‘I’m not one of the lads,’ Froi said. ‘I’m just someone’s bastard, remember?’
There was regret on De Lancey’s face.
‘I did not mean for you to find out the way you did.’
Froi shrugged. ‘You had a dalliance with Arjuro and you wanted to pick a fight.’
De Lancey gave a bitter laugh. ‘Dalliance? Is that what he told you?’
‘I knew he was lying,’ Froi said with a sneer. ‘As if you would lower yourself. I know your type.’
The Provincaro was quick. He reached over and gripped Froi by his shirt, bringing him an inch away from his face.
‘No,’ De Lancey said through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t. Never presume.’
The Guard were at the table in an instant.
‘We’ll take him outside, Sir.’
The Provincaro shoved Froi back and waved them away. Froi studied him a moment. He wondered who was telling the truth. Arjuro or De Lancey?
‘He lied about the dalliance part,’ the Provincaro said quietly. ‘We were lovers from when we were sixteen years old until the night of the lastborn. Nine years. Not quite a dalliance, don’t you agree?’ he added bitterly.
‘But you betrayed him?’
A flash of regret crossed the other man’s face. ‘I betrayed many that night. But I believed I was doing the right thing.’
De Lancey poured wine from the carafe. ‘Do you have trust in your king?’
Froi pushed his mug towards the wine and De Lancey poured another. ‘I have a queen and you have caught me on a mellow day, De Lancey. Because if anyone dared to question my allegiance or trust in my queen and king I’d take a knife to their throat.’
‘I trusted my king. I thought Arjuro was mad and in his madness he was risking the life of our beloved Oracle. I felt there was no better place to protect her from the Serkers than in the palace. But I was a coward in my plan. It cost an innocent farrier his life and I realised afterwards that the Serkers were not involved.’
De Lancey looked up and Froi followed his gaze to where the three lastborns entered the crowded room. Froi watched Grijio speak to one of the guards, who pointed to the Provincaro.
‘Arjuro was your lover, but you had a wife who bore you a son?’ Froi accused.
‘No,’ the Provincaro said. ‘I’ve not had a wife. It’s far more complicated and tragic than you’d imagine.’
‘Everything in Charyn seems far more complicated and tragic.’
Froi stood, skolling the wine.
‘By the way,’ Froi said. ‘It’s no business of mine, but I would reconsider asking Tariq to travel into the centre of Charyn, regardless of how many men your envoy promises him.’
‘My envoy?’
Froi saw genuine confusion on the man’s face.
‘Lad, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The hairs on Froi’s arm stood tall as he stared at De Lancey.
‘Are you saying you haven’t sent an envoy to meet with Tariq of Lascow?’
The lastborns arrived to hear Froi’s words.
‘Who told you that?’ De Lancey asked.
‘Tariq.’
‘
Froi bolted, shoving through the crowd. He heard the Provincaro call out Grijio’s name and felt someone at his shoulder and knew it was one of the lastborns. They clambered up the stairs and out of the cave. Once outside, the wind tore at their skin, but they raced up the Citavita wall, flying over cave tops to reach Perabo’s home.
‘He’ll not let us in,’ Grijio shouted over the wind. ‘The rule is that we are never to search him out.’
Froi ignored him, fighting the images that came to his mind.
When they reached the roof of Perabo’s cave, Froi grabbed a piece of stone and hammered, shouting out the man’s name over and over again, his voice raw. Olivier and Grijio and Satch collapsed beside him, their voices joining in with his. Until finally they heard a sound from inside and the trapdoor was lifted to reveal Perabo.
‘They’ve been betrayed,’ Froi shouted at the man. Perabo ushered them in. Froi leapt down into the room, pushing aside the chest placed over the trapdoor.
‘How can you be sure?’ Perabo said, crouching down to where Froi pulled at the ring to lift the door.
‘They’re waiting for De Lancey’s envoy.’
‘And Father sent no envoy!’ Grij said.
Perabo grabbed Froi’s arm. ‘Then we do nothing!’ he said, anguish in his voice. ‘That was the plan. That if there’s been an ambush we do nothing.’
‘You do nothing, Perabo,’ Froi said, climbing into the narrow cavern below. He landed on his feet and began to run down the tunnel. A moment later he saw the flicker of light and knew the others had followed. At the place where two rafts were docked, Perabo pointed Grijio towards Froi and handed them a lantern before pushing their raft along. Perabo, Olivier and Satch took the second raft and there was a sickening sombre silence for too long before someone spoke.
‘When?’ Grijio whispered, as they approached a familiar turn in the underground river. ‘When did he believe this so-called envoy was to come?’
‘He said a week,’ Froi said. ‘That was eight days ago.’
Froi looked back to the others. ‘I’ll go in first,’ he said. ‘I need your sword, Perabo.’
‘No one goes in unless it’s secure.’
‘Give him your sword, Perabo,’ Olivier protested. ‘If they live, the Lumateran has a better chance of getting them out alive.’
When they reached the place where they had heard the three beats last time, they waited for the sound. But there was nothing. Perabo tapped the roof of the cave with his oar, but still no one came.
‘
Still nothing.
‘This is not good,’ Froi heard Olivier whisper. ‘This is not good.’
Froi stepped out of his raft and Perabo reached across from the second vessel and handed him the sword with shaking hands.
In the tunnel of speckled light, Froi began to clear his mind of all things that could spell doom and concentrated on what brought hope. He knew that if whoever had infiltrated the compound was smart, they would take Tariq’s people hostage and ransom them to the Provincari. The Provincari would pay for the heir and his family. Any day now, De Lancey or one of the other Provincari would get news and deals would be struck and Tariq would be safe. But would Quintana? Would the enemy have recognised her or would they believe her to be one of the Lascow compound, waiting in exile?
And then he saw the first corpse. Recognised the face of the gatekeeper. What had Perabo called him? Gyer. A small distance away was another corpse, throat slit from ear to ear. Froi’s legs almost buckled as he entered Tariq’s chamber where they had first placed Quintana, his heart catching in his throat when he saw that Tariq’s nurse lay on the ground, her wounds identical to the men’s.
Froi heard a sound and spun around, his sword pressing against the base of Olivier’s throat.
‘I told you to stay behind,’ Froi said quietly.
But Olivier could only shake his head.
‘We found others,’ he whispered. ‘In the kitchen.’
It was quick. They had been taken by surprise. The cook still had flour on her hands, the once-giggling cousins were clutching their grinders. Every one of them had the same wound and Froi’s only consolation was that the deaths were quick. He reached over to an egg that had been shelled. Felt it was cold.
‘You don’t know how smart he is,’ Grijio said. ‘He would have found a way to live. He would have.’
Doesn’t matter how smart you are, Froi wanted to tell them. When you face the end of a sword, it has little to do with smarts.
He walked amongst the dead. Sometimes he thought he saw her, recognised her dress, and his heart would sink as he crouched to gently turn the body towards him, and then for a moment, all he could feel was relief. Until
