him. He leapt onto the protruding granite, his legs trembling. Someone screamed. Froi lost his balance. Found it again. One foot before the other.
He held up the ring and the light from the rising sun caught the stone and Froi thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. It was the ring that had given him a life he could never have imagined. It was all things magnificent about Lumatere.
Donashe stared at the ring. Stared at Froi perched over the gravina.
‘I’m a thief, friend, and so are you,’ Froi said. ‘If you don’t recognise the worth in this jewel, then you’re nothing but ignorant street scum, there’s nothing lordish about you.’
Perhaps the silence was only for a moment, but Froi felt as though he was perched on that thin stretch of granite for hours. He wasn’t much for praying to the gods, but he prayed all the same.
‘Throw it over,’ Donashe ordered.
Froi knew there was no more bargaining to be had today. He either obeyed the command or watched Gargarin die. He tossed the ring and the man caught it in his hand, staring at it greedily.
‘You get your architect back when I get my three hundred pieces of gold.’
They pulled Gargarin up, dropped him to the ground, kicking him into the chamber. Out on the stone, Froi crouched, straddling it a moment, trying to control the beat of his heart. He slowly turned around and balanced his way back into a standing position. He watched Arjuro shove everyone but De Lancey’s men back from the balconette. Froi leapt and gripped hold of its trellis as De Lancey’s men reached out to steady him, grabbing him by the hands, clothing and hair, and dragging him over the wrought iron.
Once on his feet, Froi pushed through the hushed room. Suddenly Lirah was there.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice hoarse as she gripped his arm.
‘I’m Abroi shit and Serker garbage, Lirah,’ he said, his eyes smarting. ‘Thank God I’m motherless, remember, because any woman would be shamed to call me her son.’ He pulled free and walked away.
At the end of the hallway, Arjuro sat hunched on the stairs leading down. Froi was forced to climb over him.
‘All our young lives, Gargarin and I counted our blessings that we didn’t have to see him in each other’s faces, and then you turn up and sometimes I can’t bear to look at you, lad.’
Froi kept on walking down the steps.
‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro asked, his voice ragged.
Gargarin of Abroi was his father. Regardless of who Gargarin smuggled out of the palace, Gargarin was a murderer. That’s why Froi was so base and damned. That’s why he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere by force. Because bad blood flowed through his veins. And what Froi despised the most about himself was that he had resented Gargarin and Lirah’s indifference. Even without knowing who they were, Froi had wanted something from them. His heart knew first. He longed for Trevanion and for Lord August and even for Perri. They were the men he wanted to have sired him, not Gargarin with his cold stare and awkward ways. Those men made sense with their rules and orders.
‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro shouted.
Keep on walking. Don’t turn back.
‘Froi,’ he shouted back. ‘My name is Froi. Dafar of Abroi. A nothing name. From a nothing place.’
At the bottom of the steps he took a turn and found himself in the ancient library. Realising he had taken the wrong exit, Froi turned back to where he had seen a narrow entrance close to the steps. But within moments he was confronted by two lads. Behind him he heard a sound, and another lad came out of the shadows from the library. He knew he was in no danger because the three looked useless. They all wore their hair shoulder-length and one had ridiculous golden curls. Froi would have liked nothing more than to drag them back to Lumatere and throw them in amongst the Monts.
‘You think you can impersonate me and not suffer the consequences?’
Froi sighed. Olivier of Sebastabol. Froi couldn’t have looked less like the lastborn.
‘What did I stop you from doing?’ Froi asked. ‘Prancing into the palace and planting the mighty seed of Charyn. Did you honestly believe you would be the one?’
‘We had a better purpose, assassin,’ Golden Curls said. ‘A different purpose, blast you.’
A doe-eyed lad stepped forward, his pale, slight fist clenched at Froi’s nose.
‘If you d … d … did anything to hurt her, I’ll k … k …’
‘K … k … kill me?’ Froi sneered, cruelty in his voice.
Fatigued, he pushed through them. It was too easy to crush these lads. He wanted to go home. There was nothing left for him to do here.
The fist that came out to connect with Froi’s jaw was weak in its delivery and he heard a grunt of pain come from the doe-eyed lad, who rubbed his knuckles.
‘We had a plan, a year in the making,’ Grijio of Paladozza said. ‘Satch and I had a means to smuggle her out. We knew her life was in danger the moment she came of age with no child.’
‘We w … w … wanted to save her.’
‘I would have saved her,’ Olivier of Sebastabol said. ‘Perabo of the caves would have saved her. Taken her to Tariq of Lascow, who would have protected her with his life.’
Froi’s head rang from what he was hearing.
‘My father just told me who you are,’ Grijio said. ‘Good work done in Charyn, Lumateran,’ he spat, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘You go home and tell your people that their assassin did good work in Charyn.’
Another fist to his jaw and a boot to his face, and one to his chest. And on his knees, Froi finally understood the truth. That by impersonating Olivier, he had written her death sentence.
He had foiled an attempt by the lastborns to set Quintana free.
Froi woke with a start. He had spent the night sleeping by the side of the road that led down to the bridge of the Citavita, joining the throng of people who were desperate to leave. Not even outside the Lumateran gates three years ago, when Finnikin and Isaboe prepared to enter and break the curse, had Froi seen a people so desperate, clutching each other and their possessions. Back then there was at least hope. Here there was desperation.
This is where it begins, he realised. For some it would end in a valley between Lumatere and the Province of Alonso. ‘Why live like a trog at the doorstep of an enemy kingdom?’ Lucian had asked on the day Froi left.
He patted the pouch he had hidden in an inside trouser pocket. The night before he had gone back to what he did best. People who were running for their lives were less concerned with their pockets and the pickings were too easy; he had enough coins in his pouch to prove it. He wondered what would have happened to him if he was still on the streets of the Sarnak capital. Stealing had become too boring. Where would that boredom have led him if Isaboe of Lumatere had not come across him in that square in Sprie?
He shuffled amongst the crowd and tried to shut out the crying from those who were turned away by another set of cutthroats taking bribes to allow people out of the Citavita. Froi was amazed how swift some men were in plotting out a way to take advantage of human despair. He realised that what he despised the most about the street lords and the cutthroats at the gate was that he was looking at himself in another life.
It was on the next morning that he finally reached the bridge. He thought of Trevanion and Perri. Of the tale he had to tell. He thought of Lord August and Lady Abian and the crops and the ideas he had for planting them. He thought of Lucian of the Monts and how he would warn him that what was taking place in the Citavita would bring danger to the valley and Lucian’s mountain. He thought of Finnikin and Isaboe and the Priestking and he thought of Tesadora with her Serker eyes. Which made him think of Lirah, and Lirah made him think of Gargarin, and Gargarin made him think of Arjuro. And then all he could think of was her. Princess Indignant. Quintana the ice maiden. Quintana the Savage. The Abomination. The Cursemaker. The Whore. The Lastborn. The girl who could make rabbits appear on walls.
And before Froi could change his mind, he turned and walked back up to the Citavita, sensing in his deepest core that he would not be returning to Lumatere for some time.
