Lora of Two Worlds

Morning on the canal, the river iron pote to the noise of the posting-house ferry.

Last night’s fighting was a bad dream no one wanted to remember. Bleary-eyed canal boats, at the polemen’s call, weighed anchor one by one.

Alvin was about to order departure when hoofbeats came from the bank: ”Wait! Deputy Commander, wait!”

Hayes Hadrian? What now? Lora peeked over the gunwale.

Alvin had gone down to meet him. He handed his horse to a guard and, with only two attendants, walked with Alvin toward the boats.

”Ha, never thought I’d have the luck to hitch a ride on Deputy Commander Odenheim’s boat back to Watchford.”

”General He, please take the passenger boat. The cargo boats are cramped. You’ll make the envoy think I have no manners...”

”In Weybrook, I’m the host. Make yourself comfortable.” A military man, what did you expect? Besides, he was here for a pleasant journey, not to babysit an old chamberlain.

Alvin couldn’t stop him. His post was on the passenger boat. This leg, Roland would have to handle He.

For the convoy, dry weather was a blessing. Soldiers slept on deck under the stars. The nights after Easter-tide were mild, the mosquitoes few.

Roland and Leon shared the forward cabin’s extra space. Lora had the stern cabin to herself.

So when Hayes Hadrian suddenly came aboard, Roland was caught off guard. He had a small table set up on deck and brought out several jars of small ale:

”Let’s drink and talk. The boat is rough, no proper snacks. Don’t hold it against me.”

”I wouldn’t. I’ve long heard of the three Odenheim brothers, Alvin the steady, Gareth the warrior, Roland the strategist. I’ve crossed swords with the first two. Only the third have I never met.”

Lora stood at the back of the guard detail. She rather liked this Hayes Hadrian.

Many people demonized the northern marcher lords. But each domain was different.

This man and his father had ruled Weybrook for nearly forty years, through four reigns. Under them, Weybrook had enjoyed stability that other domains, constantly swapping lords, could only dream of.

Lora had a bold idea.

”Staring at a man without blinking.”

A low voice beside her. She turned, Leon had materialized at her elbow.

She blinked: ”He’s handsome. Can’t a girl look?”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

You... could you not be so obvious? The man who saved you last night was me. He hasn’t lifted a finger...

”I came to ask about the Southland grain. Is it real?”

Lora looked up at him. The two wisps of mustache didn’t diminish him, they added three parts maturity and one part roguish charm.

”Real. Southland grain is heat-tolerant, cold-tolerant, doesn’t need much water or fertilizer, and ripens fast. Introduced to the Empire, it could feed tens of millions more.”

”Tens... tens of millions? That’s rebuilding the Empire?”

Leon could barely believe his ears.

He didn’t know, she was calculating from the historical record. When Southland grain was introduced and spread in a later age, the population had exploded past a hundred million. This Empire held barely fifty million. In demographic terms, rebuilding the Empire wasn’t an exaggeration.

He said nothing. He looked at the canal’s left bank, vast, gray, parched wheat fields stretching to the horizon.

He was lost in thought when Hayes Hadrian, on deck, stopped Roland from pouring:

”Hey, why are you pouring? Don’t you have a guardswoman? Let her pour for us.”

”What’s a woman got to do with drinking? I’ll pour for you myself.” Roland wasn’t about to drag his sister into this.

Leon straightened instinctively, putting himself in front of Lora. Linn and Lyle weren’t slow either, they had to help their lord hide the young lady.

The two of them crowded between Leon and Lora.

Leon: What just happened?

Lora, urgent: ”Why are you squeezing me? I want to hear what they’re saying!”

The two realized, their lord was also listening intently.

”Ah, Lord Roland, you’re a full man who doesn’t know a hungry man’s hunger. Weybrook holds six provinces, a hundred thousand men under arms. And year after year, drought, locusts. My father took charge three years ago. Worked hard. Nothing improved. Now it’s worse.”

”How so?”

”If you walked through any town, you’d see: merchants don’t profit, craftsmen don’t profit. We catch corrupt officials and punish them one by one, but the markets are still empty of coin. Strange, isn’t it?”

He sighed and tossed back the ale Roland had poured.

Leon didn’t understand either. He glanced at Lora. She didn’t look surprised. Did she know the reason?

Roland truly didn’t know. That the mighty Weybrook could have such troubles.

They lived in the capitals, cities built with the wealth of an entire realm. The prosperity they knew hid the truth: the Empire was an aging ox. It looked impressive. But it couldn’t pull the plow much longer.

Leon had planned to slip Green’s burial map to He, to show him the King’s true face. Now he changed his mind.

”If Weybrook is like this, are there any northern domains that can feed themselves?” Roland asked.

”Last year there was a quake in Augustburg. Some marcher lords said it was someone close to the King working dark arts. Sure enough, this year the Duke of Zayne was brought down. Augustburg... we’ve given up on that. My sister was unlucky. At least the King remembered her, gave her a consort’s title in death. Ah, never mind. Drink up.”

”You... know Baron Chaun well?”

”I saw him once, from a distance, when I escorted my sister to the capital. Marcher lords don’t socialize with princes. But I and my father heard from Chancellor Clifford that the Duke of Zayne was an upright man. Bright, well-read, respected. That’s why he became a thorn in someone’s side.”

Roland’s face lit up:

”Chancellor Clifford? The retired Chancellor Clifford Quentin? Oh, yes, yes. He’s from Berenford, in your Weybrook territory. I heard him debate once. He’d count me as a student.”

”Ha ha ha... Chancellor Clifford said the same, that the Duke of Zayne was his student.”

Roland, embarrassed, reminded him: ”He’s Baron Chaun now. You keep saying ’Duke of Zayne’, if someone hears...”

He shrugged: ”I’m a soldier. I say what I like. We honor the Empire as our sovereign. But what has the Empire given us lately? Year before last, drought, they sent grain. Last year, half as much. This year, they say the southern granaries are running low. Millions of mouths to feed, where do I go?”

Leon, listening, felt a surge. Someone still remembered him.

And He’s casual ”Duke of Zayne” lit a fire of confidence.

He would have to visit the retired Chancellor Clifford.