Exiles of Forlorn (9 page)

“Oh, well . . .” I scratched my filthy neck and tried to ignore the expectant looks everyone was giving me. “I could build
a
tower, I don’t know if it’ll be the right kind. I’ve never even seen one.”

“I’ve a drawing of one in one of my mortician tomes.”

“Of course you do.”

“Can you erect one from a drawing?”

“Oh, I don’t really know—”

“Of course he can,” interrupted Antioc, “he’s brilliant.”

“Yes, if anyone can erect something, it’s Lew,” added Blackfoot. Reiwyn and Uller nodded in agreement. Gargath smiled.

I knew what they were doing. It was utterly transparent. I couldn’t hold back, though. Uller was right, I did owe Threestep something. If he hadn’t given his life and distracted the other glutton, I’d likely be dead in his place. I wouldn’t admit that to the others, though. I couldn’t have them thinking I could be manipulated by sentimentality. Ego was a much purer motive for me. I’d go with ego.

I laughed. “Of course I can do it from a drawing. How hard can it be? These people barely got past the use of the wheel. One of their towers is going to be like something made of sticks and straw.” That seemed to satisfy them. “Show me this picture. I’m going to need some workers, though. I’m an engineer, not a laborer.”

And that’s the story of how I volunteered to build a tower.

Gargath’s sketch was fairly detailed, so it only took me a couple of hours to conjure up a plan on how to build the thing. I wasn’t about to admit it, but the tower was remarkably well conceived for something so simple. Only five strides tall, it was supported by three legs that crossed after three strides, allowing them to expand again to support a platform for the body. A fourth, thicker leg ran up the center, and the whole thing was lashed together with ropes or sinew. It was put together flat, then three people pushed the legs in and lifted the platform aloft. The fourth leg was then run up the middle and imbedded in the ground. The legs were then braced with rocks and the sinew and x-cross beams applied. It was ingenious, actually. A pity we’d be setting it on fire.

Some of the Plainsfolk helped put the thing together. They spoke enough Mormentish that I was able to direct them without any help. They collected some of the hard reeds from the edge of the forest and plenty of stout rods. When instructed on length and width, they complied, sawing and sanding almost gleefully. Apparently, even though standing vigil was too sacred for them, building the tower was fair. It didn’t make sense, but taboos rarely do.

When it came time to erect the thing, Uller and the others were all too happy to join in. Gargath and Antioc carried what was left of Threestep to the platform I’d built, his body wrapped in a blood-stained, ratty brown cloth. I was particularly proud of the platform, as it was the part I had to design entirely on my own. Gargath’s drawing only showed it from the side. Even though I thought the whole thing was silly, a little part of me felt Threestep would be pleased with it. I told that nagging little fellow down there to shut up before he embarrassed me.

Antioc, Gargath, and Uller took the reed poles that I’d substituted for beams and lifted the thing off the ground at my direction. Once it was aloft, I stepped in and put the final leg up the middle. Reiwyn stood on a rock and tightened the sinew wrapped around where the reeds crossed at the halfway mark. Blackfoot and some of the helpful Plainsfolk shoved in the bracing stones. That would have kept it up and sturdy, but the drawing showed the cross beams, so those came next. They were really just there to keep it from collapsing in a strong wind, and because they were on the one in the picture, and I wanted to keep things as true as possible.

The tower earned a round of applause from all involved in its construction, as well as a few of the other colonists who’d come out to watch. I smiled as authentically as I could and gave them all a little wave. The adoration was nice, but really I just wanted some sleep. I was just turning to go when I almost stepped into Arn’s chest.

“Well done,” he said, looking from my tower to me.

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t that he made me nervous on his own, but he was flanked by Sharkhart and Ferun. The former stared at the tower with what I approximated to be a respectful look. It was hard to tell with him, he really only had two or three facial expressions and one of them was sleep. Ferun was a little less impressed, standing there with his hands on his hips, staring at me like he expected the whole thing to fall with the next swift wind.

“You got that all put together from a single drawing?” Arn asked.

“More or less. Towers all have one basic function: to not fall. Once you get around the physics of that, they’re essentially the same no matter where they come from.”

Arn scratched his scraggly yellow goatee and stared at me for a few seconds. “Come see me in three days. I have project for you.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

He nodded and left. Sharkhart followed right away. Ferun lingered for a second, staring at me like he wanted to say something. Instead, he grinned and looked past me. I followed his eyes to find Reiwyn, leaning over a water trough next to one of the straw huts. She dipped out water with a long, wooden scoop and poured it over her sweaty shoulders and back. When I looked back at Ferun, he gave me a condescending wink and trotted off with the others.

Smug bonehead
, I thought, watching him leave.
Let’s see you make a tower. Or anything else, for that matter. I bet you can’t even make your bed.

I turned to admire my tower again. It was certainly impressive, but my attention was inexorably drawn to my friends. Uller had taken the first shift and already stood vigil under the tower. He looked taciturn, but somewhat serene, as though a burden were being eased. Antioc sat under a palm tree, relaxing calmly in the shade. I thought about joining him, until I saw Reiwyn. Blackfoot ran up to the trough as she took a drink from the dipper and splashed water in her face, cackling like a murder of crows. Reiwyn laughed and splashed him back. I smiled and decided the last few hours of the day would be better served watching my little river pirate play in the water.

7.

I
met Reiwyn the same day I met Uller and Blackfoot on the deck of the
Songwillow
. That was the deceptively pretty name of the sea-barge we boarded in Horaceport that would deliver us to the Forlorn Colony. When we boarded, Antioc went below deck right away to secure bunk space. Those who didn’t score a room quickly were relegated first to the lofts, then the hammocks, then finally the floors. I trusted in Antioc’s presence to secure a claim to a room; or take one, if it came to that. I might have been an exile, but I still had standards.

Antioc wasn’t overjoyed with the idea of bullying others out of a room, but he agreed because it was my wish. I didn’t let on that I got a twinge in my chest from pushing him to abandon his conscience. I couldn’t have him taking advantage of that weakness the next time I needed him to do something he didn’t want to do. For that matter, Antioc was opposed to the whole idea of going to Forlorn. He didn’t like boats and wanted to go north, by land, to the Northern Isles.

“We’d still have to take a boat eventually,” I told him. They were, after all, called the Northern
Isles
for a reason.

“Not for as long,” he muttered.

“Come now, friend!” I clapped his rock-like shoulder. “Don’t you like trying new things?”

“No.”

We couldn’t go to the Northern Isles. I wouldn’t be safe there. A mercenary company called
The Silver Daggers of Sriss
made their home there. They fought for anyone who could afford them, which for a while was my father. He’d used them to augment his holdings in some of the copper mining camps that bordered Illyr to the northeast. Since the war was quite taxing on his own forces, he’d turned to the use of hired swords. They served loyally, until he stopped paying them. By their count, my father owed them two months of pay. My father refused to comply on principle. Under their watch, two of his camps had fallen to Illyrian centurions. He didn’t pay for failure and dared them to come collect. The
Daggers
had declined, owing largely to geography, and the fact that my father had one of the most fortified keeps in Morment around him. They hadn’t let the matter drop though and swore vengeance with a blood oath or something macho-minded warriors are always doing. There was a better than fair chance that if word got out that the thirdson of Lord Olune Standwell III was stomping about the Northern Isles, they’d snatch me up and ransom me in exchange for fulfillment of their debt. I doubted explaining to them that my exile alleviated any bonds of honor my lord father had to seek my release would deter them. In all likelihood, they’d have just killed me for their trouble. I wouldn’t have blamed them, honestly.

Forlorn was the closest place we could go outside the Empire. It also had a reputation for running off bounty hunters, so anyone who came looking for me to settle a score against my father or brothers would be deterred. Defecting to Illyr wasn’t an option. I’d been an officer, and the son of a noble. I’d be tortured for information and, upon learning that I had none, promptly killed. Antioc would be drafted and sent back into battle against his former countrymen. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except that his own family in Morment would have paid the price for being related to a traitor.

On the deck of the barge, I stood with my back against a wooden wall and watched the passengers board. It wasn’t hard to tell which ones were bound for exile. A sad lot they were. Dejected and outcast, carrying what few meager possessions they had with them in worn cloth sacks. I began to feel a bit snarky toward them, until I realized that I didn’t even have a sack of belongings. I had the clothes on my back, nothing more. I’d sold my jewelry to secure passage for us, and the ship’s man-at-arms had taken mine and Antioc’s daggers. Said they weren’t allowed. That was when it rushed over me like the waves breaking against the hull of the barge. I was one of them now. Not just poor. They’d been poor their whole lives, and they didn’t give two spits about it. They knew this life, knew how to live it. I was less than that. I was . . . lost.

I was near to losing interest in my shipmates, and about to lose myself to malaise, when I saw her. She came over the ramp like a ray of black sunshine, in her little dress that hung from her tanned, tattooed skin like dripping paint. The only girls I’d ever seen with tattoos were the beaded dancing girls from Ket who shook their hips and wore veils so that the only part of their faces you could see were their enchanting eyes. Thank the Daevas she wasn’t of Ket! Her long hair danced in the wind, some of it loose like raven feathers. A few heavier locks were twisted into knotty dreads that ran down over her bare shoulders. She wasn’t the only woman to board the
Songwillow
that day, but she was the only one who held her head up. There was something in the way she walked across the deck. Not just graceful, but experienced. There wasn’t a hint of discomfort or uncertainty in her steps as she moved. The only others I saw walk like that were the crewmen. She’d been on a ship before. So had I, several in fact, but I’d never quite gotten the hang of walking like the seamen and mariners. This girl had spent her life on a boat.

After following her for a few strides, I collided with someone. We both tumbled to the deck, cursing; only his fall brought about a shower of paper and leather-bound tomes wrapped in oilcloth.

“By the Daevas, are you blind?”

“My apologies.” I rubbed the knee I’d landed on. “I’m unaccustomed to being on crowded boats.”

“Are you unaccustomed to walking as well?”

I got a clear view of my obstacle as I helped him gather his books and paper. He had blondish-brown hair cropped short with a small, blue cap over the top of his head. He wore a long, brown robe with blue accents that matched the cap. His pale skin was already beginning to redden and freckle under the coastal sun, and his face belied a frustration with the tedium of having to speak to another human being. If he even considered me such. I found his attitude reminded me rather of home.

I looked down at the papers in my hand. I recognized eldritch symbols and arcane writing from my studies as a boy. Not enough to understand them, but well enough to know what they were. It wouldn’t have mattered. No sooner did I divine their purpose then did my new friend snatch them from my hand.

“Don’t touch those!”

“Sorry, friend. I was just trying to help.”

“
Thu’li kil zyau, moy zyau a’ika pou ussit?
” he grumbled.

I grinned. “How can the fish out of water help the turtle on its back?”

That got a surprised look, followed by a smile. “You speak
Old Balorahn
?”

“Bits and pieces. One of my tutors was a great admirer of the
Tolkirk Sagas.
He said it just didn’t hold the same passion when translated.”

“You’re a noble?”

“
Was
. Now I’m a fish out of water.”

“Yes, sorry about that.” He gestured to his fallen books and papers, letting me know it was acceptable for me to help him collect them again. I obliged. “I don’t care for ships. Or the sea. Or people.” He held out a hand and gave his name as I shook it. “I’m Uller Unthergoren.”

“I’m Lew.” I tried to tactfully glance about the deck for the dark haired beauty, to no avail.

“Just Lew?”

“Formerly Lew Standwell, thirdson of Lord Orlune Standwell III of Standwell Keep.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Former mouthful. Don’t you have a former mouthful as well, something to go along with all these books and papers?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him they weren’t going to fare well on the voyage, or at our destination.

“Magespire. I am . . . I was an apprentice. Former First Apprentice of the Great Cortis the Undaunted.”

“A wizard.” My eyes widened. I’d only met a couple of wizards, and they were all much older and far less pleasant company.