The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  As Conard drew closer to the laborers, his friends held back, until at last he looked over his shoulder and could no longer pick them out from among the crowd.

  “Hey,” one of the builders called, noticing Conard. “You’re not from our group. Are you just stopping here for a day off?”

  Conard had to think fast. He had foolishly thought the men might mistake him for part of their own group; now he realized, far too late, that they were only fifty in number and had spent the past two spans traveling and living together. They would know each other inside and out. “Actually, I’m a new arrival myself,” he said. Better not to pretend he had insider knowledge of Port Emerald—that would quickly make him look a fool. “I was traveling through Dardensfell when I caught wind of this Port Emerald, and I thought I might try my hand. I’ve been stuck in Lostport for ages, first because I didn’t have supplies, and then on account of that bloody rain.”

  The man nodded affably. More were listening now, and all seemed eager to meet this new arrival.

  “So, are you heading out soon?” Conard asked. “I was about to start down the road myself, but I’d love the company if you won’t be long.”

  Two of the men took Conard by the shoulders and drew him into their ranks. “We’re moving out right now,” one said, pounding him on the back. “Come along. You can stay with us, if you want. Soldiers are no good by themselves.”

  Almost immediately, the laborers began shuffling toward the road and trailing away from the midway camp in a well-formed, two-by-two line. A few of the men were rubbing at their eyes, clearly nursing hangovers, while others looked back through the trees to wave to the women they had already promised to return to. At this rate, it was probably good the men had camped down the road rather than infiltrating the performers’ clearing.

  As they went, Conard listened to the men joke and grumble about the delay and the work awaiting them, and cautiously began asking what questions he could, trying to learn as much as possible without revealing himself as an outsider. He gave his name as Kellar, which he hoped sounded Whitish, and was relieved when no one questioned him.

  “I’ve only heard rumors,” Conard said. “Does the High King actually believe Port Emerald will be a success?”

  The man plodding along in front of him gave a shrug. “He certainly believes he’ll get money out of King Faolan. Else he wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Some men are saying the High King doesn’t care one whit about Port Emerald,” the man beside Conard said softly. “He’s using this as a cheap way to build himself an army, I reckon. As soon as work is done here, we march on Varrival.”

  “I’d heard about Varrival,” Conard said. “But I’m confused. I thought King Luistan had sent out two separate armies, one for the building project, and the other to suppress Varrival.”

  “Naw,” the man in front said. “This’ll harden us up, turn us into a strong team. Perfect for fighting.”

  “Why wait, though?” Conard asked. “Why not march on Varrival now? Is it really that strong, that it could stand up to the full force of Whitland?”

  The man beside Conard gave him a sideways look. “Unfortunately, yes. How much do you know about Varrival?”

  Conard shrugged.

  “The kingdom has been independent and secretive for centuries now. No one knows how strong its weapons are, or how large its numbers. They just know Varrival has a high enough opinion of itself to push for more land. I’d guess High King Luistan is more worried than he would let on.”

  Conard pursed his lips, wondering if Jairus had been entirely honest with him. If Whitland was so worried about confronting Varrival, why should Jairus be concerned? “And are we intending to march on Varrival in winter? What if we’re snowed in?”

  Someone behind him snorted unkindly. “It’s a desert, halfwit. Winter’s the only decent season.”

  Biting his tongue, Conard swallowed what he had meant to say. If they were traveling to Varrival by land, which he suspected they would be given they did not own any seafaring vessels, they would have to pass through the southern reach of the mountains. If Varrival would not see snow, the mountains certainly would.

  He realized, a moment late, that pretending ignorance—even dullness—would have given him free reign to ask as many questions as he wished.

  By the time the company had stopped for lunch and then resumed their now-weary trudge toward Port Emerald, Conard had ceased to draw attention, instead melting into the endless line of white uniforms, griping and massaging his aching shoulders along with everyone else. At least the path had dried out; Conard had been dreading another swim akin to the one Laina had faced on her way to the midway camp.

  At that thought, Conard’s chest tightened. He hoped she would get home safely. And he hoped it would not be too long before he saw her again.

  “You reckon we’ll reach the port before nightfall?” a man in front of Conard muttered loudly.

  “That’s the midway camp we were just at,” Conard said. “Means this can’t be much longer than yesterday’s slog.”

  “Feels like it,” someone else said.

  Because you were sleeping in tents last night, not in the king’s comfortable manor, Conard thought, though he said nothing.

  It was midafternoon before the front of the line gave a shout—they had seen the end of the track. What with the rain and the mud, Conard had not yet found a chance to visit the port. He wondered if he would recognize it, so many years later. As he waited for each of the men to pause at the viewpoint before continuing down the track, Conard peered through the trees in search of evidence of the building project. Voices drifted back toward him—

  “Sweet seducer!”

  “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Where are we supposed to live?”

  “Would you look at that water!”

  Eventually he made his way to the front and took his turn stepping up to the ledge.

  The view was incredible. Before, when he and his father had stumbled across the fjord, the beach had been hemmed in by mountains and trees; they had only been able to see that which hugged the water’s edge. Now, with a bit of height, he could see tall, jagged peaks thrusting themselves into gaps between the innermost ring of hunched green mountains. These peaks still clung to their last vestiges of snow, the pinnacles accented with rich black shadows and sun-washed patches of white.

  Unbidden, the same craving for adventure that had haunted his father now rose within him. If only he could abandon the Whitlanders, pack up as many supplies as he could carry, and follow those mountains into infinity…

  But the next two men were jostling for their turn at the lookout.

  “Never seen a few mountains before?” one of them teased Conard. “Budge along, or we’ll end up sleeping outside again.”

  He tried to think of a witty response and failed; with a muttered “Sorry,” he shuffled aside and returned to the path, which now took a sharp dive down the hill.

  The sun was low above the peaks when they finally reached the builders’ encampment. Light filtered through the trees in hazy shafts of gold, while the crickets and cicadas were beginning to take up their evening chorus. After walking through such dense, unmarred forest, it was startling to see the beginnings of the construction project—a cleared swath of trees stacked high with stripped logs, marble and granite stones, and finished bricks. Only two men were still at work in the clearing, one dousing the brick kiln, another recording what looked like an inventory. Behind them, a wide, brown river tore its way through the valley, swollen with the recent rains.

  Gradually the army was clustering around the riverbank at the far end of the clearing; it took Conard several moments before he realized someone was standing there, apparently waiting to welcome the new arrivals. Once most of the men had stopped moving about and trading complaints under their breath, the man addressed the entire party.

  “Greetings!” he called. “We had word of your arrival. I am the head architect here, and it
is my privilege to welcome you to Port Emerald.” The man was tawny-skinned and black-haired; if Conard had to hazard a guess, he would say the head architect was from Ruunas.

  “If you had word, does it mean you’ve got somewhere for us to stay?” the leader of the Whitish company asked aggressively.

  “Yes, indeed. A few of your number will be required to help provide food for the camp, but we should have sufficient tents to accommodate all new arrivals.”

  “We’re starving!” someone yelled from the back of the group. “Have you got dinner for us?”

  A few men laughed, while others added emphatic shouts to the din.

  Without the least sign of perturbation, the head architect smiled and beckoned them toward the bridge. “I had an inkling this would happen,” he said, his words nearly lost beneath the cacophony of movement. “Your dinner is waiting.”

  Over the bridge and past another stand of trees, they emerged at the base of the construction site, amidst a sea of tents. Though just three skeletal structures had been erected, the labor was in plain evidence—stairs now ran up and down the half-cleared mountainside, with terraced building foundations set at odd intervals, nestled amongst the trees. Those tents that did not fit comfortably on the flat land that extended from the river’s mouth to the beach instead dotted the mountainside, clustered atop building foundations in staggered pairs or trios. It looked like a vertical campsite, with each set of tents stacked atop the one beneath.

  “Enjoy your meal,” the head architect said, still with that knowing smile. “Afterward, I invite you to join me for drinks around the fire, at which time I will elucidate you regarding your work at this camp.”

  “Which tents can we use?” the leader of the army asked quickly.

  “Any ones you find empty,” the architect said. “Unless you can convince the others to share. I hope you do not mind a bit of a climb—most of the unoccupied tents are up there.” Eyes twinkling, he nodded up the mountainside.

  Chapter 15

  N ow that Conard had left the midway camp, Laina had no true reason to stay there herself. She knew her father would be terrified as soon as he found her missing, and she did not want to cause him any more distress than she already had. So it was that she, Jairus, and Swick packed their own muddied belongings and turned back toward Lostport. The old gypsy man and Swick exchanged a surprisingly fond farewell while Jairus waited at the edge of their cluster of tents, eager to be away from the bustle of camp.

  “Do you think he will manage?” Jairus asked once they had returned to the road and begun the slow journey home.

  “What?” Laina said. “To fool the Whitlanders, or to pull off the entire scheme?”

  “The whole scheme,” Jairus said. “Is he capable of convincingly playing such a central part?”

  Laina got the distinct feeling that Jairus had not been impressed with Conard. She had not spoken of him much, simply said he was an old friend and fellow adventurer, but Jairus must have been expecting something more notable. “Do not doubt him,” she said, a bit more harshly than she intended. Conard had found his way back to her from a bog in the middle of Kohlmarsh, with his exile’s band still fast around his wrist. He would not fail.

  After that, both Laina and Jairus were quiet for a while. She was upset that Jairus would look down on someone like Conard; if so, what must he think of her? She had never left Lostport and had spent most of her young adulthood shirking responsibility? Jairus, for his part, was indecipherable.

  To compensate for the silence, Swick began a one-sided conversation that helped pass the time.

  “Remarkable people, those gypsies,” he said. “I’ve traveled with bands of theirs from time to time. When you’re going through cities in foreign lands, they provide a bit of protection and anonymity. That Grandfather character, though—I’d guess he knows more than all of us combined. Doesn’t look it, but he’s brilliant.”

  Laina leaned forward to give Feather’s ear a pat and pretended she was not listening.

  “It seems he used to be embroiled in a spot of political scheming back in Whitland. He was born to a high-ranking family with no money, and was sold as a scribe to King Luistan’s most dangerous opposition to pay off a family debt. This was when the High King was still in his youth, of course. His hold on the throne was tenuous at best.”

  “Really? They neglected to tell us that down here.” Laina had always known King Luistan as the High King. There was no other, and never could have been.

  “Questions of illegitimacy,” Swick said offhandedly. “Not the most inventive challenge his opponent could have come up with. It was a cousin of his, raised away from the capital in unusual circumstances, and with Grandfather’s help he became a serious danger to the royal line. Back in Dardensfell, we loved hearing news of their scheming and counter-scheming. Most everyone was rooting for an overthrow, but more than anything, we loved seeing Whitland in a bit of turmoil.” Swick shook his head fondly. “It’s remarkable to think that a man who could pass as a faceless gypsy once had such a pivotal role in Whitish politics.”

  “Had you heard of him back then?” Laina asked. This time she could no longer feign disinterest.

  “Not specifically,” Swick said, scratching his beard. “The king’s cousin wanted to appear strong and independent, though there were reports that said he went nowhere without his faithful scribe.”

  “What happened?”

  “An assassin did away with the cousin. Everyone in Dardensfell believes the king ordered him to the task, though the king—of course—says otherwise. Anyone associated with the cousin was charged with high treason. Suddenly the brilliant scribe was forced to vanish for good. He first headed into Chelt, looking to set himself as a figures-keeper for the merchants trading along the coast, but he was pursued there and nearly got himself killed.”

  “How did he get away?” Laina asked.

  Swick shrugged. “That was as far into the story as he got. At first I was talking to him as though he was simply a well-traveled gypsy, so I asked him about his favorite towns to perform at, and which stories were his most popular. It was a fair while before he let on that he was more than he seemed.”

  “You should have said something,” Jairus muttered, quietly enough that Swick could pretend not to hear. “I would have been interested to hear his story.”

  More interested than you were in Conard, Laina thought sourly.

  “Many people are more than they seem,” Swick remarked. “If you had taken the time to ingratiate yourself with the gypsies, you would have found them more than willing to divulge their stories.”

  “What about the woman with him?” Laina asked. “The one draped in—”

  She stopped abruptly—she had seen something lying on the road ahead. From here she could make out nothing more than a shadowed outline. “What is that?” she hissed, pointing ahead. Was it an animal waiting to prey on them?

  Jairus and Swick both moved closer to her horse, each taking one end of the reins, and they proceeded more carefully. With her high vantage point, though, it was Laina who first realized what it was. The rounded shape was the curve of a man’s back. Someone had collapsed on the road.

  “He needs help!” she cried, jumping down from her horse. “Is he awake?”

  Swick hurried forward and knelt at the man’s side. When he rolled the man onto his back, Laina cried out.

  It was her father.

  For a moment she could not breathe. She dropped to her knees beside her father, dizzy. Then, as a thousand frantic questions fought for breath, all she could manage was, “Is he alive?”

  Never had she seen him looking so small, so utterly helpless. “Is he—?” she whispered again, putting a hand to his chest.

  Swick’s hand was at her father’s throat. “He’s alive. But very weak. Moving him would put him in grave danger, but anything is better than leaving him here.”

  “Can he ride Feather? We could tie him on with our coats, couldn’t we?”

 
; Swick nodded, already shrugging out of his long coat.

  While Swick performed a careful assessment of Laina’s father, examining his pulse and his extremities and checking the color of his eyes, Laina led Feather forward and urged the horse to kneel. Laina wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around her father and lend her strength to him, but knowing this would do more harm than good, she resisted the urge. She could hear his ragged breathing as he fought for air.

  “He appears to have a concussion,” Swick said gently. “He may also have suffered a stroke; I know his health hasn’t been brilliant of late. Either he stumbled and fell and hit his head, or he collapsed from the stroke and hit his head then.”

  “Why was he here?” Jairus asked. “He had no business in the woods, and certainly nothing that would require leaving his attendants behind.”

  Laina was hesitant to reply. “He—I think he must have gone after me,” she said weakly. “I left without telling him, and he must have been worried.” Tears of angry guilt pricked at her eyes. She should never have been so careless. She should have taken her father’s concern seriously. “We need to get him home. Now.”

  One thing was certain. Laina would never disobey her father’s wishes again. If that meant she was housebound for the rest of her life, so be it.

  Delicately, Jairus and Swick helped her father into a sitting position and then, hands beneath his arms, lifted him off the ground and onto the horse. He was not a large man, but he was heavier than Jairus and Swick; Laina could see their faces go red with exertion. At last he was in place, and Swick used the arms of all three coats to tie him to the saddle.

  “Quickly now,” Swick said, taking Feather’s reins with a careful eye on Laina’s father.

  They could not afford a moment’s delay.

  It seemed an eternity before Laina recognized the inlet leading up to Lostport, the water now drained from the exceedingly muddy path, and the sun was low in the sky before they entered the town.