A cry was heard from above, and moments later De Lancey’s men appeared at the door.
“They’ve started the killings again.” There was a desperate look of urgency in one of the men’s eyes. “It’s Gargarin of Abroi, my lord.”
Froi shoved through the crowded room and onto the landing.
Across the gravina, two men gripped Gargarin, pushing him to his knees. Froi recognized them: Donashe and his companion, who had once stopped Froi on his way from the godshouse to the palace.
Froi knew what they would do next. Hold Gargarin by the legs, but not let go for a moment or two. He could imagine it was torture for those hanging. Blood rushing to their heads, staring down into the abyss. For the women, the indignity of being exposed as their dresses flapped around their faces. The jeering, the laughter, and then at a moment’s notice, the street lords would let go.
“We’ll pay a ransom. A ransom!” De Lancey shouted across the space, squeezing in beside Froi. “One hundred pieces of gold.”
From the palace side of the gravina, where they hung off balconettes and battlements, the street lords jeered. “For this bag of broken bones?” Donashe called out.
“Two hundred,” another voice called out over Froi’s shoulder, trying to get through. The ambassador of Sebastabol.
Lirah was suddenly there beside Froi, her nails biting into his hand. He heard Arjuro’s ragged breath beside her.
“We don’t make deals,” Donashe said. He seemed to have taken leadership of the street lords. “The worthless ones die now. The others get hanged in the main square for the whole Cita vita to enjoy.”
“He’s an architect, you fools,” De Lancey shouted.
“Three hundred pieces of gold,” the provincara of Jidia could be heard saying.
“And where is this gold?” the shorter of the street lords called out.
“From our provinces,” De Lancey tried, but Froi heard anguished defeat in the man’s voice. “It will take no more than a week to send a messenger and have him return.”
Donashe waved him away. “If we can’t see the gold now, friend, don’t speak another word.”
Two of the street lords yanked Gargarin’s head back by his hair, and Froi saw a face covered with dried blood and bruises, heard the sobbing around him as those in the godshouse prepared for another day of death. But he saw a ghost of a smile on Gargarin’s face. He remembered their conversation in the chamber one night. Gargarin lived on his own terms. He would die the same way. With little fear. Would that be his gift to his brother, Arjuro? To Lirah? To his son? A smile in death?
One of the street lords bent and lifted Gargarin by his feet, holding him head down over the balconette. Everything around Froi sounded strange and so far away. The provincaro’s shouting, Arjuro breathing. His pulse pounding.
“A ruby ring!”
Froi hardly recognized the voice as his. All he felt was the sudden weight of the ring in his pocket.
“Belonged to the dead king of Lumatere. The Lumaterans would pay a queen’s ransom for it!”
There was a hushed silence around him.
Donashe and the street lords stared at the ring. Despite the space between them, they were close enough to see its worth. Words were nothing to them. How many times had Froi heard that on the streets of Sarnak’s capital? “Show us the goods and then we talk.”
Froi climbed onto the iron trellis of the godshouse balconette amid gasps and cries from those surrounding him. He leaped onto the protruding granite, his legs trembling. Someone screamed. Froi lost his balance. Found it again. One foot before the other.
He held up the ring and the light from the rising sun caught the stone and Froi thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. It was the ring that had given him a life he could never have imagined. It was all things magnificent about Lumatere.
Donashe stared at the ring. Stared at Froi perched over the gravina.
“I’m a thief, friend, and so are you,” Froi said. “If you don’t recognize the worth in this jewel, then you’re nothing but ignorant street scum and there’s nothing lordish about you.”
Perhaps the silence was only for a moment, but Froi felt as though he was perched on that thin stretch of granite for hours. He wasn’t much for praying to the gods, but he prayed all the same.
“Throw it over,” Donashe ordered.
Froi knew there was no more bargaining to be had today. He either obeyed the command or watched Gargarin die. He tossed the ring, and the man caught it in his hand, staring at it greedily.
“You get your architect back when I get my three hundred pieces of gold.”
They pulled Gargarin up, dropped him to the ground, and kicked him into the chamber. Out on the stone, Froi crouched, straddling it a moment, trying to control the beat of his heart. He slowly turned around and balanced his way back into a standing position. He watched Arjuro shove everyone but De Lancey’s men back from the balconette. Froi leaped and gripped hold of its trellis as De Lancey’s men reached out to steady him, grabbing him by the hands, clothing, and hair, and dragged him over the wrought iron.
Once on his feet, Froi pushed through the hushed room. Suddenly Lirah was there.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice hoarse as she gripped his arm.
“I’m Abroi shit and Serker garbage, Lirah,” he said, his eyes smarting. “Thank the gods I’m motherless, remember, because any woman would be shamed to call me her son.” He pulled free and walked away.
At the end of the hallway, Arjuro sat hunched on the stairs leading down. Froi was forced to climb over him.
“All our young lives, Gargarin and I counted among our blessings the fact that we didn’t have to see him in each other’s faces, and then you turn up and sometimes I can’t bear to look at you, lad.”
Froi kept on walking down the steps.
“What name do you go by?” Arjuro asked, his voice ragged.
Gargarin of Abroi was his father. Regardless of who Gargarin smuggled out of the palace, Gargarin was a murderer. That’s why Froi was so base and damned. That’s why he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere by force. Because bad blood flowed through his veins. And what Froi despised the most about himself was that he had resented Gargarin and Lirah’s indifference. Even without knowing who they were, Froi had wanted something from them. His heart knew first. He longed for Trevanion and for Lord August and even for Perri. They were the men he wanted to have sired him, not Gargarin with his cold stare and awkward ways. Those men made sense with their rules and orders.
“What name do you go by?” Arjuro shouted.
Keep on walking. Don’t turn back.
“Olivier!”
“Froi,” he shouted back. “My name is Froi. Dafar of Abroi. A nothing name. From a nothing place.”
At the bottom of the steps, he took a turn and found himself in the ancient library. Realizing he had taken the wrong exit, Froi turned back to where he had seen a narrow entrance close to the steps. But within moments he was confronted by two lads. Behind him he heard a sound, and another lad came out of the shadows from the library. He knew he was in no danger because the three looked useless. They all wore their hair shoulder-length and one had ridiculous golden curls. Froi would have liked nothing more than to drag them back to Lumatere and throw them in among the Monts.
“You think you can impersonate me and not suffer the consequences?”
Froi sighed. Olivier of Sebastabol. Froi couldn’t have looked less like the last born.
“What did I stop you from doing?” Froi asked. “Prancing into the palace and planting the mighty seed of Charyn? Did you honestly believe you would be the one?”
“We had a better purpose, assassin,” Golden Curls said. “A different purpose, blast you.”
“Blast you?” Froi mocked bitterly. “That’s the best curse you can come up with?”
A doe-eyed lad stepped forward, his pale, slight fist clenched at Froi’s nose.
“If you d-d-did anything to hurt her, I’ll k
-k-”
“K-k-kill me?” Froi sneered, cruelty in his voice.
Fatigued, he pushed through them. It was too easy to crush these lads. He wanted to go home. There was nothing left for him to do here.
The fist that came out to connect with Froi’s jaw was weak in its delivery, and he heard a grunt of pain come from the doe-eyed lad, who rubbed his knuckles.
“We had a plan, a year in the making,” Grijio of Paladozza said. “Satch and I had a means to smuggle her out. We knew her life was in danger the moment she came of age with no child.”
“We w-w-wanted to save her.”
“I would have saved her,” Olivier of Sebastabol said. “Perabo of the caves would have saved her. Taken her to Tariq of Lascow, who would have protected her with his life.”
Froi’s head rang from what he was hearing.
“My father just told me who you are,” Grijio said. “Good work done in Charyn, Lumateran,” he spat, but there were tears in his eyes. “You go home and tell your people that their assassin did good work in Charyn.”
Another fist to his jaw and a boot to his face, and one to his chest. And on his knees, Froi finally understood the truth. That by impersonating Olivier, he had written her death sentence.
He had foiled an attempt by the last borns to set Quintana free.
“Have you got something to tell me, Olivier?”
Froi woke with a start. He had spent the night sleeping by the side of the road that led down to the bridge of the Citavita, joining the throng of people who were desperate to leave. Not even outside the Lumateran gates three years ago, when Finnikin and Isaboe prepared to enter and break the curse, had Froi seen a people so desperate, clutching each other and their possessions. Back then there was at least hope. Here there was desperation.
This is where it begins, he realized. For some it would end in a valley between Lumatere and the province of Alonso. “Why live like a trog at the doorstep of an enemy kingdom?” Lucian had asked on the day Froi left.
Because it was safer than living at home.
He patted the pouch he had hidden in an inside trouser pocket. The night before he had gone back to what he did best. People who were running for their lives were less concerned with their pockets, and the pickings were too easy; he had enough coins in his pouch to prove it. He wondered what would have happened to him if he was still on the streets of the Sarnak capital. Stealing had become too boring. Where would that boredom have led him if Isaboe of Lumatere had not come across him in that square in Sprie?
He shuffled among the crowd and tried to shut out the crying from those who were turned away by another set of cutthroats taking bribes to allow people out of the Citavita. Froi was amazed how swift some men were in plotting a way to take advantage of human despair. He realized that what he despised the most about the street lords and the cutthroats at the gate was that he was looking at himself in another life.
It was on the next morning that he finally reached the bridge. He thought of Trevanion and Perri. Of the tale he had to tell. He thought of Lord August and Lady Abian and the crops and the ideas he had for planting them. He thought of Lucian of the Monts and how he would warn him that what was taking place in the Citavita would bring danger to the valley and Lucian’s mountain. He thought of Finnikin and Isaboe and the priest-king and he thought of Tesadora with her Serker eyes. Which made him think of Lirah, and Lirah made him think of Gargarin, and Gargarin made him think of Arjuro. And then all he could think of was her. Princess Indignant. Quintana the ice maiden. Quintana the savage. The abomination. The curse maker. The whore. The last born. The girl who could make rabbits appear on walls.
And before Froi could change his mind, he turned and walked back up to the Citavita, sensing in his deepest core that he would not be returning to Lumatere for some time.
Chapter 20
Life in the Citavita each day began with a hanging. One by one, the king’s close advisers, physician, banker, and anyone else the street lords found hiding in the king’s solar were dragged out into the marketplace, where a crowd would gather around a makeshift hanging gale. The onlookers would jeer and chant and clap with a frenzied glee that had little to do with enjoyment and much to do with malevolence. It had been a week since the events in the palace, and every day Froi held his breath the moment the drawbridge was lowered, wondering who the next victim would be.
Those from the Citavita who weren’t part of the vicious crowd or the never-ending stream of people shuffling their way out of the capital stayed hidden in their dwellings, fearful of what it would all mean. “Lad,” they’d whisper, their heads suddenly appearing from rooftops. “Lad, what’s happening in the marketplace? Will they come for the merchants next?”
During the first days, Froi exchanged his doublet jacket for loose-fitting trousers and a tunic as well as a cap that covered his hair and came close to covering his eyes. But the wool of the tunic itched against his skin, so he stole a flannel undershirt. Although it was a relief to leave Olivier of Sebastabol behind, something inside of him couldn’t help wondering how much he looked like the old Froi. The thief. Street scum.
Most days he saw Lirah and Arjuro in the crowd. Arjuro wore his cape and cowl and reminded Froi of the sketches in the priest-king’s books showing the spectre of death who visited a plague-ridden Lumateran village hundreds upon hundreds of years ago and left no one alive. Standing far enough away from Lirah and Arjuro were De Lancey and his men. Froi had discovered through talk around the Citavita that the gold had arrived safely from the provinces and the provincaro of Paladozza was waiting for the release of Gargarin before he and his men took their leave.
Apart from his mornings at the hanging gale, Froi spent the rest of his days searching for the man named Perabo, who had once tried to warn Froi about Quintana’s fate. In his memory, he saw the scene over and over again. Quintana had stepped toward Perabo, but some sense of duty had made her return to the palace with Froi. Froi wished that Perabo had yanked her out of his arms. He wished that the last borns had been there, all their weak strength combined, holding Froi down so Quintana could escape.
In the second week, the street lords began to hang the king’s extended family: cousins, uncles, aunts. Froi watched an entire bloodline disappear from existence as the days passed. As yet, Gargarin had not been released and Quintana had not been hanged, and on a particularly sickening day when the rope half cut off the head of the king’s third cousin from Jidia, Froi looked away, and Arjuro caught his eye. The priestling pointed to the road leading down to the bridge before walking away with Lirah.
Froi fought the urge to follow. Despite having to talk himself out of returning to the godshouse each day, he felt a pull toward them. Perhaps he had felt that pull from the first moment he clapped his eyes on these damned people.
Regardless, he trailed Lirah and Arjuro down to a cave house he recognized as the soothsayer’s dwelling. The two stopped outside, and Froi knew they were waiting for him.
“Where have you been?” Lirah asked, her voice harsh.
“I don’t answer to you or anyone else in this kingdom,” he said coldly.
Arjuro entered the cave, and Froi and Lirah followed. It was small, one room only, with stems and saplings hanging from the ceiling and a smothering odor that seemed to be trapped in the cave walls. In the corner was a grubby bedroll, and in the center of the space was a large pot of water in which the soothsayer was stirring a foul-smelling substance among leaves and petals.
He thought of what this wretched woman had done to Quintana year after year, and realized he wanted to hurt her, could easily kill her with his bare hands. But his bond to Trevanion and Perri stopped him. You kill only those who are a threat to Lumatere, Froi.
But Lirah of Serker had no such bond. She grabbed the woman by the hair and shoved her head into the pot of water. Froi watched the soothsayer thrash, struggling under Lirah’s strong grip. He saw the fury and hatred on Lirah’s face.
“Do you like the feel o
f that?” Lirah said.
“Froi,” Arjuro said somewhat calmly. “Stop her, please.”
“Why would I want to do that, Arjuro?” Froi said, his heart beating fast at the satisfaction of what he was watching.
“Because I’d like to know a thing or two, and that may not happen if Lirah kills our only source of information.”
Froi sighed and stepped forward. He grabbed Lirah’s arm and dragged her back. She struggled against him, and although she had strength, Froi easily overpowered her.
The soothsayer collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, and Froi couldn’t help imagining the child Quintana was, struggling for the same filthy air, year after year.
Arjuro walked toward the woman and stooped, contempt in his expression. When she regained her breathing, the soothsayer struggled to her knees and spat in the priestling’s face.
“Oh, the gods’ blessed,” she mocked viciously. “Aren’t those from the godshouse mighty now, Priestling?”
Arjuro wiped the spittle from his face. “These two are here to kill you, and I am here for answers,” he said. “So what if we make a deal, old woman? You tell me what I need to know, and I may just spare your life.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Lirah snapped, struggling to free herself from Froi’s hands.
“Answers,” Arjuro repeated. “Why did the king order the murder of the male child born to the palace eighteen years ago?”
“No male child was born to the palace,” she said.
“On the night of Quintana’s birth.”
“There was only one babe born that night, and she’ll be hanged soon enough.”
Froi knew she was lying. The woman hardly made a pretense of it. Her eyes met Froi’s, and she inhaled deeply, as if in a rapture.
“And if the king did order the murder of a child,” she said, her voice drowsy, “what makes you think he told me?”
Lirah pulled free of Froi’s arms and gripped the woman by the throat. “He was frightened to piss without consulting you.”
Froi placed an arm around Lirah and pulled her back once more. The soothsayer leaned forward, her face an inch away from Lirah’s.