“We’re bringing wagons?” Katrien asked wryly. “I could have kept my proper dress.”
Tenori snorted. “You do not want to sit in a wagon for an entire span. Your backside would be so purple your husband would accuse me of—”
Katrien gave him a stern look. She did not want Amadi to get any ideas.
As they drew nearer to the makeshift camp, Katrien could hear at least two dogs barking and a host of children yelling and shrieking as their parents readied to move out.
“What’re the kids doing here?” Amadi asked. “They’re not going to help build the city, are they?”
Katrien looked at Tenori, guessing his answer before he gave it.
“You saw what it was like. Foreigners no longer feel safe with the Whitish rule tightening its hold here. If I had a family, I would have left the Twin Cities long ago.”
When Amadi skipped ahead to get a better look at the camp, Katrien asked quietly, “Have you ever wished for a family?”
“Occasionally.” Tenori tugged at the straps of his heavy sack. “But I have been too busy—and perhaps too arrogant—to make time for a woman.”
Katrien nodded. She knew how he felt. “It was misery that tore me from Faolan—I nearly ended my own life before he sent me home to Whitland. But there was arrogance, too. I thought I was too good for Lostport. Too civilized. I didn’t realize until far too late that it is the Whitlanders who are savage.”
“It’s not too late yet,” Tenori said. “Not until this sweet land is burned to ash and every honest man along with it.”
Katrien clutched her split skirts with sweaty hands, trying not to betray her nerves.
By the time Katrien and Tenori came within hailing distance of the camp, Amadi had vanished within the milling hordes of people, presumably chasing after either the children or the dogs that had caught her attention before. They were noticed before long; clearly Tenori was a familiar face, because everyone seemed to know who his companion was.
“Queen Katrien!” a woman called.
“Your majesty!”
To Katrien’s utter bewilderment, several young men dropped to their knees as she drew near. She could not understand it—they did not owe her their allegiance. Before she could ask what they intended by the gesture, a plump Varrilan man shouldered his way to the front of the crowd.
“Tenori! I almost did not expect you.”
Tenori clasped the man’s hand. “I would not miss this chance for all the riches of Dardensfell. Aloor, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to Queen Katrien?”
The plump man bowed expansively, mimicking the Whitish gesture. “Ah, the vengeful flower. Well met, Queen Katrien. I was once known as one of the wealthiest men in the Twin Cities, yet I have decided that my people need me more than my estate does.”
“You are too modest,” Tenori said. “Aloor is one of the most influential voices behind the Varrilan resistance. We needed a cause and a figurehead, and you have supplied us with both. Aloor has mobilized his resources to provide us the means to reach Lostport.”
“You supplied all of this?” Katrien looked around at the milling horses and wagons and supplies, shaking her head in disbelief. “Thank you, good sir. I am forever indebted to you.”
“And I to you.” Aloor bowed again.
When the first curious Dardens approached the bustling camp, Aloor gave a shout that it was time to move. He mounted a handsome, sturdy black stallion and began riding around the camp, supervising the last-minute preparations and helping where an extra hand was needed. Bundles of food and bedding and warm clothes were thrown haphazardly into wagons, horses were saddled, and slowly the milling throng of Varrilans and Dardens began to migrate away from the city wall.
Katrien had never ridden in her life; she watched as Amadi stood on one stirrup, flopped herself over the saddle, and wriggled her way into place, trying to see if there was an easier way. Tenori had mounted with a graceful leap, something she could not be trusted to achieve.
“What’re you waiting for?” Amadi asked, grinning down at Katrien from her new perch. “No one’s watching. Except me.” Her grin turned impish.
With the most dignity she could muster, Katrien put one foot in a stirrup and raised herself alongside the saddle. When her horse gave a snort and shifted sideways, she nearly fell off. Frowning at the saddle, she lifted her knee high enough to clear the horse’s rump, and by inching her knee slowly along the saddle, she managed to gain enough leverage to pull herself upright. The horse felt very wobbly beneath her, and far too high off the ground.
“That could have been more elegant,” Amadi teased.
“You must show me your ways, oh great horse-master,” Katrien said.
Amadi snorted.
Only then did Katrien realize that they were lagging behind the others. She and Amadi kicked their horses into a bumpy trot; thankfully the horses seemed eager to follow the herd, since Katrien was still unsure how they ought to be directed.
“To Lostport!” Tenori shouted.
“Lostport!” Aloor’s voice boomed over the train of riders. “For justice!”
They rode at a light trot—anything faster would destroy the wagons—and at first Katrien was overwhelmed by the dust and the drumming hoof-beats and, more than anything, the fear of falling. Before long, her body began to move with the chestnut horse beneath her, and the clamor of the train faded to a lull. A new awareness billowed around her, that of vast emptiness. Every detail was sharpened out here, from the golden hue of the rolling hills to the brilliant sky to the smell of sun-burnt earth. This was a land still raw and wild.
Some of the charm was lost when they re-mounted after a quick lunch; Katrien’s thighs ached, her knees had gone stiff, and a blister was beginning to swell on her right palm where she had gripped the reins too fiercely. The afternoon was a monotony of jarring hooves and blinding sunlight. By the time they slowed to make camp, Katrien could have fallen off the horse.
“Ugh,” Amadi said, limping up to Tenori’s campfire after she had changed out of her riding clothes. “I should’ve stayed in the city.”
“Go find yourself a handsome horse-master and see if he wants to give you a massage,” Katrien said. As she settled onto the grass, she could not suppress a groan. Sitting cross-legged was excruciating.
When Amadi turned and stalked off, Katrien hoped she had not taken the idea to heart.
“I’m sore, too,” Tenori admitted, adding a handful of beans, rice, and chopped potatoes to the charred pot nestled amidst what looked like flaming mounds of dirt. “I really have let myself grow soft. Riding takes a lot out of you.”
Katrien nodded, massaging her stiff knees. “What are you burning?”
Tenori laughed. “We call them buffalo pies. With no wood out here to burn, we have to use dried buffalo excrement.”
“Ugh!” Katrien moved a bit farther from the fire. “Will it contaminate the food?”
“Only if you like seasoning your stew with ashes.”
“Sometimes I wish I had never left Whitland.” Katrien hugged her knees to her chest, trying to get comfortable.
“Is this one of those occasions?”
She shrugged. If she had never been put under house arrest, or assaulted by the same guards who were meant to protect the citizens of Whitland, she would have lived out the rest of her days alone in the city. It would have been a comfortable, albeit empty, existence.
Yet in times like this, she would give anything to return to those days of easy ignorance. Here she was facing the unknown, launching into a journey far harsher than she was prepared for, with no guarantee of a glad welcome awaiting her at the end. What if Faolan had found himself a pretty young mistress? What if he had readily agreed to Whitland’s aid, and would see her arrival—troops in her wake—as treason?
And what if they arrived too late?
“I just wish I knew I was doing the right thing,” she said at last.
Tenori gestured at the camp surrounding them. �
�Look at everyone who has chosen to follow you. You are doing the right thing by them. That is what truly matters.”
Chapter 16
A rap on the door startled Laina from her restless sleep.
“Come in,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. It took her a moment to recognize Harrow standing in the doorway, just as bleary-eyed as she was.
“Did you stay the night?” she asked, instantly alert. Sitting up, she hugged the blankets to her chest.
“Of course,” Harrow said wearily. “Your father is still unconscious. As his adviser, I must keep his affairs in order while he is unable to attend to them. Though you, perhaps, might be the more appropriate person to do so.”
“Says who?” Laina asked, with only a touch of bitterness.
“If your brother was here, the task would go to him,” Harrow said. “Since he is not…”
Laina sighed. For years she had felt bitter about her uselessness, yet now that she had a chance to step up and prove herself, she would rather just slink back into obscurity. “Give me a moment. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As Laina changed into her most sensible, least comfortable dress, her mind was far from the task at hand. Surely her father would wake soon—if his condition was too dire, some grasping heir from Whitland would show up before long. What would happen if Laina began to fill her father’s role, only to make a fatal mistake that she would never be forgiven for? What if word of her scheming made its way to Whitland, and the High King himself came for her head?
It was with great reluctance that she finally descended the stairs to find Harrow. She clasped her hands behind her back, afraid at any moment she would be called out for the imposter she was.
“Good morning, your majesty,” Harrow said, standing as she entered the dining hall.
Laina attempted a smile, but it felt brittle.
“Sit down. I have a lot to tell you. You’ll need some breakfast—you look as though you might faint.”
“I do not,” Laina retorted, though she immediately regretted it. She sounded childish.
As Mylo plied her with porridge and fruit and sweet rolls, her father’s adviser began to outline the role she would be taking on.
“I have become accustomed to the everyday business of running Lostport,” Harrow said, folding his hands on the table. “I am happy to oversee taxes, shipping levies, port security, and commonplace disputes. However, everything involved in the Port Emerald project requires a bit more authority…and finesse. We will give you the records of every transaction still in progress, along with the official agreements settled between King Luistan and King Faolan.
“I must stress that this information is highly sensitive, as is the fact that a great deal of disguised tension has arisen between the two kings. Whitland has been pressing its advantage on Lostport, asking for increasingly expensive supplies, lodging, and transportation. Worse still, they have been getting away with harassing the local shopkeepers and vandalizing public property, and every time Faolan raises his concerns with King Luistan, the High King threatens to withdraw his assistance.
“Which would leave Lostport deep in debt, with a half-finished building site that won’t last the winter.”
Laina said nothing. She had not realized how tense the negotiations between her father and the High King had become; if she spoke now, she would reveal her utter naiveté.
“This is why we need you,” Harrow said, leaning forward with urgency. “If we were to conduct negotiations in your father’s stead, any misstep could land us behind bars on account of treason. You, however, will be legally recognized as your father’s proxy, and when King Luistan treats with you, he will abide by your word as though the power of Lostport stands behind it.”
“I see,” Laina said quietly. “And how has my father been doing this? Discouraging Whitland from overstepping its bounds, I mean.”
“He’s been trying,” Harrow said wearily. “And that’s the most he can do. We’re nothing but a pawn that Whitland can toss wherever it wants. If we step too far out of line, they’ll crush us. We don’t matter to them.”
“We would have been better off without their meddling,” Laina said. “I know why Father is building Port Emerald, but it doesn’t seem worth the price.”
“Many in Lostport would agree with you.” Harrow traced his fingers around his neat, rectangular beard. “But watch yourself. Those words are treason.”
Laina could stomach no more of her breakfast, so she followed Harrow to her father’s office to familiarize herself with the paperwork.
“These files are the standard tax forms, and all of these are building permits owned by our citizens.” Harrow lifted two boxes onto her father’s desk. “I will take these home, with your permission, and set myself up to work from there. Rest assured that I will bring any matters of dispute to you before announcing a verdict.”
Laina nodded. “Thank you.” She stood in front of her father’s desk, glancing from her father’s plush chair to the two sturdy wooden seats across the desk from it. Many a day her father had sat here with his adviser for hours, arguing over dilemmas and planning Port Emerald and moaning at the state of the kingdom over a glass of wine. She knew; she had eavesdropped more times than she was willing to admit. Meanwhile, her brother had been learning to fight with a sword and studying the history of Whitland and the Kinship Thrones.
When Harrow settled into his customary seat, Laina realized he was expecting her to take her father’s place. Not daring to breathe, she crossed to the opposite side of the dark emberwood desk and perched gingerly on his chair. It felt wrong, all of it.
“Those drawers are for Port Emerald and all other matters involving Whitland.” Harrow gestured at a set of three drawers to the right of the plush armchair. “The top papers are pressing matters; the middle drawer has any unfinished negotiations that have fallen by the wayside; and the bottom contains documents that are signed and officially completed. We might be wisest to begin by explaining the first of the urgent paperwork.”
Laina tugged at the top drawer, dismayed to find it so crammed with papers that it resisted opening. She chose a slip at random and set it on the table, turning it so Harrow could read it.
“Ah, I’d forgotten about this one.” Harrow made a face. “I believe it recently graduated from the second drawer into the more urgent one.” He read it very quickly and returned it to Laina. “This is an outline of permissible logging areas and densities. As anyone who has spent a winter in Lostport knows, removing trees from the slopes will dramatically increase the risk of slips or avalanches, yet King Luistan has been pushing Faolan unrelentingly to expand the areas open for logging. The supply road could be washed out for a full span if he’s not careful.”
“I thought they were building the city out of stone,” Laina said. “Why do they need so many logs? Surely they won’t be using enough to cause any problems.”
Harrow shook his head. “You underestimate the number of construction workers and the scale of the project. Though the buildings are stone, most of them have extensive supports to allow them to perch on the hillside. In addition, the terraces and scaffolding are entirely wood. That’s not even accounting for the wood used in the forges.
“The trouble is that no one’s quite sure what ‘too much’ is. No one’s studied this before. We just know that more logging means more slips, so we can’t give King Luistan an exact figure to negotiate around.”
“I’ll work on it,” Laina said. She could ask Swick for help—this was the sort of work he would adore.
They continued going through the drawer for the rest of the morning, until Laina was beginning to grasp the official wording and format used from document to document. The more they dug into the drawer, though, the more onerous the task appeared. It was impossible for one person to actually keep track of everything involved in the building project. The drawer contained everything from claims of injury to negotiations for water rights of each river along the forest road to unapproved building
plans for nearly every structure currently in progress at Port Emerald.
At the end of it, Harrow said, “I’m famished. Put those papers away, would you? I can’t stand to look at another one.”
“How does my father manage?” Laina asked, rubbing her eyes.
Harrow shook his head. “You see why Whitland is so easily able to press its advantage now, I imagine. While Faolan is tied up with never-ending paperwork, the building troops are able to get away with quite a bit. They have the advantage of numbers.”
“Can I see my father?” Laina asked nervously. She was afraid of what she would find.
“Of course.” Harrow rose, his knees cracking, and tucked the two boxes of paperwork under his arm. “I’ve detained you too long already.”
When Laina was alone in the office, she slumped back in her father’s chair and raked her fingers through her hair. This was a nightmare! She had been so quick to blame her father for giving the Whitlanders too much freedom; now it was clear that King Luistan had laid a tedious trap for him. Even if she spoke with her father’s full authority, she was not sure anything she decided would make a difference. King Luistan had thrown so many forms their way that they could get lost in the minutia—arguing over who had commission rights for tools and embellishments involved in the project, or which rivers the workers were allowed to dirty and which must remain clean for drinking—and forget that the true problem was the overwhelming presence of so many Whitlanders in Lostport, all following the High King’s orders and geared up for war.
Just as she stood to leave, Nort pushed open the door and bowed at her.
“A letter arrived just now, milady.” He handed her a sealed parchment and retreated.
Did tending to her father’s business include reading his mail? Hesitantly she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
To her surprise, she recognized the handwriting as Doran’s. She realized with some shame that she had hardly spared her brother a passing thought in recent days. The escalating situation in Lostport had consumed her.
The Fall of Lostport Page 22