The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  “Of course not.”

  With a sigh, Faolan turned and let himself out of Doran’s room. Ever since his children had been old enough to think for themselves, they had worried him. Laina had always been the brash one, the leader. As much as he had attempted to groom Doran for the throne, his son had never transformed into the heir Faolan envisioned. He had been scholarly when he should have been commanding, thoughtful when he should have taken action. And now a fog of depression hung over him. Crippled, broken in spirit, Doran could never rule. More importantly, if Whitland learned Doran could never provide Lostport an heir, the high king had the authority to appoint a successor of his own choosing. It could spell the end of Lostport’s independence.

  At the end of the sloping, curved hallway, Faolan paused before the door to his study, which overlooked the harbor below. He heard voices within. One belonged to Harrow, an ambassador from Whitland who had forsaken his own homeland to become Faolan’s closest friend and advisor, and another to his gardener. Faolan knew without needing to listen that they discussed the great forest road, yet since his son’s accident, he could not bring himself to care.

  “Your Grace,” Harrow said comfortably when Faolan pushed open the door. “Just the man we need. The architects from Ruunas have arrived, and they are ready to start on the next phase of the project. They wait for your word.”

  “Why should I care about miserable architects?” Faolan stomped to his customary chair behind the desk and sat heavily. “Doran can’t rule Lostport from his bed. My line will end with my death. Whitland will snatch our kingdom up at once. There is no reason to continue with our plans.”

  The gardener backed to the doorway and gave a hurried bow. “I will take my leave, my lord,” he mumbled.

  Faolan waved him out without glancing his way.

  “Be sensible,” said Harrow. “You are still our king, and you cannot give up at the first sign of hardship. Besides, you may someday have a grandson to pass the title on to.”

  “Unlikely,” Faolan grumbled.

  “Oh, I would—”

  “I have a better idea.” Harrow leaned his head closer and glanced at the door. “I have heard of far-off kingdoms where healing miracles are traded as commonly as glass. In Cashabree, and even in Itrea, there are those who can heal with magic.”

  Faolan grimaced. “And how might I buy one of these so-called ‘miracles’? It is Whitland we must answer to, even now, and your blasted king would have my head for the very suggestion.”

  “He’s no longer my king,” Harrow said sharply. “We should ask for independence. It could be the only way.”

  Faolan shook his head. The sky outside was beginning to turn a dusky pink, striping the study in its faint glow. He should be returning to his daughter’s bedside, not indulging his friend in fruitless scheming. “You want us to sail up to Whitland and ask politely for our independence? With no troops and a mountain of debt? It’s useless. I should just abdicate now.”

  “Whitland is in more trouble, financially, than the High King is willing to admit,” Harrow said. “If we were able to help him out—pay off our debts and give a little extra—he might just be willing to let our tiny port throne fall out of his grasp.”

  Faolan shuffled a pile of papers into order, scowling at his desk. “That sounds like the most dimwitted scheme I have ever been privy to. Are you planning to rob an entire kingdom? We have gone deeper into debt each year since our founding. No one has enough riches to pay that off.”

  “Just listen,” Harrow said. “I have thought this out. If we build more than just a road to the gemstone beaches—a city, say—we could attract investors and wealthy nobility to come settle in this exciting new land. With the money they bring in commerce and economic growth, and the wealth from our own gemstones, we will have enough to bring Whitland begging at our doorstep.”

  This time Faolan could not disguise his keen interest. Even he was not immune to the enticing wealth that lay behind this newest scheme. If he could liberate his trading ports, it would be no trouble at all to send a fleet in search of the healing knowledge to cure his son. And once he could walk again, they would build a glittering empire beyond anything in the Kinship Thrones.

  “So, why is it that Whitland needs money so desperately?” Faolan asked at last.

  Harrow scratched uncomfortably at his neat, dark beard. “That’s the one misgiving I have about this plan. Whitland wishes to send troops south and subdue Varrival. Apparently the desert-dwellers have grown dangerously wealthy from their glass trade, and have begun encroaching on Whitland’s southern borders.”

  “And we would, of course, rather support Varrival,” Faolan said. “Given that we are similarly aligned against Whitland.” It was not too great a hurdle, though. As soon as Lostport had gained independent sovereignty, Faolan could turn and support the three outliers—Varrival, Ruunas, and Cashabree—in their efforts against the High Throne. “I say we do it anyway.”

  He did not miss the triumphant gleam in Harrow’s eye. “Your word, Your Grace. As soon as you sign the edict, the builders are ready to commence work on your gemstone city.”

  “Very well, then.” Faolan glanced at the window, beyond which he could see the forest overtaking his tidy gardens. Everything could change with this new flow of wealth. Lostport would ascend to the world stage.

  Harrow cleared his throat. “We could have this project done before next winter, Your Grace. Once King Luistan knows that we intend to help finance Whitland’s war, the High King might even send architects and laborers to help us complete the project. I have heard rumors that Dardensfell and Kohlmarsh have refused to send aid, so Whitland is more desperate for funds than it will admit.”

  After a long moment, Faolan nodded. “The idea is sound. We have put too much work into this project to abandon it now. I will sign the edict. And you must call on Whitland for as much manpower as it can muster.”

  Harrow’s smile grew. “I knew you would agree.”

  Faolan shook his head with amusement. With a graceful strike, he signed the two papers his advisor slid before him. Then, as the last purple glow of evening faded behind the hills outside, he pushed back his chair and stood. “Evening, Harrow.”

  He must return to his son. Doran deserved to know he had a chance.

  Chapter 2

  W hen the rivership made berth at last in a small, reeking village in Kohlmarsh, the guardsman asked Conard if he wished to disembark there or continue north.

  “This is the closest village to Lostport. We have traveled twelve days since leaving the coast; you can see now how remote and untouched the southern lands remain.”

  “Why are you giving me a choice?” Conard asked suspiciously. He still had not decided whether the guardsman was genuinely sympathetic or trying to trick him into something, so he was wary of any friendly suggestions.

  “King Faolan thought you would want a chance at establishing yourself in one of the twin cities, either in Kohlmarsh or Dardensfell.”

  Conard snorted. From what he had seen of Kohlmarsh, his only desire was to leave the kingdom as quickly as possible.

  The guardsman shrugged. “Dardensfell is quite impressive, actually. It has a spine of immense mountains along its western border, and the rest of the land is temperate and covered with plains excellent for riding. But if you were to return to Lostport—not that I may condone such behavior—your best chance is to disembark here and make your way south.”

  “I’ll get off here,” Conard said at once. Whether or not the guardsman was trying to help him, he did not wish to travel any farther than necessary from his home.

  The crew had finished tying the rivership to the dock. Houses lined the water, and the entire village seemed to have sprung up in a claustrophobic huddle around the small dock. As the gangplank was lowered and Conard waited his turn to disembark, he began to pick up the source of the reek specific to the village—unlike the rest of Kohlmarsh, with its fetid stench of decay rising from the lowland bogs,
this village was swathed in a dull haze of acrid peat smoke that curled from each chimney before settling among the streets.

  Conard bent forward and stretched his hands to the ground, back aching from the long ride cramped on the rivership. When he straightened, the guardsman handed him a small bundle tied in a blanket, what Conard assumed was the meager allotment of supplies allowed an exile.

  “Thank you,” he said grimly. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  The guardsman gripped Conard’s shoulder in farewell. “You may not remember me, but I watched you as a child, running about the king’s mansion like a little monkey. I hope to see you there again someday.”

  Homesickness hit Conard in a dizzying wave. He nodded his gratitude and turned away before the guardsman could see the pain in his eyes. He was a twelve-day sail from the only home he had ever known, destitute and entirely alone in what had to be the ugliest kingdom imaginable.

  At least it felt good to walk down the gangplank onto solid ground, where he could stretch his legs a bit. The boards of the dock creaked unpleasantly beneath him; several were half-rotted, and all were slicked with a grey layer of algae or moss that seemed to thrive in the cold humidity. Where the dock ended, though, the ground turned to mud even fouler than the weathered boards.

  The village looked even worse from the ground. The buildings were made of packed mud, with sagging roofs of bundled reeds; the whole place looked as though a good drenching would wash it away. At least it seemed well-equipped with accommodations—the riverfront boasted a tavern, two inns, and a general store of some sort. One of the inns was even built of wood, which served to make the rest of the village look shabbier still by comparison.

  Knowing his bundle was unlikely to contain much in the way of coin, Conard headed for the mud-walled inn, hoping at least to find someone to talk to.

  When he pushed open the near-weightless door of woven reeds, Conard was surprised to be greeted with the aroma of sizzling meat and a halo of warm lights. A cough from behind reminded him that others had followed him off the rivership and clearly had the same plan as him. Conard stepped farther inside, noticing that the pleasant glow was created by glass orbs refracting the candlelight.

  “How long is the ship stopping here?” Conard asked the man who had entered directly after him.

  “Just ’til sundown. The captain wants to make the Twin Cities in another ten days. No harm trying, but he’s a bit of a fool betimes.”

  “Are we more than halfway, then?”

  The man shook his head with a grimace. “Fool, as I said.”

  Others were joining them now, though the guardsman had evidently remained aboard the rivership. Perhaps he would jump ship and return to Lostport as soon as they passed another vessel heading south.

  Conard wished he could do the same. Unconsciously he rubbed the iron band beneath his bedraggled tunic; as soon as he realized what he was doing, he put both hands behind his back.

  The other men had already taken seats and accepted mugs of some hot drink; apparently there was only one choice of alcohol, but the men appeared to enjoy the unfamiliar pink-gold spirit enough that they did not mind. Watching them covertly, Conard took a seat in the corner, somewhat concealed behind the mantle of the enormous stone fireplace.

  As soon as the innkeeper took note of Conard’s arrival, he greeted him with a mug of the sweet-smelling drink, beaming.

  Conard tried to push the mug away. “I haven’t any money,” he said. “And I need somewhere to spend the night.”

  “Clearly you’ve never been here before,” the man said. “Just this one night, everything is on us. Be sure to tell your friends to pay us a visit on the float south.”

  Conard did not bother to correct the man. “Is there any way back to Lostport, aside from the river?” he asked casually. “I was hoping to return a bit sooner than the rest of the crew, so…”

  The man chuckled. “There is a bit of a path alongside the river, but you’d be trudging through muck and marsh grasses for no less than a full span. Five days walking for each day on the boat, that’s what I reckon. Try your chances with another crew headed south. You’d be far likelier to survive.”

  Raising his mug, Conard took a whiff of the steam rising from the odd yellow drink. It was sharp and earthy yet underlined with sweetness. When the innkeeper turned back to the counter, face relaxing in a smile, Conard cleared his throat.

  “One more question,” he said.

  The man nodded affably.

  “If I stay here a while—a quarter or so—would I be able to earn my keep?”

  This time the innkeeper let out a bark of laughter. “We’ve a shortage of labor here, and no end of jobs that need doing. ‘Course you can work for a few meals and a bed. It’s mighty hard tempting settlers to stay in Bogside. Most would rather continue to Lostport.”

  Bogside. What a depressing name for a town. Rather hesitantly, Conard said, “And what about you? Why would you stay in such a—a bloody miserable place?”

  “Grew up just a ways north of here,” the innkeeper said. “Odd as it’ll sound, I like it here. With all the river trade, you can make a tidy business in these parts. Seafood and sweaty forests down south never turned my head.”

  Conard shook his head. He would never understand people like that.

  He sipped at the drink, choked, and spat it out again. When he took a tentative second taste, he was surprised to find that, though bitingly strong, it slid smoothly across his tongue.

  * * *

  Laina was perched on the end of her brother’s bed, trying without success to talk him out of the foul mood he was in, when a quiet but persistent knock sounded at her door.

  Doran groaned.

  “Hello, Father.” Laina tried to keep the exasperation from her voice. Her father’s obsessive attention was doing nothing to improve Doran’s temper.

  As the door to the sickroom creaked open, Doran set aside the illuminated text he had been reading.

  “Good morning, my dears.”

  Doran fixed his eyes on the ceiling of the sickroom, not turning to greet their father. Laina stood and collected his books.

  “How are you feeling today?” her father asked, settling beside Doran on the stifling bedcovers.

  Doran said nothing.

  “Let him return to his bedchamber,” Laina said. “It’s much too dark in here.” The sickroom was stuffy and dim, with a lingering scent of bitter herbs. Doran complained that the place gave him a splitting headache, especially when he tried to read.

  “Of course, of course.” Her father waved a hand dismissively, clearly preoccupied.

  For the first time, Doran acknowledged their father’s presence. “What is it?”

  “I have—ah—made arrangements for you,” he said. “I have sent for a horse and a special saddle to accommodate you. You’ll be free to travel about as much as you wish.”

  Doran struggled to sit up. “You wish to parade me in front of the townsfolk? Humiliate me publicly?”

  In Doran’s place, Laina would have wanted nothing more than the freedom a horse offered. Yet her father had never been able to understand his children. Doran should have been the spoiled daughter, Laina the heir.

  Her father’s face slackened with disappointment. He had clearly planned this carefully, and the gift came from the depths of his love. “At least come to see the beast,” he pleaded, rising heavily. Laina could see more clearly than ever the age in his sloping shoulders. In recent years, she had surpassed even her father’s height, while Doran lagged behind.

  “Is the horse here already?” Laina asked. She couldn’t resist—horses were so rare in Lostport that she had never ridden one herself. “Where did it come from?”

  Her father smoothed Doran’s hair. “I sent for the beast nine days ago. She is one of the elegant plains mares from Dardensfell, bred for speed and endurance.”

  “I’ll give her a look,” Doran said begrudgingly. “But how do you intend to get me outs
ide?”

  Their father crossed to the door and opened it to admit two burly young men. With some jostling, they lifted Doran between them, a blanket tucked around his legs.

  “You okay, Highness?” one asked.

  Doran grunted.

  Laina hated seeing her brother like this. He often refused to eat; she had to join him for most meals to ensure he didn’t reject them altogether. He had confessed to her that he would be singlehandedly responsible for the ruin of Lostport. She was afraid he had lost the will to live.

  As soon as they emerged from the sickroom, a draft of humid, sun-drenched air wafted over them. Laina breathed deeply, inhaling the sweetly pungent aroma of spring in the rainforest. The guards had a bit of trouble negotiating the stairs, but soon they were crossing the entrance hall to the golden light of the lawn.

  In the eleven days since the accident, spring had truly taken hold, a riot of color spilling from the forest onto the neatly-trimmed lawn. Everywhere in Lostport, the forest threatened to overwhelm the small pockets of tidy civilization the settlers had created. Unruly bushes and trees billowed against the borders of their garden, boasting gaudy, over-perfumed flowers in every color imaginable.

  If only Conard and Doran could share in the delight. But Doran was inured to the lushness of spring, and Conard was somewhere far away, afraid to face the repercussions of what he had done. Remorse gnawed at her.

  The soft nicker of a horse startled Laina from her thoughts. At the end of the lawn, struggling against her reins with lips extended toward a succulent apple, stood Doran’s horse.

  “She’s beautiful,” Laina said.

  The two guardsmen carried Doran closer, Laina following. As they neared the horse, Doran gave in and raised a hand to stroke her sun-warmed flank.

  Holding the reins was a tall, lean Darden with a mop of loose grey hair around his ears and a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache. Despite his old age, his shoulders were well-muscled and his skin tanned; Laina assumed it was a product of the active Darden lifestyle. From what she had heard, bands of warriors—men and women—roamed the plains, hunting buffalo and fighting one another for territory.