Froi scowled. ‘You don’t have to be nervous, Satch. I’m not going to hurt you!’
He saw a flash of irritation on the lastborn’s face.
‘It’s a st … st … stutter, idiot. N … n… not fear.’
It was a strange path to the hidden compound of Lascow. The roof of the cave was little more than a handspan above their heads, the sides of the raft at times scraping against the wall until Froi was forced to lay the oars aside and push his way down the cave river. There was nothing to be heard, except for the lapping of the water and Quintana’s rasping. When they reached a section where the river’s current seemed to carry the raft along, Froi stumbled to where Quintana was. He sat down and gathered her in his arms. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe. I promise you.’
Perabo’s instructions were precise. At the bend, Froi heard the sound and waited and despite the firm grip Quintana had on his arm, he managed to retrieve the oar and tap the cave ceiling three times. A moment later the pitch-black space was illuminated by a lantern. Froi held Quintana’s face to his chest, his eyes blinded by the light.
‘We are here for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn,’ he said. ‘Perabo sent us.’
The lantern was lowered, revealing the face of a man. He stared from Froi to Quintana and then gave a nod.
Chapter 21
Tariq of Lascow was tall for a Charynite. And striking. Froi wasn’t expecting tall and striking. For some reason he wanted Quintana’s beloved Tariq to be short and ugly. The heir placed a hand against Quintana’s cheek tenderly and then led them down a dank corridor of stone, speckled with a substance that lit their path. They followed him into a large chamber, the floors and wall adorned with beautiful woven carpets of blues and gold and red. There were books and drawings and ochre sticks for writing scattered over the cot that lay on the ground. A mandolin sat in the corner. A small altar was in the centre of the room, built upon a piece of rock that extended from the ground. Carved into the rock were symbols Froi had seen in Gargarin’s books about the gods. Tariq of the Citavita worshipped Agora, the Charyn goddess of wisdom. A poet, a musician, a peacemaker. Froi wanted to hate him.
Tariq pushed the books and sketches from his cot and took Quintana’s hand. ‘Little cousin, speak. I beg of you,’ he said, as Quintana stared up at Froi. Tariq placed a blanket over her and she lay down.
‘Will you be here when I wake?’ she asked Froi, her voice broken.
‘Of course,’ he lied.
Quintana closed her eyes and turned to the wall.
Tariq stood and Froi saw tears in the eyes of the heir. And anger.
‘How was it that you didn’t get her out in time?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been waiting for weeks.’
‘I was careless,’ Froi said. ‘For that I’ll always be sorry.’
Tariq stared, but didn’t speak. Too much seemed to be going on in his mind and Froi wondered if the heir of Charyn had to count in his head to control his fury. Or was he just a good man who could walk a path through life without a bond?
‘Then forgive yourself now, for we do not need laments of guilt sounding through the air,’ Tariq finally said.
Froi took one last look at Quintana and fought the urge to reach out a hand to where her throat was red- raw.
‘I’ll take my leave,’ he said huskily, walking out of the chamber.
In the light-speckled tunnel, Tariq was on his heels.
‘Stay,’ the heir said. ‘Eat with us.’
It was not an order, but Froi found himself turning back because he realised he had nowhere left to go.
In an adjoining chamber, Tariq introduced Froi to his childhood nurse, a woman named Jurda, who was stunned to hear the story of the escape and rushed to where Quintana lay. Froi watched Quintana as she woke from a half-sleep with a hiss and a snarl. He stepped into the room, but Tariq held him back. ‘Jurda was my nurse in the palace. She is well-acquainted with Quintana’s … ways.’
Froi followed Tariq through the nooks and tunnels of the underground village-in-exile of Lascow. They passed women weaving, men working at a kiln. One chamber housed the cattle, another stored the grain. In the kitchen there was chaos and all things familiar. Bread was baking in a large oven, its smoke tunnelling through a hole into the level above. The cook was barking out insults and instructions to a man milking a goat in the corner, whilst the serving women peeled eggs, giggling amongst themselves when they saw Froi. Tariq reached over the bad- tempered cook’s shoulder and she slapped his hand away, but he took the bread all the same, pecking her quickly on the cheek.
Froi was confused by the language. Although he picked up a spattering of Charyn, it seemed to sing a different tune.
‘What are they saying?’ he asked.
‘We speak a dialect of the mountains of the north, different to the Turlan mountain folk of the east,’ Tariq said.
The women continued to speak, looking in their direction. Tariq hid a grin.
‘My cousins say that for someone so plain it’s a good thing your build is so pleasing. You have the shoulders of an ox, according to Liona.’
‘Your cousins are servants?’ he asked, his face reddening from the attention.
‘This is my family. On my mother’s side. Twenty-seven of us in total. We’ve not dared return home, for we know that if the King found me there, he would not think twice about annihilating all my people on that mountain.’
Tariq pointed to a cushion on the ground and Froi sat. A moment later a plate of flatbread, gherkins, soft cheese, sliced eggs and olives was placed before him. Froi waited politely for Tariq to choose first.
‘You don’t seem the type to follow etiquette,’ Tariq said.
‘I follow a bond that says I grab food after the host,’ Froi said honestly, staring at the small feast hungrily.
Tariq grinned again. ‘I have a rule that says whoever is stupid enough not to grab food first, deserves to die of starvation.’
Froi grinned in response and reached for the cheese.
‘Could I ask, Sir,’ Tariq said, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘if you have heard news of Gargarin of Abroi?’
Froi remembered De Lancey’s words. That Gargarin had been a mentor to Tariq.
‘I’m not a Sir,’ Froi said, after swallowing the last of the egg. ‘My name is Froi, and to answer your question, De Lancey of Paladozza paid a ransom and they let Gargarin go. I can’t promise his body is in one piece, but he is safe for now.’
Tariq sighed with relief. ‘Is he not the most honourable man you have ever encountered?’ he asked.
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘He’s a hard man to get to know.’
‘But once you get to know him, he is hard to forget,’ Tariq said. ‘I’ve never seen so many calf-eyed women in the compound following him around the year he stayed with us. “Gargarin, would you like me to rub your twisted bones?” ’ he mimicked. The cook came to deposit pieces of cooked pig rind on Froi’s plate. ‘ “Gargarin,” ’ Tariq continued, looking up at her, feigning seriousness. ‘ “Would you like me to rub the bone that’s not so twisted?” ’
Froi laughed. The cook grabbed Tariq’s face. ‘Do you want me to wash this filthy mouth out?’ she snapped.
‘Even Cousin Jurlista here was not immune to his humble charm.’ Tariq did a perfect impersonation of Gargarin’s awkwardness that not even Arjuro could have matched.
One of the older men sat opposite them. ‘What news of above?’ he asked. ‘Is it is as bad as they are saying?’
