‘And the King?’ Froi asked.
‘We try not to refer to him as scum out loud,’ the cousin whispered.
‘No, I mean, where is he kept?’ Froi said.
The King’s cousin shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen him since the last day of weeping.’
Froi looked around hastily, not wanting to be obvious about his scrutiny. There were five towers as well as the keep. He had seen the Duke of Who-Cares-Where walk into the keep and knew for certain that if the man didn’t get wine at his table then there was no possible way he slept in the same compound as the King. So apart from the tower Froi shared with Gargarin and the Princess opposite the godshouse, and the prison tower alongside of theirs, that left the third, fourth and fifth towers as possible locations for the man Froi was sent to assassinate. He knew that if he could get up to one of the battlements, he’d at least have a better view of the entire fortress. But as he excused himself from the King’s cousin, he walked into Dorcas.
‘Just the person I was looking for,’ Dorcas said, full of self-importance. ‘I have a message.’
‘For me?’
‘The banker of Sebastabol is passing through on a visit to Osteria,’ Dorcas advised. ‘He would like a word. Apparently your families are acquainted.’
Froi’s heart began to thump against his chest. Less than a day in the palace and his lie was about to be discovered.
‘Did you hear me?’ Dorcas asked.
‘You mean Sir … Roland is here? In the Citavita?’
‘Sir Berenson,’ Dorcas corrected, his eyes narrowing.
‘Oh, you mean Sir Berenson the banker, and not Sir Roland the baker?’
‘Since when is a baker a Sir?’ Dorcas asked.
‘In my father’s eyes, he is,’ Froi said, nodding emphatically. ‘ “Yes, yes, that man deserves a title,” Father says, every time my mother comes home with a loaf.’
Dorcas didn’t seem interested in stories about bakers. But Dorcas was intent on following instructions.
‘He’s in Lady Mawfa’s sitting room in the third tower,’ Dorcas said. ‘Run along.’
‘The third tower?’ Froi asked, eliminating it as the King’s residence. He had watched Lady Mawfa the night before whispering gossip to anyone who came close to her. He couldn’t imagine the King sharing his residence with such a parrot.
‘Are you sure it’s not the fourth tower?’ Froi tried. ‘Didn’t you say he was visiting the King?’
‘I didn’t say that at all,’ Dorcas said, irritated. ‘And he won’t be staying for long, so run along, I say.’
Froi had to think fast. Dorcas wasn’t moving until he did and the Princess Indignant had just revealed herself from behind the well, beckoning Froi with an impatient hand. Then he heard the tapping of Gargarin’s staff and looked up to see the man limping towards the steps of their tower. Froi took his chance.
‘The proud fool,’ he said to Dorcas, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. ‘I’ve told him again and again to rest. Gargarin!’ Froi called out, before running towards him. He reached Gargarin halfway up the steps to their chamber and placed an arm around his waist to assist him, despite the fact that Gargarin neither wanted nor needed help.
‘What are you doing?’ Gargarin growled, trying to pull away. They both balanced unsteadily on the spiral steps.
‘I’m here, nothing to worry about,’ reassured Froi loudly, waving Dorcas away as the guard approached, looking slightly concerned.
‘Do you need assistance, Sir?’ Dorcas asked Gargarin.
‘Did I ask for it?’
‘No Sir,’ Dorcas said.
Regardless, Froi dragged a fuming Gargarin up the rest of the steps, causing them both to trip forward. Froi turned back to Dorcas, mouthing, ‘Too proud,’ rolling his eyes and shrugging haplessly. ‘I’ll take care of this, Dorcas.’
Dorcas watched them for a moment, holding up a hand of acknowledgement to Gargarin, whose teeth were gritted. When Dorcas descended the steps, Gargarin struggled to pull free of Froi with a fury that almost had them both tumbling down.
‘Are you an idiot?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Let go of me now.’
‘You look pale. Let me just get you to our chamber,’ Froi said. So I can avoid seeing Sir Berenson the banker, he added to himself.
‘I was born pale! I’ll die pale!’
At the top of the steps, Gargarin finally broke free and hobbled away.
‘I thought the room was mine for the day,’ he said, as Froi followed him to the chamber.
‘A decision I regretted the moment I left the room,’ Froi said. ‘I can’t bear the idea of you staggering around tomorrow with nowhere to go.’
Gargarin stared at him coldly. ‘A decision I have not regretted agreeing to. Go. Away.’
Froi spent the rest of the day in the stables avoiding the Princess, the banker of Sebastabol and Dorcas. As Gargarin had predicted, he was given a lesson or two by the stable hand and scullery maid about mating, as well as picking up a few choice words that the Priestking hadn’t covered when he taught him the language of Charyn.
When he arrived back at his room that night, feeling anything but amorous himself, the Princess was standing outside her chamber. Waiting. The cold stare was back.
‘You are certain you have nothing to tell the Reginita?’ she asked sharply.
‘The who?’ he asked.
She thought for a moment, her mouth twisting to the side. It was the strangest type of contemplation he had ever seen. She was waiting for something and Froi couldn’t understand what.
Unimpressed, the Princess beckoned him into her room with an arrogant wave of her hand. Her chamber, much like Froi’s and Gargarin’s, was simple, with a bed in the centre and no fireplace in sight.
She began to undo the hooks that fastened her dress.
‘Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot,’ Froi said. ‘I don’t want this week –’
She stopped for a moment. Squinted. ‘A week? What needs to be done should only take one night.’
What needs to be done.
Froi would need more than a night to understand the intricacies of this palace and to do what he was sent to do.
‘And here I was becoming so attached to your sweet disposition.’ He beat his breast with pitiful exaggeration. ‘If I go tomorrow, I’ll never have a chance to know you.’
Her brow furrowed, as though she didn’t quite comprehend him. Despite it all, he didn’t want to be cruel. If he was to do what he was sent to do, he didn’t want to feel anything, even hatred or dislike. But he pitied her. The way she spoke about herself as if she was another. The way her court dismissed her. Isaboe of Lumatere was loved. Adored. Isaboe knew who she was even when she took the name Evanjalin for all those years.
‘You’re not what we expected,’ she said, and there was disappointment in her voice. ‘They promised us more.’
There was something so strangely matter-of-fact in the way she spoke. Froi fought hard not to react and choked out a laugh.
‘They?’ he asked. ‘Bestiano and your father?’
She stepped out of the dress and pulled off her slippers, leaving her in only a white cotton shift that reached her knees.
Froi pulled the shirt over his head, inwardly rehearsing what he would tell her. How his inadequacy prevented him from planting the seed.
She stopped undressing for a moment, confused. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘You don’t need to remove your shirt.’ She indicated his trousers, pointing a finger.
This time, Froi sighed and made an exaggerated show of untying the string around his trousers while she lay down, raising her white nightdress to the top of her thighs, but no further.
Froi shucked his trousers and knelt on the bed. Buy time, Froi, he told himself. His hand travelled up her legs, his fingers gentle. She pushed them away, and there was that unrelenting stare again.