“Of course.” Laina smoothed her hair, which was still itching with sweat. “Though I’m sure it will be too late. They’ll arrive to scare the Whitlanders off our bones.”
* * *
There was mayhem in camp that day.
The man whom Jairus had knocked out was lying in the medical tent for most of the day, hovering somewhere between life and death, and no one could concentrate on their work while speculation ran rampant through the camp. Men kept trying to take a look at him, to see if rumors of his skull splitting in two were accurate, and Ian was convinced the entire camp was about to be put under siege.
It was a good thing they didn’t know how defenseless Lostport really was.
The sun was nearing the horizon by the time the guard came to. Conard was among the onlookers waiting to hear his prognosis; he was terrified first that the man would survive and second that he had seen Conard lying in the underbrush that night.
When the two men guarding the healer’s tent passed on the word that the man had survived, everyone who was in reach of the tent tried to shove their way in to hear the story firsthand.
“Are we under attack?”
“Who did it?”
“Those Lostport bastards. Never trusted them.”
At last the babble cleared long enough for Captain Drail to yell, “Everyone OUT!”
After that, Conard was only privy to the information the two tent-guards chose to pass along. The man was remarkably composed, and did not seem to have suffered any lasting injury from his concussion. In fact, he soon stood and walked out of his tent accompanied by just one of the guards, who was given the task of ensuring he did not fall asleep again until it was deemed safe.
“Who was it?” men shouted as he passed. “What happened? Think you’d recognize whoever did it?”
The man turned and frowned at Quentin, who had asked the last question. “Of course I’d recognize him. He was a massive Varrilan bastard. How many Varrilans are running loose ‘round these parts?”
Conard went cold. Though he was lucky he had escaped without notice, Jairus was in trouble. If word got to any of the builders in Lostport, Jairus could be brought to justice—or worse, disposed of discretely. Without any true opposition to the builders, their word had become law.
After Jairus had gone to the trouble of filling Conard in on their plan yesterday, Conard felt indebted to him. Jealousy aside, he could not allow the builders to slaughter Jairus out of spiteful racism.
This was going to be another very long night.
While most of the builders were sitting down to dinner, Conard stashed as many rolls and dried fish as he could carry into his rucksack and stole away from camp. He considered sneaking through the brush as he had done yesterday, but if a new guard had been posted, he would put a bolt through him sooner than look at him. Instead he followed the main road to the bridge, where he was dismayed to find two guards patrolling either bank of the river.
“What is your business?” one of the guards barked.
“Just heading to town for the night,” Conard said. “I’ll be back by sunrise. I’ve got a sick friend I want to visit.”
“Do you want to take a guard? There might be more Varrilans lurking around. Could be they’re the ones trying to attack us.”
“I’ve got a short sword,” Conard said, patting the none-too-impressive knife at his belt. In the dark they might mistake it for a proper weapon. “I’ll be on the alert. And I’ll ask around in town. See if any Varrilans have arrived lately.”
“Good man.” The guard saluted Conard and let him pass. Conard kept a hand on the hilt of his knife until he had passed the second pair of guards and returned to the shadowed forest. The veil-thin layer of clouds that had shrouded the sky the previous night had lifted, leaving the air sharp and chill. Autumn was on its way. A brilliant swath of stars lit the way, almost parallel with the forest road, the crescent moon still bright enough to throw each pebble into relief.
Eating while he walked, Conard made good time along the road; it took every bit of his resolve to slink through the forest away from the campfire light rather than pay a visit to his friends at the gypsy camp. There would be soldiers around, though, and he would be recognized far too easily.
By the time he reached the coast near Lostport, Conard could have fallen asleep standing. He was paranoid that someone would shoot him for disturbing the peace so late at night, though with any luck, word of the previous day’s mishap had not yet spread to Lostport. He made straight for the Seal’s Roost, where Laina had mentioned the two cartographers had taken up lodging, and rapped quietly.
To his surprise, someone appeared not three heartbeats later.
“You’re not welcome here,” the doorman growled. He looked burlier and meaner than most innkeepers.
“I’m looking for someone,” Conard said. “Is a man named Jairus staying here?”
“You’re nothing but trouble. Get out of my inn. If you want to see someone, talk to the city patrol.”
When the man gestured to the street, Conard noticed six tight groups of men pacing the main street, none in uniform but all fully armed.
“What’s happening? Are those soldiers patrolling the streets?”
The doorman grunted. “After what your lot have been doing, are you surprised?”
For the first time, Conard remembered that he was wearing his Whitish uniform. “What happened? I’ve been at the building site. And no, I’m not Whitish. If you fetch Jairus, he’ll understand.”
“Enough trouble to last a lifetime, that’s what’s happened,” the doorman muttered. “I’ll wake your friend and ask if he knows you. What’s the name?”
“Conard.”
He snapped the door shut in Conard’s face.
Quicker than Conard had expected, the doorman returned and ushered Conard into the room, now with a pair of candles flickering on the dining table.
“What are you doing here?” Jairus hissed, drawing his coat closer around him. He was bare-chested beneath the coat, and wore loose, tattered pants without shoes.
“I had to warn you,” Conard whispered. “Am I safe to talk here?”
Jairus nodded.
“That man you axed—he woke up, and he remembers it was a Varrilan man who knocked him out. You’re the only Varrilan in town, and if any of them see you, they’ll murder you on the spot. You have to be careful. Go into hiding.”
Jairus’s expression grew darker with each word Conard said.
“Actually, go to Laina and tell her I sent you. Ask for refuge in her manor.”
Jairus gingerly took a seat. “Why have you come all the way to tell me this?”
“Because I owe you,” Conard said. “And I know the Whitlanders are racist assholes who can’t wait for an excuse to kill every Varrilan they see. I don’t want to live in a world where they can get away with that.”
“Thank you.” It was almost a question. For the first time, Jairus did not look like a sour, brooding wretch; he was just a young man who was very far from home.
“I have to head back now, before anyone realizes I’m gone. Look after Laina for me, won’t you?”
Jairus nodded, hugging his coat closer still.
Conard rose and left, thanking the doorman on the way out. He had a lot to think about on the way back toward Port Emerald—clearly the Whitlanders had done something serious enough to warrant an armed patrol keeping them at bay, and someone had spurred the Lostporters to take action against their oppressors for the first time. If King Faolan had changed his policy toward the builders, Captain Drail would not be pleased. And High King Luistan would send yet more “builders” to suppress Lostport’s meager resistance still further.
Where did Laina fit in this? Had she been speaking to her father, persuading him to take a firmer stance against the builders? Or had she gone directly to the people to encourage revolt?
Either way, she was playing a dangerous game.
Chapter 19
T he days h
ad blurred together since his fall. There was something essential Faolan knew he needed to tell Laina, but he could not recall just what it was. Everything was hazy and indistinct, and whenever he tried to keep his eyes open for too long, he was plagued with blinding headaches.
She had not visited in far too long, of that he was certain. He hoped she had not run off on some foolish mission and left the kingdom to govern itself.
Three useless attendants bustled in to offer Faolan yet another glass of water or hot brick for his feet that morning, and he was so fed up with being treated as an invalid that he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep when the next visitor arrived.
“I’m so sorry, Father.”
That soft voice belonged to Laina. Faolan opened his eyes at once and struggled to sit and greet her properly. He had never felt such sympathy for his broken son.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice was hoarse from disuse. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I’ve been busy.” Laina took a seat on the edge of the bed, perching so gently it was as though she feared he would shatter at the slightest touch.
“Who has been leading the open council?” he asked urgently. That detail he could not remember pertained to an important decision that must be announced soon. “Is it you, or Harrow?”
“I’ve been presiding,” Laina said, not meeting Faolan’s eyes. “Your adviser and the cartographers from town have been helping me.”
“And? Is everything well?”
Laina shrugged. “I didn’t realize how many contracts you and the High King had to agree on.”
“Have you been making decisions without me?”
Laina gave him a hurt look. “What else was I supposed to do? Things in town were going badly, and someone needed to take action at once.”
“What steps did you take to respond?”
“I called an open council. Most of the town showed up.”
Faolan nodded. “Good decision. And?”
“We’re completely helpless, aren’t we? We don’t really have a say in anything that’s going on right now. It’s been like that for spans.”
“I hope you kept that knowledge to yourself,” Faolan said sharply. His most crucial mission for the past span had been feigning strength while around him the kingdom fell to bits in the hands of King Luistan.
“Yes,” Laina said, defensive. “But the Whitlanders have gone too far. No one in town feels safe. I’ve organized a set of patrols to keep the streets safe at night. We can’t have any more shops looted.”
Faolan sat up straighter, wishing he had the strength to leave the sickroom. “I wish Doran was here still. He would know the right thing to do. Appointing a patrol is a very risky move, because it signals to the Whitish builders that you see them as a threat. If they are perceived as a danger, they will be at liberty to act as such. And if that were to happen, Lostport would go up in flames.”
Laina opened her mouth to protest; she broke off when the door creaked open.
“Excuse me?” Nort said, poking his head around the corner. “Laina, you have a visitor.”
“Sorry,” Laina said. “I have to see what’s happened. Things are a bit of a mess right now.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving Faolan alone with his headache.
* * *
When Doran came to, he was lying on his back in the wheeled chair with worried faces blocking out the sky above. He didn’t know how he had gotten there.
Every bone in his body ached, but the blood seemed to be coming entirely from his knees, where the wall had struck. And he couldn’t feel that at all.
Would he just bleed to death, his body unable to repair itself?
“Summon his household,” one of the men was saying, his face still a brown blur as Doran blinked to clear his eyes.
“No, summon the medic,” a brisk woman said.
The sound of running footsteps approached, and then a panting voice said, “I’m here. What happened?”
“He crashed into the wall. Lost control of the chair, I’d reckon. Or he was trying to kill himself. I dunno.”
The blurred faces parted a little as the medic approached, and Doran tried to squint so he could make out the woman’s features.
“You’re awake!” she said with surprise.
Doran groaned. “My household has been—been—” The words wouldn’t form properly on his tongue.
“We’ll take you home, and you can tell us what happened then,” the medic said gently.
Doran shook his head, the movement sending a splitting pain through his skull. “Not—yet.” That, at least, he thought came out right.
“To my office, then,” the medic said. “Could someone please bring a stretcher?”
Doran lifted a heavy hand and rubbed his eyes as he waited, the onlookers now keeping a respectful distance. At last he could see properly again.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice sounded almost normal now, so he tried again. “Where do my servants come from? Are they from Torrein?” He slurred the last word, so “Torrein” came out more like “Train.”
“No, they were sent as a peace offering from King Luistan,” the medic said, frowning. She was younger than Doran had expected, her eyes and hair dark against a chestnut face. “He wanted to make a gesture of goodwill from Whitland to Lostport.”
“Not a—a gesture of goodwill,” Doran said, gripping his forehead with one hand as though he could hold together the pieces that ached as though they would split asunder. “They’ve been lying to me. Keeping me away from Lostport.”
“We can talk more at my office,” the medic said with a frown.
Two heavyset men with a stretcher showed up then, and with the utmost care, the medic worked with them to transfer Doran from the chair onto the blankets.
Despite their precautions, he still felt as though the movement would break him in half. He hissed through his teeth, trying his hardest not to yell out in pain with so many around to witness him. The world went dark again; it was all he could do to remain conscious.
It was not until he was transferred onto a hard mattress in the medic’s office that the pressure on his chest eased its grip. He felt broken, torn into a hundred pieces, and part of him wished the damage had been more thorough so he would never have to wake again.
“What did you mean by such reckless behavior?” the medic asked sharply as she cut away Doran’s pants just above the bloodied knees. “You know it reflects badly on our entire town if the visiting dignitaries come to harm while they stay with us.” His legs were half-bare now, but he still couldn’t feel a thing. “Does that hurt?” she asked, dipping a cloth in a bowl of water and pressing it to his knee.
“I can’t feel a thing,” Doran said baldly. “I lost all use of my legs spans ago, so it doesn’t hurt at all. No need to be gentle.”
The medic gave him a small, wry smile. “That makes my job easier.” As she worked, she kept glancing at his face as though worried he would lose consciousness once again. “Tell me again why you decided to half-kill yourself just now? If you’d wanted to commit suicide, there are a lot of easier ways to do it. Jumping from one of your balconies, for instance.”
Doran shook his head and immediately regretted it—the movement sent daggers through his back and neck. “I need to know what’s happening. My household is deliberately keeping me in the dark. If King Luistan sent them, he’s done it to keep me out of the way while his troops take over Lostport.”
“That’s a grave accusation,” the medic said mildly, continuing her work as though he had done nothing more than comment on the tidiness of her workroom. She paused suddenly and gave Doran a piercing look. “I have heard the rumors myself. And I don’t doubt you’re right. High King Luistan is wise to keep Lostport’s only legitimate heir far away from the throne just as the kingdom is at its most vulnerable.”
“I need to go back,” Doran said, forgetting himself and trying to sit up.
A wave of dizziness hit him
again, and he collapsed back onto the small, hard pillow, unable to see past the haze of black that had come over his eyes.
“Yes, I expect you do,” the medic said drily. “But you won’t be going anywhere until you recover.”
“If I give my household a direct order to arrange for my return to Lostport, they won’t have the grounds to refuse, will they?” Doran asked.
“Invite someone over before you do so,” she said. “Someone with a bit of power. If you have a witness, they will be forced to play their part.”
“Right,” he said. “And I need to marry someone, too, so I can prove I am still able to bear children.”
“Are you really?” The medic looked at his midsection curiously.
“No.”
A stiff silence filled the room for a moment, and Doran realized with some discomfort that he had forgotten the medic was a woman. Her hair was cut short, and she wore men’s clothes; if he squinted, she could have passed as a young boy, too small to be a grown man.
“Which is why I need a wife and a child to prove it,” he said quietly. “Please don’t repeat my words outside of this room. It could cost me my kingdom if anyone knew the truth.”
“Understood,” the medic said brusquely. “I am strictly apolitical. Don’t expect me to meddle with either side of any conflict.”
Doran nodded, sending another jolt of pain through his spine.
“Of course, from my own completely unbiased perspective, it would do us all well if you recovered as soon as possible,” the medic said.
Doran eyed her with surprise, wondering if her previous remark had carried some straight-faced humor.
“Your main danger is in bleeding out through your knees, as you are unlikely to notice either the pain or the wetness of the blood unless you could see it—for instance, nighttime could be dangerous.”
“Of course,” Doran said. “How long do you think I have until I can leave?”
“Leave my workroom, or leave Torrein?” the medic asked wryly.
Doran laughed softly. “Both? I don’t know.”
The medic finished what she was doing on his knees and washed blood from her hands. Then she gave Doran a woody-smelling draught, which he gulped down without protest.
The Fall of Lostport Page 28
