The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  “Where are they now?” Katrien asked, quickening her pace. “Are they in danger of killing one another?”

  “The seven men involved have been restrained by another troop of Darden warriors, but I’m afraid that will do nothing but increase the inter-tribal hatred.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Katrien said. Why could men not set aside their petty squabbles? She wished Faolan was here to advise her.

  When they reached the edge of the camp, Katrien could see a huddle of men illuminated by the dancing flames of a nearby fire. In the dark she could not tell Varrilan from Darden, though she could see that half of the men present had a tight grip on the other half.

  “Your queen is here,” Tenori announced, stepping into the center of the seething group. “You chose to follow her. Now accept her verdict.”

  Katrien hugged her arms over her stomach. This would be her first independent act as a ruler, albeit an unconventional one, and she knew her entire army of followers would support or spurn her for it.

  “If you are released, will you restrain yourselves while I am here?” Katrien asked, looking around the circle.

  “Of course,” a bald Varrilan said sharply.

  “We wouldn’t want to hurt you,” one of the Darden warriors said reluctantly.

  Katrien nodded to the second set of warriors, who relinquished their hold on the troublemakers and stepped back a pace.

  “It seems to me that you are both in the wrong. This man less so, since Whitland was not directly opposed to Varrival at the time he was serving in their army.” Katrien gestured at the bald Varrilan. “Is there more to the story than I have been told?”

  “This traitorous bastard is just waiting for a chance to sell us out,” the tallest Darden warrior spat. “Only thieves and murderers fight for the Whitish army. Everyone knows they’re a load of scum.”

  “I was desperate,” the bald Varrilan said steadily. “I used to be a merchant, until our caravan was burned and our entire livelihood destroyed. I joined up with the Whitish troops so I would have something to show my family when I returned home. I didn’t expect them to start meddling in Dardensfell.”

  “Horseshit.” The Darden warrior folded his arms in a way designed to show off the bulging layer of muscle. “Whitland wouldn’t have gotten such a good hold on Dardensfell if the warriors hadn’t been wiped out. You’ve been working for the enemy from the start.”

  “You’re delusional,” the Varrilan said, a hint of anger creeping into his tone. “The Whitish army is half mercenary. There are countless Dardens who join to show their loyalty to the High King, and Northerners who do it to escape the brutal winters, and coastal folk who do it out of a sense of duty. The only reason you think I’m betraying anyone is because I don’t look Whitish. I haven’t got the right color skin.”

  “That’s why it’s a double betrayal,” another Darden said. “Whitland hates Varrival. It’s been true for hundreds of years, ever since you killed their first king. Their army must have had an especially good reason to hire you, seeing as you couldn’t pass for Whitish.”

  “Enough!” Katrien stepped between the two sets of men and frowned at the Darden warriors. “From what I heard, it sounds as though this man has suffered more than enough to make up for any imagined wrongs he did you.”

  “So what?” said the tall Darden. “We’re bloody well trying to keep you safe, your majesty. We can’t let a traitorous pig ruin this whole march.”

  “I believe we’ve established that he no longer works for Whitland,” Katrien said. “If you agree to leave him in peace, we can drop this matter now.”

  “I’ll be happy if you keep him in chains,” the Darden growled.

  “Fine.” Katrien gestured to Tenori. “Set a watch on both groups tonight. Tomorrow they can ride beside me.”

  Katrien woke to a shriek. It appeared that Amadi had been slipping out of the tent when Kurjan collided with her headlong.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Katrien said sharply. “Get out of here at once.”

  “Sorry, Milady.” Upon closer inspection, his face was flushed and his hair disheveled. “A man was killed last night. I just heard now, and I thought you should know.”

  Katrien had to bite her tongue to hold back a curse. Throwing on her riding dress and a cloak to hide the row of unfastened buttons down the back, she hurried out to join Kurjan, Amadi, and a virtual army of onlookers who had gathered to witness her reaction.

  Tenori jogged to her side and ducked his head to whisper, “You’ve heard the news?”

  “The Varrilan mercenary is dead, isn’t he?”

  He exhaled heavily. “Killed by his own guards, by the looks of it. They’ve vanished, along with the rest of their troop. Thirty-seven in all. The Darden warriors who were feuding with him last night are perfectly content now that someone has done the work for them.”

  Katrien took a step back. “This is madness! Is everyone going to take up arms against everyone else now?”

  “You have to talk to them,” Tenori said. “Persuade them that there is nothing to gain from further violence.”

  Clutching the folds of her cloak, Katrien turned to face the restless crowd. “You have heard the news, I see,” she began anxiously. “One of your number was killed last night.”

  Scanning the faces, she tried to see whether mistrust or curiosity reigned. Most simply looked wary. With a deep breath, she continued.

  “This is the result of an old feud, a bitter grudge nursed for far too many years. You could all turn against each other at a moment’s notice. Those from Varrival could seek revenge for their fallen countryman, or those from Dardensfell could seek to exterminate an imagined threat. The kinship thrones are nothing but a disjointed set of kingdoms all swearing loyalty to Whitland and the High King. And that loyalty is the greatest lie of all.

  “If you wish to take matters into your own hands, I will not stop you from doing so. You are here of your own free will. If every one of you deserts or turns on one another, I will not prevent it. I will march to Lostport, alone or surrounded by those who wish to see change, until someone puts a sword through my heart.”

  Kurjan began to applaud loudly at this, and after a few restless moments, more of Katrien’s followers joined in.

  “Why are they here, Tenori?” Katrien asked softly as the cheering grew louder still. “Why do they think I’ll change anything?”

  “Because even a slim hope is better than none at all.”

  * * *

  Three quarters after his arrival, Doran felt like a Cheltish native. The sun and warm sea breezes suited him, and the elegant architecture throughout Torrein inspired his curiosity. Lostport was such a dreary backwater compared to this.

  And the people who came through the town! Once word spread that the heir of Lostport was living in the great hilltop manor, Doran began receiving visits nearly every morning. He would invite them for tea in the dining hall, his wheeled chair hidden away, and they would leave with no more evidence of his disability than they had come with.

  There were more Varrilans than he had ever seen in Lostport, and the usual sprinkling of Whitish, but there were also a few stranger people from Cashabree, the land that was said to exude magic from its very soil, and Ruunans from the secretive hill kingdom too. He even met a few Itreans, descended from those who had fled across the sea to escape persecution, yet he was disappointed to find that they were indistinguishable from the citizens of Chelt aside from a slightly darker cast to their skin. He also verified something he had begun to suspect, which was that magic, while common in Itrea, was only gifted to a little under half the population. And healing magic was rarer still, practiced only by an odd race known as the Drifters, who never travelled overseas.

  “Well, that’s it then,” he remarked to Fabrian after one meeting in which he had pressed an Itrean visitor unrelentingly for details of the Makhori power for which their country was famed.

  “We don’t call ourselves Makhori any longer,” the m
an had said, with a half-smile. “The word carries a negative connotation—I’m sure you’d understand. We’ve renamed ourselves according to our powers—Weavers and Braiders and Minstrels and suchlike.”

  Fabrian gave Doran a frown. “What do you mean?”

  Doran was almost sure the butler had been listening behind the kitchen door, yet he recounted the man’s visit nonetheless. “One of the reasons my father sent me here was because he hoped I’d stumble across someone with magic powers who could heal me. But our visitor has just confirmed that it’s a rare power even among the gifted, and I’m only likely to find someone who could do it if I sailed to Itrea myself.”

  “Why don’t you, then?” Fabrian asked with a sly smile. “You’re rich. You could commandeer any of the merchant ships here.”

  “As much as I like that idea, I have a feeling I’m needed here,” Doran said heavily. “I can’t risk travelling in these uncertain times. Any news from the borderlands?”

  Fabrian gave him an odd, pained look and shook his head. “I think something’s happened to the messenger. We haven’t seen him in a long time now.”

  Doran winced. He was certain someone had stopped the man, which meant there was someone here in Chelt who wanted him to remain ignorant.

  “Well, we know one thing—Varrival is gearing up for war. Whitland may not have declared it officially, but every Varrilan knows what’s coming.”

  Fabrian nodded.

  “And Lostport is very closely aligned with Varrival. We might stay out of the war, but it will hurt our economy as well. They’re our second-biggest trade partner, after Whitland.”

  “Are you going to head back to Lostport, then?” Fabrian asked.

  Doran shook his head. “What good would that do? I’ve never been a leader, and even less so if I let people see how useless I’ve become. At least here, people can still imagine I’m capable of ruling. Of producing an heir. I hope my father’s said I’m on a diplomatic mission. That will make Lostport look strong even through all of this.”

  “Why can’t the king have another child to carry on the line? Or couldn’t your sister marry and have a child herself?”

  Doran sighed. He had revealed very little of his family to Fabrian, trying as he was to keep his mind off the future he would never have. He missed them terribly, though he would only admit it to himself. Especially Laina, who always knew the right thing to say, who could lift him out of his gloom and cajole him into doing something stupid yet exhilarating. His letter had gone unanswered, and though he blamed the long trade routes, he had still expected to hear something by now. “My mother left soon after Laina was born,” he said at last. “She was miserable living in Lostport. I think she nearly killed herself before my father insisted she return to Whitland. And my father loves her still, so we have no chance of an illegitimate heir coming along to take my place. Laina might marry if she saw it as her duty, but she would detest it. She should be the ruler, not I.”

  “We’ve found a few ways to get around that law in Chelt,” Fabrian said. “We’ve had several women ruling the country with a man as a legal shield—one of our most famous female monarchs even married a slow-witted messenger boy so she could inherit when her brother died in the Makhori uprising.”

  “So she had a child?” Doran asked, wondering if the law was perhaps more lenient here.

  “Certainly,” Fabrian said. “As soon as the king died—he was sick at the time—Queen Arithea announced that she was pregnant. It turned out to be a girl the first time around, but by the time it was born everyone was used to her, and they protected her from the Whitish soldiers when they came knocking. Everyone was more worried about the rebellion then anyway, and by the time she had a boy, she had done a great job stabilizing the country in time for winter.”

  Duffrey appeared from the kitchen with a pot of tea and biscuits just then—it was midafternoon, and Doran could hear the occasional clanks rising from the kitchen below as the staff prepared for their evening meal.

  “Thank you,” Doran said, though he knew the old butler didn’t like being thanked.

  Duffrey gave him a stiff half-bow, eyeing Fabrian with distrust. Doran knew he disapproved of Fabrian’s open friendship, but it was the only thing that kept Doran from going mad.

  “I wonder if Lostport could do the same,” Doran mused as Fabrian poured the tea. “But Whitland is watching us a bit too closely right now. Lostport would serve as a great base for invading Varrival, after all.” He froze. The words had come out unheeded, but suddenly he wondered if there was some truth to what he had said. Was Whitland helping with the construction project so they could get a foothold in Lostport?

  “You think Whitland’s going to take Lostport back?” Fabrian asked, his face going pale beneath his curly black hair.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Doran muttered. He needed time to think this over himself. “I’ll see you later, Fabrian.”

  The boy understood he was dismissed and bowed his way out of the dining chamber.

  Whitland had only maintained its power for so long because it seemed, at least to the majority of the nine Kinship Thrones, that an unfair division of power was better than dissolving a centuries-old alliance. Which meant that Whitland would do its utmost to preserve that alliance. Attacking one of its own thrones would send the wrong message—that Whitland intended to become the bully once more, conquering rather than peacekeeping. And according to everything Doran had heard, Whitland was not strong enough to stand on its own if the rest of the Kinship Thrones turned against it.

  So, if Whitland was planning to seize power over Lostport, it would do so by subtler means.

  Abandoning his half-finished tea, Doran wheeled himself hurriedly back to his bedchamber, where he found a piece of rumpled parchment and a quill and began writing a hasty letter to his sister.

  Dear Laina,

  I have no time to waste with pleasantries. We are in danger—Lostport is in danger—and you are the only one who can act. The Whitish builders are a direct threat. They wish to take over Lostport by some means. I hardly know what the situation is like there, as my news has been limited, but I do know that you are relying on Whitish manpower to build Father’s great folly of a port. Do not trust them, and do everything you can to talk Father out of seeing this deal through. I do not know what he is planning, but it is not safe. He is gambling away too much, and I fear that he may be doing it out of a mistaken belief that he will heal me.

  If there is anything I can do from abroad to help, please tell me urgently.

  Your worried brother,

  Doran

  He did not want to write anything to his father, because he was almost certain that his father was doing this all for him, which meant that he could take Doran’s plea to give up on the project as a sign of his son’s depression, his self-denigration.

  Yet Doran no longer felt helpless. The books here had invigorated him, and the wheeled chair had made him feel like a whole man once again. His country was at stake, and he couldn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself.

  At dinner, for the first time since he had arrived in Chelt, he asked the entire household to join him.

  To his surprise, Fabrian was missing from their number. “Are we waiting for Fabrian to arrive, or should we eat without him?” Doran asked Duffrey, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table as though he ruled over the household.

  “He has been dismissed,” Duffrey said snidely. “He was caught stealing coins from your bedchamber.”

  Cold fear blossomed in Doran’s chest, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was afraid of. He knew Fabrian was no thief.

  “I need you to post this letter urgently,” he told the serving-girl sitting to his right. He was ashamed that he still did not know her name. “It should travel with the next merchant ship to Lostport.”

  She nodded and tucked it into the pocket of her apron, her eyes flickering left to Duffrey.

  “I need to know what Whitland is planning,” he
said to the room at large. “I know they intend to go to war with Varrival, but what are they doing in the meantime?”

  The orange glow from the evening sun illuminated the faces of his household. Most of them seemed uncomfortable in his presence; he mentally berated himself for neglecting them before now. It was yet another sign that he would make a terrible king.

  “We only know of their plans with Varrival,” Duffrey said smoothly. “As you may have noticed, it has been a while since we last played host to a Whitish dignitary. Our news is old.”

  “So you haven’t heard of the construction project in Lostport? Or Whitland’s hand in it?”

  “No, and if I had heard of it, I would have found nothing untoward about the situation.” Duffrey began slicing the fish on his plate from the bone with a fussiness that grated at Doran. “Whitland has often stepped in to fund or assist with construction projects in Chelt—and other thrones as well, I would assume. King Luistan receives a percentage of each kingdom’s annual profit in taxes, so it behooves him to improve their economies.”

  Doran bit back the retort he wanted to throw—how dare the butler lecture him on politics? Any half-wit child knew that Whitland taxed its subordinate kingdoms. Doran felt a seething hatred for the man.

  “Well, if anyone has any news, at all, please come to me.” He endeavored to keep his voice light, even. “I must know where my kingdom stands.”

  The rest of his household nodded, none of them meeting his eye.

  As Doran started on his dinner, he wished with every bite that he had not invited the household to join him. The silence stretched on and on, filling the chamber until Doran itched to jump to his feet and escape the fine house.

  That night, he wheeled himself onto the balcony and breathed in the heavy sea air. The stars were emerging overhead, the hazy brilliance of Totoleon’s Path arcing along the horizon.

  A part of him was beginning to wonder if he had been mistaken—if Fabrian had misled him or jumped to the wrong conclusion. He had a hard time believing the boy was a thief, though. He seemed far too intelligent to jeopardize his life for something as trivial as a few coins.