“I would keep as many trees as possible in place,” Conard said. “Those rocks are enormous, and they don’t look too stable. If they’re held in place by roots right now, you don’t want the roots going all brittle and dry. You’ll have boulders careening straight through town if that happens.”
“We’ll clear the center, then,” the other builder said. “We can’t build the rainwater barrel in the air!”
“True.” Conard walked to the far side of the peak and stepped around a bushy pidgeonwood tree, trying to get a proper view of the mountains beyond. When he tugged a half-dead branch aside, he was at last able to see the entire range.
The opposite slope of this mountain descended gradually for a ways before dropping away steeply into an utterly untouched valley. This valley was carpeted with lush grass and edged by towering cliffs that eventually gave way to dagger-sharp peaks. Patches of snow still clung to these, including a layered shelf of delicate blue glacier. Waterfalls wept from the base of the glacier, cascading in a fine mist down to the floor of the valley, where they fed a turquoise river.
The valley looked entirely sealed off from the world, though there had to be a coastal access point somewhere, perhaps the next fjord after Port Emerald. Conard yearned to explore the untouched wilderness, to tread where no human had gone before, to stand in the glacial mist and let the bitter cold shock him back to life.
“Catches you off guard the first time, doesn’t it?” Don said.
Conard gave a start and let the branch go suddenly; it whacked him in the chin. He had forgotten himself.
Don chuckled. “It’s crazy to think that no one really knows what’s out there. All those mountains, and they’re all empty. There could be a whole separate race of people living in the mountains, and no one would have the least idea.”
“My father was an explorer,” Conard said. “I always dreamed of venturing into unknown lands like these.”
“Should we get going?” the other builder asked, shuffling his feet about in the dry underbrush. “We’ve got lots of the city still to see. Don’t want to be late to dinner.”
“It’s hardly past noon!” Don shook his head, though he turned around and retraced his steps to the southern end of the peak. Conard took one last look at the breathtaking valley before trudging away. If he never accomplished anything else in his life, he would see that valley someday. He could tramp along the turquoise river and forget himself in its depths—forget that he would never get a chance to win Laina’s hand, forget that he was exiled from the only home he had ever known.
The descent was much harder than the climb. Conard could not see where he was placing his feet, so he trusted most of his weight to his grip on the bushes and lowered himself down hand over hand. When they reached the sloppy balcony that marked the top of Port Emerald, Conard’s head was still filled with dreams of visiting the untouched valley. He had a hard time caring about the plumbing. Besides, he was working against Laina’s plan by giving the builders sound advice. If he really wanted to serve Laina, he would tell them to build a big channel in the center of town from which everyone could collect their water. That would inevitably flood and cause no small amount of mayhem.
“What do you think about a central stream that feeds the terraced gardens?” Don asked.
Conard struggled not to laugh. It was very tempting to give the terrible advice—yes, of course you should have a central stream! Just think how picturesque it would look!—but he disguised his amusement with a cough and said, “I think you should keep as much water out of the city as possible. You’ll have runoff from any rain that actually falls within the city, but you don’t want any extra streams adding to that. You’d be best to build a wall around the city and restrict water as much as possible to channels. Maybe even build some very narrow drainage channels alongside each path, so you don’t have water spilling everywhere.”
“Right,” Don said. “We’ll get onto that straightaway. And now that you’ve seen the basic plan, would you like to see the bathhouse?”
The bathhouse was a lavish white building with arched windows and a multicolored ceiling. It perched on an outcropping overlooking Port Emerald, secluded and private, with the beginnings of a flower garden encircling the front entrance.
“One of the first buildings put in place, this was,” Don said. “Here, though, it’ll be open to everyone. No one without a bit of money can afford a home here, so there’s no use restricting it.”
Conard had a feeling he was missing something. Were bathhouses a typical luxury for the rich in Whitland?
“We’re hoping to arrange a special plumbing system just to feed the bathhouse.” Don stood at the edge of one of the deep rectangular basins and peered in. “It’ll have to be a spigot higher up the rainwater barrel, so it doesn’t deplete our water supply when we’re running low.”
Conard stepped to one of the arched windows and looked out, past the city and the harbor, to where he could see the faintest glimmer of the open sea beyond the fjords. “Are any of you planning to settle here once this is all over?” he asked. “It’s stunning. I can’t think of a more beautiful place in all the Kinship Thrones.”
“True enough,” the second builder said. “Some of us could probably afford it, too. Not the common builders, but blokes like me and Captain Drail and the proper architects.”
“Not many would want it, though,” Don said. He scuffed his foot against the edge of the tub. “As beautiful as this place looks, we’re a good couple spans’ travel from Whitland, which means we’d have no hope of seeing our families or loved ones again. And we’ve all heard the story of the queen of Lostport who couldn’t stand the place and fled back to Whitland. Lots of us have wives back home who’d do the same.”
“It’s only the real adventurous sort who’d settle down here,” the other builder said. “Plenty of them, to be sure, but most of us builders are simple folk. Not suited for a life here.”
“I’d live here, if I could,” Conard said. “I don’t have any family tying me down back home, so I can go where I please. It would be nice to start over, don’t you think? I’ll never afford it, though.”
Don shrugged. “Just snag yourself a Lostport girl with a tidy inheritance, and it’s all yours.”
Chapter 21
L aina was halfway through lunch when an emissary on behalf of the village arrived and begged her attendance.
Laina dropped her fork immediately and summoned the man into the entrance hall, where they could speak in private.
“Has something happened?”
The man shook his head. “Everyone is worried, though. We’ve organized the entire village—the safe-boxes are finished, and we’re ready to hide our valuables now.”
Laina beamed at the man. “Perfect. Will you summon Swick from the Seal’s Roost? You can be in charge of sending the villagers here one by one. We’ll use this house as our entry point to the forest, so none of the Whitlanders see what we’re doing.”
When the man hurried off to fetch Swick, Laina ran upstairs and collected an armful of parchment for Swick’s maps. She wished the villagers would allow her to keep the maps in her own manor, which was far more carefully guarded than any other point in the village, but she was more concerned with getting the villagers to follow her suggestion than with keeping every detail exactly as she had imagined it.
Swick returned much sooner than she expected, accompanied by two couples, one young, one old. Swick embraced Jairus roughly when Jairus appeared from his temporary bedroom, and the first smile Laina had seen in days flickered across Jairus’s face.
“Who is first?” Laina asked, shaking hands with each of the villagers. The old couple had a very small box of valuables, no larger than a jewelry box, while the young couple had two boxes, each so large they struggled to wrap their arms around them.
“We are exhausted from the climb,” the old woman said. “If you would like to take the others first, we would greatly enjoy a sit-down by the kitchen fire.”
“Certainly,” Laina said. “Ask Mylo for a pot of tea while you’re at it. I’m sure he would be happy to hear the village gossip.”
“Thank you, Milady.” The old man leaned on his wife’s elbow and followed her to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to take those boxes?” Swick asked, clearly suppressing an amused smile.
“We’re fine,” the young woman said.
The man nodded, tight-lipped. Laina had a feeling he had been about to say the opposite.
As the day went on, Laina, Jairus, and Swick helped villager after villager relocate their small hordes of valuables. Hundreds came, some alone, some as an entire family, teenage sons enlisted to carry the largest loads.
The first ten-odd families were a struggle, since Laina was unfamiliar with the woods above her home and the mapping process was tedious. After a while, though, she began to recognize a pair of intertwining stream-beds that led past a number of sheltered depressions in the ground and even a few small caves. When Swick had ruined his second map after placing it on the soggy ground, and the line of waiting villagers was beginning to spill out of the entrance hall, Swick and Jairus devised a system where Jairus would jot down the exact coordinates of each location and Swick would sit at the dining table drawing accurate maps while Laina and Jairus were away with the next group.
The blacksmith had clearly been busy. Some families had ten boxes between them, while others had rigged up wooden braces to support a sizeable box between four people. Among the families, a few brought boxes no bigger than their hands. The population of Lostport was not large—only a little over six thousand people—and it pained Laina to know there was such poverty within their ranks.
When the sun began to set, the hall was still filled with families who had not yet had a chance to hide their valuables. Laina asked Mylo to prepare a big pot of soup for them all and requested that they return the following day.
Once the villagers had eaten and returned to their homes, most leaving their safe-boxes behind, Laina joined Swick, Jairus, and her household for a late dinner.
“Bad weather is coming in,” Swick said quietly, passing the salt to Harrow. “We should try to get the boxes out as quickly as possible tomorrow morning.”
“It’s not soon enough for the proper winter rains, though,” Laina whispered. “Will you be able to finish filling the gemstone cave before they hit?”
“Most of the stones are done. As soon as the villagers are satisfied that their belongings are safe, I’ll move the rest.” Swick cleared his throat and sat up straighter, noticing the curious expressions of the rest of the household.
“Care to share your covert plans?” Harrow asked with a raised eyebrow. “I have a feeling your father wouldn’t approve of whatever you are up to.”
Laina shrugged. “If he knew how bad things have gotten in Lostport, he would be doing more than I ever could. But he’s recovering quickly. He may be able to resume his duties tomorrow or the next day.”
Mylo applauded at this, and he was soon joined by the rest of the household.
Laina did not dare speak any further to Jairus or Swick while they were dining with the staff, but when the kitchen hands began clearing plates, Laina drew them both aside for a quiet word.
“How are you coping?” Swick asked Jairus. “Laina’s not being too harsh on you, is she?” He winked at Laina.
“Everyone here has been very welcoming,” Jairus said. “I am entirely grateful to you for protecting me, Laina.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “You must have enjoyed getting out of the house today, though. I can’t stand being cooped up for long in here.”
He nodded. “I wish I could be more useful.” He frowned at Swick. “How will you manage the gemstones alone?”
“Not easily,” Swick admitted. “But I’ve been taking it upon myself to become familiar with the townsfolk, so I’ll be able to enlist a few more of them to help. They won’t tell.”
“And you’ll tell Conard that they’re ready in a few days?” Laina asked.
Swick crossed his suntanned arms over his chest. “I wanted to talk to you about that, as a matter of fact. See, after Jairus’s incident, I’m not sure the Whitlanders would allow any strangers into their camp. I couldn’t pass for Whitish, not among Whitlanders. Someone else will have to go.”
“Me?” Laina shook her head. “I can’t just march into camp and ask to speak to Conard! Everyone would be suspicious. Besides, he’s probably taken on a different name while he’s there.”
“You’re the only one,” Swick said. “The villagers would be harassed if they went in your stead; you’re the only person with a good excuse to visit. Come up with some reason, like a safety inspection, and when Conard sees you I’m sure he’ll follow you later to speak with you.”
“How am I supposed to do a safety inspection?” Laina kicked her heel against the wall. “I don’t know a thing about construction.”
“Fine, say you’re there to collect any paperwork the builders still have to submit,” Swick said. “I’m sure they’ll produce something.”
Laina bit her lip. There was so much potential for their plans to go awry; surely it would be better if someone with a lower profile visited the camp, so no one would suspect Laina or her father of involvement with the gemstone scheme. But she could not see any way around it.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” She frowned at Swick. “If I visit in two days, will the stones be ready?”
“You have my word.”
Once Swick had vanished into the deepening night, Laina sagged against the wall. “I wish you could come with me.”
Jairus snorted. “Conard would hate to see me. He is already dying of jealousy, I think.”
“Oh!” Laina wished she could be there now, to throw her arms around Conard and reassure him that her affection for him had not dimmed in the slightest. If anything, Conard had proved himself by following Laina’s orders without hesitation, regardless of the danger. If only Laina could convince her father that Conard was a worthy partner for the future queen of Lostport.
And if only Laina could convince herself that she deserved the throne.
* * *
A messenger came late at night, when Faolan was lying on the precipice between sleep and wakefulness, a path he had trod many nights in his convalescence. When the quiet knock sounded at his door, he rasped out, “Come in!”
It was Harrow, accompanied by a man Faolan had never seen before. The man wore well-cut clothes, though Faolan could not see the color in the flickering light of Harrow’s candle. His hair was longer than was fashionable in Lostport, falling below his shoulders, and he had a small sword at his belt.
“I have come from Ferrydown,” the man said. “I rode ahead of a recent ferry, hoping to bring the news in time for preparations to be made.”
Faolan sat up so quickly his head spun. “What is it? Is my son returning?”
The man shook his head with a quickly-hidden smile. “Better still. Your wife has come home.”
Faolan gripped the bedclothes and attempted to surge to his feet. Harrow restrained him with a hand on his shoulder, though he was grinning unrestrainedly. “Steady, my lord.”
“Of course.” How could it be true? Words failed him. For years he had expected to hear word of his wife’s remarriage, or worse still, her death. And now, without any warning whatsoever, she was nearly at his doorstep. “Can I trust you?” he asked hoarsely. “How can you prove you have seen my Katrien?”
“I had never seen her before six days past, and she will undoubtedly look far older than you remember, but her bearing was regal. She is a very humble woman, not one to put on airs, yet as soon as she announced herself, I had no doubts. Her hair is beginning to show grey now, though she walks like a much younger woman.”
“Thank you,” Faolan said. He was inclined to trust the man, though he had little reason to; perhaps it was because his wife’s return would not aid him strategically in any way.
Faolan shrugged. “I suspect something. I hardly know what.” He looked out the window into the darkness, nervous, as though he would see Katrien striding up the lawn any moment now. “Do you think she has been seduced to the Whitish cause? Is she acting on behalf of a new paramour, perhaps King Luistan himself?”
Harrow gripped Faolan’s shoulders. “I can say nothing for certain, but I do not suspect a fabrication. Decide for yourself whether your wife is true once she stands before you. Until then, do not tire yourself with perhapses.”
“I’m sick of lying in this bed like an invalid. My wife will despise me. Help me get up, Harrow.” Faolan pushed himself off the bed at last and swayed on his feet. His knees buckled, but he managed to catch himself and straighten. Lit by the single dim candle, the room seemed to shrink and expand before his eyes, the walls letting out a deep, stale breath. Again the black haze swam before him, try as he might to blink it away; at last he was forced to sit heavily on his bed before he collapsed.
“Go to bed, Harrow,” he mumbled. “I’ll be fine. Return to me in the morning.”
“Sleep well, sir.”
When the light vanished, Faolan heaved himself against the headboard and slumped with his back on a pair of pillows. He felt empty and worthless. He had never given Katrien enough attention; he had vastly underestimated her innocence when she first arrived in Lostport, and had expected her to adapt more easily to living at the ends of the earth. He had been a worthless excuse for a husband, and had been unable to help when she hinted that she would rather die than remain here. He could still remember the ill-fated day when he had seen her from afar, standing atop a cliff near the mouth of the river, staring down at the sea as she was wont to do. He had thought little of it, until he glanced away and looked back to find her gone. He had sprinted down the last stretch of path to the waterfront and seen a dark shape bobbing on the waves once, twice before it sank into the darkness. He had flung himself from the cliff, fully clothed, and dragged Katrien back from the depths. He could still remember the way the steely clouds sagged against the horizon, mirroring the stormy sea below.
The Fall of Lostport Page 33
