But there was no help for it. She would invent a name and a story, and upon her arrival in the Twin Cities would find a new means of transport that left no traces.
“Meet me downstairs in twenty minutes,” she told Amadi. “Wear your sturdiest shoes.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until nightfall?” Amadi asked, suddenly looking wary.
Katrien cinched up the band around her purse and tucked it beneath her sash. “No. Wouldn’t that look suspicious, a pair of unaccompanied women approaching the docks in the dark? Once we have left the vicinity of this house, there should be no reason for anyone to look at us twice. Daylight is our best cover.”
Without looking back to see if Amadi had complied, Katrien swept from her bedchamber and went in search of the rest of her household. If Amadi decided she wished to remain behind, that was her choice. Katrien would rather keep the girl as far as possible from danger.
Katrien’s footman and cook were huddled in a corner of the kitchen, the footman nursing an ugly bruise beneath his eye while the cook ladled him a bowl of mushroom broth. They both met Katrien’s eye warily—she had likely interrupted their speculations over what had happened in the dark hours of the morning.
“M’lady,” the footman said. “Are you well? I was out for a long time; I don’t know what happened, but I saw those guards leaving after the sun was up…”
“Nothing happened,” she said firmly. “But I must leave. This city is no longer safe for me. Amadi has decided to accompany me, but I would be grateful if the rest of you would go about your lives as though I still reside here.”
The cook frowned, but the footman said, “Of course, m’lady. What happens when they force their way in and figure you’ve flown off?”
“I don’t know,” Katrien said. “Take care of yourselves, though. Do nothing that would put any member of my household in danger. If you can disappear one by one, and take yourselves far from Corona, I would find peace in the knowledge you had escaped.”
The footman rose to his feet and gave Katrien a deep bow. “Safe travels. You have been most kind to us. We will miss your presence.”
The cook scuttled over to the pantry and swept the contents of an entire shelf into a rough wool bag. “Here. This should keep you well-fed for a while.”
Katrien shouldered the bag. “Thank you. This is goodbye, I suppose.” Before the cook and footman had a chance to see the tears prickling at her eyes, Katrien turned and marched from the kitchen. Amadi was already waiting in the entrance hall, two overstuffed travel cases at her feet, wearing boots that looked as though they belonged to the stable-hand.
“Ready?” Katrien asked.
Amadi gulped and nodded. “I guess.”
Wordlessly they made their way to the secret entrance and slipped into the empty alleyway. They encountered no one aside from a few harried-looking shopkeepers going about their business—everyone had looked harried since the army had taken up residence in the city—but even so, Katrien could not let out her breath until they were well on the opposite side of town. Here the streets were wider, and she could smell salt above the general reek of piss and rotting vegetables that permeated the alleys of Corona.
“Are you still certain about this?” Katrien whispered when the ocean first came into view. The water was grey and choppy today, courtesy of a stiff breeze blowing down from the north.
“Absolutely,” Amadi said.
Again Katrien held her breath as she passed between the high iron gates watched over by the white-uniformed dock wardens; her chest gave an unpleasant twinge at the memory of the guards bearing down on her. They could have done much worse—she felt filthy, violated as it was, yet they had stopped short of defiling her irreparably. The two men at the gates stared confrontationally at Katrien and Amadi, but did nothing to detain them.
“Make me nervous, they do,” Amadi whispered when the wardens were far behind.
Katrien nodded but did not reply. Now that she was at the harbor, she was second-guessing her rash decision. So many things could go wrong. The shipyard men could arrest her and Amadi on the grounds that they looked suspicious, begging for passage with no ticket; the men aboard the ship could rape them both and steal their small hoard of wealth; or they could even contract one of those nasty sicknesses that hit crews from time to time. They could die in any number of gruesome ways, and not a soul in the world would hear their fate.
If Faolan never received another letter from Katrien, would he be concerned? Or would he simply assume she had tired of correspondence?
She voiced none of these worries to Amadi. Instead she marched directly to the nearest dock, which housed two enormous sailing vessels and a third miniature harbor-flitter. A man sat at a short table there, clearly checking tickets, and Katrien was relieved to find that he was well-groomed and wearing civilian garb. He looked like an upstanding, non-militant fellow.
“I need passage on your next ship to the Twin Cities,” Katrien said, holding her chin up.
The man grunted. “Our ships don’t go all the way to the Twin Cities. You’ll have to catch a river-vessel when you reach the mouth of the river.”
“Obviously,” Katrien said, though she had not thought of it. “But surely you coordinate the full voyages, rather than simply stranding your customers at the river’s mouth?” Katrien did not want to admit that she could not remember the name of the river or the city beside it. She had not been through that part of the Kinship Thrones for twenty years.
“You have the right of it,” the man said, disgruntled. “Though it is rare that I negotiate with a non-ticketed customer.”
“When is your next ship?” Katrien asked, this time more urgently. “I have money. I need to reach the Twin Cities as soon as I can.”
“That depends on how much you are willing to pay.”
Katrien unhooked the purse from beneath her sash and scooped out a large handful of jewels and coins. Dropping it in an untidy heap on the ticket counter, Katrien tried to gauge the man’s expression.
He clicked his tongue at her. “Normally I’d be wary of anything but proper iron casts, but with the new interest in Lostport gems, these might just suffice.”
Katrien’s shoulders sagged in relief.
“Your ship leaves in four hours. She is moored just there, at the far end of the dock. Safe travels, my lady.”
As she and Amadi curtseyed in unison and made their way down the wide dock, Katrien could not help but wonder if this was the last time she would set foot in Whitland. The idea filled her with a dizzy, swooping sensation; whether fear or relief, she could not tell. So much had changed since she left Lostport, a desperate young woman with her leg still bruised from where it had struck a rock in the churning surf after she flung herself into the sea. Faolan had saved her then; would he be willing to do so again?
“I wish I could’ve said goodbye,” Amadi said, so quietly that Katrien was not sure at first if the girl had spoken.
“It’s not too late to turn back,” Katrien said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
Amadi shook her head. “I won’t leave you.”
Chapter 9
D oran and his convoy reached the oasis the following afternoon; though it was visible from midmorning, it took hours of walking before they drew near. From afar, it looked like a green stain rising from the desert, like a dark lake filled with algae. As they drew closer, a few trees and bushes distinguished themselves from the grass, and Doran spotted movement along the ground. There were animals of every sort drinking from a great lake at the center of the oasis—wild horses and camels and lizards and snakes and birds, and stranger animals still, great leathery beasts with a line of horns running from nose to forehead.
“Quietly,” one of the men warned as they drew closer to the oasis. “The animals allow to share us, but still could kill.”
Doran clutched his horse’s saddle tighter than ever, glad to be sitting well above the horned beasts.
“What are they?” he whispered.
“Ah.” How reassuring.
Of course, Doran had no control over where his beast went. The horse would follow blindly wherever it was led. And the man leading it was making a beeline for the shore.
The horses and camels drew aside as they approached, and the ashikornte lumbered backward a few paces without raising its eyes from the water.
Quicker than he expected, the entire contingent of guards took turns refilling water skins while his horse drank long and deep. Then it was time to move on, away from the lush greenery and back into the featureless wilds.
Sitting amidst the tents and sipping his thick soup that night, Doran turned once more to Nejeela and asked, “What were those things? The ashikornte, I mean. They can’t have come from anywhere in the Kinship Thrones.” He was surprised that Nejeela wanted to spend time with him, more so because he found her very pretty, in a rare way that none of the women in Lostport matched.
“South of Varrival lies an impassable sea riddled with rocks and storms and the worst currents anywhere in the known ocean,” Nejeela said. “But legend has it that a great bridge once connected our land with the southern land, held up by magic long since lost. Among our people, we believe that this land is part of the same ancient magical kingdom that lies beyond the eastern ranges in Kohlmarsh. And we pride ourselves in passing down that same magical blood.”
“But you’re not Makhori, are you? Surely the High King wouldn’t have left Varrival alone for so long if you were.”
Nejeela gave him a sly grin. “Not all of us, but it surfaces more often than you would think. And why do you think your high king is so fixated on conquering us?”
“Ah.” Doran had a lot to think about, so he fell silent, still conscious of the beautiful young woman sitting beside him. He would not allow himself to show any interest in her, though. He had nothing to offer her.
His father—and indeed everyone in Lostport—tended to view King Luistan’s war against Varrival in fairly simplistic terms. Though Varrival was an ally of Lostport, Doran had felt some sympathy for King Luistan’s attacks against them. After all, Varrival was constantly raiding the border towns and trying to expand its border.
Yet it seemed that Varrival had been an independent nation long before the Kinship Thrones had arisen, and it was likely their original land extended much farther north than it currently did.
He drained his soup, licking the last salty drop from his cup, and glanced at Nejeela once more. She had been staring off at the faraway hills, eyes dark in contemplation. “What will you do if King Luistan sends his full might against Varrival?”
She blinked in surprise and turned back to look at him, crossing her legs beneath her. “We are not a warlike nation. Our only fighting forces are the border tribes, most of which have been decimated by Whitish troops.” At a sharp look from another one of the guards, she leaned closer and said, “Never repeat what I said, do you understand?”
Doran nodded quickly.
“Our only safety is in pretending we are stronger than we truly are.”
Doran fell asleep that night with a vague dread hanging over him, a suspicion that something terrible was looming just beyond the horizon. This war against Varrival was larger than it appeared, and it would affect not just the two nations embroiled in the conflict but the entire Kinship Thrones.
He wished Laina was there to hear everything Nejeela said; his father could be frustratingly unmovable at times, but Laina would listen. She always listened to Doran, even when he was acting the coward.
As Doran shifted on his thin blanket, trying his best to ignore the dead weight of his legs, a lump rose to his throat. He had thought it would be a relief to leave Lostport behind, to escape his shame and his duties, yet he missed Laina and Conard terribly. He wondered if he would ever see his sister again. She should have been the heir, not him.
* * *
In the six days since Conard had joined the gypsy crew, he still had not managed to learn the names of everyone on board. It certainly did not help that each time he looked carefully, an unfamiliar face seemed to have joined their ranks. Grandfather was the only one who made an effort to be friendly. Ebony could sometimes be wheedled into conversation, though only when Grandfather joined in. There were three or four children aboard as well—curious things, always climbing the outboard ladders and putting on plays for each other and jumping off the boat with a rope in hand—and they often approached Conard with impudent questions.
“Why did you get exiled? Did you kill someone?”
“Can you juggle, mister?”
“Wanna jump off the boat? Here, I’ll show you how.”
But whenever he tried to question them in return, they would melt away like shadows.
On his sixth evening aboard, Conard climbed to the open top deck for a bit of air and spotted something on the distant southern horizon. It rose in a gentle arc from the earth, dark green and soft beneath a veil of nighttime fog rolling off the ocean.
Conard turned to the nearest gypsy, a man not much older than him. “Can you see that?” he asked eagerly. “Those are the mountains of Lostport. We’re nearing my home!”
“The home that you were exiled from?” The man raised an eyebrow mockingly.
“Be fair,” Conard said. “Didn’t Grandfather say most of the crew here was exiled from somewhere or another?”
The man snorted. “Which is why we joined this crew. And vowed never to return to that vile place.” He spat over the rail.
“Lostport isn’t vile,” Conard said. “It’s my own fault I was exiled. I would do anything to be forgiven.”
The man’s expression was still mocking, but he said, “I heard it was something to do with the crown prince. Tried to kidnap him or something?”
Conard shook his head. “I crippled him.” He found he could no longer meet the man’s pale brown eyes. He stepped to the rail and folded his arms atop it, leaning out over the water. “It was such a stupid little thing. We were racing a pair of sailing ships, and a storm blew in; instead of turning back, we kept going at it until a wave threw our ships together. Doran fell off, his crew saved him, and I was arrested. When I woke up I was leagues and leagues from my home, on a dumpy little rivership headed for the Twin Cities.”
The man stepped up to the rail beside Conard and mimicked him in leaning forward over the water. “What were you, then? Some sort of duke?”
Conard laughed drily. “Not likely. I was a nobody with no proper family.”
“Then how did you manage to own a bloody sailing ship?”
Conard grinned as he realized how odd that must have sounded. “Long story. You know how Lostport’s building this new city on a beach practically littered with gemstones?”
The man nodded.
“My dad—well, the man who raised me, anyway—found it. So we got put up in fancy rooms in the royal manor, and I grew up as the little princess’s playmate.”
“No joke?” The man looked amazed. All trace of disdain had melted from his face.
Conard nodded. “What’s your story, then? And what’s your name? I haven’t managed to learn it, even in all this time.”
“None of us use our real names any longer, not here. ‘Cept the kids, and they were given stage names from the start. I’m Silversmite. I’ve been with this company nearly ten years now, ever since I was hauled in for making off with a solid bronze statue at one of the cathedrals. Grandfather took pity on me when he saw me heading for the gallows and bought me off the executioner.” Silversmite turned and grinned sideways at Conard. “I haven’t dared set foot in that city again to this day. And there’s no one left who would remember me anyway. You’re a brave fellow, Conard.”
“Not so much,” Conard said. “Lostport isn’t like Whitland. Laws are more flexible. There are plenty of miscreants around these parts, and the whole city depends on them. If King Faolan saw me, he would probabl
y just throw me back on a northbound ship.” Or perhaps not. Despite his brave talk, Conard thought that was unlikely. The king was apt to be murderous if he caught sight of the man who nearly killed his heir.
“Keen to test that theory?”
Conard stepped back from the rail. “No. Absolutely not!”
Silversmite punched him in the shoulder. “I was joking. Come on down; let’s have a drink. Since we’re getting close to civilization, it might be time to drain the casks!”
Grandfather, Ebony, and a crowd of others were already helping themselves to a sweet-smelling fish stew when Conard and Silversmite joined them. Grandfather ruffled Conard’s hair when he took a seat, and Ebony glowered.
“Our guest,” Silversmite said pointedly, “has noticed a few mountains in the distance. We must be nearing Lostport. Do you know what that means?”
“Drinks all around!” trilled a small woman with plaited hair down to her waist. She spun into Silversmite’s arms, her colorful, many-layered skirts twirling about her and swiping Grandfather neatly in the forehead.
“You’ve already had quite enough, my pretty,” Silversmite said, pinching the woman’s cheeks.
Giggling, she gave Silversmite a wet kiss. “I haven’t even begun. There’s something in the air—can you smell it? Like honey. You could get drunk just breathing in that sweet, sweet breeze.”
“Lostport,” Conard said to himself. He had not caught the scent himself, but he could imagine it perfectly—that lush honeysuckle aroma that rose in waves of heat from the jungle and wove through the air, braiding itself through the salty ocean wind.
Conard had thought that Silversmite spoke in jest, but as it turned out, there really were two enormous casks that a pair of men rolled up from the lowest deck of the hold. One was filled with sun-brew, the other with a much more sophisticated wine.
The Fall of Lostport Page 11