‘They’re waiting for De Lancey’s envoy.’
‘And Father sent no envoy!’ Grij said.
Perabo grabbed Froi’s arm. ‘Then we do nothing!’ he said, anguish in his voice. ‘That was the plan. That if there’s been an ambush we do nothing.’
‘You do nothing, Perabo,’ Froi said, climbing into the narrow cavern below. He landed on his feet and began to run down the tunnel. A moment later he saw the flicker of light and knew the others had followed. At the place where two rafts were docked, Perabo pointed Grijio towards Froi and handed them a lantern before pushing their raft along. Perabo, Olivier and Satch took the second raft and there was a sickening sombre silence for too long before someone spoke.
‘When?’ Grijio whispered, as they approached a familiar turn in the underground river. ‘When did he believe this so-called envoy was to come?’
‘He said a week,’ Froi said. ‘That was eight days ago.’
Froi looked back to the others. ‘I’ll go in first,’ he said. ‘I need your sword, Perabo.’
‘No one goes in unless it’s secure.’
‘Give him your sword, Perabo,’ Olivier protested. ‘If they live, the Lumateran has a better chance of getting them out alive.’
When they reached the place where they had heard the three beats last time, they waited for the sound. But there was nothing. Perabo tapped the roof of the cave with his oar, but still no one came.
‘Gyer,’ Perabo whispered. ‘Gyer.’
Still nothing.
‘This is not good,’ Froi heard Olivier whisper. ‘This is not good.’
Froi stepped out of his raft and Perabo reached across from the second vessel and handed him the sword with shaking hands.
In the tunnel of speckled light, Froi began to clear his mind of all things that could spell doom and concentrated on what brought hope. He knew that if whoever had infiltrated the compound was smart, they would take Tariq’s people hostage and ransom them to the Provincari. The Provincari would pay for the heir and his family. Any day now, De Lancey or one of the other Provincari would get news and deals would be struck and Tariq would be safe. But would Quintana? Would the enemy have recognised her or would they believe her to be one of the Lascow compound, waiting in exile?
And then he saw the first corpse. Recognised the face of the gatekeeper. What had Perabo called him? Gyer. A small distance away was another corpse, throat slit from ear to ear. Froi’s legs almost buckled as he entered Tariq’s chamber where they had first placed Quintana, his heart catching in his throat when he saw that Tariq’s nurse lay on the ground, her wounds identical to the men’s.
Froi heard a sound and spun around, his sword pressing against the base of Olivier’s throat.
‘I told you to stay behind,’ Froi said quietly.
But Olivier could only shake his head.
‘We found others,’ he whispered. ‘In the kitchen.’
It was quick. They had been taken by surprise. The cook still had flour on her hands, the once-giggling cousins were clutching their grinders. Every one of them had the same wound and Froi’s only consolation was that the deaths were quick. He reached over to an egg that had been shelled. Felt it was cold.
‘You don’t know how smart he is,’ Grijio said. ‘He would have found a way to live. He would have.’
Doesn’t matter how smart you are, Froi wanted to tell them. When you face the end of a sword, it has little to do with smarts.
He walked amongst the dead. Sometimes he thought he saw her, recognised her dress, and his heart would sink as he crouched to gently turn the body towards him, and then for a moment, all he could feel was relief. Until the next girl and then the next.
Some were still holding hands, as though they had gripped onto each other with fear as the dagger cut the breath out of them. Froi’s eyes swelled with a fury of tears. Knew they never had a chance.
He heard a cry of anguish and he followed the sound into the tunnel where only a week ago Tariq had stopped to weep for his dying cousin. At the end, where Froi knew there was nothing but steps leading down to the crypt, he saw the others. He couldn’t breathe. He could only watch. Olivier crouched down in sorrow. Satch stood with hands to his head, bewildered horror on his face. Grijio was weeping bitterly, his arms clasped around himself, while Perabo’s fist pounded at the stone wall until Grijio pulled him away before he could do further damage. When they heard Froi’s slow footsteps, they turned, and he saw the faces of men who had lost hope. Not even amongst the Lumaterans when they had discovered that their heir, Balthazar, was truly dead had he seen such desolation.
Sprawled at the top of the steps was Tariq of Lascow’s body. Close by a girl lay dead. Froi could see by the colour of her hair that it was Ariel. He fell to his knees beside Tariq, saw the way one arm lay lifeless against the top step.
‘Perhaps they took Quintana,’ Froi managed to find the words, staring down at the young King who had shown him nothing but kindness. Who had promised nothing but peace.
Perabo shook his head, blood dripping from his fists. ‘You know better than me, Lumateran. This was a hunting party. No one was to survive. They would have had no idea she was here. They would have killed her not knowing who she was.’
‘There’s another chamber,’ Olivier said, pointing further on. ‘Where the corpses are piled onto each other.’
Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I need to find her,’ he said.
There was a trail of blood between the bodies, as though the wretched assassins couldn’t allow the two cousins to die side by side. Froi gently dragged Tariq’s body closer to Ariel’s and turned him on his back.
He heard the swallows of grief around him as he reached out to close the young King’s eyes. He couldn’t help noticing that although Tariq was cut from ear to ear, much the same as everyone else, the assassins had also hacked at the inside of his arm, as though with a blunt sword.
Froi had been taught that dead men sometimes spoke louder than those who breathed. He searched the space around them for a sign, and saw it there, close to Ariel’s body. A small decorative dagger, sharp enough to slice paper and do little else. Had Tariq tried to fight the assassins with a letter opener? And if so, why cut his arm so crudely? Suddenly Froi’s eyes were drawn to the wound on Ariel’s throat. Crudely hacked, much the same as Tariq’s arm, but unlike the precise wound at the heir’s throat.
‘What is it, Froi?’ Grijio asked.
Froi shook his head, unable to speak. He needed to think. Had Tariq’s visit to his cousin’s deathbed been interrupted by the assassins and had they tried to escape together? Had Tariq tried to fight them with the only weapon he had, which was then used against him? Yet the wound to his throat was delivered by the sharpest of weapons.
‘We need to find her corpse,’ Perabo said, his voice rough in its sorrow. ‘And then we get out of here. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Come, Froi,’ Grijio said. ‘We’ve seen enough.’
The lastborn glanced at the two bodies one more time.
‘She was a beauty,’ Grijio said softly. ‘I knew her before her illness. She had the brightest eyes I’d ever seen.’
Froi had to agree about the beauty. Despite Ariel’s ghastly pallor, she looked peaceful, almost a hint of a smile on her face. But then a strange thought struck him.
‘Her eyes are closed,’ he said. ‘Perabo, stop!’ Froi called out to the keeper of the caves, who had already begun to walk away.
‘What are you saying?’ Grijio asked.
‘Every body we’ve passed has had eyes that are wide open in death. Except for Ariel’s.’
He reached a shaky hand to touch the girl’s face and froze. The others were back alongside him. Froi grabbed Perabo’s hand, placing it on Ariel’s face.
He watched the man flinch. ‘She’s been dead for at least a day or two. The stiffness has already entered her bones!’
‘Why would they slit her throat if she was already dead?’ Olivier demanded.