Quintana of Charyn by Melina Marchetta

Author:Melina Marchetta [Marchetta, Melina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Australia
Published: 2012-09-26T07:00:00+00:00

The Lasconian lads bunked in the great hall each night after the supper tables were cleared. In those first days with them Froi came to understand that they respected Gargarin and Arjuro, lusted after Lirah, but despised him.

He knew that because they spoke it with their fists. Because if he rounded a blind corner, he’d feel a blow to his stomach. Or if he waited in line for whatever scraps were available for supper, his plate became the plate of those who surrounded him. The Lasconian lads worked in numbers, never on their own. The leader, named Florik, rarely got his hands dirty. It was what Froi didn’t like about him. In Froi’s first encounter with Grij and the lastborns, he had understood that their anger came from the fury and frustration of not having freed Quintana. With these lads, he suspected it came from envy and dissatisfaction. There seemed no group with more to prove than those born a year or two before the Last. They had come second to Tariq all their lives. Worse still, the heir had died in exile before these lads could get to know him and prove their worth. And with Froi, it was personal. He hadn’t just lost Tariq’s supposed unborn child, he had befriended the heir. Perabo had spoken of this to the Lasconians. That despite everything, Tariq’s last message had been to the Lumateran, Froi of the Flatlands. The heir had written part of Froi’s name in his own blood on the cold stone as he lay dying.

Regardless of their treatment, Froi silently pledged his bond to Tariq. He would endure anything from the Lasconians and never raise his fists against Tariq’s people. That wasn’t to say that Froi’s fists weren’t clenched the whole day long in fury, or that he was to do more counting to control his temper than he ever had. Even when he woke with a sack pressed over his face, threats in his ears and the humiliation of untangling himself from the thick cloth, only to find them gone, Froi kept his bond. He missed Finn and Lucian. He missed Grij and Olivier. No, never Olivier. Not the traitor.

So he spent his days on the wall-walk searching the trees that lined the little woods. Each day he recorded the facts with precision and when he was certain of movement in the woods, he called for Perabo.

‘There,’ he said. ‘See that rustle of shrubs? It means the army Dorcas spoke of is now passing through. They’re heading north. There,’ he said, pointing to one of the trees, ‘someone’s watching us from up in the branches. More than one, but they take turns. They know we’re here, but they don’t seem interested in doing anything about it for the time being.’

Perabo nodded. ‘Good. I’ll let the others know.’

‘Perhaps I can share a word with Gargarin, Perabo.’

The keeper of the caves waved Froi off and walked away, and the moment Perabo disappeared down the steps of the wall, Florik and two of his companions gripped Froi by the arms.

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