“I do understand the concept of bluffing, Quintana.” He looked at his cards, quite pleased with what he saw.
She sighed and threw in a few more coins.
“I take great offense at being considered insane,” she said.
“There are three of you,” he reminded her.
Her eyes flashed with anger. “First, there are not three of us at all. And what of you? One moment a fighter, next minute an idiot who doesn’t heed warnings that he’s going to lose?”
“So you’re admitting there’s more than one of you?” he asked.
“I’m not admitting anything at all, and I’d advise you to show me your cards now.”
“Show me first,” he ordered.
She turned her cards and pressed them close to his face, and he moved his head back for a better look.
“I did warn you,” she said coolly, collecting the coins and placing them in a trinket pouch.
Froi was put out. “Would I have won if I played the reginita?” he sulked.
“She’s the one with the better memory,” Quintana said, then lay back on her pillow. Again it was as though she was resigned to her fate rather than anticipating it. Froi wanted the anticipation. He craved it.
“Are you going to plant the seed, or should I just blow out the candle and say good night?” she asked with a weary sigh.
“Do you come to me willing?”
He waited, praying to the gods that the answer was yes.
Quintana blew out the candle and said good night.
She woke him later. A distracted look on her face, her hair all over his eyes. Froi pushed it aside with irritation.
“Yes, I know. There’s a man dying in Turla.”
“Why in the name of the gods would Arjuro deny knowing me?” she asked.
“You got it all wrong anyway,” he muttered, willing himself back to sleep. “He was never in love with Lirah because he was having a dalliance with De Lancey of Paladozza.”
“De Lancey?” she said, horrified. “Have you seen De Lancey? He’s the most handsome man in the land. He would never have a dalliance with Arjuro. Arjuro looks as though he hasn’t bathed since childhood.”
Froi pointed to his face. “Eyes closed. It means I’m trying to sleep.”
“For some reason he is lying to you,” she said. “Indeed he was in love with Lirah.”
Froi sighed and opened his eyes. Her lips were pressed together in a grimace.
“Why have you made Arjuro and Gargarin your business when you were sent here for other purposes?” she asked.
“I was sent here to swive you. Your word, not mine. Seeing it’s not your true desire, I’ve turned my attention to the lives of the brothers from Abroi and Lirah. It’s helped with the boredom.”
He wondered how much she knew of Gargarin’s hand in the oracle queen’s death.
“Do you love Lirah?” he asked quietly.
She studied his face. “Despite the fact that she’s not my mother?”
He wasn’t surprised that she knew; he was surprised that she admitted it to him.
“How is it that she spoke to you of such things?” Quintana asked.
“Oh, you know. She opened her mouth and words came out.”
She clicked her tongue with irritation. “We have an understanding with Lirah,” she said.
“So we’re back to ‘we,’ are we?” he asked. “Sometimes this bed gets too crowded.”
He turned away. “I’m going back to sleep. Send one of the others to wake me up later. I like you the least.”
She didn’t speak after that, but he sensed that she was awake and as much as he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from turning to face her. He felt her breath close to his.
“Is it because we’re not beautiful?” she asked.
“What?”
“That you don’t want to save us … or plant the seed.”
Froi inwardly groaned.
“In the books of the Ancients,” she said, “the princesses are always beautiful and they always get saved and men always want to swive them.”
At least if there was yearning in her voice, Froi would see it as an invitation. But there was only curiosity.
“I’m going to say this once and once only,” he said. “Are you listening?”
“Only this once,” she responded, and he couldn’t help smiling.
“In the world outside this palace,” he said, “men and women don’t go around speaking of planting seeds and swiving.”
“What’s it called in the outside world, then?” she asked.
“It’s not spoken of. It’s just done. It’s felt. I personally have nothing against the word,” he said with a laugh. “But if you spoke it aloud, you would be judged.”
He thought for a moment, suddenly registering a word she had spoken a moment before. Saved. He reached over and touched a thumb to her face. But she flinched and pushed his hand away.
In all her talk of last borns and seed planting, none of the Quintanas had ever spoken of being saved. He couldn’t help thinking of the fear in her expression outside the soothsayer’s cave. The weariness in her voice when she spoke to him of staying alive. Then there were her words to the woman in the caves. The prophecy says that only the reginita can break the curse. Only her. Not the innocent. Why would she not consider herself innocent?
Worse still, he couldn’t get the words from Arjuro and Gargarin out of his mind. That she would not live past her coming of age.
“Go to sleep,” she said after a while. But Froi couldn’t sleep. Too many questions were plaguing him. Why would Arjuro deny knowing Quintana?
In the early hours of the morning, he heard Gargarin leave the adjoining chamber. Froi had spent enough time with the man to know that aside from being forced to attend breakfast and dinner each day, and sitting against the wall of the second tower and watching Lirah of Serker’s rooftop prison, Gargarin didn’t leave his chamber.
Froi dressed quickly and crept out of Quintana’s room, cautiously following Gargarin down the tower steps. Instead of exiting into the outer ward of the castle, Gargarin disappeared to where the cellars were. Keeping a discreet distance, Froi trailed him through rows upon rows of wine racks and down into a lower basin accessed through a hole dug into the ground. Gargarin struggled to lower himself into the narrow space. His hands, dependent on his staff, fumbled against the cavity wall, and Froi heard muttering and cursing that reminded him more of Arjuro than his brother.
The vertical tunnel led to a burrow so low in height that Froi stooped most of the way. He heard the tapping of the staff and in the distance could see the bobbing of light coming from an oil lamp that Gargarin must have stowed away. Farther along, the tunnel tapered and turned and narrowed. Finally, he saw Gargarin lift a grate and extinguish the lamp. Then there was nothing but black and the quiet sound of breathing. Gargarin climbed the stones up into whatever lay above and disappeared from sight.
Froi waited a while, his heart hammering. Had Gargarin inadvertently led him to the king? How long had Gargarin secretly met him this way? Who were they keeping the truth from? Was it Bestiano? Froi remembered what Arjuro and Lirah and even Bestiano had admitted about the king’s prized pet. That he had been ambitious. Froi knew that if he was to find both men together, he would kill them. The king first and then Gargarin.
After a while, he followed Gargarin up the grate, then climbed into an alcove with a small altar that served as a prayer cubicle. Gargarin’s feet were a short distance away from Froi’s head and the man was gazing down into what could only be the king’s private solar. From where he was, Froi could see frescoes richly decorating the wall, the eyes of the gods staring down at him in judgment. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps and voices below.
“The provincari and their people have arrived, Your Majesty,” one of the riders said.
More footsteps. Froi suspected that they belonged to more soldiers by the sounds of swords clanging as they walked. Suddenly there was a movement befor
e him, and he watched Gargarin place a hand in his pocket and retrieve a dagger. A cold fist seemed to grip Froi’s heart. Idiot. Gargarin was not there to meet the king. He was there to kill him.
Silently, Froi placed a hand over Gargarin’s mouth.
“You’ll never get out of here alive, Gargarin,” he whispered, wondering why he even cared.
Gargarin tried to shove him away, his movements furious.
He pulled Gargarin back to the grate and forced him down the hole. Froi followed closely behind. In the narrow tunnel he watched as Gargarin wearily rested his head against the stone.
“Lean on me,” Froi said. “Lirah’s dagger wound must have triggered spasms.”
“Really. You’re gods’ touched, are you?”
Froi ignored the mood. “Not sure whether you noticed that I saved your life, fool.”
“Not sure whether you noticed that I didn’t ask for saving, idiot!”
Gargarin was still clutching the dagger in his hand.
“And where did you manage to get hold of that?” Froi asked.
“I’m not here to answer your questions.”
“Then what are you here for, Gargarin?”
Gargarin stumbled away, his movements even more awkward in his fury. Froi grabbed him by the coarse woven cloth of his shirt, but Gargarin pulled away again.
“Is this where you break your bond and kill me slowly?” he asked.
“Not today,” Froi said. “I’m feeling too inquisitive.”
“About?”
“You. Your brother. The whore,” he provoked.
Gargarin stopped and Froi walked into him. There was no room in so narrow a space for Gargarin to turn, but Froi saw the whipcord fury in the hands against the wall, the way they tightened on the staff and the dagger.
“You watch what comes out of your mouth,” Gargarin warned coldly. “Lirah of Serker was thirteen years old when she was sold to this godsforsaken rock. She deserves no one’s scorn.”
Froi reached forward and pounded the hand holding the dagger into the wall. Gargarin’s fingers convulsed and let go.
“You’re nothing but a pathetic shell of a man who can hardly hold a weapon, let alone a woman such as Lirah of Serker,” Froi said, picking up the dagger.
“A pathetic shell of a man?” Gargarin asked. “Is that what you call those from wherever you come from who don’t have power in their stride?”
Suddenly Gargarin twisted around, slamming Froi against the wall, the staff under Froi’s chin, the space so narrow they could hardly breathe.
“See, now we’re speaking the same language, Gargarin,” Froi said, excitement making his blood pound. They struggled for a moment until Froi had the upper hand, his arm pressed against the other man’s windpipe. “If you answer my questions, I promise I won’t snap your neck,” Froi said.
Gargarin was silent.
“Waiting for the nod.”
“Well, you’re not going to get one. What’s your name?” Gargarin demanded.
“Doesn’t matter what my name is,” Froi said, irritated. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“There’s something you need to know about me,” Gargarin said in an even tone. “Despite the wretchedness of this body, I stopped being frightened of thugs sometime in my youth. The only people who frighten me are those who are smarter, and thankfully in this palace, there aren’t many of those, so I’ve managed to find some peace in this wretched life of mine.”
“Would you consider me smart for wondering how you would possibly know where the king’s chamber is?” Froi asked.
“Because I once lived in the palace, idiot.”
“You lived here eighteen years ago, when his chamber was in the keep. Twelve years ago, he was moved to the fourth tower. It’s where your brother was chained to his desk. Not the kind of information they hand out readily around here.”
Gargarin’s expression was bitter.
“But perhaps your brother wasn’t chained to the king’s desk. At first I thought he was the grumpiest, meanest man in the land of Skuldenore. Who wouldn’t want to wave to Quintana, especially when years ago he wept while clutching her and Lirah in his arms, as though he was in love with Lirah? But, despite the fact that Lirah’s face makes one ache, Arjuro prefers the company of men in his bed, although these days I don’t think anyone is enjoying Arjuro’s presence in their bed. Then, when I asked Arjuro to describe the king’s chamber where he spent two whole years chained to a desk, he claimed never to have been there. Said the reginita was lying. Perhaps she was lying. Deep down, I think she’s telling a story or two.”
“You have a lot of time for thinking. Is that what you do back wherever you come from?” Gargarin asked.
“Am I right?”
Gargarin’s eyes flickered with some sort of triumph. “And what would you say if I told you I’ve worked you out?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” Froi said. “I could do with some entertainment.”
“You’re an assassin made up of the garbage of this kingdom. You have Serker eyes and you have the face of scum from Abroi. I should know. I grew up among it. We’re probably related — most of Abroi is — and the reason I don’t look like the rest of you inbreds is because my brother and I took after our mother, who came from a nomadic tribe of pig-ignorant Osterians, who thankfully were blessed with refined features, but little else. You were taught to speak Charynite in the classic way, probably by a priest or a scholar, and you’ve spent some time in Sarnak because when you curse, you say Sagra, and only that kingdom butchers the name of the Goddess Sagrami. The fact that you pronounce your z with an s sound tells me you lived among the Sarnaks, and you end your sentences on a high note, which means you’ve spent some time with the Lumateran River people.”
Gargarin waited. “Did I get any of it wrong, whatever did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Froi said, impressed. “Anything else you’d like to add, you lying scum?”
“I don’t lie. I just kill women and babies, remember?”
Froi pressed him harder into the stone. “How could you jest about such a thing?” he said.
He felt Gargarin search his face.
“What’s your name?”
“Olivier of Sebastabol.”
“Tell me something, Olivier of Sebastabol. Was the other Olivier murdered to fulfill what it was you were sent to do?”
Froi hadn’t given the other lad a thought since he had entered the Citavita.
“If I knew what you were talking about, I’d say no. Why kill an innocent lad, regardless of what an idiot he is?”
There was relief on Gargarin’s face.
“Tell me, Gargarin of Abroi, did you throw the oracle queen and the babe from the balconette?”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “And no, I didn’t. I’ll swap my truth for yours.”
Froi shook his head.
“Who sent you?” Gargarin demanded.
“Why would I tell you that?”
“Because I think we want the same thing.”
Froi remembered Trevanion’s warning about not trusting those with the same desire to kill the king.
“You and I are not the same, Gargarin. I would never take the life of a babe.”
“Is that what Lirah told you? Arjuro too?” Froi’s grip loosened and Gargarin broke free, hobbling away as though he wanted to put the greatest of distance between them. “At least Arjuro saw events that tricked his eyes. Lirah made her decision based on hearsay,” he said bitterly.
Froi wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. Gargarin was every man he trusted who had turned his back or betrayed him on the streets of the Sarnak capital.
“Makes no difference to me, because a child died that night,” Froi said, coming up behind Gargarin. “But it makes a difference to her.”
He placed his mouth close to Gargarin’s ear so that he would hear the words whispered for the rest of his days. “You killed Lirah’s son, Gargarin. They swapped the babes.”
/> Gargarin stopped, shook his head as though to rid himself of a thought that seemed incomprehensible. He managed to turn and face Froi. This time it was Froi who wanted to look away because the stare was a force beyond reckoning. Gargarin stumbled back over uneven ground. Froi leaped forward to grab him, but Gargarin pushed him away and still he stared. Froi didn’t see sorrow in the man’s eyes, but he saw something. Confusion, perhaps. Was that hope? Gargarin swallowed hard.
“Wherever you’ve come from, leave this place and never return,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”
The plea was the last thing Froi expected to hear.
They were both silent as they walked out into the courtyard. Something Froi could not put into words had taken place in the bowels of the castle that had left them both shaken.
Around them, the courtyard was a beehive of activity. Servants swept the ground with vigor, and the castle cooks carried a roasted pig on a spit toward the smaller drawbridge that led to the inner ward. Suddenly they found themselves face-to-face with Bestiano.
Gargarin passed the man without a word, but Bestiano’s hand snaked out and grabbed Gargarin by the arm.
“The king has finally agreed to see you,” the king’s First Adviser said coolly. “He felt it was best to do so with the provincari here.”
Gargarin looked back to where Froi stood. Froi saw his eyes glance toward where he knew the dagger was hidden in Froi’s pocket. The fool wanted it back.
“And what of me?” Froi asked. “Don’t last borns meet the king?”
“You,” Bestiano said, forcing a pleasant tone, “will travel home tomorrow with the provincaro of Paladozza. I especially asked him as a favor on behalf of the absent provincaro of Sebastabol.”
Froi knew that in the early hours of the morning he would have to return to the tunnel and do what he was sent here to do.
A parade of riders entered the courtyard through the port cullis. The provincari, Froi suspected, here for the day of weeping. Froi turned to walk away but saw Quintana standing by the gatehouse, peering out between the riders, into the Citavita below. He knew without asking that she was searching for him, believing him to have leaped to Arjuro’s godshouse.
She turned, her eyes finding Froi’s over Bestiano’s shoulder.