The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  “What happened?” Faolan asked urgently. “Why have you come back?”

  Katrien did not want him to know the full truth—that she had been assaulted and forced to flee from her own home—at least not yet. “I’ve known for years that I made a terrible mistake in leaving you,” she said. “I was so lonely back in Whitland. Everyone I knew had such a limited view of the world, and I realized I could never return to that happy ignorance. But I was afraid to act. It was only recently, once King Luistan started to worry that you were scheming against the throne, that I saw how bad things had become. I was put under house arrest, and I knew I had to warn you before King Luistan destroyed Lostport.”

  “Do you think the builders are here to take back Lostport?” Faolan asked, sitting up in alarm.

  Katrien shook her head. “I have no idea. But they frighten me. They’re the ones who put a sword through Kurjan. I think they’re afraid of some covert attack from Varrival.”

  “It’s true,” Faolan said, surprising her. “That is why the young man you met earlier—Jairus—is staying with us. His life would be forfeit if he stayed in town.”

  “It’s worse than I feared,” Katrien said, rubbing her forehead with her knuckles. She wished her followers were with her now, ready to confront the Whitlanders and drive them back. “My friend Tenori is from the Twin Cities, and he is one of many Varrilans who have been harassed to the point where they no longer feel safe living in the city. It sounds as though things are just as bad here.”

  Faolan sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been blocked at every turn by King Luistan. Even matters that were supposed to be left to my discretion have been divided into so many pieces that I can’t keep track of them any longer.”

  Katrien leaned closer, memorizing the lines on his forehead that had not been there before. “What do you want? Is our son’s recovery worth giving Lostport back to King Luistan? Is it worth funding an unjust war with Varrival?”

  “A span ago, I would have said I would give anything for Doran to be well. But he seems perfectly happy where he is. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe he was never suited for the role.” Faolan pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I wish he was here. Then we would know.”

  “He might not be happy.”

  Katrien whirled to see Amadi standing in the doorway, her sweaty hair pushed behind her ears, riding clothes looking grimier than ever in the gleaming hall.

  “Your son. Kurjan knows things about him, your majesty.” Now that Katrien and Faolan were watching her, Amadi did not look so sure of herself. “He’s awake. Do you want to hear for yourself?”

  Katrien was not sure this was the right time to bring up Kurjan’s suspicions. She had just begun to reacquaint herself with Faolan, and Kurjan was gravely injured, yet at Amadi’s words Faolan leapt to his feet with a grave look.

  “What’s happened?” he said fiercely. “Is my son well?”

  Amadi shrugged. “I don’t know everything. Kurjan just heard rumors, that’s all.” She turned and led the way to Kurjan’s room, where Tenori and the two warriors kept guard at the foot of his bed. Kurjan was awake and watching everything blearily, a hefty bandage fastened at his side.

  “You should tell them about Prince Doran,” Amadi said, sitting delicately by Kurjan’s shoulder. “They ought to know, don’t you think? Before they decide anything, I mean.”

  Kurjan blinked at her. “Suppose so.” He struggled to pull himself upright, squinting until he focused on Faolan’s face.

  One of the guards immediately fetched Faolan a chair, which he sank into gratefully. The two men backed out of the room, closing the door with a click behind them.

  “It’s just guesses, your majesty. I’ve heard more than my share of rumors, since I’ve been living in the Whitish borderlands for years now. I’ve been close to Varrival, Ruunas, and Cashabree, so I’ve met plenty of people from every race and every political persuasion. Anyway, this part I know for certain: someone’s been putting your son up very nicely in Chelt. He’s been living in a seaside mansion far nicer than this manor—begging your pardon, sir—and the money is coming from an unknown Whitish donor.” He gave Faolan a significant look, his pain apparently forgotten. “That makes me think someone wants him kept far away from Lostport. Someone wants this kingdom to end up without an heir.”

  “But couldn’t your daughter rule?” Amadi asked.

  Faolan shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Under Whitish decree, no woman may inherit the throne unless she weds someone of a royal line. If Doran does not return home, I will be forced to marry Laina to someone she despises—or give King Luistan free reign to select a new king of Lostport.”

  “That’s worse than I thought,” Kurjan said, sitting up straighter. He winced and clutched at his side as the bandages shifted. “This next part is nothing more than rumor, but it sounds very convincing. I can’t see how this is a coincidence.” He glanced from Katrien back to Faolan. “Lots of people think Doran’s accident wasn’t an accident at all. It was much too convenient. People are saying this is all part of a conspiracy to return Lostport to full Whitish control, now that Whitland knows how valuable this place is. They’re saying King Luistan sent an assassin to finish off Prince Doran, only he failed, and now King Luistan’s doing his best to keep the prince out of the way.”

  “Conard,” Faolan muttered. Then, louder, “That bastard! He’s been plotting against us all along. I’ll kill the lying son of a bitch myself!” He surged to his feet and pushed Tenori out of his way.

  “Wait!” Katrien put a hand on his shoulder, and the light pressure was enough to stop him.

  Breathing hard, Faolan rounded on her. She did not like the naked hatred in his eyes, nor did she like the fear that lay beneath.

  “Please explain. Who is this man, and what has he done to our son?”

  “I took him in. I raised him like a son! I cannot believe I was so blind.” Faolan gripped Katrien’s shoulders so fiercely her shoulders ached. “Conard appeared out of nowhere, claiming he was the son of the man who discovered Port Emerald. I did not know him, but he was left fatherless after the man disappeared into the forest and never returned. Laina took a fancy to him, so I took him in and raised him in my own home. Laina and Conard were inseparable, they were. Always up to mischief, always disappearing in town or into the woods. I should have kept a tighter rein on Laina, I know, and I should have taught her the proper way to behave. She will never be fit to rule, husband or no. But Conard—” Faolan’s voice broke on the name. “He was racing against Doran and Laina when his boat smashed headlong into Doran’s. He was the one at the helm, the one who threw my son into the sea. I could never forgive him for taking my son’s future from him.”

  “Where is he now?” Katrien asked. She hoped Faolan had locked the man up; she wanted to speak to him herself and judge whether Kurjan spoke the truth.

  “He could be sitting by King Luistan’s side now, for all I know, basking in the triumph of his plot,” Faolan said. “I could not bear to punish him, Laina’s dearest friend and a boy I have known for close to twenty years now. I exiled him. He is marked with an exile’s band, but has seen no suffering for his crime.”

  “He wouldn’t be back in Whitland,” Kurjan said. “Not if he valued his life.” The flickering lamplight cast a hundred dancing shadows on Kurjan’s chestnut skin; illuminated against the white sheets, he looked far older than the boy Katrien had known. “I would bet you my life he’s either in Lostport or Chelt. He’s either keeping an eye on things here, reporting any changes to his king, or ensuring your son doesn’t get any ideas about returning home.”

  Faolan stiffened. “He’s here. I’m certain of it.” Again he turned for the door, but this time Katrien did not stop him. “Nort! Barrik!” he called down the hall.

  The two guards bounded out of the dining hall and skidded to a halt before Faolan. “Yes, milord?”

  “Conard is still somewhere in Lostport. We must find him now. He
is accused of conspiracy and attempted murder. Go into town and spread the word—whoever brings me a man with an exile’s band around his left wrist will be rewarded handsomely.”

  “Should we tell the Whitish?” the taller guard asked.

  “Of course!” Faolan said impatiently. “They might well be hiding him in their ranks. Let them know they will be chained in the convict’s caves if they are caught lying.”

  Once the guards had fetched their coats and vanished into the night, Katrien folded her arms across her stomach, frightened of this world she had chosen to return to. “And if he is abroad?” she said softly.

  “We’ll send soldiers after him, if this fails,” Faolan said, gripping the doorframe. “He must be found.”

  Chapter 22

  L aina arrived at the builders’ camp just after sunset, her hood turned up against the light rain. She felt guilty for leaving her father and her people when they needed her most, which in itself was an odd sensation, but if this scheme could send the builders home quickly, it would be worth every sacrifice. Until now, she had never realized just how careless and unthinking her actions had been.

  She had spent the long walk casting about for explanations as to why she would have come here on such short notice, devoid of any guard, and the only answer that came to her was tied to the many streams she crossed along the way. With the rainy season looming, the documents concerning water rights had become more than a passing annoyance—the matter of who would rebuild a flood-wrecked bridge could mean life or death. And with dark clouds hanging low over Lostport and rain already spitting down, she hoped they would believe her urgency.

  The tents sprawled across the valley in a patchwork mess of canvas and flickering campfires, laundry lines hanging from the few remaining trees. She could not see Port Emerald in the clouded darkness, but she knew it was nearing completion. It made her skin crawl to think that something so majestic could be built for so vile a purpose.

  Slowing as she neared the river, she dropped her hood. She carried a lantern, which she held high, hoping the builders would catch sight of her before someone put an arrow through her. When no movement came from the shadows, she called, “Greetings, builders! It is I, Laina, daughter of King Faolan, come to speak with your leader.”

  Immediately the bushes began rustling, and ten guards emerged from the trees, two on her side of the river and eight across the bank.

  “Can you prove your identity?” the nearest guard asked.

  “Hang on,” a guard across the river shouted. “I recognize her. I saw her in the king’s manor when we were staying there during the rains.”

  So he had sat there for days, barking out orders and draining their stores away. If he had not been on the opposite bank of the river, Laina would have had difficulty restraining herself from punching him in his arrogant mouth.

  “Welcome, then, milady,” the first guard said with a hint of sarcasm. He and another guard fell into step beside Laina as she crossed the river and headed into camp; she was not sure if they were intended as escorts or as a precaution.

  Most of the camp appeared deserted, though a loud babble came from within a long tent in the center of a well-trimmed meadow. Now that she looked closer, there were men sitting around individual campfires, most talking quietly or eating in silence.

  Inside the dining tent, she could see a line jostling to reach the vast platters and bowls of food laid out before them. One of the guards remained with Laina while the other ducked inside, and while she stood idly waiting for the man to return, she saw him. Conard. Her heart seemed to flip over with terror. He did not see her at first, but when the man beside him turned to stare at her, Conard followed his gaze.

  When he saw Laina, he caught his heel on a root and tripped backward, spilling his bowl all over his chest.

  “You all right?” his companion asked.

  “’Course,” Conard muttered. Though he kept his chin down, his eyes flickered up for a moment and locked onto Laina’s.

  Find me, she mouthed.

  He gave the barest of nods and stumbled to his feet.

  “Who is that?” Conard asked his companion, clearly trying to disguise his unease.

  The two men moved out of earshot, so Laina missed his reply.

  “Here’s Captain Drail,” one of the guards told Laina. “Should we leave you in private?”

  “Yes, please.” Now that she was here, she was afraid Captain Drail would laugh at her explanation for her unexpected appearance. Surrounded as she was by thousands of hostile Whitlanders, it seemed a feeble excuse.

  Captain Drail had a hardened face and cold eyes, but he spoke politely to Laina.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” he asked, seating himself on a log and waiting for Laina to take a seat across from him.

  “I have matters I wish to discuss with you,” she said. “Urgent matters, or I would have sent someone in my stead.” This part was dangerous. She had to tell him more than she wished to disclose, or he would never believe her. “The rainy season is approaching, and my father still hasn’t signed the river-stewardship documents. He and King Luistan are at an impasse. I don’t think the high king thought to tell you this, but management of the rivers is very important when the rains come. If you allowed some of our local architects to have a look at the land, they could let you know which bridges should be removed before any avalanches can crush them, and which rivers will be in danger of flooding their banks now that they’ve been over-logged.”

  “And why did you have to come now, of all times, to tell me this?”

  Laina held up a hand. “Don’t you feel that? This could be a brief shower, or it could be the first storm of winter. Since we haven’t agreed on anything yet, we don’t know whose responsibility it is to replace the road or bridges when they are washed out, or who to turn to for extra supplies if the roads are impassable.”

  Captain Drail scratched at his stubble. “Let me be completely honest with you. I’m inclined to mistrust you. This doesn’t seem the sort of charity King Faolan would endorse. He’s been far too unhelpful through this whole mission. But if you’re here on genuine business, I’d love to have a good talk with you about river rights.”

  “I’m trying to help,” Laina said. “That’s all.”

  As Captain Drail led her to a private tent set off to the side in a circle of trees, Laina did feel a twinge of pity for the builders. This was King Luistan’s scheme, King Luistan’s war; they were doing this for the money and the job, not because they believed in the High King’s cause. And they’d had no idea what conditions they would be facing in Lostport. It was wrong for King Luistan to send them here with no guarantee of supplies or housing, wrong to begin the project without the essential details settled.

  She felt no pity for Captain Drail, however, as he pushed aside the entrance to his lavishly outfitted tent. He seemed the sort of person who would see to his own comfort long before ensuring his workers were properly looked after.

  Settling himself in a finely-wrought chair more imposing than her father’s throne, Captain Drail handed Laina a quill and parchment. “Which rivers are we dealing with?”

  Laina took the parchment. “Most of them are unnamed. But aside from the Samiread River, we have one wide stream just past Lostport—Ashfall Creek—and after that, seven smaller streams between there and the river just before Port Emerald.”

  “Do you have water rights to the Samiread, or is that King Luistan’s domain?”

  Laina had never thought about that. “I would assume it’s King Luistan’s, but the whole river could belong to Dardensfell, for all I know.”

  “And you say we haven’t even settled on rights for our river? We’ve taken to calling it Stony Creek.”

  How original, Laina thought. “No. Which means, according to law, you have no rights to fish in it or build bridges over it.”

  “And if it were up to you?”

  “I would give you—not King Luistan, just you and your
builders—rights to the river for as long as the construction continues. That way, if the river floods, it will be your responsibility to rebuild the bridge, and you would face the consequences of over-logging if the bank began to slip. If the river was still my father’s property, you could blame him for the failing of the bridge and charge him for the rebuild.”

  “Ah,” Captain Drail said. “So it might be clever of us to leave the ownership with you. Aside from the fact that we’ve been fishing this place to death since we arrived.”

  Laina pursed her lips. “Perhaps. But if Lostport claimed full ownership, we would have the right to fine you for each tree cut within three paces of the river’s edge. It’s one of our building laws.” She had been surprised to discover this document at the top of the less-urgent drawer—if her father had the power to carry out this decree, Lostport would be rolling in wealth at the moment.

  “Then give us Stony Creek, and we’ll deal with the bridge if anything goes wrong.”

  “Right.” Laina wrote Samiread River at the top of the page, followed by Ashfall Creek and streams one through seven. Stony Creek went at the bottom. By Stony Creek, she wrote Captain Drail—water rights until project completion. By Samiread River, she added, King Luistan.

  “We certainly don’t plan on relinquishing the rights to Ashfall Creek,” Laina said. “It powers our windmills and waters our crops, and we have three bridges spanning it.”

  Captain Drail gave a curt nod, so she wrote King Faolan beside Ashfall Creek.

  “As for the streams between here and Lostport, I think your men have built all of the bridges, but I don’t know if you want to be responsible for maintaining them all.”

  “It almost seems like a burden to be saddled with the water rights,” Captain Drail said. “Could we take everything from here to the gypsy camp, and you can have the rest?”