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This was to be the meeting point with the man they called Gargarin of Abroi. The plan so far had worked as Rafuel had predicted. Rafuel and his men had come across the news weeks before that Gargarin of Abroi, after an eighteen-year absence from the palace, had been granted an audience with the King. Upon hearing the news, Rafuel had sent a message to Gargarin under the guise of the Provincaro of Sebastabol, asking the King’s former architect to escort Sebastabol’s beloved lastborn to the province. The real lad’s name was Olivier, and his party would be apprehended and kept prisoner in the rock caves outside his province where Zabat would ensure their safety. Olivier and his guards would be released unharmed when Froi had done what he was sent to do. As far as Gargarin of Abroi knew, he was doing the Provincaro a favour and had no inkling that he was accompanying an assassin into the palace.

Further downstream, Zabat stopped and looked up at the cave dwellings that formed part of the gravina wall.

‘Hello there,’ Zabat hollered, dropping his pack to the ground. ‘Hello, I say again.’

Froi heard Zabat’s voice echo over and over again throughout the gorge. Wonderful. The gods had found a way of multiplying the idiot’s voice.

‘Hello there!’ Zabat hollered again. And again the echo. ‘Hel-lo!’

‘Do you honestly believe I didn’t hear you the first time?’

Froi swung around to see a man stepping out from one of the caves. He had cold blue eyes, stark pale skin and the blackest of hair. He would have been no older than Trevanion and Perri, but was slight in build and limped with a staff in his left hand. He wore a coarse grey tunic that hung on his thin frame and loose frayed trousers that seemed to have seen better days. His shoes were no more than cowhide tied onto his feet. Rafuel had spoken little of Gargarin of Abroi except to say that he lived as a recluse, preferring his own company. Zabat held out a hand and Froi prepared to do the same. The Priestking had told Froi of the custom of shaking hands. In Lumatere, men embraced or held up a hand in gesture. In Sarnak, there was a bow of acknowledgement between people. Froi did not understand the shaking of a hand. He had seen it only once or twice in the most polite of circumstances. On his last night in the palace he had practised with Finnikin. It ended in an arm-wrestle that had them both rolling around Isaboe’s feet as she nursed Jasmina, murmuring to the Princess about the idiocy of men.

‘Sir Gargarin?’ Zabat questioned.

‘Just Gargarin.’ The voice was clipped and cool.

‘May I present to you, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Froi held out a hand as Gargarin of Abroi turned to him. The man flinched, a quick expression of shock on his face. No, not shock. Horror. When Gargarin refused to take his hand, Froi let it fall to his side, biting back fury. He felt studied. Judged. Remember your bond, he told himself. That when you feel rage you count to ten. You don’t spit. You don’t pound a fist into the face of the other. Count to ten, Froi.

‘You’re from Sebastabol?’ Gargarin questioned, disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes, Sir.’ Both Zabat and Froi spoke at once. Had they already failed? Froi had imagined they would encounter problems at the hands of the palace riders in the Citavita. Instead, it seemed that this scholar with his cold stare had already seen through them.

‘Where are the rest of his guards?’ Gargarin asked, indicating Froi with a toss of his head.

‘It’s just me, Sir,’ Zabat said. ‘There has been a change in circumstances,’ he continued firmly. ‘The Provincaro of Sebastabol has sent word that I escort Olivier only this far. I’m to return as soon as possible.’

‘A change indeed,’ Gargarin said, eyeing them both suspiciously. ‘Why would a lastborn be sent into the palace with no guard?’

‘These are tense times, Sir. The Provincaro will be visiting the Citavita on the third week of this month for the day of weeping and he will need his guard.’

‘Last I heard, the Provincaro of Sebastabol was unable to travel to the Citavita for the day of weeping, and I’ve been to Sebastabol enough times to know that the Provincaro has more than one guard anyway. So what makes you so special, Zabat? Are you gods’ touched?’

Froi groaned. Another woeful tirade from his guide was sure to take place.

‘Olivier has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Zabat said. ‘And, frankly, I don’t think one has to be gods’ touched to be able to do everything these days. I’ve managed to get as far as I have without a talent to my name.’

Gargarin of Abroi stared at Froi. Zabat was already dismissed.

‘No lastborn has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Gargarin bit out. ‘The lastborns have been taught to keep out of harm’s way for no other reason but that Charyn cannot afford to lose them.’

‘I would like to think of myself as unique amongst lads,’ Froi said.

Too formal, idiot, he told himself.

There was no reply from Gargarin. Just the same penetrating stare.

‘We camp the night and leave first light,’ Gargarin said, walking back into the cave. ‘And if for some fool reason you are carrying weapons, heed my warning. They won’t let you past that drawbridge with so much as a toothpick.’

Froi made sure to keep his distance from the man who would act as Olivier of Sebastabol’s chaperone. He set up his bedroll outside, despite the cold night, preferring to sleep away from the others. When Zabat disappeared, off to relieve himself by the sounds and smell of things, Froi climbed up the path of stepping stones that would eventually lead to the top of the gravina. Close by, he found a large rock, more like a low narrow cave, its outside roof etched with the image of a fan bird. Froi removed the scabbard and short sword from across his shoulder and the two daggers at his sleeve. He took the Queen’s ruby ring from his pocket, but couldn’t bear to part with it and placed it back inside the hidden pouch of his trousers. He crawled on his belly and secured the weapons at the rim of the cave before crawling out again.

When Zabat returned, Froi was already by the stream. ‘He knows we are lying,’ Froi whispered. ‘Can we trust him?’

Zabat looked back at the cave dwelling that Gargarin had disappeared into. ‘Who knows? Those born with brains think they’re above the likes of us.’

‘I like to think I have a bit of a brain myself,’ Froi said.

Zabat ignored him. ‘Gargarin of Abroi was not just an architect, but one of the King’s advisors in the palace at the time of the godshouse attack eighteen years past. I don’t know which way he is aligned, but it doesn’t matter. He can get you into the palace.’

‘What else do you know about him? Rafuel didn’t go into much detail,’ Froi said.

‘All I know is that at the age of sixteen he was palace-bound at the same time that his Priestling brother was godshouse-bound. He was considered a genius, and at the age of twenty-five he disappeared and has not been seen in these parts for the past eighteen years.’

‘Why did he leave if he was so precious to the King?’

Zabat was silent for a moment. ‘His brother was the Priestling arrested for treason and imprisoned after the Oracle godshouse slaughter. Some say that Gargarin of Abroi was ashamed of his brother’s actions. They say he left the Citavita because he felt himself unworthy of the King’s respect. Whatever the reason, he was considered a traitor to the palace. Only now has he been allowed to return.’

‘And what do others say? Others such as Rafuel?’

‘Who knows what Rafuel believes?’ Zabat muttered. ‘There is much he doesn’t tell us.’

Froi knew he was going to receive another tirade of self-pity.

‘I need more than that,’ Froi snapped.

Zabat shook his head, refusing to respond. Froi stepped closer, threateningly. ‘If you’re going to send me with him to do Charyn’s dirty work, then have the decency to tell me what he’s capable of!’