Froi of the Exiles

Gargarin was standing.

They heard a key in the door and raced towards it, but were too late. Froi hammered at the door. ‘Dorcas! Dorcas, find the Princess!’

But there was no response and Froi kicked at the door with frustration.

‘Why kill the King now?’ he asked.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘It makes no sense at all.’

It was the longest of days. The waiting and the pacing and the fear for Quintana tore Froi up inside. Please let her be alive. Sometimes he pounded at the door, bellowing the name of every guard he could remember. Dorcas. Fekra. Fodor. And all the while, Gargarin wrote like a man possessed, quill not leaving paper until late that afternoon when they heard the voices crying out from across the gravina.

‘Gargarin!’

‘Gar!’

Froi ran to the balconette, Gargarin hobbling behind him.

Arjuro, De Lancey and others stood at the godshouse balconette.

‘Bestiano rode out of the palace with the riders,’ De Lancey called out.

Gargarin and Froi exchanged stunned looks.

‘You need to find a way out, Gar. The palace is unguarded and the street lords are beginning to enter. They –’

Suddenly a body flew out of the window above Froi and Gargarin’s. Screams could be heard from inside the chambers surrounding them.

‘Gods,’ Gargarin gasped, searching above and below before Froi saw him look across at his brother. Arjuro’s eyes were wide with horror and then more bodies flew past them, faces contorted, screams eaten by the air below.

‘They’re starting at the top,’ De Lancey shouted, wincing as another body of a soldier bounced off the wall of the godshouse. ‘Get out, Gargarin. Get out.’

‘We are locked in,’ Gargarin shouted back. He spun around, searching for an answer and before Froi could argue, Gargarin grabbed him and shoved him towards the wrought iron of the balconette. ‘You’ve done this climb before. Get to Lirah’s garden and have her let you in. When the street lords reach the prison tower, they’ll release whoever’s in there. Tell them you’re both prisoners of the King.’

Froi nodded. ‘We can both –’

‘No,’ Gargarin said. ‘No time. You know I’ll never be able to climb a step. You do this now. You don’t argue. They won’t kill a prisoner in the King’s tower. I don’t know how much time it will buy you, but it’s better than finding you here.’

‘But you –’

‘They may use me to bargain, but they will kill you in an instant. Go.’

Froi was shaking his head. The plan was bad. The plan meant Gargarin would die and Froi would never be able to find Quintana.

‘The Princess …’

‘ … is in all probability dead,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘And if she’s not, she will be soon.’

On the other side of the gravina, Arjuro and the Provincari watched anxiously.

‘Save yourself and take care of Lirah,’ Gargarin said, his voice hoarse. He gripped Froi by the shoulders.

‘Tell her … tell her that the babe they placed in my hands was smuggled out of the palace to the hidden priests. Tell her that if I knew it was hers, I would have found a way for her to know so she would not have suffered all these years.’

Froi stood on the balconette, his eyes fixed on Gargarin.

‘Go,’ Gargarin pleaded. ‘I’m begging you. Keep safe. Keep her safe.’

Froi heard the crash of the door and in an instant he leapt up to catch hold of the latticework of the balconette above their chamber. A moment later, the street lords were outside, one of them holding a hand to Gargarin’s throat. Froi held his breath, praying they would not look above.

There was shouting from the other side of the gravina. ‘We’ll pay a ransom,’ De Lancey shouted. ‘We’ll pay a ransom!’ But Gargarin and the street lords disappeared inside the chamber.

On Lirah’s tower garden, Froi hammered at the door. ‘Lirah! Lirah!’

He heard a fumble for the lock and the door was pushed forward.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked, and he saw the fear in her eyes. ‘All I hear is screaming and when I stood on the roof …’

She shook her head and he imagined what she had seen. ‘We’re going to have to wait for them to open the door,’ Froi said. ‘We’ll say we’re both prisoners of the King, but do not tell them you are Lirah of Serker.’

Lirah nodded.

‘Where is she?’ Lirah asked. ‘Where did you hide her?’

Froi looked away. He couldn’t find the words and he saw the slow realisation on her face.

‘Where is she?’

They heard another scream disappear down the gravina. Froi grabbed her hand and pushed her back inside her prison cell, but Lirah pulled free viciously, as though reason had left her.

‘You were supposed to save her. Quintana! Where is she?’

Froi covered Lirah’s mouth with his hand and she bit hard. Stunned, he stepped back.

‘Coward. Bastard. You were supposed to save her.’

Froi shook his head.

‘Go back and search for her!’

‘I can’t,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Gargarin said –’

She slapped him hard across the face, hissing through her teeth. ‘Thank the gods you’re motherless, you piece of worthless garbage, for no woman would stomach such a coward for a son.’

Froi’s face smarted for more reasons than the slap. ‘Don’t let me say words I regret, Lirah. Gargarin said this is the best way.’

‘Don’t speak his name to me,’ she cried.

‘He said to tell you, Lirah! That he smuggled your son out of the palace eighteen years ago. Give yourself that reason to live.’

‘And you believe his lies?’ she asked, half-mad with fury.

They heard the sound of a key in the lock and a man stepped in calmly, wiping the blood of his dagger onto his trousers. Behind him, Froi could see the lifeless body of Lirah’s guard. She gave a small cry. Froi pushed her behind him.

‘We’re prisoners of the King,’ Froi said, thanking Sagrami that it was neither of the street lords who would have remembered him from outside the godshouse. ‘The King’s Third Advisor took a liking to my sister here and when I tried to defend her, he arrested us both.’

The man’s eyes were greedily fastened onto Lirah. Froi itched to take the dagger from him, knew he would do it easily, but they needed this man to accompany them out of the palace if they were to survive. The man beckoned them along. Gargarin’s plan could work. Being the King’s prisoners would perhaps set them free. Froi and Lirah stepped over the guard’s body and Froi felt her body tremble beside him. On one of the landings between the levels of the tower, Froi caught the desperate eyes of two of the Dukes who were on their knees, hands to their heads. In the courtyard some of the servants were being released into the Citavita. The street lords carried cases of ale and wine from the cellars, smashing the bottles after they emptied them down their throats. Out in the barbican, four soldiers stood with their heads to the wall while a street lord paced back and forth behind them, a dagger in his hand. The last thing Froi heard as he passed them was the sound of the first soldier choking on his own blood.

At the portcullis, the street lord who had escorted them grabbed Lirah, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands. So close to the entrance, but still not free.

‘We live with the soothsayer,’ Froi said. ‘You know where that is? Come visit us this night. My sister will be most grateful if you do.’

Lirah nodded and the man hesitated a moment, a salacious smile on his face at the promise of what was on