Arrows went flying in the wrong direction. The idiot, Olivier, was attempting to shoot a mark towards the noose, but he hit the palace wall in the distance instead. From where Froi was trying to get a better look, it seemed as though they were attacking each other. The people of the Citavita began to laugh. Despite the failure of the situation, the street lords reacted, leaping from the podium and shoving their way through the crowd after Satch, who was closest.
And suddenly, in all the absurdity, Froi forgot the orders from his queen. Forgot everything he had been told was right or wrong. Forgot any type of reason. Perri the Savage once told him that moments of opportunity were pure luck; the Priestking claimed that it was the gods sending messages. But both agreed that you took them without question. Whatever it was today, Froi didn’t ask, and he took his chance and bolted for the tree that Grijio was attempting to climb, while one of the street lord’s gripped his ankle. Froi knocked the street lord’s head against the branch, before shoving him away. He scampered up the tree. ’Follow,’ he ordered Grijio. With the lastborn at his heels, Froi straddled the top branch, grabbing the bow from Grijio’s hand. Down into the crowd he could see Olivier of Paladozza stare up to where Grijio and Froi sat.
‘Bolt,’ Froi ordered and Grijio slapped one against his palm and Froi took aim and fired. ‘Bolt!’ he ordered again.
‘Bolt!’
‘Bolt!’
‘Bolt!’
Froi shot five bolts in quick succession at his targets on the podium. But despite four street lords writhing with pain on the raised platform, the hangman kicked the block from under Quintana’s feet and her body began to swing, her hands gripping at the rope around her neck. Froi cried out, a roar of anguish that came from a place within that he had never acknowledged.
‘Olivier!’ he bellowed down to the lastborn in the crowd. ‘Sword!’ Froi leapt from the branch and, flying through the air, he grabbed Quintana’s body and as they both swung over the crowd, he reached out to where Olivier held the sword high above his head and Froi grabbed it, stretching the sword in an upward swing to slice at the rope holding Quintana’s noose. A moment later they crashed down into those standing below.
Satch was there before them, pulling both Froi and Quintana to their feet. ‘Run,’ he shouted. ‘R … r … run.’
The stuttering lastborn led and Froi followed, gripping Quintana’s hand, dragging her at times when it seemed she had nothing left inside of her. Grijio caught up as arrows flew past them. The four of them ran through one of the cave houses, climbed up onto a roof and then crossed the Citavita, leaping from one flat cave to another. Froi had no idea where they were heading, but despite the lastborns’ inability to fight like warriors, these lads seemed to have purpose. So Froi followed.
Suddenly a hand flew up beneath his feet and Froi was yanked down into a hole through the roof of one of the caves. He crashed down onto the ground of the house alongside Satch. Within seconds, Quintana tumbled in behind them. A moment later, Grijio fell through.
‘Quiet,’ someone whispered, and Froi realised their breathing was coming out in sobs. He closed his eyes to regain his breath and when he opened them he could only see the bottom half of whoever had dragged them into the room. The rest of the man was peering up through the hole in the roof.
‘Have y … y … you lost th … th … them?’ Satch asked.
The trapdoor was secured in place and the room was dark. A candle was held towards them and Froi found himself face to face with the keeper of the caves.
‘Follow,’ Perabo ordered.
Froi was surprised to see an underground river in the bowels of the city. Perabo led them to one of two small rafts, helping Quintana step onto the first. He then placed a hand on Froi, but it was no hand of assistance. The grip tightened until Froi felt pain. ‘Did I not tell you to get her out of Charyn?’ the man snarled.
‘He’s n … not Olivier,’ Satch said.
‘He would have known nothing of Tariq’s plan to take her out of the Citavita,’ Grijio added.
‘Then who is he?’ the keeper asked.
Grijio hesitated in replying. ‘He’s a foreigner. We don’t know what his name is.’
‘Froi,’ they heard a hoarse voice say behind them.
Froi stumbled towards Quintana, realising with horror that part of the noose was still around her neck. He removed it and in the dim light, he could see that her throat was burnt from the rope. She was shivering and he took off his coat and placed it around her.
Perabo gave Froi the oar. ‘Listen to my instructions. You follow this river until it branches into two. Steer the raft left and travel a while. When you come to a bend, they will hear you. So wait for two sounds of a rock against rock. Five beats apart. In return, you tap your oar on the roof of the cave. Three taps. Five beats apart. You ask for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn. You tell them Perabo sent you.’
Grijio helped Quintana onto the raft and Froi gripped her as it swayed from side to side. He looked up at the lads standing beside Perabo. ‘You’d be safer with us,’ he said.
‘We n … n … need to get back and see if Olivier escaped.’
Froi scowled. ‘You don’t have to be nervous, Satch. I’m not going to hurt you!’
He saw a flash of irritation on the lastborn’s face.
‘It’s a st … st … stutter, idiot. N … n… not fear.’
It was a strange path to the hidden compound of Lascow. The roof of the cave was little more than a handspan above their heads, the sides of the raft at times scraping against the wall until Froi was forced to lay the oars aside and push his way down the cave river. There was nothing to be heard, except for the lapping of the water and Quintana’s rasping. When they reached a section where the river’s current seemed to carry the raft along, Froi stumbled to where Quintana was. He sat down and gathered her in his arms. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe. I promise you.’
Perabo’s instructions were precise. At the bend, Froi heard the sound and waited and despite the firm grip Quintana had on his arm, he managed to retrieve the oar and tap the cave ceiling three times. A moment later the pitch-black space was illuminated by a lantern. Froi held Quintana’s face to his chest, his eyes blinded by the light.
‘We are here for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn,’ he said. ‘Perabo sent us.’
The lantern was lowered, revealing the face of a man. He stared from Froi to Quintana and then gave a nod.
Chapter 21
Tariq of Lascow was tall for a Charynite. And striking. Froi wasn’t expecting tall and striking. For some reason he wanted Quintana’s beloved Tariq to be short and ugly. The heir placed a hand against Quintana’s cheek tenderly and then led them down a dank corridor of stone, speckled with a substance that lit their path. They followed him into a large chamber, the floors and wall adorned with beautiful woven carpets of blues and gold and red. There were books and drawings and ochre sticks for writing scattered over the cot that lay on the ground. A mandolin sat in the corner. A small altar was in the centre of the room, built upon a piece of rock that extended from the ground. Carved into the rock were symbols Froi had seen in Gargarin’s books about the gods. Tariq of the Citavita worshipped Agora, the Charyn goddess of wisdom. A poet, a musician, a peacemaker. Froi wanted to hate him.
Tariq pushed the books and sketches from his cot and took Quintana’s hand. ‘Little cousin, speak. I beg of you,’ he said, as Quintana stared up at Froi. Tariq placed a blanket over her and she lay down.
‘Will you be here when I wake?’ she asked Froi, her voice broken.
‘Of course,’ he lied.
Quintana closed her eyes and turned to the wall.
Tariq stood and Froi saw tears in the eyes of the heir. And anger.