Froi, Lirah and De Lancey were too dumbfounded to speak.
‘I think our Rafuel’s been busy these past years searching for the lastborn.’ Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘Did he find you in Sarnak, or have I got it all wrong?’
Froi didn’t want to respond. If he said the words aloud it would all be true and he didn’t want it to be.
‘I live in Lumatere,’ he said.
Lirah’s shoulders sank. Was it relief or despair? De Lancey shook his head with disappointment, walking away. But Arjuro continued to stare at Froi, as though he was still attempting to work out the puzzle.
‘I’ve not lived in Sarnak for three years,’ Froi said quietly.
Lirah stared at him, stunned, and De Lancey turned back, hope flaring in his expression. Froi saw a ghost of a smile on Arjuro’s face. A nod of satisfaction.
‘But what of the babe you did see tossed on the night of the lastborn?’ De Lancey asked. ‘Who was that if not the daughter of the Oracle, or Lirah and Gargarin’s son?’
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 recognised 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 the person 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 Citavita 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 recognised 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 amidst gasps and cries from those surrounding him. He leapt 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 recognise the worth in this jewel, then you’re nothing but ignorant street scum, 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, kicking 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 leapt 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 dragging 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 God 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 our blessings 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. Realising 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 amongst the Monts.