The Winds of Khalakovo Read online

  Along with the tarpfish.

  The deluge splashed into the crowd, surprising many. A moment later, the fish was carried down the ramp, flipping and flapping as it swung its great bat-like wings about. The talons at the end of its wings sunk deeply into an old woman’s leg. She shouted in pain and fright as she staggered into two younger women. The fish hooked someone else with its other wing, and as the two separated from one another, the thing flipped, squirting brown ink. A moment later it was lost among a sea of legs.

  “Back!” Nikandr shouted as he drew his flintlock pistol and fired it into the air. “Back, by order of the Duke!”

  Borund followed suit. Finally some in the crowd recognized them while many more retreated from the putrid, writhing mass of skin and bone and teeth.

  “Back!”

  The crowd eyed him and the streltsi warily as the tarpfish flipped closer to the edge of the quay. Finally it fell into the water with a hollow splash.

  It was with that one simple sound, from an animal few had ever seen, that the winds were released from the sail. Those at the edges of the crowd—the realization of what they’d done clear on their faces—retreated, and then ran. Soon the area was clear save for the wounded and the soldiers.

  After reaching the Boyar’s mansion in the center of Volgorod, they spoke briefly with Ranos, but he soon put them off to deal with the wounded streltsi as well as two women who claimed their husbands had been shot “without provocation.”

  “Wait here,” Ranos said as he grabbed his coat of office and opened the door of the drawing room. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able, and then we’ll go to the eyrie together.”

  Without waiting for a response he closed the door, leaving Nikandr and Borund in a room that held little to occupy their time. Ranos’s wife—cold in her choice of decor—had left it without so much as a deck of cards. By the time they had finished their second mazer of vodka, it was clear Ranos had been delayed.

  Nikandr set his ivory mazer down with a clack and stood. He could feel his nose and cheeks and ears flush from the alcohol. “Come, good Vostroma, and we shall see what the eyrie holds for us.”

  Borund, his rounded cheeks still red—more from the vodka than the cold—surveyed the room as if it were his last hope at warmth, but then he raised his lips in a wry smile and downed the last of his drink. “Da. Fuck Ranos.”

  Nikandr smiled. “Fuck Ranos.”

  Soon they were back on their ponies and headed uphill from the city along Eyrie Road, the wide, gravel trail that climbed up to the highlands and then west to the eyrie. After they passed the first rise, the wind picked up, and both of them buttoned their long cherkesskas up to their neck. As the trail led them above the expanse of Volgorod, they spotted the tall white cliffs of the eyrie and the great pillared rocks that withstood the churning green seas to the south of them.

  Traffic along the road was high. Laden carts and wagons clattered toward Volgorod, while empty ones returned. Far ahead, a wagon had pulled onto the grass. Two men were changing the rear wagon wheel.

  “Don’t you think it’s time we discussed my sister?” Borund asked as he pulled the collar of his coat up.

  Nikandr stared at the men repairing the wagon as their ponies trotted onward. “I’m sorry the ship was damaged, Borund. I know it has caused difficulties with your father—”

  “That’s not what I mean, Nischka.”

  Nikandr didn’t know what to say, not without causing insult.

  Borund’s thick eyebrows bunched together. “My sister is not so terrible.”

  “She was always the worst of them, Borund.”

  Borund laughed. “That may be true, but she’s grown into a fine woman.”

  Perhaps, Nikandr thought, but the churning in his gut he got every time he thought about being married to her was still as strong as ever. Yet despite that, despite all his fears—founded or not—he would have buried his discontent and prepared for the wedding with diligence—if not passion—had it not been for the Aramahn woman he had seen near the gallows. Rehada. Had they come from slightly different places, he would have already asked for her hand in marriage. As it stood, however, such a thing was out of the question. Impossible. But it didn’t stop his heart from yearning for such a thing, even more so with the knowledge that he had little time left.

  “You’re right,” he told Borund. “She is a fine woman, and I’ll love her as she deserves.”

  Borund laughed, though there was little humor in it. “That’s small consolation coming from you, Nischka. You’d do well to love her better than that.”

  Nikandr bit off his reply, unsure what to say without lying outright or causing insult. He was saved by the approach of a galloping pony. It turned out to be Ranos. He looked cross, even from a distance.

  “You were to wait,” Ranos said as he pulled his roan pony to a stop. His cheeks were flush. He wore a belted woolen coat, similar to Nikandr’s fitted cherkesska, but it didn’t have the same ornamented cartridge pouches on the chest, and the cuffs, embroidered with golden thread, ran halfway up his forearm.

  “You were busy,” Nikandr said. “I thought we’d go ahead.”

  Ranos glanced at Borund, who was keeping his round face as straight as he could manage. “I was busy, as you say, dealing with your mess.”

  “My mess?”

  “You could have done better than throwing a fish at them, Nischka, and I daresay you could have done it sooner.”

  Nikandr urged his pony forward, forcing Borund and Ranos to keep up. “Well, next time I’ll just turn a blind eye, shall I?”

  “Come, come,” Borund said, reining his black pony between them. “Nikandr did well enough.”

  Nikandr frowned. Well enough?

  “We’re finally together,” Borund continued, “and we’re off to see the ships, da?”

  Ranos looked between them, clearly displeased, but then he smoothed his wide moustache and visibly unwound. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Ranos led the way down several switchbacks to the eyrie’s third quay. The eyrie was alive around them: the clatter of carts, the bark of the clerks, the ever-present cry of the gulls both high among the ships and far below where they built their nests. The quays were just as busy as they had been the day of the Gorovna’s launching, the only difference being that there were four times the number of streltsi standing guard among the warehouses and the quays. All five cannon emplacements were manned as well. Father was not willing to take any chances after what had happened to the Gorovna. The Maharraht would be foolish to attempt anything now, but in reality this show of force was as much for the landing dukes as it was for the protection of Khalakovo. With politics in play, they could ill afford to look weak.

  They stopped at the first perch. The ship moored there was an ancient and wounded carrack. Ranos made a grand gesture of stopping and turning to Borund. “This,” he said while giving Borund a short, polite bow, “is the first.”

  The ship’s hull had dozens of battle scars from her decades of service. Nearly every mast had been repaired instead of replaced. Even the figurehead, a charging ram, was marred by several pockmarks from some ancient battle. Nikandr knew it wasn’t a sign of neglect but a remembrance of the ship’s first kapitan, who had died at that very spot on its maiden voyage. Borund, however, who had up until this point held an eager expression on his face, didn’t know this, and so as he examined the carrack, his face became more and more splotchy. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and swallowed heavily.

  Nikandr clamped his jaw to keep himself from smiling.

  “Old she may be,” Ranos continued, “but she’s stout, and once the new mainsail’s complete, she’ll be tip-top.”

  For years Nikandr and Borund had played jokes on one another. He would normally have played the role of instigator himself, but Borund had become too wary, so he’d enlisted Ranos, and from what he could tell it had been a wonderful choice. He was barely able to contain his amusement over his brother’s st
raight face. He feared Borund would notice and sense the nature of this exchange, but Borund wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His eyes were locked on the ship, jaw clamped shut, a look of deep indignation on his face.

  “Your father promised us stout ships....”

  So grave was Borund’s voice that Nikandr nearly confessed, but their time together had so far been very stiff, and he hoped that by breaking the ice, the old camaraderie between them would return. And so he strode to the edge of the perch and slapped the ship’s hull. “Believe me, I served on her for six months. She’s as stout as they come.”

  Borund peered up at the rigging. “She needs a season’s worth of repairs before she’ll cross the neck.”

  “A season’s worth...” Nikandr shook his head. “A week at most. I tell you—”

  “Ranos,” Borund said, ignoring Nikandr. “My father made our position clear. We will not accept ships that are ready for pasture. Bad enough your brother allowed our prized ship to be damaged beyond repair, but now you try to pawn off the debris of your fleet as if we’re Motherless beggars who’ll take anything we’re given.”

  Ranos’s face hardened. “My brother saved your life, Bora.”

  Borund scoffed. “Nyet, Ranos. You had the right of it when you said Nikandr should have done something sooner. So it was on the quay, so it was on the Gorovna.”

  “Bora,” Nikandr said, raising his hands. “This was in jest. Only in jest. This isn’t one of the ships you’ll be given.”

  Borund’s face was pinched. He was tight in the shoulders and in his stance. Nikandr thought he would come down from the heights of anger, but if anything he grew angrier as he stabbed his finger at Nikandr’s chest. “This is no time to joke. We are no longer children, you and I. We are men. I am a Prince of Vostroma, in line for my father’s scepter, and you play a prank on me as if I’m your servant boy?”

  Nikandr shook his head, confused. “We used to do this all the time.”

  “There are many things we used to do, Nikandr, none of which make the least bit of sense to continue, including your insulting refusal to accept the hand of my blood and bone as you should—with grace and humility.”

  Nikandr realized with those words how much Borund must have been holding back on their ride together from Volgorod. He had seemed, if not cheerful, at least jovial, something akin to what they had once shared together, but Nikandr realized now it had all been an act. Borund had become much more like his father than he ever would have guessed.

  A piercing whistle tore through the cold morning wind, burning away the tension that hung between the three of them. There was a moment of silence as the entire eyrie turned its attention seaward.

  An incoming ship—a twelve-masted barque—was listing to one side as it drifted toward the eyrie. Nikandr recognized it immediately as the Kroya, Father’s missing ship that had weeks ago been presumed destroyed or taken by raiders. There was a momentary sense of relief, but that emotion was soon tempered by the signs of battle that became more apparent the closer it came.

  CHAPTER 7

  The eyrie master’s loud voice bellowed, shouting for landsmen to run double-time to the eyrie’s topmost level. Using bright red flags, a flagman waved signals, telling the ship which perch it should take.

  Ranos turned meaningfully to Nikandr.

  “I’ll take care of it.” With a quick turn to Borund, Nikandr snapped his heels and bowed his head. “Good day to you, Borund.”

  Borund did not reply as Nikandr left, and he was glad for it. As heated as the discussion had become, either one of them might say something they would come to regret.

  Nikandr’s anger faded as the wounded ship approached. As was proper for an approach to the eyrie, only two of her mainmasts—starward and sea-ward—had any sails to speak of; the sails along her windward and landward sides were tucked in completely. Two of the foremasts were shattered near the halfway point, and the forward rigging was stripped bare; most likely the crew had taken it down to begin repairs before reaching the eyrie. The hull below the bowsprit had sustained several holes the size of pumpkins and a landscape of pockmarks from grape shot. The forward cannon, which would have sat at the base of the bowsprit, was missing. The crew had most likely jettisoned it, for any loss in the delicate balance between the masts would cause severe instability, forcing the kapitan to reduce the metal onboard to an absolute minimum or risk losing control of the ship.

  By the time Nikandr reached the uppermost quay—the one reserved for the ships of war—the Kroya was near. Standing amidships on the platform reserved for the wind master was a man Nikandr didn’t recognize. He stood ahead of the starward mainmast, arms spread wide, eyes closed and face upturned. It was clear that there was no dhoshaqiram to control the heft of the ship. This qiram must be gifted, indeed—it was tricky, though not impossible, for the havaqiram to affect the ship’s altitude by directing the wind.

  Crewmen stood at the gunwales, tossing bits of hardtack to the wind. Gray cliff gulls fought for it with piercing cries. When Nikandr had finally reached the perch, the eyrie master and his men were securing the ship. Two doors opened in the hull and gangplanks were maneuvered into place. One more was lowered from the upper deck, and from this a heavyset sailor lumbered down and shook forearms with the eyrie master.

  Then he spied Nikandr.

  Immediately he removed the ushanka from his balding head, held it to his breast, and took a knee two paces away from Nikandr.

  Nikandr did not know this man well, but he tried to learn at the very least the kapitan, master, purser, and pilot on every one of his father’s two-dozen ships. Mladosh used to be the Kroya’s pilot, so he could only assume that the kapitan and master had both been wounded or killed.

  “You may rise, Mladosh,” Nikandr told him. “Tell me what happened.”

  He rose, but kept his gaze fixed on Nikandr’s black, knee-length boots. “Maharraht, my lord. A clipper and two schooners set upon us a day out from Rhavanki.”

  Nikandr pulled Mladosh aside so the unlading of the hold could begin.

  “My mother as my witness the day was clear,” Mladosh continued. “Hardly a cloud in the sky, but before we knew it the sky had cast over and the clouds had swallowed us. That was when they struck.”He pointed to the ship’s bow. “Seven men died on the opening salvo. The kapitan took a sliver of wood through the neck, died before the surgeon could get him below.”

  On the deck, a dozen or so Aramahn gathered, smiling, kissing cheeks, and preparing to disembark. Like jewels among gravel, their loose, bright clothing and swarthy skin stood out against the weathered wood of the ship and the charcoal clothing of the crew.

  “If it wasn’t for that one,” Mladosh said, pointing his thumb at the older Aramahn who had guided the ship to berth, “we’d’ve been lost.”

  As often as the Aramahn moved among the ships, Nikandr could not keep track of them, but he had personally recruited the qiram—an Aramahn wizard—for the Kroya’s voyage. “Muqtada is dead?”

  Mladosh nodded. “I pulled him from the Motherless hold. His name is Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. He was the only bonded wind master among them but by the ancestors was he strong!”

  Motherless was the term most sailing men used for the Aramahn, referring to their penchant for constantly wandering the great ocean, rarely staying in one place for more than a season. They have no Motherland, the sailors would say; they come from nowhere, and that’s where they’ll go when they die.

  Ashan had summoned enough wind to force the other ships away while Mladosh ordered the crew to release the ship’s hold of the ley lines that guided them southward along the Rhavanki archipelago. As Mladosh continued the tale, Nikandr studied Ashan, who was waiting for the last of the Aramahn to disembark. He wore inner robes of bright yellow; his outer robes were orange. Several layers of white cloth wrapped his shins and ankles. There was a calmness to his demeanor that transcended the placid disposition so many of the Landless possessed.

  A circl
et rested upon his brow, and an alabaster gem could be seen through his tousle of nutmeg-colored hair. The gem had an iridescent quality to it and a glow that told Nikandr that a hezhan, a spirit from beyond the aether, was bound to him. The bracelets at his wrists, however, gave Nikandr pause. One of them contained a large glowing opal, the other a stone of dull azurite. Three gems. Three spirits could this man commune with—and two of them at once! Such a thing was not unheard of, but it was rare. Mladosh and the rest of the crew were lucky, indeed, to have taken aboard a man such as this.

  A young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, huddled close to Ashan. As carefree and confident as his guardian seemed to be, the boy was just the opposite. His arms were crossed tightly over his stomach. His gaze wandered the perch, the eyrie, even the bright white clouds, as if this were the last place on Erahm he wished to be. There was no circlet upon his brow, which was not strange in and of itself—most Aramahn never became proficient enough with spirits to bond with them. It only seemed strange that a man like Ashan would have a disciple with no abilities.

  Ashan must have felt Nikandr’s gaze. As he negotiated the plank, guiding the boy ahead of him, he smiled at Nikandr and nodded politely.

  As a group, the Aramahn were ushered to one side of the perch by an immigration clerk. He took each of their names in a thick, leather-bound journal before allowing them to continue on. He questioned Ashan for some time, as he was clearly a qiram of some renown. He spent a good deal of effort on the boy as well but seemed to get nowhere—the boy ignored him entirely while hugging his gut and gritting his jaw and blinking as if he were staring into the sun. Each time the official asked him a question, Ashan would reply, perhaps making excuses.

  Finally, his questioning complete, the official released them, at which point Nikandr dismissed Mladosh and fell into step alongside them. “I hear I have much to thank you for,” Nikandr said.

  Ashan waved as if it were nothing. “It was self-preservation, Nikandr, son of Iaros.”