.
‘How did you arrive at the godshouse?’ the street lord asked, retrieving a dagger from a scabbard at the waist of his trousers and tracing it across Froi’s cheek.
Froi turned and pointed to the space that could still be seen between the tip of the godshouse across the gravina to the palace.
‘I jumped. I wouldn’t advise it. Not good for the innards.’
The street lord grabbed him by the collar and dragged him closer, his foul breath fanning Froi’s face.
But suddenly a hand reached between them.
‘So you’re attacking Priestlings now, are you, Donashe?’ Froi heard Arjuro mutter. He was dressed from head to ankle in a black cape and cowl, his eyes and pale face barely visible.
The street lord stepped back and Froi saw fear in his eyes.
‘He said he was a palace messenger,’ the man Donashe said, looking away from Arjuro as though any moment he would be cursed.
‘My messenger,’ Arjuro corrected. ‘To the palace.’ Froi felt the street lord’s eyes on him. Arjuro poked Froi’s arm, and glared.
‘Did I not order you to hurry on and repeat my exact words to those in the palace?’ Arjuro asked Froi. ‘That I’d swive a goat before I’ll ever step foot in that heap of dung.’
‘Must I, blessed Arjuro?’ Froi asked, pitifully. ‘For those of us from the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.’
Arjuro shook his head. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, walking back up the path to the godshouse. But Froi had seen the ghost of a smile on his face.
Froi gave a wave to the street lords and turned to walk away.
‘I never forget a face,’ Donashe warned.
‘Oh, neither do I, friend,’ Froi said. ‘And that is a promise.’
Getting back into the palace wasn’t quite as simple as getting out had been.
‘I’m a guest of the King,’ Froi called to where he could see two soldiers standing behind the portcullis. ‘A lastborn. Olivier of Sebastabol.’
Nothing. The soldiers stared between the grates, but refused to speak.
‘I arrived here with Gargarin of Abroi four days ago? Call Dorcas, if you don’t believe me, because I’m telling you, if anything happens to me you’ll pay the price. Recognise a threat if you have brains in your head.’
Although Trevanion’s instruction would have been for Froi to get himself back into the palace any way he could, he knew that landing in the palace prison tower was not one of them.
‘You’ll feel like fools when the King’s Advisor hears about this,’ he said, as they opened a door and tossed him in. It was a fall of a few feet before he hit the ground. If Gargarin was truly the architect, Froi would have to thank him for planning a prison chamber built in such a way.
The room was as long and wide as the length of Froi’s body. Apart from the door up high, there was a window that was small enough to crawl through, but the threat of climbing out and plunging into the gravina below was the perfect deterrent for anyone wanting to leave.
Later he heard the key in the lock and stared up to see a guard and then Quintana peering over his shoulder.
‘We’re friends, Fekra and I,’ she said, as the guard lowered her down with a grip on one arm.
‘Ten minutes, Princess,’ Fekra muttered. He let go of her arm and Quintana fell onto Froi with very little finesse.
‘Do you want to meet my mother, Lirah?’ she asked matter-of-factly.
‘Not exactly, no. I want you to go fetch Gargarin and get me out of this hole.’
‘Gargarin doesn’t make the decisions.’
She looked out the window.
‘
‘Yes, yes, poor Lirah.’
‘Although I’m sure she is still taken to my father’s chamber from time to time.
Quintana pointed towards the low ceiling. ‘She’s up there. It’s why my friend Fekra allows me to use this
