The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  “Not me,” Prince Ronnick said. “I’m his youngest son. I have no aspirations of power.”

  “Of course not.” Laina snorted. His very presence here, exactly as Lostport reeled from a potentially destabilizing blow, meant he was entirely interested in snatching power where he could.

  “At the very least, give me a chance,” Prince Ronnick pleaded.

  “I already have,” Laina said coldly. “Excuse me.” Shoveling the last bite of fish into her mouth, she rose and left the table.

  What was her father thinking? Not only was she entirely uninterested in marriage, Laina was loath to form an alliance with a Whitish prince. She wished Conard was here. She desperately needed someone sensible to talk to.

  Later in the evening, her father called Laina to his study. She went reluctantly, expecting a reprimand for her brusque behavior.

  “I have been thinking,” he said heavily. “Something must be done about Doran. I cannot have my son live out his days in misery, constantly faced with what he cannot have. Do you think he would enjoy a trip to Chelt to recover his health?”

  “Yes,” Laina said at once. “Though he would be happier if I could join him, I think.”

  Her father shook his head. “You must remain here. Doran will never be able to inherit when Whitland learns of his impotence, but if you marry before long, you might have a son old enough to take the throne when I die. I know you don’t like the idea, but it is the only way to keep Lostport from falling into Whitish hands.”

  “Prince Ronnick is Whitish,” Laina said sharply. “Why would you sell me off to him?”

  “He is the youngest of six sons. This is his only chance to gain a position of some standing. He will not enforce King Luistan’s rule here.”

  “Does it matter that I despise him?” Laina shot back.

  Her father sighed. “I wish you would not judge so quickly. However, I am willing to consider any other prospects that come forward.”

  Laina laughed drily. “That’s likely.” She could find any number of miners and shopkeepers and escaped convicts in Lostport, but not one man who would qualify as an eligible suitor.

  “At least consider the prince,” her father said. “The future of our kingdom depends on it.”

  Reluctantly Laina nodded. Her only use now lay in providing her father a grandson. It seemed her future had ended just as thoroughly as Doran’s.

  Chapter 4

  Y our hands, please.” The short, burly riverboat captain extended his own hands, palms up, and waited for Conard to present his wrists.

  Conard sighed and turned away. He hadn’t liked the look of this riverboat anyway—it was wallowing sideways in the water, as though leaking or weighted down with too much stock.

  This was the third captain who had checked for an exile’s band before allowing him on board. Each time, Conard had turned away rather than present his wrists with their unmistakable iron circlet. He didn’t want word to reach Lostport that he had hunkered down in Bogside; people would expect him to return, as close as he was, and would be on guard for him.

  Two quarters had passed since Conard had first disembarked in Bogside. He had approached every ship that had passed in that time—fewer than he had expected—and none had been prepared to take him aboard. The worst were the well-apportioned ships that lured him with accommodations far nicer than anything available in Bogside, and which turned out to be so expensive Conard would need half a king’s ransom to buy himself standing room on the deck.

  A long walk east of town, Conard rejoined the peat-diggers he had been helping all quarter. “Thanks for giving me the morning off.”

  “No luck?” one of the men asked with a knowing smile.

  “Bloody unfortunate-looking boat anyway,” Conard said grimly. “I’d rather wait here than drown in mud.”

  “Might be drowning in mud soon anyway,” said a scrawny young man. “The rains are s’posed to start before the end of the span.”

  The man he had spoken to the first night at the bar had put Conard in the hands of the peat-diggers, who had given Conard employment for as long as he wished to stay in exchange for three meals a day, as many drinks as he wanted, and a warm bed in a not-so-warm room. No one could talk about much except the approaching rains, which meant Bogside had to harvest and dry as much peat as possible to continue generating heat for the span to come. All Conard could think was that he needed to escape before the miserable weather hit.

  “How many times are you going to try?” the first man asked. “Reckon the fortieth time will be lucky?”

  “There are plenty of women who wouldn’t mind you staying around a bit longer,” a portly older man said.

  Conard laughed. He knew the man was the father of two daughters close to his age, though he found the girls dull and too eager to please. Choosing a flat-bottomed shovel from a stack beside the cart, he stepped into line between two men. Then he slammed his shovel deep into the layer of peat, trying to work free the net of roots and decaying grasses that roped the earth in place. It was hard labor, more physical than anything he had deigned to participate in since he and his father had become favorites of the king, but there was something oddly satisfying about it as well. After the first quarter, his shoulders had ceased to feel as though someone had been bludgeoning them all day, and the shirts he had brought from home were beginning to feel tight about the chest.

  Finally Conard eased the chunk of peat free and tossed it over his shoulder into the cart. A few crumbs of dirt broke free and smacked him in the neck, but already he was bending to his next square of soft earth. The swath of bog they were currently attacking lay so far from Bogside that the town had receded into a lumpy haze in the distance; from his short time there, Conard had guessed that the areas where they stripped the peat were soon filled in with water, which turned the ground into a sagging mud-pit. The peat would not be returning any time soon. Of course, the marsh itself seemed infinite, so the Bogsiders were in no danger of running out of fuel. Their supply of morale was far likelier to run dry.

  The only downside of the peat-digging was that it left far too much room for thought. While the company of men walked to and from the day’s patch of bog, and while they shared lunch, everyone was teasing each other and telling jokes and boasting about whose goat knew the sneakiest way into the vegetable plot. But while they worked, the men grew quiet and serious.

  Conard had tried to make conversation for the first several days, asking the men where they had come from (Bogside, down to the last man) and why on earth they never left (where would they go?). When he ran out of questions—and it did not help that he had little in common with these adventure-wary Bog-dwellers—Conard’s thoughts returned to the one place he had been trying to avoid. Laina.

  Day after day, he imagined crawling up to her, utterly humbled, and begging her forgiveness. But how could he be so cruel as to believe she could forget who had taken away the thing that she valued most dearly—her brother? Sometimes she entered his dreams, her legs gone, half of her face hideously gouged away.

  And as he dug peat, those nightmare images followed him into the day, until he could no longer remember her proud, unsullied face.

  “I’ll take my children here someday.” Laina’s voice echoed through Conard’s head as his most cherished memory replayed itself. They had sailed one evening to a beach around the coast, where they had climbed to the top of a bluff and watched the sunset throw ribbons of fire over the ocean. Conard had built a small fire, barely safe from the harsh winds, and together they roasted fish they had netted earlier that day. When Conard dared to reach an arm around Laina’s shoulder, she leaned into his embrace, a rare smile illuminating her eyes.

  Conard slammed his shovel into the peat with more force than ever. The earth gave a dull, squishy protest as it resisted his assault.

  “I don’t want to rule. I would rather just build a cottage up here and watch the sunset every night.”

  Conard had squeezed her shoulder and contemplated
taking her hand. “And I’ll anchor my ship in that little cove, and bring you fish every day.”

  Shaking his head sharply, Conard leaned his full weight on the shovel. “Go away, Laina,” he muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear.

  That evening, when the laborers shouldered their shovels and headed home with four cartloads of peat, Conard trailed behind the group, not interested in joining their good-natured banter. He would likely never find passage south. He was stranded, truly stranded, with no way of returning to Lostport.

  Maybe he should just catch a ship north to the Twin Cities. He was a skilled sailor, navigator, and woodsman, and had been taught while living at the king’s manor to read and write well enough to find scholarly employment; he would easily find work in such a place. He certainly could not stay in Bogside.

  Could he do it? Could he turn his back on Lostport and create himself anew? He could grow wealthy and powerful, with more girls swooning after him than Lostport had to offer.

  And he could learn to live with the unrequited love and the unending, hollow guilt.

  Conard felt very strange when they finally returned to the outskirts of Bogside. It was as though he walked through a dream; the body he inhabited did not feel like his, and the clothing atop it chafed like never before, every thread coarse and heavy against his skin. The person who turned away from his past, from everything he cared for, was not Conard. It was a shell born of logic and necessity.

  Could he truly do it?

  Could he?

  As the men wheeled their four carts into the drying house, Conard leaned his shovel beside the door and slipped away before anyone noticed. When Conard returned to his lodgings, the innkeeper was deep in conversation with one of the oldest men in the village, so he was able to grab a pitcher of the surprisingly delicious sun-brew on his way up to his room without attracting anyone’s attention.

  It was already approaching sundown. With the last of the sunlight, Conard began packing his few possessions into the coarse sack he had arrived with. He had accumulated quite a bit more clothing since his arrival, thanks to the kindness of the Bogsiders, and most of it was far more suited to the damp, chilly climate of Kohlmarsh than anything he had arrived with.

  By the time he was finished packing, Conard was starting to grow lightheaded from the sun-brew. It was deceptively strong. Changing his grimy work-tunic for a cleaner, rougher shirt, he made his way downstairs for a bit of dinner.

  “I wondered when you would be returning my pitcher.” The innkeeper greeted him with a cheeky smile.

  Conard flushed. “Sorry. I thought you hadn’t noticed. I’ll pay for it with dinner, don’t worry.”

  The innkeeper laughed and cuffed him on the shoulder. “No matter. What’s driven you to drink, young master? Some pretty wench turn you down?”

  Conard shook his head. “I’m trying to talk myself into something. I think I might leave tomorrow.”

  “How? There aren’t any boats going south for the next three days.”

  “Maybe I’ll go north instead. Try my luck in the Twin Cities.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “I’d raise a mug to that. Have a seat, lad. Dinner’s on me. And I’ll top you up with a bit more of the old brew, if you don’t mind giving back the pitcher.”

  Conard found himself being led to a chair at the inn’s nicest table, where he joined three of his fellow diggers and one of the barmaids. When no ships made berth at Bogside, the inns were the run of the locals, who dispensed with formality in favor of having a riotous good time. While Conard had been staying at the mud-walled inn, he had witnessed several exceedingly formal dinners performed for wealthy ships’ crews, interspersed with drunken parties, raucous games of darts or Kins, and dances where the entire dining room floor was cleared and the five best village musicians played tunes until dawn.

  “You’re leaving?” one of the diggers said unhappily.

  Conard shot the innkeeper a disgruntled look. How had the old codger managed to spread his story within the space of him walking to a table?

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “How come? I thought none of them southbound ships wanted to take on an exile. Bad for business.”

  Conard sighed. He didn’t want to tell anyone about his plans, especially since they were not yet half a day old. “I have to leave. I don’t belong here. I don’t have any family here, and I don’t like being damp and cold all the time.” He wondered belatedly if that last comment might offend anyone, but they were nodding together and waiting eagerly for more.

  “Are you sneaking aboard one of the ships?” the barmaid asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  “No,” Conard said.

  Just then, the innkeeper arrived with a fresh mug of sun-brew and a plate heaped with mashed potatoes, scrawny river fish, and goat cheese. When he had finished thanking the man and returned his attention to the table, his four companions were still staring at him, waiting for him to go on.

  He sighed. “I’ve decided I should try heading north instead. Maybe the Twin Cities will prove to be a good home. At least there I can use some of what I learned in Lostport, instead of resigning myself to peat-digging for the rest of my life. I could even explore the mountains of Dardensfell.”

  Two of the diggers nudged each other and grinned. “Once you’ve got heaps of treasure, send us a letter, and we’ll come join you.”

  Conard raised his mug. “Cheers. I’d like to see that day.”

  Though Conard’s four companions did not leave the inn until late that night, news of his impending departure somehow managed to spread throughout Bogside; before long all of his fellow diggers were crowding into the inn, followed by a few of their wives and children. At first Conard was wary of the digger’s two daughters, afraid that the man would try to marry them off to him before he got a chance to leave, but soon the alcohol had made him unsteady on his feet, and he was so distracted by the noise and flickering firelight that he could barely pay attention to who stood before him. From a sideways comment he picked up, he realized the man wouldn’t want his daughters to leave their home in any case. That would likely mean never returning and never again seeing the people they loved best.

  Just like him.

  Conard woke the next morning with a headache like two woodpeckers drilling into his temples. He couldn’t remember going back up to his room, and was very glad to find that he hadn’t accidentally brought the barmaid up to bed with him. The sun was already up, which meant his fellow diggers had been at work for a long while already. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The rucksack was still in the corner, just as he had left it, though a few of the villagers had given him bits of food and sturdy traveling dishes to send him on his way.

  The innkeeper greeted him with a wave as he stumbled downstairs, neck aching.

  “On your way now?” he asked. “You’re in luck. A merchant ship just docked to resupply. They’re not likely to charge steep prices, if you can offer a hand on board.”

  “Wonderful,” Conard groaned. He was already doubting his decision. What would he do in the Twin Cities? He didn’t feel comfortable in crowds; he much preferred wandering the forests or the fjords, the boundless spaces that he could explore for a lifetime and never truly know. Would he ever be happy living in a cramped, smelly city, with nothing but streets to pace along? “Perhaps I’ll come back through here someday. I’ll be sure to pay you a visit.”

  The innkeeper handed him a lightweight basket of reeds. “A few pickings to tide you over as you travel.” He smiled at Conard and grasped his hand. “Be sure you tell any merchant ships you pass to bring their business here.”

  “You have my word.”

  With that, Conard turned and pulled back the inn door, squinting in the morning sun. No one was about this time of day—the diggers were at the peat fields, the women were weaving baskets and mats from reeds they found along the river, and those working at the two inns were preparing for the influx of visitors over lunchtime while the merchant
ship lingered.

  Before he even saw the ship, Conard could hear the voices of merchants shouting as they unloaded what little stock they would sell to Bogside.

  “Three goats! Not four! The next village requested seven, and they offered a much higher price.”

  While several passengers scurried down the gangplank, two men wrestled a trio of ill-tempered goats to the shore. Giving the goats a sideways glance, Conard strode up to the man who had been shouting. “Where are you headed, sir?”

  “Don’t—” The captain swallowed the rest of his command, blinked, and looked down at Conard. “Looking for passage, young man?”

  “Yes, in fact. Where are you headed?”

  “The Twin Cities. We are making all haste to reach the central port before the end of the span; Whitland has called for troops and arms, and we can make easy money ferrying metal between the mines and the cities once we’ve returned home.”

  “Is there a war?” Conard folded his arms, trying not to betray his surprise. He had heard no word of conflict; surely Lostport would be dragged into any dispute that involved Whitland.

  “Not yet,” the man said. Turning, he yelled, “Don’t forget the kumaras! Or the apples!” He returned his attention to Conard, looking vaguely ruffled. “Whitland wants to quash Varrival’s attacks on the borderlands before they grow dire. Everything is in a bit of turmoil right now, as you might imagine.”

  Conard stepped back a pace, eyeing the ship. He was no longer certain of anything. Like most Lostporters, Conard had grown up with a deep-seated mistrust of Whitland and its meddling. How could he turn around and help Whitland defeat a land even more distant and independent than Lostport?

  “Sorry, I don’t think I’ll be sailing with you today,” Conard said.

  “As I thought,” the man muttered. “Never leave home, these ignorant swamp-folk.”