The woman was staring at Arjuro.
‘Untrue,’ the Priestling said. Even inside the cave he wore the cowl and gorget, every inch of his body covered except for his face. ‘It was a game. We were aroused from the vapours. It’s why we brought our lovers to the marshes. What was the use of all that arousal if you couldn’t share it with the one you loved?’
‘But you saw the gods?’
Arjuro refused to speak.
‘A Priestling once tried to explain it to me,’ the soothsayer said. ‘She fainted by merely recalling it.’
Still Arjuro didn’t respond.
‘Even without the pleasures of the flesh, Priestling, was it not beyond anything you had ever experienced?’
After a long moment, Arjuro nodded.
‘When I sense the dead it brings me the same pleasure,’ she said. ‘The dead are my reed of righteousness and when that girl comes into my home, the dead shake this cave with a power beyond reckoning.’
Suddenly, the soothsayer took Froi’s arm, which was still clasped around Lirah. She scraped her tongue against his skin. Froi shuddered and stumbled away.
‘Quintana of Charyn seeps from your pores. You’ll carry that scent for the rest of your days.’
‘Come,’ Arjuro said quietly to Froi and Lirah. ‘She’s of no use to us.’
They reached the entrance of the cave and Froi felt the hot panting breath of the soothsayer at his neck. He felt her hand on his nape and he spun around, shoving her against the unevenness of the rock.
‘Touch me again and I will kill you,’ he said.
Her breath smelt foul. As if something had died inside her mouth.
‘Nine months before the births,’ she said, ‘the King dreamt that two children would be born to the palace and that the one born first would end his reign. The boy child was born first and was tossed into the gravina along with the Oracle.’
When the soothsayer spoke, there was a whistle to her speech.
‘But he made the wrong choice.’ She looked at Lirah. ‘The secondborn, the fruit of his own loins, was an abomination. Everyone was frightened of her in the palace, running around on all fours like she was some kind of animal. Was she not a savage, Lirah of Serker?’
Lirah looked away.
The soothsayer nodded. ‘Oh, yes, she was. But everything changed when you decided to dispose of her.’
‘It was for mercy, you wretch. She begged me.’
‘And what kind of mercy did she get, Lirah of Serker? Was the little beast who died in your arms the same girl who returned?’
Froi turned, saw the flash of anguish on Lirah’s face.
‘Her mind came back in pieces,’ Lirah said.
‘Because part of her has no aura,’ the old woman continued. ‘Quintana of Charyn returned with the other. A lost spirit collected at the lake of the half-dead.’
The soothsayer’s mouth formed a malevolent smile. ‘And once they hang that girl, the dead get back their own.’
The three of them pushed their way through the crowd camped outside the godshouse entrance. Inside, the number of those taking refuge had tripled and everywhere he turned, Froi saw sleeping bodies on the stairwell or in any corner they could find. So far the street lords hadn’t dared to enter the sacred space, but Froi knew the type well. The godshouse would not be spared.
He followed Lirah and Arjuro beyond the level that housed the Hall of Illumination and onto the rooftop where Froi was surprised to see a garden. Lirah looked over to where her palace prison tower could be seen. How many times had these two former enemies caught sight of each other tending to their gardens?
No one spoke for a while. The scene with the soothsayer had unnerved them all and there were too many unanswered questions.
Arjuro began yanking out his plants, placing those with roots inside a glass bottle, preserving the seed. Froi recognised a white plant from the Priestking’s garden. The yarrow plant was a physician’s best friend, according to the Priestking. Zabat had spoken of Arjuro being a physician once, and the herbs and saplings in his garden would have been the tools of Arjuro’s trade.
Froi sat beside Lirah. They studied each other, her beautiful eyes confused and full of disbelief, as though wondering how someone as plain as Froi could have come from her loins and Gargarin’s seed. He reached over and took her hand, placing a bag of coins in her palm.
‘Get out of the Citavita, Lirah,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ve got nothing else to loot and they’ll come here next.’
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, her voice husky.
‘Where do you think? I’m a thief.’
She pushed the bag back into his hands. ‘Then use it to return home, wherever that is. I’m a whore, so I think I can find my own means out.’
Arjuro stood, sighing. ‘When you’re both finished trying to frighten each other away with the sordidness of your pasts, can you help me please?’
Froi and Lirah collected the baskets of bottles and seedlings and followed Arjuro inside.
‘Have you heard anything?’ Froi asked over their shoulders as he stooped down into the low stairwell.
‘Good news or bad news?’ Arjuro asked.
‘Bad.’
‘De Lancey has lost contact with the street pigs.’
‘Good news.’
‘They’ve not returned a corpse,’ Arjuro said flatly.
Arjuro stopped and waited for Lirah to be out of earshot. They watched her disappear into the Hall of Illumination.
‘The scribe has almost accounted for everyone,’ Arjuro said. ‘They’re down to the last few.’
‘Is there anything …’
Arjuro shook his head. ‘None of the Provincari will risk their lives or their men’s lives on her. Even if one or two were willing, they’d be outnumbered. The street pigs have control of the whole Citavita.’
‘She’s their Princess,’ Froi said angrily.
‘But not their heir, Froi. At least if she was the cursebreaker she would hold some power, but she’s worth nothing. The Provincari need to secure the kingdom. The only way to do that is to place Tariq of Lascow on the throne.’
Froi bristled to hear the words. Too many lives worth nothing.
‘You may as well toss yourself into the gravina now if you’re fool enough to try and save her,’ Arjuro said.
‘I wasn’t sent here to save her,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not part of my bond.’
For the rest of the week he stood alongside Arjuro and Lirah to watch the hangings. When they were certain that Gargarin and Quintana remained alive for one day more, all three would walk back up to the godshouse where talk of the street lords entering the sacred space would send those taking refuge into a frenzy. The streets became even more crowded, with most Citavitans now desperate to escape the violence that was rife. Looting had begun. A potter had been killed trying to protect his stall. A stampede at the bridge caused the death of seven others. It was each man or woman out for themself.
At the end of the week, it was Aunt Mawfa’s turn, and her hanging was hideous beyond imagining. Froi thought of the men he had killed in Lumatere. If he was grateful for anything, it was that most times, he did not see their fear. But here in the Citavita, fear made people beg. Fear was piss running down the legs of those who once stood pompous and proud. Fear was a bloodcurdling cry that rang through one’s ears for days to come. All he would ever remember about Lady Mawfa’s hanging were her little plump legs dangling and how, out of all the deaths, it would have been the one to make Quintana weep.
But he returned day after day, waiting for her to appear.
