Arjuro was there behind him. ‘That one wants to die. Whatever’s down there is beckoning her to jump.’
But Quintana, or whoever was standing there balanced on the granite, wasn’t looking down into the abyss. Her stare went straight to Froi.
‘Come inside,’ the Priestling ordered. ‘She’ll go away.’
‘And if she falls?’ Froi asked, unable to take his eyes off her.
‘Well, she hasn’t so far without your help, and she can’t leap across here as you did. So it’s either down in the gravina for her, or sidling back to where she came from. I presume the others living inside her head convince her to return. It’s the same thing each time. Sometimes I want to shout out, “Jump, you little abomination!” ’
Froi stared at Arjuro. ‘You’re not like other holy men I know.’
‘And how many holy men would a lastborn from Sebastabol know when no more Priests are left inside the province walls?’
Froi didn’t respond. He turned back to look outside and saw Quintana standing on her balconette. Relief washed over him.
‘How’s my brother faring amongst all that insanity?’ Arjuro asked quietly.
Froi shrugged. ‘He’s not much into confiding.’
‘Why is he struggling to walk this morning?’
‘Lirah of Serker took a dagger to him.’
Arjuro grimaced. Froi recognised the expression as one he had seen on Gargarin’s face.
‘What does my brother have to say about the fact that the girl’s prophecy has not come to be?’ Arjuro asked.
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ Froi suggested. ‘Perhaps holler across to his balconette this evening?’
Arjuro stared at him.
‘It may bring much-needed colour to both your cheeks,’ Froi continued. Arjuro’s stare suggested that Froi was bantering with the wrong person.
‘He says that the gods have forsaken Charyn,’ Froi said.
Arjuro gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘The gods have not forsaken Charyn. The gods love Charyn. Where else can they shit, if not Charyn? It’s the purpose of this kingdom. To be the place where the gods shit.’
Froi was surprised by the words. ‘You’ve lost hope in the gods.’
‘No. The gods lost hope in me. Long ago.’
Froi sighed. If Arjuro wasn’t going to be a source of information for him, perhaps he would be a source of entertainment.
‘I’ve got to go. Can I use your entrance into the Citavita? Getting over here is far easier than returning the same way.’
‘Out there you’ll be dealing with the street pigs,’ Arjuro said.
‘I’ve not seen any pigs out there.’
‘I’ve not seen any pigs out there,’ Arjuro mimicked. ‘Who are you trying to fool with your fancy talk, you little shit?’
Certainly not the last Priestling of the Citavita.
Arjuro walked out into a dark corridor and Froi followed him down a winding stairwell that seemed to go on forever.
‘They call themselves the street lords,’ Arjuro said. ‘The less Citavitans see of the King, the more powerful the street lords become. It’s in the nature of humans,’ he added bitterly. ‘The need to be ruled by tyrants.’
‘Do those of the Citavita have faith in the Princess producing an heir?’ Froi asked.
‘The Princess is not going to produce an heir,’ Arjuro said. ‘The Princess is insane. Perhaps insanely brilliant because her delusions have managed to keep her alive all these years.’
They passed one of the landing windows and Froi saw the stone buildings of the Citavita outside.
‘They’ll kill her, you know,’ Arjuro said quietly. Froi heard regret in his voice.
‘Quintana?’
Arjuro nodded.
‘The street pigs?’
Arjuro shook his head. ‘She’ll come of age this month and mark my words, she’ll go over that balconette. It’s an accident, Bestiano will cry. At her own hands, he’ll claim. Why keep her alive when it is clear she isn’t the one to break the curse? At first, the people will be stunned. Then relieved. Quintana the cursemaker is dead. Perhaps it will mean the end of a barren era for Charyn.’
‘What does Bestiano hope to gain from her death?’ Froi asked.
‘A peaceful reign for the King. Bestiano has all the power he wants while the King lives. He’ll begin to scour the land for lastborn girls and bring them to the palace on the off-chance that one of them produces the first. You can imagine the rest.’
Froi was still reeling from the threat to Quintana. ‘So Bestiano will take over one day?’
Arjuro shook his head. ‘The Provincari would never let a commoner rule. Bestiano will do anything to secure an heir, but only one he has control over, so he can continue enjoying his power. Unfortunately for him, the heir Tariq will never acknowledge him.’
‘Then who will Tariq choose as his First Advisor if he ever comes to power?’
Arjuro’s eyes caught his, but then he looked away and suddenly Froi understood.
‘Gargarin?’
Arjuro refused to respond and they continued down the dark steps in silence.
At the bottom, the Priestling unlatched the iron door and then removed a key from his sleeve and fixed it into the lock.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Froi asked.
‘Can’t promise I’ll answer,’ the Priestling said.
Froi hesitated. Would his question reveal a weakness in him? ‘When Gargarin first saw me, he reacted in much the same way you did,’ Froi said. ‘No one else has. Who do I remind you both of?’
‘Someone we despise beyond understanding,’ Arjuro said flatly with no hesitation. He said little else and Froi knew the discussion was over.
Arjuro pushed open the door and they both squinted when the light poured in.
‘My brother … he’s the best man to ask,’ Arjuro said.
‘Ask what?’
‘I’m figuring that a lad with eyes like yours could have been sent by the hidden Serkers to kill the King. So talk to my brother.’
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. Remember your promise to Trevanion. Trust no one. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did, what would I ask Gargarin?’
Arjuro looked past Froi to the cluster of cave homes below. ‘Twenty-five years ago, a young lad from Abroi with nothing to his name but a brother who was gods’ touched, impressed the King with his drawings and plans.’
Arjuro watched Froi for a reaction. ‘He was sixteen at the time and the envy of every ambitious advisor employed by the King.’
‘Gargarin worked on the palace when it was built?’ Froi asked.
Arjuro shook his head. ‘No. Gargarin was the architect. He knows every hidden tunnel, every mouse hole. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to break out of an unbreakable prison.’
Froi stared at Arjuro and then gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Who are you people?’
It was a steep descent over the roofs of cave dwellings from the godshouse to the Citavita. At times, Froi could look into the homes beneath his feet, where entrances were dug out of the ceilings and the smell of bread from ovens wafted through the air. Still, it was a secluded area of the capital and under the piercing glares of those they called the street lords, Froi felt less than safe with little means of protection.
He could see that the street lords spent much of their time sitting and watching. The men sat on the uneven roofs of the cave houses, studying the palace below and the godshouse above. Unlike the farmers, who dragged oxen up the backbreaking path or the women who stumbled with armloads of linens, the street lords did nothing much at all but sit around looking threatening.
‘Friend,’ one called as he passed, and Froi itched for his dagger that lay buried in the cave at the base of the gravina.
‘You,’ the man called out again. ‘I’m talking to you.’
A leg went out and Froi stumbled. Counted to ten.
‘You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in,’ the shorter one said.