‘Then where is our nameless assassin?’ Finnikin asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.
‘If he killed the King, he should have been back by now,’ Isaboe said.
Trevanion nodded and Finnikin knew his father didn’t want to voice their greatest fears.
Isaboe sighed. ‘You may need to speak to the Charynite up in the mountains again.’
‘Easier said than done. Lucian sends word that the Monts are making threats against Rafuel of Sebastabol.’
‘Well, he’s going to have to control them,’ Finnikin said, irritated with the Monts more than Lucian. ‘He has to be firmer. He can’t be one of the lads anymore.’
Isaboe turned to Trevanion. ‘I want you to find out anything you can about what took place in the Charyn capital and keep an eye on the situation with my cousins. If it worsens, send Aldron to take care of it and warn the Monts that if I have to travel up to speak to them, the regret will be theirs.’
Chapter 23
When Froi arrived back into the capital the streets were eerily quiet except for the strange autumn winds that had begun to shake the Citavita, whistling a tune that sent a chill through his bones. He found the godshouse ransacked, pages strewn everywhere, straw cots turned upside down and Arjuro’s garden torn up, stomped with the madness of those who no longer believed in anything. He imagined the street lords had come searching for him and Quintana and prayed the others had escaped without harm. He hoped they had at least managed to hide as many of the ancient manuscripts and Arjuro’s plants as possible.
He travelled down below to the bridge of the Citavita, which swayed dangerously from side to side over the gravina. Those who had been waiting in line for days were forced to choose between going back to their homes and losing their place, or staying in line at the mercy of the elements. Froi knew he could easily take the chance and cross now, but something held him back.
A week passed and the winds continued, managing to tear the sand from the stone of the caves and almost blind those who ventured out to scrounge for food. Even the street lords kept inside and Froi took his chance each day, wrapping a cloth around his face to search for Lirah and Arjuro.
He didn’t dare question what he wanted from Lirah. Was it an acknowledgement that she loved the son she had grieved for so many years? Was it a declaration of love, such as Lady Abian’s daily words to her children? If Lady Beatriss could love the child of a man who had violated her, why couldn’t Lirah love Froi?
Nevertheless he scoured the streets and caves for any sign of them, but if there was one thing those of the Citavita knew how to do, it was hide. On a day he was about to give up and chance a crossing on the hazardous bridge, he noticed one of De Lancey of Paladozza’s guards duck into a cave house and so Froi followed. Once inside, stone steps tunnelled down into the ground and soon enough he heard voices and arguing and tracked the sounds into a hidden inn.
The room was crowded and Froi recognised more of De Lancey’s men and some of those who had taken refuge in the godshouse when the street lords first took control of the palace. At a corner set of benches he saw De Lancey with his head down, speaking rapidly to the group of men surrounding him. Froi made his way towards the Provincaro, but was intercepted by one of his guards, who clearly recognised him from the attack in the godshouse corridors.
‘Leave,’ the guard said. ‘We don’t need trouble here.’
Froi pushed past him, but the man gripped his arm.
‘You have a very short memory,’ Froi warned. ‘Don’t let me remind you of what I can do.’
Suddenly De Lancey was between them.
‘Come,’ he said to Froi, holding up a hand to his guard. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
‘Sir –’
‘I said, I’ll take care of this.’
Froi followed De Lancey as he pushed through the crowd and resumed his seat.
‘We’ll speak later,’ the Provincaro told the men at his table, who eyed Froi suspiciously. They walked away, turning at intervals until they left the room.
‘What don’t they trust more?’ Froi asked, bitterly. ‘The fact that they don’t know who I am, or the fact that I saved her life and they didn’t want it saved?’
De Lancey didn’t respond.
‘Where’s Lirah?’ Froi asked, not wasting time.
The Provincaro shrugged, an effortless movement. ‘I’ve not seen her since the day of the hanging.’
‘And Arjuro?’
‘I’ve not seen him either.’
Froi shook his head, giving a humourless laugh. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Provincaro,’ he said as he stood.
‘If you ask me where Gargarin is, I can tell you that,’ the Provincaro said, his voice silky in its lazy drawl.
Froi stiffened. He wanted to walk away.
‘Sit,’ De Lancey ordered.
‘I don’t –’
Froi sighed and sat and they eyed each other a moment or two before De Lancey pushed over the carafe of wine.
‘I’d prefer food.’ Froi hoped there wasn’t a plea in his voice. Food had been scarce during the week and he had taken to stealing whatever he could, regardless of who he was taking it from. Those in the Citavita had made it clear that it was each out for their own. De Lancey signalled to one of his men and gave him an instruction before the man walked away.
‘We think Lirah and Arjuro are staying at the Crow’s Inn, close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ he told Froi.
‘Think?’
‘Someone with an abundance of wild hair and clothed in black from head to toe was heard calling one of the street lords a horse arse of gods-like proportions. Could only be him.’
Froi closed his eyes a moment, feeling a relief that almost made him faint.
‘Are you going to take them with you?’ he asked, clearing his voice of its hoarseness.
‘No. Should I?’ De Lancey asked.
‘You’ll take Gargarin, but not Arjuro?’
Froi could tell by the narrowing of De Lancey’s eyes that he was unimpressed with his tone.
‘Well, they’re not exactly attached and Gargarin doesn’t owe Arjuro anything,’ the Provincaro said coldly.
‘But you do.’
‘Do I?’
Froi bristled. The man was too calm and cool-blooded.
‘I would have done the same to Gargarin in that prison cell,’ Froi said. ‘If I had seen Gargarin kill the child and the Oracle, I would have escaped the exact way Arjuro did.’
‘So would have I,’ De Lancey said. ‘I think Gargarin’s accepted that, too. But ten years ago, when they released Gargarin from the prison after they had broke every bone in his body, we searched this kingdom high and low for one of the most briliant young physicians in Charyn. And Arjuro refused to be found. Gargarin’s bones mended twisted.’
A plate of pigeon stew was placed before Froi and he wolfed it down.
‘How long since you’ve eaten, you fool?’
Froi burped and stood. ’Not your concern.’
De Lancey sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you and Grij and the lads are a punishment to us all for our wild youth.’
