“I’m not a very good daughter,” Laina sniffed. “I’m sorry.”
“I never asked for a proper lady,” Katrien said. “I wanted a daughter who was strong enough to know what she wanted, and intelligent enough to lead her country. Your father tells me you are a born leader.”
Laina turned to give her father an incredulous look. Her eyes were red; whether from crying or lack of sleep, he could not tell.
“Why have you returned?” Laina asked again, releasing her mother.
“I should have returned sooner,” Katrien said, “but I was afraid. Afraid your father would despise me, and afraid of the hardships of the journey. I have come now because Lostport needs my aid. Your land is in graver danger than you know.”
“Is Whitland planning to take us back?” Laina asked swiftly.
Faolan and Katrien exchanged a surprised look.
“That is exactly what we feared,” Katrien said. “I was put under house arrest because King Luistan feared I would send word of his plans. He hopes to bring the Kinship Thrones back under his rule, beginning with Lostport and continuing with Varrival. He believes—mistakenly, I hope—that Dardensfell and Kohlmarsh will fight by his side.”
“The Whitish builders are getting too strong,” Laina said. “The whole town is cowering indoors, afraid they’ll be murdered in their beds.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they were,” Katrien said. “Everywhere I have traveled, the Whitish are making their presence known. They have attacked Varrilans throughout the Twin Cities, burning shops and murdering families. They are taking over the ports and controlling all traffic on the Samiread River.”
Laina swallowed visibly. “And what are we supposed to do about it?”
“First,” Faolan said, “we have to eliminate our most intimate threat. Conard. He was sent here on orders to murder Doran, and has been conspiring against us all along. We fear he will take measures to prevent your rule before long.”
“No!” Laina yelped. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve ordered his arrest,” Faolan said firmly. “His captor will be rewarded with more wealth than he can imagine.”
“You’re insane!” Laina cried. “Someone has been deceiving you. Conard cared deeply for us both. He would never turn on us.”
“It’s too late,” Faolan said. “The orders are being carried out as we speak. I just hope they can retrieve him before the bridges wash out.”
Laina gave him a cold smile, and Faolan blanched. He should have waited to give Conard a proper trial. But he had been afraid of becoming ensnared in the boy’s lies once more. He had cared for Conard like a son, Varos help him.
“The builders will be stuck there, that means,” Laina said, a savage tone creeping into her voice. “Someone reclaimed that ship they stole—they don’t have any other boats. You’re legally bound to provide them food and other essential supplies for the rest of the quarter, or until the rains clear up.”
“You have no idea of these matters,” Faolan said, coughing. “I have taught you nothing of ruling Lostport.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” Laina said. “I made the deal myself. Captain Drail—the project director for Port Emerald—paid me enough to repair the damage his men have done to Lostport. In exchange, I promised emergency supplies if the road washed out.” She thrust a leather satchel at Faolan, which he just barely managed to catch. It was heavier than he had anticipated.
Taking a step back, Faolan collided with the bottom stair. “You cannot be serious. You will bleed Lostport dry to ensure the builders are well cared-for. King Luistan is responsible for his builders, not I!”
“You’d let thousands of men die because King Luistan can’t send aid fast enough?” Laina asked sternly.
“This is not a kindness you have done,” Faolan said angrily. “You have only given the Whitish the upper hand. King Luistan will take Lostport for his own, and he will send his men to kill any who disobey the new law. You are too headstrong, Laina. You will never be fit to rule. If I had another heir, I would disown you now.”
“I don’t care,” Laina said. “I don’t want anything more to do with this blasted place.”
Brushing past her father, Laina hurried down the hall and toward the entrance doors. With the household in disarray, no one had gotten around to cleaning the hall, and a thick layer of mud coated the doorstep.
“Laina!” Faolan called. “Someone stop her!”
Belatedly, the two guards jumped to attention and bounded after her. Faolan and Katrien stood in silence, watching the open doorway, until Nort sloped back inside.
“She’s taken the horse. She’s gone.”
* * *
Though he was exhausted, Conard was happier than he could remember being as he slunk back into the builders’ camp. He could not hide his smug pleasure, yet it worked in his favor. At breakfast, Ian and Quentin asked what he was so delighted about, which gave him the perfect excuse to share his news.
“Don’t tell anyone else,” he whispered.
At his words, all seven failures drew closer around him, heads bent to hear his secret.
“You know how we were talking about going home to Whitland and leaving this wretched war behind?”
Ian nodded vigorously. Conard suspected the men would be more willing than ever to say their farewells to Port Emerald now that they were anticipating a day’s labor in the drenching rain.
“I visited the gypsies’ camp last night,” he said, which elicited a whistle from Justain. “One of the girls there was trying to win my favor, so she decided to show me a secret place she’d stumbled across in the woods.”
The men were all grinning now, certain they were about to hear a dirty joke.
“It’s not what you think,” Conard whispered. “She took me to a cave hidden in the trees, and showed me a secret cavern that she’d found there. It was chock-full of gemstones. Someone must have hoarded them there in the past, but they’re just lying in the dirt now, completely abandoned.”
“Piss off,” Emerett said. “You’re just having a go at us.”
Conard shook his head. “On my life, I swear it. There’s a king’s hoard of gemstones there for the taking.”
“Why didn’t you just take them for yourself?” Justain hissed.
“I can’t carry them all,” Conard said, grinning. “I call first pick of the lot, but we’ll all be rich men if we fill our pockets and leave. But don’t breathe a word to the others.”
He hoped some of the less-trustworthy men among them—Justain, for instance, who liked cozying up to the more influential men—would disobey him and share the secret.
“Tanner’s head,” Quentin said. “I’m going now. Who’s coming with me?”
“We have to wait till tonight,” Conard said. “They’ll skin us alive if we bugger off now.”
“No shit,” Justain said.
Just then, the whistle sounded, summoning the men to work. Conard’s friends parted ways with matching smug grins on their faces, while Conard tried his best to hide his own triumph at the previous night’s conquest. He should have felt guilty for destroying Laina’s chances at the throne, but the memory of Laina’s touch and her reckless love filled him with joy.
Conard pitied his friends that day, knowing they would be slogging up an increasingly muddy hillside with the interminable stone bricks, while he retreated to a warm tent to join the infrastructure architects in logistical planning.
They were bent over a series of maps of Port Emerald, each one detailing a different aspect of the city, when Captain Drail thrust aside the tent flap and poked his head in. “Kellar. A word with you, if you don’t mind.”
Conard stood and joined Captain Drail in the rain, wondering with a sinking feeling whether one of his friends had reported the story of the cave straight to the captain.
“Does the name ‘Conard’ mean anything to you?” Captain Drail said sharply.
Conard went cold. “No,” he said, far too qui
ckly.
“Men!” he shouted.
Three builders appeared from behind the tent; two grabbed Conard by the shoulders, while the third wrenched his left sleeve up.
“It’s him,” Captain Drail said. “There’s a warrant for your arrest, Conard. These men will take you straight into town. You’re wanted for conspiracy and attempted murder.”
“What?” Conard yelped. He had broken the terms of his exile, nothing more. He had never conspired against anyone. Had King Faolan accused him of plotting to murder Doran?
A fourth builder appeared from the woods with a pair of shackles. He bolted them roughly to Conard’s wrists and handed the key to Captain Drail.
“Get moving!” one of the men demanded. He towered more than a head taller than Conard, with a beefy neck and wide shoulders. He could crush Conard if he tried.
Conard staggered forward, trying to keep his balance as the man shoved him along the path. Flanked by two soldiers and held in the unrelenting grip of the massive guard, Conard was marched across the river, up the pass, and along the forest road. He wanted to tear his shackled hands free of his captor, but the soldiers kept a hand on their swords—he might be gutted if he tried anything. His only hope was that someone in town would recognize him and tell the guards they had been mistaken. None of his friends had seen him leave; no one would know the peril he was in.
Lost in dread of what was to come, Conard did not notice the hoof-beats until the rider drew into sight. They had just started down from the high point of the road, and the rain was turning the ground to sludge.
It was Laina, still in the same clothes she had worn in the cave the night before, her skirts drenched with mud and her face alit with fiery vengeance.
She reined in just short of trampling Conard’s guards, looking every bit a queen. “Let this man go!” she demanded. “I am the daughter of King Faolan, and I insist you release him. The order for his arrest was given in error, and I have come to correct it before you put yourselves on the wrong side of the law.”
“Is that so?” One of the soldiers stepped up to Laina and gave her a bow, flawlessly courteous. “Beg pardon, milady. I did not know.” He took her hand as if to kiss it. Then, at the last second, he yanked on her arm and dragged Laina from her horse.
She fell in a tangle of skirts, sprawled in the mud; to Conard’s surprise, she made no sound.
“Onto the horse,” bellowed the guard behind Conard. “Let’s get this over with.”
When Conard tried to fight his captors, afraid Laina had been harmed terribly, the three soldiers took hold of his arms and dragged him over the horse’s saddle like a sack of wheat. As they broke into a jog, slapping the horse’s flanks to get it moving, Conard caught an upside-down view of Laina stirring and rising to her knees. He hoped she would be safe. If he had inadvertently led her into danger…
The ride to town seemed interminable. Before long Conard was soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably; he had removed his coat in the warmth of the architects’ tent. He counted the streams as they crossed, certain he was being marched to his death.
At the gypsies’ camp, Conard stared desperately through the trees, searching for a familiar face. The camp was quiet, though, most of its residents sleeping or perhaps hiding from the rain. Afraid this could be his only chance at salvation, Conard shouted, “Grandfather! Silversmite! Ebony!”
The guard who had been gripping his shoulders yanked Conard around to face him. “What’s that?” he demanded. Drawing back his fist, he slammed it into Conard’s mouth.
Conard howled and tried to bring his hands up to his mouth, forgetting they were bound. Something warm was trickling down his chin; gagging, he spat up two fragmented teeth. His lip began to swell, throbbing dully, and he was afraid to probe his teeth with his tongue and discover the extent of the damage.
“Want to lose the rest of your teeth?” the guard said, drawing back his fist.
Blinking, Conard, turned his head against the horse’s saddle and allowed the rain to wash away the cooling tracks of blood.
He didn’t notice until they were nearly past the gypsies’ camp that faces were beginning to emerge from the tents. Some merely stuck their heads out to watch the commotion, while others came closer, whispering among themselves. Before long a lone figure jostled his way to the front of the assembly, head bowed against the rain.
Silversmite.
Conard’s heart pounded at the familiar face.
“What’s happening?” Silversmite yelled, skidding to a halt just in front of Conard’s escort. “Where are you taking him?”
“This man is under arrest for murder and treason, pretty-boy. If you don’t get outta my way right now, I’ve got permission to carve you up like a pheasant.”
That order must have come from Captain Drail, Conard thought. Even deranged by grief, King Faolan had never made such an unreasonable decision.
“They’re going to kill me,” Conard said, mouth aching. “I don’t know why.”
“We’ll save you,” Silversmite promised in a low voice, stepping off the path. “I’ll get the others to help. We haven’t forgotten you.”
The guard kicked the horse into motion once more.
“Wait!” Conard yelled. “Laina’s—”
The guard pounded him on the back, knocking the breath out of him, and by the time he had recovered, the camp had disappeared amongst the trees. He hoped Laina was uninjured. She would know to seek refuge in the gypsy camp if these rains continued—he had to imagine she was capable of doing so.
Conard’s options had dwindled to nothing. If he was lucky, he would be tried by the king; after that, he would either be tossed to the sea or chained in the Convict’s Caves. Either way, the outcome would be the same. The Convict’s Caves filled with water each high tide, forcing the unluckiest of criminals to watch their fate coming for them without a hope of rescue, certain every wave would be their last. And with this rain drenching Lostport, even low tide was likely to be deadly.
As the road grew more familiar still, Conard’s dread of what lay at the end mounted. He was terrified of death. He should have escaped Lostport while he still had the chance, remained on that ship until it carried him far beyond King Faolan’s reach. He had returned here to chase a nonexistent future with Laina, to continue the delusion that he had a chance with her. And that fool’s dream would cost him his life.
When they reached the town at last, Conard was taken immediately to the Lostport pier, witnessed by close to a hundred Whitish soldiers and a few brave Lostporters. The streets were slick with mud, and every rooftop added to the percussive drone of the rain. Harrow was waiting in the shelter of the town’s finest tavern, and when Conard arrived, he sent a messenger up to fetch King Faolan. The guards dragged Conard off the horse and kept a firm grip on him—Conard didn’t know why they bothered, with hundreds of people around waiting to catch him if tried to flee.
Before long, the king came striding down the stairway into town, his rich clothes drenched, his hair slicked against his face.
“Fine work, men,” King Faolan told the three Whitish soldiers as he strode up to the pier. The guards stepped back to allow the king to confront Conard directly. “I thought I knew you, Conard. But I have learned recently that you were planted here by King Luistan himself, with the sole purpose of ensuring I was left without an heir. You attempted to murder my son, and have no doubt attempted to arrange something similar for my daughter. Unless you have taken the subtler route of rendering her unfit to marry by robbing her honor.”
Conard held King Faolan’s gaze stoically, though he could feel his face growing hot. “I never meant to harm your son, Majesty,” he said weakly.
“Whether you are guilty of these charges or not, I did sentence you to death should you disobey the terms of your exile. And this much is obvious beyond a doubt. Before witnesses from both Lostport and Whitland, I sentence you to imprisonment in the Convict’s Caves.”
A cheer rose from the c
rowd of soldiers. Conard’s throat tightened—he had hoped he still had support within Lostport. As much as Silversmite and the other gypsies might wish to save him, they simply would not have enough time. In this weather, he would not have to wait for high tide before a wave snapped his neck against the rocks.
Conard scanned the faces, spotting a few vaguely familiar townsfolk. Surely someone would shout that this was all a Whitish hoax, and he would be given a fair trial. But the handful of Lostporters had shrunk back, away from the waterfront, as though afraid the Whitish hoard would turn on them next. The only voices that rose from the crowd were jeers from the soldiers.
Down in the seething grey water, a rowboat was waiting for Conard. The man who sat at the tiller was an old fisherman from the village, whom Conard had tagged along with on fishing trips time after time. Though Conard had not seen the man in years now, something had unmistakably changed in his visage. Sadness was etched into the lines of his face, his shoulders slumping beneath a burden he struggled to bear.
If he was going to die, at least he wanted to be seen facing his end bravely. So Conard straightened his shoulders and held his head high as he crossed the pier toward the waiting boat. No one offered to unlock Conard’s shackles, so he was forced to climb backward down the ladder to the rowboat, feet slipping to and fro on each algae-slicked rung.
“You didn’t volunteer for this, did you?” Conard asked softly as the fisherman caught and stowed his rope before pushing back from the pier.
The man did not answer. He began his rhythmic stroking, sitting still and unperturbed despite the heaving waves. Faint wreaths of froth were beginning to trace the top of each wave, while the air hung heavy with mist from the sea breaking against the rocky shore. This was quickly turning into a proper storm. They skirted around the shore, staying well away from the treacherous rocks, until they had passed beyond the village and the mouth of Ashfall Creek. When Mount Taleon rose to their left, its head wrapped tight in fog, the fisherman veered toward the cliffs, making for a dark cavern just above the waves.
Conard had been here before, on a dare, and that fact did nothing to ease his fear. As soon as the rowboat crashed against the cave floor, the hull buckling at the impact, he recognized the dank, slippery confines of the cave and the three sets of manacles designed to tether prisoners to the wall. As this was a somewhat lawless land, true criminals were few and far between. Conard doubted all three sets of chains had ever been simultaneously put to use.
The Fall of Lostport Page 38