The Winds of Khalakovo

  BRADLEY P. BEAULIEU

  Night Shade Books

  San Francisco

  The Winds of Khalakovo © 2011 by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  This edition of The Winds of Khalakovo

  © 2011 by Night Shade Books

  Cover art by Adam Paquette

  Cover design by Rebecca Silvers

  Maps by William McAusland

  Author photo by Joanne M. Beaulieu

  Edited by Ross E. Lockhart

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59780-218-5

  E-ISBN: 978-1-59780-306-9

  Night Shade Books

  Please visit us on the web at

  http://www.nightshadebooks.com

  For Joanne, who was with me every step of the way.

  Thank you, dear friend, my lovely wife. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Dramatis Personæ

  Prince Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo

  - youngest son of the Duke and Duchess of Khalakovo.

  Princess Atiana Radieva Vostroma

  - daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Vostroma.

  Nikandr’s betrothed. Rehada Ulan al Shineshka

  - an Aramahn woman. Nikandr’s lover in Volgorod.

  The Duchy of Khalakovo

  The Duke and Duchess

  Duke Iaros Aleksov Khalakovo

  Duchess Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo

  Their children

  Prince Ranos Iaroslov Khalakovo — eldest son.

  Princess Victania Saphieva Khalakovo — only daughter, middle child.

  Others

  Yvanna Antoneva Khalakovo — Ranos’s wife.

  Gravlos Antinov — a shipwright. Oversaw the design and construction of the Gorovna.

  Isaak Ylafslov — the seneschal of Palotza Radiskoye.

  The Duchy of Vostroma

  The Duke and Duchess

  Duke Zhabyn Olegov Vostroma

  Duchess Radia Anastasiyeva Vostroma

  Their children

  Prince Borund Zhabynov Vostroma — eldest child and only son.

  Princess Mileva Radieva Vostroma — daughter, sister to Atiana.

  Princess Ishkyna Radieva Vostroma — daughter, sister to Atiana.

  Others

  Katerina Vostroma — a Matra of Vostroma — Zhabyn’s sister.

  Nataliya Iyaneva Bolgravya — wife of Borund.

  The Duchy of Bolgravya

  The Grand Duke and Duchess of Anuskaya

  Grand Duke Stasa Olegov Bolgravya

  Grand Duchess Alesya Zaveta Bolgravya

  Their children

  Konstantin Stasayev Bolgravya — the first son.

  Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya — the fourth son.

  The Royalty of the Other Duchies

  Duke Leonid Roaldov Dhalingrad

  Duchess Iyana Klarieva Dhalingrad

  Duke Yegor Nikolov Nodhvyansk

  Duchess Kseniya Zoyeva Nodhvyansk

  Duke Yevgeny Krazhnegov Mirkotsk

  Duchess Polina Anayev Mirkotsk

  Duke Andreyo Sergeyov Rhavanki

  Duchess Ekaterina Margeva Rhavanki

  Duke Heodor Yaroslov Lhudansk

  Duchess Rosa Oriseva Lhudansk

  Duke Aleg Ganevov Khazabyirsk

  Duchess Zanaida Lariseva Khazabyirsk

  The Aramahn and the Maharraht

  Ashan Kida al Ahrumea — one of the arqesh (master of all disciplines) among the Aramahn.

  Nasim an Ashan — an orphan boy with strange powers.

  Jahalan Atman al Mitra — Nikandr’s havaqiram (wind master).

  Udra Amir al Rasa — Nikandr’s dhosaqiram (master of the stuff of life).

  Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah — a mahtar in the village of Iramanshah.

  Soroush Wahad al Gatha — leader of the northern sect of the Maharraht.

  Ahya Soroush al Rehada — deceased daughter of Rehada and Soroush. Died on the shores of Bolgravya.

  Bersuq Wahad al Gatha — Soroush’s brother and second in command.

  Muwas Umar al Mariyah — a gifted jalaqiram.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  In a modest home in the center of Volgorod, Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo sat in a simple wooden chair, considering the woman sleeping on the bed nearby. Dawn was breaking, ivory light filtering in through the small round window fixed high into the opposite wall. His woolen cherkesska lay across his lap, ready for him to slip into. His boots were already on.

  The rumpled bedcovers left half of Rehada’s form uncovered. His eyes traced the curve of her shoulders, the soft valley of her spine, the arch at the small of her back. Her dark skin blended with the blanket and sheets—cocoa against crimson and cream. The air inside the room was chill, but Rehada would be warm, and he wanted nothing more than to slip beneath the covers, to return to her arms, however foolish it might be considering the family that had landed on the island the night before and the events of the coming day.

  He gripped the arms of the chair, readying himself to head for the eyrie, when Rehada stirred. He paused, wondering what her mood would be now that the day had come.

  She turned over, her dark eyes focusing on him slowly. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Will you see her?”

  Nikandr shook his head. “I doubt she will brave the weather.”

  Rehada paused. “Is she so frail?”

  “Frail?” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “Nyet. The Vostromans are not frail. But I fear she looks upon this marriage in the same manner as I.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Have I not told you?” he chided.

  “Tell me again.”

  He stood and took a step toward the door. “As an unwelcome obligation.”

  She leaned on one elbow. The covers draped over her waist, accentuating the bow of her hip, the lines of her thighs. A mole marked her left breast, just above the nipple. Anyone else might think there was little emotion inside her, but Nikandr knew the signs. She was hurt.

  He glanced up at the window and the brightening sky. He could, perhaps, justify a short delay.

  He was nearly ready to go to her when his stomach clenched. That painful, familiar feeling had returned, and it was all he could do to mask it from Rehada.

  It was a scene they’d played out a handful of times already. She studied him, confused but unwilling to voice her concerns when he was so clearly unwilling to share. Words of explanation nearly slipped from his mouth, but as he’d done so many times before, he remained silent. This was not something he could share with her. Not yet.

  “Go,” she said, turning away from him and lying down. “And give your bride a kiss for me.”

  The pain was growing worse—perhaps a sign from the ancients. Either way, he was late.

  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and though he left without another word, the scent of her jasmine hair haunted him throughout the cold and empty streets.

  As his pony crested the snow-covered hill, Nikandr squinted from the reflection of the morning sun. The walrus tusk cartridges on the bandolier across his chest clacked as he shifted position in the saddle. Although the wind was brisk and bitter, it had been a long ride and he had long since grown accustomed to it.

  The road ahead lay empty—a change from the previous hour, which had brought a score of wagons and coaches heading in the opposite direction toward Volgorod. He could not yet see the eyrie on its high cliff, but its presence could be felt. A dozen ships, waiting for their berth, held position among the burly white clouds. The ships bore goods or dignitaries, or both, in anticipation of the coming Council. Most would return home immediately in hopes of flying the circuit again before Council finished three
weeks hence, but some—those whose homes were too distant or whose master’s only purpose was to treat with the gathered royalty—would remain for the duration.

  As Nikandr continued down the slope, a massive galleon belonging to the Duchy of Mirkotsk climbed and arced northward, passing high overhead. Four masts were affixed in each of the primary directions: starward, landward, seaward, and windward, sixteen in all. It was a large ship, difficult to pilot, but that was no excuse for the way it was heeling to its windward side. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called like a gull, wishing it safe journey. Moments later, several of the men hanging among the lower rigging waved.

  Soon the eyrie came into view. It lay at the edge of the sea, affixed to a towering gray cliff that separated the dark waters from the steady rise of the hills beyond. From this distance the five long quays built into the face of the cliff looked like natural stone ledges, but he knew that each had been built painstakingly by Aramahn stone masons over the course of a decade. The quays each held twelve stout perches that were supported by graceful sweeps of stone as they extended outward from the cliff; they were used to moor, lade, and unlade the windships. The eyrie was—as troubling as it sometimes seemed—the heart of commerce for Khalakovo, the goods it brought the life blood. Windsmen and landsmen—hundreds of them—unladed the cargo and hauled it along the ramps leading up from the quays to the eyrie’s grand courtyard—a cluster of offices, warehouses, and auction squares that stood on a wide plateau at the edge of the cliff.

  A coach pulled by four ponies passed Nikandr on the road, the driver bowing his head as he passed. Nikandr waited for it to crest the hill behind him before retrieving a silver flask from inside his woolen cherkesska. After downing a healthy swallow of the bittersweet brew, he shoved the flask back into his coat. The warmth of the draught suffused his gut, doing its best to quell the feelings of unease that had been his constant companion over the last two months.

  He kicked his pony into a trot and covered the last half-league quickly. Once inside the eyrie’s courtyard, he steered his pony toward a handful of stone buildings near the first of the cannon emplacements. Wagon wheels clattered over the cobblestones as drivers maneuvered through the space. Gulls circled above, while below an auctioneer called out to a small crowd of men wearing fine wool coats. After giving his pony over to a stable boy, Nikandr entered the lobby of the administration office and found the eyrie master, Aleksei, among the orderly rows of desks on the far side of the brass-and-marble counter. Aleksei was inspecting a ledger while a younger man looked nervously on. When he finally pulled his nose from the ledger, and the man beside him nodded and ran off, Nikandr caught his eye with a wave of his hand.

  Aleksei was a balding man with a trim black beard. He wore spectacles upon his nose and—despite the chill interior of the building—a sheen of sweat upon his brow. His expression upon recognizing Nikandr was a mixture of exasperation and relief, but then it turned to one of businesslike seriousness as he pulled his spectacles from around his ears, bowed his head, and motioned Nikandr to join him in his office.

  Nikandr stepped into the austere room and turned his gaze to the iron perch in the corner beyond Aleksei’s impeccably neat desk. Resting on the perch was an impressive black rook with a golden band about its ankle. The band made it clear that this bird was a member of the palotza’s rookery, a beast ready to serve Nikandr’s mother, Saphia, should the need arise. Thankfully Nikandr could not feel her presence through the chalcedony soulstone around his neck, so he knew her attention was currently elsewhere.

  Were there a choice, Nikandr would have held this conversation outside of his office, but he couldn’t speak to Aleksei where there was any risk of being overheard—not about this—and he didn’t wish to raise Aleksei’s curiosity by calling him away from his normal duties.

  “My Lord Prince...” Aleksei swept around to the front of his desk and set the ledger down, motioning to the polished leather chair across from him. “What might I do for Palotza Radiskoye.”

  “I know you’re busy”—Nikandr’s stomach gave a twinge as he took his seat—“so I won’t keep you long.”

  Aleksei sat as well, smiling as pleasantly as he could manage. It was clear from his downward glances that he dearly wished he could look over his ledger. Nikandr knew from experience that this was a man used to doing three things at once, but it was a measure of Nikandr’s stature that he would leave it untouched for fear of giving insult.

  “The Kroya,” Nikandr said.

  “Ah!” He began to rifle through the documents piled neatly to the left of his desk before Nikandr had even finished speaking. From it he pulled a single sheet of paper and slid it across the desk. “Here it is, at last. I was going to send it with the noon pony.”

  It was a report from the master of Rhavanki’s eyrie—a confirmation that the Kroya, one of Khalakovo’s stoutest ships, had left nearly six weeks prior. When they had received word that the ship had not arrived on Khalakovo’s shores, a search effort had been waged, but no remains had yet been found. All efforts would of course be made to find the missing ship, but the attacks of the Maharraht had been growing since the settling of winter, and it was possible that the ship now lay at the bottom of the sea or—worse—in the hands of the enemy. It was not the news Nikandr had been hoping to hear, but neither was it unexpected—he, along with everyone else in the palotza, had already assumed the worst.

  “Very well,” Nikandr said as he slipped the paper back onto the desk.

  After filing the document back into the sheaf of papers in the same location as before, Aleksei shuffled them neatly together and regarded Nikandr. “If there’s nothing else, My Lord?”

  “Actually, there is,” Nikandr said, pausing for effect. “There’s been word, Aleksei, that you traffic in certain goods.”

  “Goods, My Lord?” Aleksei’s face remained composed, but the skin along the top of his balding head flushed.

  Nikandr leaned forward. “I’m not here in an official capacity, Aleksei.”

  Aleksei’s eyes thinned and his eyebrows pulled together for one brief moment, but then he leaned back into his burgundy leather chair with a look of understanding. “Your sister?”

  Nikandr nodded. “She has time yet, but the final stages approach.”

  “There are several unguents I might recommend, but—”

  “I’m here for the grubs. You have two, do you not?”

  Aleksei tried—and failed—to hide his surprise. “I-I do, but they are more effective in the early stages of the disease.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Aleksei sat higher in his chair. “My Lord, they’re both spoken for.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find more.”

  Aleksei looked defeated, but it was only an act. Nikandr knew how shrewd he was. And how greedy.

  “I could make arrangements, but my patrons, the ones who were promised the grubs, will be arriving tomorrow. I can only imagine their anger.”

  “The price, Aleksei.”

  “Two-thousand.”

  Nikandr paused, allowing the figure to sit in the cool air between them. “They’re worth eight-hundred. No more.”

  “A year ago, da, but times have changed. We have become more desperate.”

  “Twelve-hundred, Aleksei. That is all I will pay.”

  “My Lord—”

  “And I’ll ensure,” Nikandr said, sitting back, “that my brother’s men steer wide of the Master’s office.”

  Aleksei looked around the office as if he had just considered what would happen were he to refuse Nikandr’s offer.

  “Of course, My Lord. They—They may not prove effective.”

  “A fact you share with all your patrons, I’m sure.” Nikandr waited a polite moment for Aleksei to move, and then prompted him. “The grubs, Aleksei?”

  He stood with no small amount of reluctance and moved to a set of shelves behind him. From the highest he slid aside a neat stack of books and retrieved a lacquered wooden
box. After carefully setting it on his desk, he slid open the top and pulled out a glass vial filled with golden liquid and a fat, colorless grub the size of Nikandr’s thumb. Nikandr stared, fighting to keep his disgust from showing—the thought of eating the thing was threatening to turn the unease in his stomach into all-out revolt.

  As Aleksei—a sullen look upon his face—set the second vial carefully on the desk next to the first, Nikandr felt his mother’s presence through his soulstone. A heartbeat later the rook in the corner of the room began flapping its wings and cawing loudly. Aleksei immediately swung himself around and bowed reverently. Nikandr stood and did the same as his mother’s presence grew deep within his chest. He was painfully aware of the vials sitting within arm’s reach, but he knew the worst thing he could do would be to draw attention to them, so he waited and prayed that she hadn’t been privy to the conversation.

  The rook shifted on its perch, and then spoke in a voice that was perfectly recognizable—in quality if not in tone—as his mother’s. “Imagine my surprise, Nischka, when you were not in the courtyard at the appointed time.”

  “I can see you have business to attend to,” Aleksei said as he scooped up his ledger and rushed out the door.

  “You were to wait,” Nikandr’s mother said as the door rattled shut. “Do you care so little about decorum?”

  “I have many things to attend to, Mother. My life doesn’t revolve around ceremony.”

  The rook cawed and flapped its wings. “Things to attend to... What’s done is done, Nischka. No matter how much sweat you’ve poured into that ship, it would be better if you left it to the Vostromas. There are more important things to worry about.”

  Nikandr bit his tongue. “Is there anything else?”

  “She is a fine woman.”

  “As I’ve said many times.”