The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  The entire household converged on Swick as soon as he pushed open the manor doors. It seemed they had all forsaken their tasks, waiting anxiously for word of Laina and the king. Swick beckoned for Nort and Barrik to join him on the lawn. “The king is in a bad way,” he said softly, though no one missed his words. A current of whispers swept through the hall, while frowns deepened and eyes darkened. Even Harrow materialized from the kitchen; he had evidently been too concerned to return home, though he would have said otherwise had Laina’s father returned unscathed.

  “What happened?” one of the kitchen wenches asked Laina.

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  Then Swick, Nort, Barrik, and Jairus came through the doors, her father held between them.

  “Out of the way!” Nort barked. The onlookers scattered, allowing the four men to carry Laina’s father upstairs and to his bedchamber. Harrow followed, and she wished she could do the same.

  “He’s not—not dead, is he?” Mylo asked, his voice husky.

  “No,” Laina said fiercely. Looking around, she realized the entire household—Mylo, his three kitchen hands, the housekeeper, the two gardeners, and the tailor—were now watching her, waiting for her to explain. Taking a deep breath, she sat up straighter. She was the voice of authority now.

  “The king should recover before long,” she said. “He took a bad fall in the forest, and has been unconscious since we found him. But he is in good hands now. Don’t fear.”

  Though she wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and sit by her father’s side, she knew this would accomplish naught. Instead she said, “Has anyone begun dinner? Swick and Jairus have walked a long way, and would appreciate a good meal. Someone could prepare the guestroom for them as well. They will stay here to tend to the king until he is well again.”

  For a moment no one responded. Laina feared they would question her authority, or ask why she had vanished and brought this pain upon her father in the first place. At last Mylo gave her shoulder a brief squeeze and led his three assistants back into the kitchen. The housekeeper made her way to the guestroom, while the others slipped back to their own tasks. Laina was left alone in the hall.

  No one remembered Laina for a long time. It was well past nightfall before Mylo emerged from the kitchens, gave a start to see her still sitting there, and ordered her to bed.

  Jairus met her on the stairs, his unreadable expression sterner than usual, and Laina immediately braced herself for devastating news.

  “Your father woke briefly,” he said. “He was very confused. We intended to fetch you, but before I left the room, he had fallen asleep again. His color has improved, though. Swick believes it is simply a concussion. His knee was dislodged, so we believe he fell.”

  “And?” Laina asked. She wanted a resounding promise of recovery.

  “He should be fine,” Jairus said, his shoulders slumping.

  Laina sagged against him, no longer able to stifle the tears that had been threatening all afternoon.

  * * *

  Doran quickly became acclimated to life in Torrein. He enjoyed the sun and the open windows, which allowed the sweet-smelling sea breeze to permeate the manor, and he especially loved the library. The books it housed were collected from every corner of the Kinship Thrones, and among them he was surprised to find a couple that spoke of Makhori magic as though it was a common occurrence. Ordinarily he would have dismissed such things as superstition and false hope—people believing such things were possible because they wished it to be so—yet after his father’s talk of a Makhori cure for his legs and his impotence, Doran had to admit he was curious.

  As it transpired, he ended up dining alone for the first quarter of his stay, servants coming and going and attentive to his every need yet never lingering long enough to make the dining room feel crowded. As far as he could tell, he had a cook, two servers, a housemaid, and of course the two butlers.

  He considered asking the household to join him, but for now it was peaceful simply to sit with his own thoughts and become accustomed to the idea of living here. He often brought books to the table as well, which his father would have frowned upon but which no one raised an eyebrow at here.

  After a few days of awkward maneuvering and sore hands, Doran began to get the hang of his wheeled chair, to the extent that he no longer needed help moving around the house or even getting into bed. He had never been terribly strong, yet his arms were growing more useful by the day, until he could even wrestle himself off the ground and back onto the chair if he made a botched attempt of climbing from his bed to the chair.

  A quarter into his stay in Chelt, he was beginning to feel like himself again. He would never be able to accomplish what most men could, yet he was no longer an invalid, lying in bed all day with nothing to distract him from his wretched thoughts.

  From here, he could see the Kinship thrones with more perspective. Where before Lostport had dominated his thoughts, now it seemed like such a small, insignificant piece of the puzzle that it hardly merited notice. Why would High King Luistan have any interest in regaining control over Lostport? Surely their meager gemstones were nothing compared to the wealth of his own coffers.

  The simmering resentment between Whitland and Varrival was what intrigued him more, and he devoured the four books he found on Varrival. Only one was written by a Varrilan—well, translated from a Varrilan account, in any case—while the others were studies done from afar.

  He learned more about the three cities ringing the volcanic mountain, and of the first city in the oasis that had come to such a terrible end.

  Doran quickly learned that Fabrian was a lot more intelligent than he had originally given the boy credit for. He had been educated at the Borderlands school, which was regarded by everyone except the Whitish as the pinnacle of science and other fields of complex knowledge, and Doran often caught him sneaking into the library. He encouraged the boy—it was nice to have someone to discuss complex matters with, someone more intelligent than the stuffy, old-fashioned Duffrey.

  “The problem,” he said to Fabrian one day, “is that Whitland still controls the Kinship Thrones. It used to be the most populous and technologically advanced center in this whole continent, but now it’s just a backward, corrupt nation that wishes it was still on top. The original structure of the Kinship Thrones is outdated by hundreds of years. Whitland needs to accept that it’s lost.”

  “It’s a mess, sure,” Fabrian said. “But what would happen if we got rid of Whitland? We’d probably fight between ourselves then. Right now we just put up with them and grumble to each other, but if Whitland wasn’t in control we could start conquering each other and ruin everything we’ve got.”

  “Well, Lostport doesn’t need Whitland,” Doran said. “And we would be highly unlikely to get ourselves involved in any wars that would arise.”

  “Unless everyone wanted your resources for themselves,” Fabrian pointed out.

  Though Doran didn’t know why, this left him with a vague feeling of unease.

  That night, he wrote a letter to his family, describing the wonders of his new home in Torrein and the challenges of the journey across the desert. He was more interested in their reply, though—he probed them for details about the Port Emerald road and their relations with Whitland, about his father’s thoughts on who would replace him as heir.

  The best solution for everyone would be if Laina took over—she was a born ruler, though she did not know it yet. Then her heir would be the rightful king of Lostport, rather than a Whitish usurper who would impose King Luistan’s authority on Lostport.

  “What’s it like in Lostport right now?” Fabrian asked when he saw Doran folding and sealing his letter at the dining table.

  “Er—rainy?” Doran said, caught off-guard.

  Fabrian snorted. “No, I meant politically. How’s your relationship with Whitland?”

  “Why do you ask?” Doran said carefully, one hand on the letter where he had penned
that exact question.

  “Well, one hears rumors…”

  “You are the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,” Doran said, only half-teasing. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t really know,” Fabrian said. “Just gossip, really. The sort you’d hear at the local pub. Only, I heard that Whitland is stepping in to help with the building of Port Emerald.”

  “What’s this?” Doran said. He had never heard more than the news of plans to build a road to Port Emerald. But now it sounded as though the fjord was to be a true port, or something of the sort.

  “Your father’s plans grow more ambitious by the day,” Fabrian said, glancing over his shoulder. Duffrey hated when he talked about anything important with Doran. “We hear he intends to build a great city at Port Emerald, and enlist Whitish builders to help with the task.”

  Doran bit his tongue in surprise. Couldn’t his father see how dangerous that would be? Lostport would so easily be overrun by Whitish, eager to push their influence around and punish those who had escaped their laws in the beginning.

  “I haven’t had any news since I left,” he said truthfully. “Where have you gotten your word from?”

  Fabrian lowered his voice. “The borderlands school keeps an open line of communication running to all of its former students. There are several of us here in Torrein, and a trader who brings news whenever he can. Don’t say anything, right?”

  “Of course not,” Doran promised. “But please keep me informed. I need to know where my country stands, even if I have turned my back on it.”

  Fabrian nodded.

  Doran had a lot to think about that evening. As he lay on his bed reading by the last light of the setting sun, his mind kept jumping from the book on ocean trade routes back to Lostport.

  Why would his father go to such lengths to build a new city? What could he possibly hope to achieve?

  It had something to do with Whitland, Doran knew. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  * * *

  “Tomorrow we move out,” Tenori reminded Katrien and Amadi over supper. They had been in the Twin Cities for nine days now, exploring and gathering supplies and making the necessary arrangements for travel. At least, Tenori had been making arrangements; Katrien and Amadi, still unfamiliar with the city, had mostly been left to their own devices, and had wandered the streets endlessly. In that time they had stumbled across all sorts of curiosities—a series of near-vertical gardens gracing a particularly steep section of the hillside; shops selling everything from intricate clockwork machines to animals Katrien had never seen the likes of before; and towering stone buildings both elaborate and imposing. In Whitland, stone was considered a sacred building material, reserved solely for cathedrals and royal homes. That was a shame, she could now see; the houses throughout the Twin Cities looked solid and cozy and attractive, far more than she could say for Whitish dwellings.

  Of course, they had also stumbled across a few less-savory streets, one by the docks that reeked of piss and rotting fish, and another crowded with drunken men who had lunged at Katrien and succeeded in planting a very wet kiss on Amadi before she could wriggle away. After that experience, Tenori had drawn a makeshift map of the Twin Cities, on which he sketched in the nicest areas and warned them of districts to avoid at all costs.

  Just as Katrien was beginning to find her feet in the Twin Cities, it was time to move on. She was surprisingly reluctant to leave, yet everything was ready. She and Amadi had traded in their nice gowns for two sets of riding clothes each, and Katrien felt very odd in her split skirts and knee-high boots. She could not sacrifice her dignity enough to do as Amadi had done and wear men’s breeches.

  “I promise, these were tailored for a female rider,” Tenori had said with amusement when he tried to persuade Katrien to try on a pair.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Katrien had said. She was unsurprised when Amadi snatched them up eagerly.

  Now, for the lack of anything else to wear, Katrien and Amadi were dressed in their full riding garb, albeit barefoot.

  “Are you sad to go?” Katrien asked Tenori.

  He blew thoughtfully on his broth. “Of course,” he said mildly. “Though a greater part of me is relieved. Some time back—before that assault you witnessed, even—the trials of living here began to outweigh the happier parts. I originally came here for the sheer novelty of it, and had myself a wonderful time negotiating the web of trade around here and getting swept up in the boisterous atmosphere of these cities. But I no longer have a reason to stay. The novelty has worn off, and I have no family to tie me here.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Whatever I might say to the contrary, I will miss the Twin Cities.”

  Katrien thought back to her own flight from Whitland. Had she, even once, felt an inkling of regret? No. Though it had taken her far too many years to discover it, she knew now that her time with Faolan had changed her forever. Once the world had opened itself to her, Whitland could never be enough.

  “Could I come back here someday?” Amadi asked, swinging her feet beneath her chair. “Once I’m all grown, I mean. And I don’t need your permission to live somewhere I like.” She gave Katrien a challenging look.

  Katrien refused to rise to the bait. “If you find Lostport unsatisfactory, by all means, return to the Twin Cities. There is certainly enough here to keep you entertained for a lifetime.”

  Amadi tried to hide a grin.

  The following morning, they rose long before dawn. Before, Tenori had cautioned Katrien and Amadi against straying out-of-doors past dark, but this time they needed to avoid any attention from the Whitish soldiers. According to Tenori, those Varrilans who wished to join them had already assembled outside the city limits, in the field beyond the southern gates.

  Though it was nearing summer, the night air still bit deep; Katrien and Amadi both wrapped themselves with cloaks and blankets before leaving Tenori’s home for the last time. He had given the keys to both shop and home to the owner of the Varrilan meeting-house, with instructions to use or sell both as he judged best.

  “This way,” Tenori said, drawing his own hood up and beckoning Katrien and Amadi down his street. The cobbles seemed more uneven than usual in the dark, and Katrien stumbled every third step. They headed downhill at a southeastern angle, making their way ever closer to the river. After three curving blocks, the streetlights disappeared, marking the end of the well-maintained district of the city. Only the stray candle burned in a window; Katrien had expected Tenori to bring a lamp of his own, but he seemed to know the way, so she and Amadi strained to follow his shadow in the dark.

  “Careful now,” he whispered as they turned down a street running parallel to the river. The darkness seemed to heighten the fishy, sour stench of the area; Katrien would have known the place in her sleep. “This is not a nice alleyway. But it is the most direct route by far.”

  Katrien gave Amadi’s hand a brief squeeze, which she answered with a nervous smile. Then they tiptoed forward.

  At this hour, the only signs of life down the alleyway were small, wriggling shapes that Katrien took for rats, and the occasional form of an unconscious sailor. Just as they were coming to the end of the block, a door was thrown open, spilling light across the cobbles. Katrien blinked at the sudden brightness.

  “Back!” Tenori whispered sharply, grabbing Katrien’s elbow and pulling her against the wall. She pressed her spine to the bricks, trying to make herself as small as possible. Seconds later, a cluster of men stumbled from the doorway, laughing and shouting incoherently. They were all enormous, tall and thickly-muscled. Amadi clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  It seemed ages before the door closed and the men finally dispersed, leaving the alleyway darker and quieter than ever. Even after, it was a time before Katrien could breathe properly.

  “Did you see the sign over the door?” Tenori breathed.

  Katrien shook her head. She had been to
o concerned with the men below the sign.

  “Well, it’s the standard of the Cleaver’s Boys. Cruel, ruthless hirelings. This is their headquarters.”

  Katrien’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of them. Even in Whitland, everyone knows their name.”

  Tenori nodded. “We should go. We’ve lingered too long.”

  Katrien’s nerves were on fire as they crept beneath the sign of the Cleaver’s Boys. At the rasping scrabble of a rat’s claws, she gave a start and nearly dropped the blanket from her shoulders.

  Even Tenori did not dare speak, though he touched her elbow to warn her to keep calm.

  Five more steps down, the alleyway ended. No longer worried about the reek, Katrien drew a deep breath.

  “We’re safer now,” Tenori whispered, picking up his pace once more. “The neighborhoods past here are home to a few wealthier merchant families, the sort with their own private moorings just below their windows.”

  Katrien understood the need for haste by the time they reached the outskirts of the city. Dawn was beginning to break, and the city was waking up around them. Several men hurried past on their way to work, and each gave the three travelers very odd looks. It was a relief to reach the gates themselves, standing ajar beneath a tall arch of wrought iron, and slip past the yawning guards into the open land beyond.

  Though she had sailed past this country twice before, Katrien had forgotten the sheer scale of the kingdom. The place they had come upon was not just a field; rather, it was the start of the vast, barren Darden plains, which stretched west to the mountains and south nearly to Lostport. Dewdrops shimmered along every stalk of grass, while the first rays of sunlight were beginning to seep above the hazy ridge of mountains to their east. Katrien drew a deep breath of fresh, earthy air and felt the tension of the Twin Cities scatter behind her.

  It was only then that she realized which direction Tenori had turned. He was now leading them toward a cluster of tents, wagons, and bustling figures tucked beneath the shadow of the city wall.