The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  No, the boat was definitely making for his bank. He could hear faint shouting now, and two brightly-colored figures moved to the railing and waved to Conard.

  “Thank you!” he shouted.

  Someone hurled an anchor toward the bank, and as the prongs caught, the boat drifted closer still and slipped to a halt just in front of Conard.

  “What are you doing alone in the middle of the boglands?” called the man who had thrown the anchor.

  “Trying to get back to Lostport!”

  Conard hoisted his pack once again. The boat was now bobbing just a pace from where he stood; two men extended their arms and pulled Conard up and over the rail, sloshing water up to his coat as they did so. He hardly cared.

  “Sweet seducer!” said a tall, wiry man wearing a coat patched together in shades of purple. “Why could you not take a regular ship?”

  Conard hesitated for a moment before pulling the tattered sleeve back from his left wrist. He had a feeling these people had no aversion to transporting exiles. “No one would have me. And the ones that didn’t ask questions were far beyond my means.”

  The man snorted. “Well, you seem to have gone about this the right way. You’ve made yourself so pitiable that no captain could pass you by with a clear conscience.”

  “I’ll do anything you ask of me,” Conard said. “I just have to return to Lostport.”

  “Why the urgency?” the man asked with a mocking twinkle in his eye. “Revenge? Unfinished business? Or did you leave behind a lovely lass who might be pining for you?” He swept his long, grey-streaked hair over one shoulder.

  “I doubt she cares anything for me now,” Conard said darkly. “But yes, you’ve got it in one.”

  “Well, we can’t disappoint your lady-friend.” The man clapped Conard on the back. “Come below and warm up before you perish of the chill.”

  The gypsies soon had Conard dried, re-outfitted with a pair of brown trousers and a tunic that were threadbare but thankfully not too garish, and settled into the hold with a steaming bowl of stew. Other than the first man who had dropped the anchor and welcomed Conard aboard, the gypsies did not seem eager to approach him. No one spoke to him, and he thought the groups whispering in corners were casting sidelong glances in his direction.

  The inside of the ship was as colorful as its inhabitants. The hold was filled with pillows and blankets and cushions, the walls draped with silks, and Conard spotted a cluster of musical instruments in one corner.

  “When you return to Lostport, will you be hiding from the authorities?” the tall man asked conversationally, dropping into a cross-legged pose on a second cushion beside the low table Conard sat at.

  “I suppose,” Conard said, taken aback. “You aren’t planning to hand me in, are you?”

  The man laughed. “At least three of us aboard this ship are on the run from various authorities, mainly in Whitland. We’re the last ones you can expect to be concerned with that sort of thing. I was simply making conversation.”

  Extracting herself from a low-ceilinged corner, a grey-haired woman made her way toward Conard with an elegant gait clearly well-accustomed to the sway of the river. Warily she sank onto a third pillow, her glance flicking between Conard and the tall man. Her eyes were large and very dark; she certainly did not look Whitish.

  “Do you have a profession?” she asked abruptly. “Back in Lostport.”

  Conard shrugged. “My father taught me the ways of the woods, and I can sail rather well, but I mostly lived under the tutelage of the king’s household. I’ve continued exploring for my own amusement, not for pay.”

  The woman gave a sharp nod and returned her attention to the tall man. “He will prove a burden.”

  “Oh, be a dear. He certainly looks strong enough—he could help us stake down tents at the very least. Or perhaps catch a few rabbits.”

  “No. I forbid it!”

  Conard had the feeling he was missing a part of this exchange.

  “The others call me Grandfather,” the man told Conard. “And this is Ebony.”

  Shooting Grandfather a poisoned look, Ebony rose and turned to leave. Before she could escape, Grandfather caught her hand and kissed it with a flourish.

  “Isn’t she a sweet one?” Grandfather said.

  Conard did not know what to think. He finished his stew in silence, wishing he could wash the meal down with another three helpings. These people made him feel like a clumsy outsider. Unlike the kind folk of Bogside, the gypsies had marked him as an intruder and would not welcome him gladly into their company.

  At least he was warm and well-fed. At least he was still heading south. Conard could ask for nothing more.

  Chapter 8

  I t was disappointing to return to the manor after three days in the forest. On the journey home, Laina had insisted her father take the horse, noticing that he grew weary from the walk. She wished she could have stayed another quarter at the gypsy camp.

  The next morning, she went to her father’s study as soon as she woke.

  “Good morning, my dearest,” her father said heavily when he recognized her at the door. “Come, sit down.”

  Laina was immediately sobered by her father’s expression. She had been ready to fight him, to tear apart his plans for Port Emerald, but she had caught him in a deeply contemplative mood.

  “Why are we so obsessed with this land?” he asked.

  Laina was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “Lostport. Most of my subjects are worthless vagrants. We live hundreds of leagues from proper civilization. Your mother saw this for what it was—an outpost in the middle of bloody nowhere.” Her father sighed and leaned back, tilting his chin to the ceiling. “Why, in the name of all that is good, do we care so much for it?”

  Reaching across the table, Laina gripped her father’s hands. His grip was strong but bonier than she remembered—was he unwell? “It is my home. I can think of nowhere more beautiful. I have you here, and the household I grew up with, and the mountains and forest and sea.” Not Conard or Doran, though, she amended to herself. “Mother was wrong to leave. I would never trade the freedom of this place for all the comforts of a palace.”

  Her father nodded, still looking at the ceiling. “Yet you do not want our independence. You want us to remain subservient to a land whose interests are often directly in opposition to our own.”

  That was unfair. Laina should have seen that coming. “Father, that has nothing to do with it. Of course I want independence for Lostport. But is it really worth destroying Varrival so Doran can walk again?”

  “He is my son,” her father said coldly. “What father would not give anything for his son?”

  Laina recoiled. She had no right to choose what was best for Doran, not when she had escaped unscathed. Then she thought of Jairus, and of Varrival, and of the fierce independence of the desert people.

  She swallowed. The words were hard to form, but she could not remain silent. “It’s not worth it. Father, you cannot.”

  Her hands had remained on the table, though when he began shaking his head she drew them away.

  “It is not just Doran I think of,” he said. “I am responsible for this kingdom and the fate of everyone within it. I am growing old, Laina. I know you would provide me with an heir, if you could, but what if I die before he comes of age? What of our kingdom then? I can’t leave the fate of Lostport up to chance. I must have Doran back.”

  “He doesn’t even want to rule,” Laina said obstinately. Though it was true, it was something neither she nor Doran acknowledged openly.

  “Our lives are not governed by want,” her father shot back. “I want you to inherit the throne in Doran’s place. You want nothing to do with Prince Ronnick. And Doran wants to spend his days in scholarly contemplation, removed from the woes of the world. But we have to think about our people. We are their guardians, and I will not see this land crumble under my watch.”

  Laina was taken aback. Would her father truly giv
e the throne to her, if he could? Still, she stood and kicked her chair back. “You’re deliberately funding a war. And I will have no part in it.”

  Her father lifted a stack of papers from his desk and rapped it sharply to straighten the edges. It was a clear dismissal.

  “Fine,” Laina said. “Do what you will. But I won’t sit quietly and let you ruin everything.”

  She stomped downstairs and out to the garden, where her temper carried her down the steps toward town. Before she knew where she was headed, she found herself standing outside the Seal’s Roost, one fist poised to rap on the door.

  It was as though Swick and Jairus had been waiting for her. A third chair had already been drawn up to their favorite table in the corner of the restaurant, and the innkeeper immediately brought her a glass of refreshingly icy water with lemon.

  “You seem very intent on something,” Swick said. “Am I impolite to pry?”

  Laina laughed softly. “You might be able to guess what’s wrong. I talked to my father about his plans for Port Emerald. He’s absolutely determined to go ahead with the project.”

  “But you don’t support it,” Jairus said swiftly, as though he still doubted her.

  Laina narrowed her eyes at him. “Never. I would do anything to keep your people free.”

  Swick glanced sideways at Jairus. “We have been discussing the same matter all morning. Your arrival is most opportune. Jairus has only just taken me up on a bet. We tried to guess whether or not you would be willing to participate in—shall we say unsavory—methods to achieve our goal.”

  “That depends on the methods,” Laina said. “Murder, no. Theft—well, it depends who we’d be stealing from. Vandalism—again, it depends on the party being targeted.” She gave them a fleeting smile. “Just out of curiosity, who bet which way?”

  Grinning, Swick gave Laina a playful punch on the shoulder. “I knew I’d win that one! I told Jairus you’d be game.”

  “He thought you would do anything,” Jairus said. “Even kill.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Swick said. “We never specified.”

  Jairus raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. Then they both laughed.

  “Now you have to tell me what these plans are,” Laina said. “I can’t stand the suspense!”

  Jairus sipped at his lemon-water before elaborating. “I spoke with the head architect while we were visiting Port Emerald. He told me a few details that King Faolan had not previously disclosed.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that King Faolan is very nervous about the project drawing on too long, because it will be severely hindered by the winter rains. And the fact that Whitland has only offered its help because it sees an immediate prospect of wealth, but it has made no promises whatsoever in regards to returning the favor. And, should Whitland actually march on Varrival before Port Emerald is completed, all of its architects and labor force will be withdrawn from the project and enlisted immediately.”

  “Ah.” Laina thought she could see where this was going. “So Father is under pressure to finish this within a deadline, and should he fail, the entire project could go to ruin.”

  Swick nodded. “Precisely. Our job won’t be too tricky. All we need to do is provide a few obstacles. Broken cart wheels, perhaps, or missing axes.”

  “I could hide in the hills and dig up foundations in the night,” Jairus added.

  “That could get you killed,” Laina said quickly. “The forest is not an easy place to hide out in—you have to slash your way through the undergrowth, unless you find a nice stream to follow. The architects and laborers will know that. They’ll be able to search the area and root you out in no time. If we’re to do this, we have to make it look like a series of accidents. No one should be searching for someone to blame.”

  “We?” Swick looked delighted. “Are you volunteering yourself to become involved with whatever we get up to?”

  “I thought that was your bet,” Laina said. “I want to be useful.” She could not stand to sit quietly and watch events unfold from afar, not now.

  “Excellent,” Swick said. “Here is the plan.”

  * * *

  For the second time in half a span, Katrien was wakened early by the sound of a commotion in the courtyard.

  “Not again,” she muttered, slipping from her bed and making her way to the window. It was the same guards who manned her gates day in and day out—she had come to recognize them better than she wished—but they were accompanied by four unfamiliar additions. Her footman was trying to bar their access to the house, but they were shouting at him and looked close to resorting to violence.

  This time Katrien did not have time to dress before she intervened. Instead she pulled her dressing gown over her sheer nightdress and ran down the stairs. When she skidded into the entrance hall, she could hear pounding so loud she feared the guards would shatter the door.

  Steeling herself, she unlatched the front doors and drew them back.

  The hilt of a broadsword nearly punched her in the throat. The doors crashed open and all six guards tumbled into the hall. Katrien searched in desperation for her footman, but it was not until the guards had righted themselves that she spotted him lying unconscious on the cobblestones.

  She would not betray her fear. “You have no grounds to trespass here!” she said coldly. “Remove yourselves at once, or my household will resort to force!”

  One of the guards laughed. “You’re alone, my lady. Your threats aren’t worth a damn.”

  “Why have you come?” she demanded.

  Another guard pushed his way through the group and seized Katrien’s wrist. “Traitorous whore! You were scheming with King Faolan. I have your incriminating letter right here.” He brandished a crumpled wad of parchment.

  Katrien caught her breath. How had he found it? Had Amadi betrayed her? “This is no scheme,” she said, trying not to let her voice shake. She knew the contents of the letter—she had told her husband that she intended to visit him before long. “I simply wrote out of loneliness.”

  “And sneaked it past our guards! Filthy, scheming bitch.” Wrenching Katrien’s wrist back, the guard tumbled her to the ground in one easy stroke. She fell heavily, bruising her tailbone, yet still she refused to cry out.

  “We came to tell you that your next transgression won’t be pardoned,” said another guard with a hard, hateful face. “King Luistan will see you hang if you disobey his orders again.”

  A brute of a man with a gash beneath his chin kicked her in the chest, hard, and Katrien’s defiant response was cut short. The man hauled her to her feet and leered in her face, his beefy hands tight around her wrists. Katrien’s legs wouldn’t work—only the man’s force kept her standing. His angry companion ripped Katrien’s dress from the neck to her waist, and the brute ground his mouth against hers in a painful mockery of a kiss.

  As she gasped for breath, one of the other guards cleared his throat. His face was blurry, her vision narrowed from panic.

  “Time to go,” he said gruffly. “We’ve made our point.”

  The brute released his grip on Katrien so suddenly that she crumpled, breathing shallowly. “Next time, I’ll get my little fun,” he growled. Then the men stomped from her hall without a backward look.

  The sun was well into the sky now, and Katrien expected one of her servants to appear at any moment to discover her humiliation. Her nightdress was torn and filthy, and twin bruises were blooming on her wrists where the brute had restrained her.

  Not until she struggled to her feet, aching everywhere, did she realize that her eyes were wet. Angrily she wiped away the tears and clutched what remained of her clothes about her. She had her staff to worry about, and her husband to warn. She could not afford to be weak.

  Before she could retreat upstairs and fix the mess the guards had made, she had to see if her footman was safe. She peered around the front doors, terrified she would find yet another guard waiting to assault her, but
everything was in its place; the footman had clearly revived and was now going about his morning business.

  With a shuddering sigh, Katrien closed the doors, bolted them securely, and returned to her bedroom to dress. Amadi was waiting, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her at the end of Katrien’s bed, and her face drained of color when she saw Katrien.

  “Don’t worry,” Katrien said. “Nothing has happened.”

  “What did they do to you?” Amadi asked shrilly.

  “Nothing,” Katrien repeated. “You must speak of this to no one. I am leaving Corona immediately. Help me pack, sweet. You can return to your family.”

  “I want to go with you,” Amadi said, still sounding hysterical.

  “No. Your parents would never condone it.”

  Amadi’s eyes widened. “They don’t have space for me at home. I won’t have anywhere to go once you leave.”

  Katrien was torn. “I intend to travel south to Lostport. It is a long, arduous journey, not something to be taken lightly. I will have none of the comforts of home. It will be cold, uncomfortable, and exhausting.”

  “I don’t care,” Amadi insisted.

  With a sigh, Katrien pulled her knotted hair back from her face. “It is your choice. But I hope you understand what you have agreed to. Now make yourself useful and help me pack.”

  Giving Katrien a curtsey and an anxious smile, Amadi darted off and began shoving skirts and coats into the largest traveling cases Katrien owned. Once she was dressed in a clean frock that would not draw unwanted attention, Katrien tugged open her drawer of precious coins, gems, and jewelry and began stuffing it all into a handbag. She needed as much wealth as possible if she wanted to bribe her way south. This whole endeavor would be very tricky. She was betting on a dangerous unknown—the hope that no one had mentioned her to the portside guards. If the dock wardens knew she was under house arrest and considered a danger to the throne, Katrien would be arrested before she set foot on a boat. And she did not want to think what fate would befall poor, common Amadi.