worth until he crossed the path of the novice Evanjalin and Finnikin. So he found himself writing his own bond to Quintana of Charyn. Her worth would come from him and Lirah and the idiot lastborns. She would not die alone. That would be his bond to her.
And then the day they were dreading came when there was no one to account for but Quintana and Gargarin. When the street lords dragged them out, Froi had a moment’s foolish thought that perhaps he could rescue them, but he was unarmed and there were too many desperate Charynites surrounding him, begging for more blood. He reminded himself, as he had every day since the death of the King, that he had not been sent to this kingdom to rescue a Princess. He had been sent to wipe out the royal seed of Charyn, but there had been too many men in this kingdom ready to do that for him.
He was barely able to recognise Quintana with her bloodstained ugly dress, her filthy face, hair in knots. The crowd cried out for blood. Hers. Froi prayed to whoever was listening that Quintana the ice maiden would be in her head this day. But he knew in an instant it was the Princess Indignant. It was the way she wept and fell on her knees begging, crying out the words, ‘I carry the first! I carry the first!’ until the street pigs dragged her to her feet by her hair.
Gargarin was trussed, and it had been a savage beating he had received this past week. But Froi knew that Gargarin would be released. De Lancey had paid half the amount of gold only and the street pigs would get the other half when Gargarin was safe. Today, it would be Quintana’s day to die.
Without his staff, Gargarin collapsed on the raised floor above them for the umpteenth time. Froi heard Arjuro’s broken whisper, ‘Stay down, my brother. Stay down,’ and Froi wanted to reach out to him in some sort of comfort. He had realised many times in the past weeks that if anything, Arjuro of Abroi was blood. Without thinking, Froi pushed through the crowd until he was at the platform, his head level with Gargarin who lay face down, blood pouring from his nose.
‘Are you finished with him?’ Froi asked the street lords. The man guarding Gargarin kicked him off the platform viciously and he fell at Froi’s feet. In an instant, De Lancey and his guard were there, half-carrying Gargarin away.
‘Do something,’ Froi begged the Provincaro. ‘Do something for her.’
‘We’ve been promised the road out of here, lad,’ De Lancey whispered. ‘The best I can do is leave and raise an army to take back the Citavita.’
Froi watched two of the street lords drag Quintana to the raised block, and oh, how she fought. To the very last moment she fought, and when the hangman placed the noose around her neck, Froi knew it was Lirah who cried out in a way that tore at him. Froi finally understood what she had tried to do so long ago, in that tub of water. She had tried to take this wretched creature to a better place. To prevent this moment of horror.
And then a bellowing cry rang out. A war cry? Froi swung around, searching for anything. Any sign. He thought he saw something, but couldn’t quite believe it. The lastborns? Three of the most useless fighters in existence. He had seen Trevanion teach Vestie of the Flatlands to use a bow and even she could hit a target, despite the distance. One of them, Grijio of Paladozza perhaps, fell out of a branch overlooking the platform. In the crowd, Olivier of Sebastabol bellowed yet another war cry, while Satch of Desantos tried to jab at the legs of the street lords on the podium.
Arrows went flying in the wrong direction. The idiot, Olivier, was attempting to shoot a mark towards the noose, but he hit the palace wall in the distance instead. From where Froi was trying to get a better look, it seemed as though they were attacking each other. The people of the Citavita began to laugh. Despite the failure of the situation, the street lords reacted, leaping from the podium and shoving their way through the crowd after Satch, who was closest.
And suddenly, in all the absurdity, Froi forgot the orders from his queen. Forgot everything he had been told was right or wrong. Forgot any type of reason. Perri the Savage once told him that moments of opportunity were pure luck; the Priestking claimed that it was the gods sending messages. But both agreed that you took them without question. Whatever it was today, Froi didn’t ask, and he took his chance and bolted for the tree that Grijio was attempting to climb, while one of the street lord’s gripped his ankle. Froi knocked the street lord’s head against the branch, before shoving him away. He scampered up the tree. ’Follow,’ he ordered Grijio. With the lastborn at his heels, Froi straddled the top branch, grabbing the bow from Grijio’s hand. Down into the crowd he could see Olivier of Paladozza stare up to where Grijio and Froi sat.
‘Bolt,’ Froi ordered and Grijio slapped one against his palm and Froi took aim and fired. ‘Bolt!’ he ordered again.
‘Bolt!’
‘Bolt!’
‘Bolt!’
Froi shot five bolts in quick succession at his targets on the podium. But despite four street lords writhing with pain on the raised platform, the hangman kicked the block from under Quintana’s feet and her body began to swing, her hands gripping at the rope around her neck. Froi cried out, a roar of anguish that came from a place within that he had never acknowledged.
‘Olivier!’ he bellowed down to the lastborn in the crowd. ‘Sword!’ Froi leapt from the branch and, flying through the air, he grabbed Quintana’s body and as they both swung over the crowd, he reached out to where Olivier held the sword high above his head and Froi grabbed it, stretching the sword in an upward swing to slice at the rope holding Quintana’s noose. A moment later they crashed down into those standing below.
Satch was there before them, pulling both Froi and Quintana to their feet. ‘Run,’ he shouted. ‘R … r … run.’
The stuttering lastborn led and Froi followed, gripping Quintana’s hand, dragging her at times when it seemed she had nothing left inside of her. Grijio caught up as arrows flew past them. The four of them ran through one of the cave houses, climbed up onto a roof and then crossed the Citavita, leaping from one flat cave to another. Froi had no idea where they were heading, but despite the lastborns’ inability to fight like warriors, these lads seemed to have purpose. So Froi followed.
Suddenly a hand flew up beneath his feet and Froi was yanked down into a hole through the roof of one of the caves. He crashed down onto the ground of the house alongside Satch. Within seconds, Quintana tumbled in behind them. A moment later, Grijio fell through.
‘Quiet,’ someone whispered, and Froi realised their breathing was coming out in sobs. He closed his eyes to regain his breath and when he opened them he could only see the bottom half of whoever had dragged them into the room. The rest of the man was peering up through the hole in the roof.
‘Have y … y … you lost th … th … them?’ Satch asked.
The trapdoor was secured in place and the room was dark. A candle was held towards them and Froi found himself face to face with the keeper of the caves.
‘Follow,’ Perabo ordered.
Froi was surprised to see an underground river in the bowels of the city. Perabo led them to one of two small rafts, helping Quintana step onto the first. He then placed a hand on Froi, but it was no hand of assistance. The grip tightened until Froi felt pain. ‘Did I not tell you to get her out of Charyn?’ the man snarled.
‘He’s n … not Olivier,’ Satch said.
‘He would have known nothing of Tariq’s plan to take her out of the Citavita,’ Grijio added.
‘Then who is he?’ the keeper asked.
Grijio hesitated in replying. ‘He’s a foreigner. We don’t know what his name is.’
‘Froi,’ they heard a hoarse voice say behind them.
Froi stumbled towards Quintana, realising with horror that part of the noose was still around her neck. He removed it and in the dim light, he could see that her throat was burnt from the rope. She was shivering and he took off his coat and placed it around her.
Perabo gave Froi the oar. ‘Listen to my instructions. You follow this river until it branches into two. Steer the raft left and travel a while. When you come to a bend, they will hear you. So wait for two sounds of a rock against rock. Five beats apart. In return, you tap your oar on the roof of the cave. Three taps. Five beats apart. You ask for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn. You tell them Perabo sent you.’
Grijio helped Quintana onto the raft and Froi gripped her as it swayed from side to side. He looked up at the lads standing beside Perabo. ‘You’d be safer with us,’ he said.
‘We n … n … need to get back and see if Olivier escaped.’
