The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  “As my lord wishes,” Duffrey said, with less sarcasm than usual. Doran had a feeling the man had something unpleasant in store.

  As the butler retreated to order the ladies outside and warn the kitchen that a formal tea was required, Doran struggled into his shirt, careful not to let the fabric get anywhere near the still-fresh blood on his bandaged knees.

  Not a moment after Doran managed to button his shirt up and smooth his hair satisfactorily into place—it was getting a bit unruly, truth be told—Duffrey reappeared with the cook, a middle-aged woman who looked fierce beneath the stains on her uniform.

  “Forgive us the indignity,” Duffrey said as he crossed to Doran’s side. The cook took his legs while Duffrey lifted him beneath the arms, and he was raised like a corpse from his bed. By the time he was deposited in his chair in the dining hall, a sheen of fresh blood had soaked through his trousers once more. They were black, though, so he could afford to ignore it for a while longer.

  “Send in the women,” Doran said, gripping the arms of his chair and shoving himself backward until his shoulder blades were pressed into the chair.

  As the cook retreated to the kitchen, Duffrey welcomed in no less than fifteen women, enough to fill the available chairs and then some.

  They milled around the entryway, gazing at the arched white ceiling and inspecting the statues that rested in a few crevices, until at last one of them noticed Doran and hurried over to the dining hall, her heels clicking against the floor.

  “Welcome,” Doran said, endeavoring to sound more confident than he felt. “Thank you for joining me today. I know this seems sudden, but I find I am in need of a wife.”

  A couple of the girls put their heads together and giggled; Doran hoped fervently they weren’t laughing at him.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  Four of the girls were left standing once the rest had settled themselves, and Doran was saddened to find that these were the homeliest of the lot, their clothes in a much worse state of disrepair than any of his own servants.

  Thankfully Iole appeared up the kitchen stairs just then, a pair of stools under her arms, and Doran invited one of the poor girls to sit beside him.

  The girl who had originally taken this privileged spot smiled at her new neighbor in a predatory way.

  “Don’t worry,” Doran said shortly. “You will each get a turn sitting next to me.”

  To his relief, Iole returned with two more stools just then, followed by the cook, whose arms were bulging beneath the weight of a platter heaped with teapots and cups and sugar.

  Once the women had all been served, Doran turned to the plain-looking girl on his right. He was immediately drawn to the ones who looked poor, though he knew they would make a terrible match politically—he could tell they were not playing any games with him.

  “Thank you for coming, lady—”

  “Bree, Milord.”

  “Lady Bree. And what is your position in town?”

  She flushed a dull red. “My parents run a fishing boat, Milord. I help prepare their catch for market.” She said this last so quietly Doran could hardly catch her words; he noticed with a flash of anger that the girl on her right was eyeing her scornfully.

  “And why have you come here to try your luck with me?”

  When she dropped her gaze miserably, he hurriedly added, “I’m not trying to question your motives. I’m only curious. I plan to ask the same question of everyone.”

  “I’ve always dreamed of the glory of court, Milord,” she mumbled. “I would love nothing more than to wed you.”

  “Is that the truth?” Doran asked wryly. “You might be disappointed to find that the court of Lostport is no court at all. We keep a simple household, not much larger than this manor here.”

  She shook her head, her voice dropping so low it was almost a whisper. “We’ve had a bad summer, Milord. Too many storms. My father needs to marry me off to save our family, and the man he’s picked for me is horrid.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” Doran said gently, taking a sip of his tea. “You have made a very favorable impression.”

  As Lady Bree flushed with surprised delight, Doran ordered that the ladies each move one seat to the left. He had considered letting the spiteful woman beside Bree wait for last, but he had better things to do than alienate the very women who might one day save his country.

  He started interrogating this woman in the same manner, but quickly found that the conversation was out of his hands.

  “Yes, my parents are part of the Darden nobility, Milord,” she said smoothly. “We travel here every summer to enjoy the fresh air. What is it like in Lostport in summer?”

  “Less rainy than usual,” Doran said, feeling a bit miffed. He was not here to answer questions about himself.

  “Ah, but you have seen much more of the country than I have now! What was it like, journeying through Varrival? It seems frightful, does it not?”

  “Very sandy,” Doran said peevishly. “Thank you for your company, my lady. Next!”

  The woman gave Doran a cold smile as she moved to the chair on his left, her intricate hairdo quivering with indignation.

  The women began to blur together before long. To his dismay, most of the wealthy-looking women were just as difficult to talk to as the first, each trying to manipulate the conversation or showing off unnecessarily or pretending to be sillier than they actually were. He had never met a high-born lady before, apart from Laina and his mother, but he could hardly remember his mother, and Laina certainly didn’t act the part. He was starting to wish he could just pick Bree and get on with it, though he realized she would probably be a lot happier if she was just given a purse of coins and allowed to stay with her family.

  By the time he reached a well-dressed young woman with very delicate features who seemed to be a joke among her neighbors, she seemed like a breath of fresh air.

  “What is your name, my lady?”

  “Odessa, Milord.” Her cheeks flushed.

  “That’s a foreign name, is it not?” Doran asked curiously. “Where are you from?”

  “Ruunas, Milord.” Now that he looked at her more carefully, he could recognize the Ruunic features—black hair, almond skin, dark eyes. “I’ve always wondered what this manor looked like from the inside.” Her eyes were sparkling with delight. “You must love living in such a beautiful place.”

  “Actually, I’m leaving in two days,” Doran said abruptly. “Would you mind living in Lostport?” He thought this starry-eyed girl might be the exact sort of person who would follow him without complaint.

  “Oh, that would be amazing! I’ve always wanted to see more of the Kinship Thrones. It’s why I’m here, you know. Visiting my uncle.”

  “But would you get tired of living in Lostport for the rest of your life?”

  She bit her lip, gaze turning inward. “I think not, as long as you agreed to take me on a trip to the Twin Cities at least once. I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” Doran glanced around the circle and groaned inwardly at the number of girls he still had to talk to. “Would you like to come speak with me tomorrow? Your uncle can come as well, if you would like.” He was almost entirely decided on this girl. She seemed kind enough and simple enough to forgive him for the burden he would put upon her.

  “Ooh, yes!” she said. Lowering her voice, she asked, “How many others are you seeing tomorrow?”

  “Just you,” Doran said shortly.

  Her eyes lit up.

  As the women switched seats once more, Doran caught the eye of Iole and beckoned her over.

  “Could you please go into my room and bring my coin purse?” he whispered.

  Iole nodded and scurried away as the next girl in line turned to him with interest.

  “Thank you for joining me,” Doran said mechanically. He didn’t bother to ask this one’s name. “What are your interests in a match with Lostport?”

  And so it continued,
until he had spoken to every one of his guests. Most were looking either disgruntled or spiteful as they sat waiting to be dismissed—he had not been very gracious to the ones he was not interested in. He tried to imagine Laina in a similar position; either she would reject everyone outright, or she would treat every suitor the same, so they had to argue over a jug of ale later that night who was foremost in her thoughts. The coin purse Iole had brought back was pressed beneath one immobile leg, where he kept having to touch it to make sure it was still there.

  “Thank you all for joining me,” Doran said, catching Odessa’s eye across the table. “I will seek you out if I wish to see you again.”

  As Lady Bree rose, banging her knee against the table leg and stumbling, Doran caught her wrist.

  “What is it?” she asked softly. “You’re not choosing me, are you? I hardly think you’d want a commoner for a match.”

  “Please just stay a moment,” Doran said.

  She gave him a trapped look, as though she expected to be violated. “Sorry, Milord, I have duties to attend to.” She pulled her arm free.

  “Please, Lady Bree. I mean you only the best. Stay, just until the others are gone.”

  Though her expression remained wary, she sank back into her chair and waited, grasping the arms of the chair as though she intended to flee at a moment’s notice.

  When the last girl had been let out, Duffrey turned from the door and stopped in his tracks when he noticed the girl still sitting at Doran’s right.

  “Surely you don’t intend to marry that disgraceful thing,” Duffrey said spitefully.

  Bree flushed and half-stood. “I’m sorry, Milord. I’ll leave now.”

  Doran pressed his coin purse into her hand. “My regards to your family, Lady Bree. Thank you for joining me today.”

  Shock crossed her face, and she mumbled something that sounded like a cross between “A million thanks” and “You shouldn’t do this.”

  “Go on,” Doran said. “You don’t need to thank me.” He didn’t want Duffrey to get a chance to lecture the poor girl.

  Ducking her head in two quick curtseys, Bree hurried out of the room with the coin purse clutched tight to her stomach.

  “Am I to assume you made your decision?” Duffrey asked drily, sidling into the dining room in Bree’s wake.

  “It wasn’t that poor girl, if that’s what you were wondering,” Doran said shortly.

  “May I ask—”

  “Lady Odessa,” Doran said. “That’s who I chose.”

  “The one from Ruunas?” Duffrey began stacking plates together with a stiff-backed look of disapproval. “Surely you would rather strengthen your ties with Chelt—or Whitland.”

  “Our ties with Whitland are already strong,” Doran said. “Have you forgotten my mother?”

  Duffrey’s lip curled. “The one who fled Lostport and returned to Whitland? What does that say about your country?”

  Doran winced—even after all these years, his mother’s betrayal still stung. Though his father had explained that his mother had been wretched with loneliness and half-crazed with frustration after the endless rains, and that sending her back to Whitland had saved her life, Doran still could not understand how she valued her husband and her children so little.

  “We have always been very closely aligned with Whitland,” Doran said tightly. “I think it is high time we turn our attentions to the south. Ruunas is almost our neighbor, after all. We cannot ignore the realities of geography.”

  “You say that to justify a bad decision,” Duffrey said under his breath.

  Doran pretended he had not heard the man. He was sick of his butler’s manipulative ways.

  “About your return to Lostport,” Duffrey said, louder this time. “I hardly think this is an appropriate time to make the journey. Varrival is preparing for war, and they may treat any strangers in their territory as a threat. It would be wise to wait until this conflict has settled.”

  “The conflict is exactly why I need to return,” Doran said through gritted teeth. “Lostport cannot appear weak. You have your orders—prepare to depart in two days’ time. I don’t want to hear any more excuses.”

  “Of course not, Milord,” Duffrey said smoothly.

  It was only after Doran had dismissed his butler that he remembered he could no longer rely on his wheeled chair to return to his bedchamber. He was trapped at the dining table until someone remembered him.

  The following day, he brought two books with him to breakfast and remained at the table as he waited for Odessa. He did not want to humiliate himself in front of her by revealing how incapable he was just yet.

  Odessa and her uncle arrived shortly before noon, and Duffrey was there to let them in, the picture of humble servitude. Oh, how Doran hated the man.

  “Thank you very much for joining me,” Doran greeted them as they took seats on either side of him. The uncle was very obviously Ruunic, from the dark brown of his skin to the way he towered over Duffrey. There were rumors that the Ruunans had selectively bred themselves to create a new race distinct from the Whitish they originated from, and in doing so had made their people more beautiful than any others in the Kinship Thrones; at this moment, Doran did not find that hard to believe.

  “This is my uncle, Lord Bardrosse.” Odessa’s voice was higher than it had been the day before, and she kept twining her hands together with nerves.

  “At your service, Milord,” Lord Bardrosse said, inclining his head. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I think you already know that,” Doran said. “I would like to ask Lady Odessa to be my wife.”

  She flushed deep pink at his words, and would not meet Doran’s eyes.

  “Unless you would rather not wed me?” he asked with sudden concern.

  “No, of course not. I mean, I would love to.”

  Lord Bardrosse raised his eyebrows. “I do have to ask, your grace—what has compelled you to offer your hand to my niece? Our family is certainly wealthy, but we have no political power to speak of, and Lostport has never thought to ally itself with Ruunas before.”

  Doran glanced up to make sure Duffrey was gone. “I admit, Whitland has recently been moving in a direction I am not comfortable with. As Lostport’s future ruler, I must do what I can to prevent our downfall, which, in this case, consists of moving away from Whitland and forging new alliances. I doubt Ruunas would offer up anyone with political power for an alliance with Whitland—I believe most countries see us as far too closely aligned with Whitland, though that has never been very accurate. Lostport is made up of exiles and criminals and prospectors, people who came there to escape the high king’s power.”

  “You’re hardly painting an attractive picture of Lostport, your grace,” Lord Bardrosse said, though his lip twitched.

  “I assure you, it’s a very civil place now—most of the time.” Doran glanced at Odessa, who gave him a shy smile. He was beginning to feel a growing unease that she would quickly realize how little he deserved someone like her.

  “Well, as you can tell by our presence here, we are fully open to the idea,” Lord Bardrosse said. “I am relieved to know that your motives are straightforward.”

  Doran nodded. Duffrey reappeared with tea just then, and he looked slightly disgruntled to find that Doran and his guests had fallen silent at his arrival. Clearly he had hoped to overhear something of importance.

  “Thank you very much, Duffrey,” Doran said with a forced smile. “And now, Lord Bardrosse, Duffrey, could you please excuse me for a moment? I would like to speak with Lady Odessa alone.”

  “Of course.” Lord Bardrosse added a jot of sugar to his tea and brought the cup with him out to the entrance hall, where he perched on one of the armchairs and studied a polished driftwood sculpture in the alcove opposite him.

  Duffrey left with considerably less grace, retreating down the stairs to the kitchen, where presumably he would listen behind the door.

  Doran lowered his voice so even Duffrey wo
uld not hear. “There are a few things you must know about me if you are to wed me,” he said.

  Odessa nodded eagerly, leaning in close to hear him.

  “First, I am sure you know the rumors, but—I can’t walk. My legs were paralyzed in a boating accident this spring.”

  Odessa laid a delicate hand on his arm. “I did know that. And of course I don’t hold it against you. I would like to do whatever I can to make it easier for you.”

  “Thank you.” Doran was surprisingly touched by this. “And second, could you keep a secret your entire life, and never tell another soul?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Her face fell. “Unless it was something to do with Ruunas, and I was condemning my country by keeping silent.”

  “I would never ask that of you.”

  “Then yes, I would do anything for you.”

  It was decided, then. She was everything Doran had hoped for. And, if she continued looking at him with such eager adoration, he might find himself falling in love with her in time. “In that case, Lady Odessa, would you be my wife?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes!” Odessa turned pink with happiness. “Uncle! I am to marry a king.”

  Lord Bardrosse rejoined them, balancing his tea cup precariously on his platter, and embraced his niece. He shook Doran’s hand with a warm smile, and would have given him a hug as well if Doran had been able to stand.

  “And so, do you intend to remain in Chelt, or return to Lostport?” Lord Bardrosse asked.

  “Uncle, I already told you that, remember?” Odessa said. “He’s returning to Lostport.”

  “Tomorrow, in fact,” Doran said, grateful that Odessa was not opposed to the idea.

  “Well, that will be excellent,” Lord Bardrosse said. “Would you mind if Odessa traveled on her own to join you, stopping in Ruunas to tell her parents the happy news along the way? She might take an extra couple quarters, but it would help relations with Ruunas immensely, I assure you.”

  “Of course,” Doran said. He hoped Lostport was not at the stage of dissolution that his wife would be required to make an immediate presence. “It would be a much nicer journey that way, I am sure.” Secretly he was glad to be spared her presence for the long journey. What on earth would they talk about? They had nothing in common. At least back in Lostport, Laina and Conard would be able to entertain her as well.