Froi of the Exiles

sighed. ‘All we knew was that whoever left the lastborn with the Priests feared for the child’s life.’

He turned to Lirah. ‘Why would the palace have wanted your son dead, Lirah?’ he asked. ‘Was it because the King suspected it wasn’t his?’

Lirah made a sound of annoyance. ‘I was his whore and the whore of anyone he chose to share me with! Why would the King ever have thought it was his child over anyone else?’

‘Whose child was he then, Lirah?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Mine. Mine. He belonged to me,’ Lirah said. ‘What do you want me to say, De Lancey? I had no idea who the father was.’

‘Was it Gargarin’s?’ De Lancey asked again.

‘I hardly saw the babe,’ she said. ‘And even if I had, do you think I would have seen a resemblance from a newborn. “Ah yes,” ’ she mocked. ‘ “Here is the chin of the King’s favourite banker or the eyes of his favourite cousin.” ’

There was a strained silence. A reminder of what Lirah was forced to be all those years.

‘More, Arjuro,’ De Lancey said. ‘We need more.’

‘The Priests of Trist asked me that night to name the boy because I was gods’ touched and they weren’t,’ Arjuro continued. ‘A child named by one who is gods’ touched is blessed all their lives.’ Arjuro swallowed. ‘I knew this babe could not stand out in the world, so I gave him a name with no meaning, from a place with no meaning.’ Arjuro stole a look at Froi. ‘I called him Dafar of Abroi. He was smuggled into the kingdom of Sarnak where the Priestlings of Trist had a godshouse despite the Sarnak worship of the Goddess. After the random burning down of the Sarnak godshouse four years later, the boy disappeared from our lives.’

Froi’s breath was caught in his throat.

‘I am now sure that the child came from the palace and not the Citavita,’ Arjuro said.

‘A moment ago you said the Priests had no idea where he came from!’ De Lancey said. ‘Why would you change your words?’

‘Because Olivier the impostor,’ Arjuro said, pointing to Froi, ‘has just informed us that my brother claimed to have smuggled a child out of the palace. It could have only been your son, Lirah. Perhaps, without him realising, it was Gargarin’s son. You would not have known that then. But we can only guess it now. Our young impostor’s resemblance to my father is quite extraordinary.’

Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s and Froi could hardly breathe. Lirah. Not cold Lirah who had despised him from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Not Gargarin.

Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I’m not from this place.’

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Lirah’s body was rocking, her expression one of horror.

‘Lirah?’ Arjuro asked. ‘Who passed your messages to Gargarin when you lived together in the palace? Who was your go-between?’

Lirah couldn’t find the words to speak.

‘Lirah!’

She shook herself out of her stupor.

‘The Sixth Advisor’s boy,’ she said quietly. She stopped, agape, and Froi watched Arjuro nod.

‘Rafuel,’ she gasped. ‘Little Rafuel with the cats.’

‘A sensitive boy,’ Arjuro said. ‘Smart, though. He was shouted down daily by his father, by everyone whose path he crossed in the palace. It’s how he befriended my brother. He reminded Gargarin of who we once were. And do you want to know something else? In the early days of my imprisonment when there was trust between my brother and I, Gargarin was my messenger to the Priests. He was the only person to have known where they were hiding. Where to keep a babe safe from the palace.’

Froi, Lirah and De Lancey were too dumbfounded to speak.

‘I think our Rafuel’s been busy these past years searching for the lastborn.’ Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘Did he find you in Sarnak, or have I got it all wrong?’

Froi didn’t want to respond. If he said the words aloud it would all be true and he didn’t want it to be.

‘I live in Lumatere,’ he said.

Lirah’s shoulders sank. Was it relief or despair? De Lancey shook his head with disappointment, walking away. But Arjuro continued to stare at Froi, as though he was still attempting to work out the puzzle.

‘I’ve not lived in Sarnak for three years,’ Froi said quietly.

Lirah stared at him, stunned, and De Lancey turned back, hope flaring in his expression. Froi saw a ghost of a smile on Arjuro’s face. A nod of satisfaction.

‘But what of the babe you did see tossed on the night of the lastborn?’ De Lancey asked. ‘Who was that if not the daughter of the Oracle, or Lirah and Gargarin’s son?’

A cry was heard from above and moments later De Lancey’s men appeared at the door.

‘They’ve started the killings again.’ There was a desperate look of urgency in one of the men’s eyes. ‘It’s Gargarin of Abroi, my lord.’

Froi shoved through the crowded room and onto the landing.

Across the gravina, two men gripped Gargarin, pushing him to his knees. Froi recognised them. Donashe and his companion who had once stopped Froi on his way from the godshouse to the palace.

Froi knew what they would do next. Hold Gargarin by the legs, but not let go for a moment or two. He could imagine it was torture for the person hanging. Blood rushing to their heads, staring down into the abyss. For the women, the indignity of being exposed as their dresses flapped around their faces. The jeering, the laughter, and then at a moment’s notice, the street lords would let go.

‘We’ll pay a ransom. A ransom!’ De Lancey shouted across the space, squeezing in beside Froi. ‘One hundred pieces of gold.’

From the palace side of the gravina where they hung off balconettes and battlements, the street lords jeered. ‘For this bag of broken bones?’ Donashe called out.

‘Two hundred,’ another voice called out over Froi’s shoulder, trying to get through. The Ambassador of Sebastabol.

Lirah was suddenly there beside Froi, her nails biting into his hand. He heard Arjuro’s ragged breath beside her.

‘We don’t make deals,’ Donashe said. He seemed to have taken leadership of the street lords. ‘The worthless ones die now. The others get hanged in the main square for the whole Citavita to enjoy.’

‘He’s an architect, you fools,’ De Lancey shouted.

‘Three hundred pieces of gold,’ the Provincara of Jidia could be heard saying.

‘And where is this gold?’ the shorter of the street lords called out.

‘From our provinces,’ De Lancey tried, but Froi heard anguished defeat in the man’s voice. ‘It will take no more than a week to send a messenger and have him return.’

Donashe waved him away. ‘If we can’t see the gold now, friend, don’t speak another word.’

Two of the street lords yanked Gargarin’s head back by his hair and Froi saw a face covered with dried blood and bruises, heard the sobbing around him as those in the godshouse prepared for another day of death. But he saw a ghost of a smile on Gargarin’s face. He remembered their conversation in the chamber one night. Gargarin lived on his own terms. He would die the same way. With little fear. Would that be his gift to his brother Arjuro? To Lirah? To his son? A smile in death?

One of the street lords bent and lifted Gargarin by his feet, holding him head down over the balconette. Everything around Froi sounded strange and so far away. The Provincaro’s shouting, Arjuro breathing. His pulse pounding.

‘A ruby ring!’

Froi hardly recognised the voice as his. All he felt was the sudden weight of the ring in his pocket.

‘Belonged to the dead King of Lumatere. The Lumaterans would pay a Queen’s ransom for it!’

There was a hushed silence around him.

Donashe and the street lords stared at the ring. Despite the space between them, they were close enough to see its worth. Words were nothing to them. How many times had Froi heard that on the streets of Sarnak’s capital? ‘Show us the goods and then we talk.’

Froi climbed onto the iron trellis of the godshouse balconette amidst gasps and cries from those surrounding