Nikandr spit to clear his mouth of the bits of undigested grub.
How desperate had he become? How blind?
The need to save himself, to save Victania, had grown stronger as various remedies had failed to help. He’d placed his faith in ever-more-obscure treatments until finally arriving here, at the belief that a worm taken from the desert to the south of the Great Empire would heal the wasting.
“Are you well, My Lord Prince?”
One of the deckhands. Nikandr waved him away. “Too much vodka, too little bread.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Nikandr stared down at the waves as they broke upon the rocks, wondering-when the last stages of the disease had finally taken hold-if he would allow it to consume him or if he’d launch himself from the cliffs like so many of the seamen chose to do.
As he pulled the second vial from his coat and stared at the white grub within, a burst of anger boiled up inside him. He reared back and launched it as far as he could toward the sea and the tall pillars of rock below. It twirled downward, the sun catching the glass, making it glint under the morning sun, until finally it was lost from view.
In his mind he cataloged the broths, the salves, the unguents he had secretly purchased and tried. Other than the first few days after realizing he had the disease, he hadn’t felt any sense of desperation-he’d felt like he would somehow find a solution, that it would reverse course-but now, with no avenues left except for the vicious blooding rituals employed by the people of the lowlands, despair was taking hold.
“Looking for your fortune?”
Nikandr turned and found Jahalan standing at the top of the aftcastle stairs. He was a tall man with a gaunt face and sharp, sunken eyes. Had Nikandr not known him for so long, he would have thought he had the wasting, but it was simply how he was built-that and the fact that he ate like a bird. He wore a circlet upon his brow that held an alabaster gem. The gem glowed softly from within-an indication that his bond to a spirit of the wind was active.
“I am,” Nikandr replied, “but I always seem to be looking in the wrong place.”
Jahalan raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That is the way of things, isn’t it?” He looked around the ship, as if taking it in for the first time. “Are you ready, son of Iaros?”
Nikandr shrugged. “As ready as I can be.”
Jahalan, perhaps sensing Nikandr’s mood, took his leave and moved to the starward mainmast, the position from which he would use the spirit bound to him to guide the winds and take the ship on its short maiden voyage.
Udra, a wizened old woman, was already there. She wore a circlet as well, though it held not a stone of alabaster but an almond-shaped opal that gave off a radiance the sun could not completely account for. Aramahn like Udra used opals to bond with dhoshahezhan, spirits that allowed her to control the heft of the ship. Her eyes were closed in concentration, her hands pressed gently to the mast, preparing herself and the ship for the coming voyage. It was an insult, her refusal to give him greeting, but it was one he had grown accustomed to. Udra knew her work, and that was good enough for him.
The crew stopped what they were doing as a familiar sound rose above the din of the eyrie. It was the rhythm of wooden blocks being struck in rapid sequence. Nikandr strode down the gangplank to the perch as the eyrie turned its attention toward the sound.
A procession of lords-and more than a few ladies-made their way down the cobbled road from the courtyard and onto the highest of the quays. They were led by servants in fur robes holding korobochki-brightly painted blocks-that they struck soundly with rounded mallets. The landsmen made way, kneeling and bowing their heads as the procession passed.
When they reached the Gorovna’s perch, Nikandr’s father, Iaros Aleksov Khalakovo, was in the fore, and he was arm-in-arm with Duke Zhabyn Olegov Vostroma, the man who would soon become Nikandr’s second father.
“And here he is,” Father said. “As promised.”
Nikandr embraced each of them in turn, kissing their cheeks as he did so. “Father… My Lord Duke… Welcome.”
Zhabyn, with his sleepy eyes and an expression that made it clear he was not amused, took Nikandr in, glancing toward the ship. “Your father tells me you worked on the ship yourself.”
“That is so,” Nikandr said, pleased he would take note.
Zhabyn turned to Father as if Nikandr were no longer present. “It had best perform, Khalakovo, no less than the others.”
Father smiled, pointedly ignoring Nikandr. “I have been assured that it will.”
Zhabyn stared up at the ship, his emotionless eyes somehow critical. He walked past Nikandr and strode up to the deck as if it were already his. Father, sparing a flash of disapproval for Nikandr, followed.
Nikandr’s sister, Victania, was speaking with Zhabyn’s son. She was covered in several layers, but it was clear to anyone who cared to look that she was not well. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips colorless. She had applied powder to her face, but the hollows of her eyes were dark, and there was no hiding the jaundice in the whites of her eyes. She was well along in the wasting, a disease that had grown more rampant over the last decade. Other islands like Rhavanki had had it worse in recent years, but if father’s physics were to be believed, Khalakovo seemed to be making up for lost time.
The disease struck randomly, with no apparent rhyme or reason. The peasants often thought that touch or breath caused it, but there had been too many cases of solitary souls contracting the disease, and a good many who came into contact with the afflicted but never became ill. It was looked upon as a sign of weakness by most, but in Victania Nikandr could see only strength. She was more active by half than most healthy women. She was doing her best to look beyond the disease, to do what she could with the time remaining to her.
As the gathered noblemen made their way to the deck, she broke away and pulled Nikandr aside. “It was not a wise choice you made this morning, Nischka. Zhabyn was ill pleased.”
“So it seems.”
“Borund as well. Mark me well, brother. You’d best see to it that your voyage is a pleasant one.”
“You worry too much. I merely came early to ensure that all was well with the ship.”
Borund, the heavily built son of Zhabyn, and one of Nikandr’s closest friends growing up, was just now taking the gangplank. He, like his father, was ignoring Nikandr for the present, but that would soon pass. They hadn’t seen one another in several years, but once they’d had a chance to talk their old habits would take over and they’d be playing jokes on one another as they’d always done.
“And what of last night? Their arrival?”
“The same.”
Victania scoffed.“ Nyet, brother. Today you said your goodbyes to the ship and last night you said goodbye to your whore.”
“She’s no whore, Tania.”
“I don’t begrudge you your fun, Nischka. Ancients know you’ll have little enough of that once the chill of Vostroma’s daughter falls across your bed. But you’d best be careful. Father wants no complications.”
Nikandr suppressed his annoyance. “There will be no complications.”
“My dear Nikandr,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “there already are.”
Nikandr took in the crowd, wondering what she meant, but then he saw them. The three sisters. They were standing near the back, speaking with their Aunt Katerina. They wore billowing dresses, fur coats, and ermine caps, and though their tastes had grown apart in recent years, they were still dressed similarly enough to one another that a whole host of memories were dredged up from his childhood.
Katerina and two of the sisters-Mileva and Ishkyna-were staring up at the ship, but Atiana, Nikandr’s fiancee, was staring at him. He stared back, uncomfortable under her gaze, and surprisingly, more than a little embarrassed. When they were young, he and Borund used to tease them mercilessly. Tying locks of their hair together at lessons. Stepping on the trains of their dresses. Dropping frogs into their soup when they weren’t looking. They were childish things that boys did to girls-nothing to be ashamed of when both of them had outgrown their youth-but Nikandr remembered, and he had come to regret them.
He wondered if she felt the same. As they’d grown older, the sisters had become more and more vicious in their quest for revenge. Even after he and Borund had reached an age where they were looking well beyond the girls of Vostroma, they’d continued with renewed vigor, perhaps sensing the remaining time for balancing the scales was growing short. Once, at the beginning of Council, they’d put a dye in Nikandr’s food that had colored his mouth black for a week-teeth, tongue, gums, and all. He still shivered at the thought of trying to painfully scrape the stuff off night after night, and though Zhabyn had reluctantly forced each of the girls to apologize, they hadn’t bothered to tell him that scraping would have little effect and that in time it would wear off on its own. All three of them had made a point of catching Nikandr’s eye and smiling-genuinely enough so that it wouldn’t be considered taunting were they to be caught doing it but wide enough so that it was clear they were salting the very wound they had inflicted.
Without a word to the women near her, Atiana broke away and made a beeline toward him. She was now twenty years old-four years younger than Nikandr. The hair beneath her cap was powdered white, and she wore a subtle rouge upon her cheeks. They had always been pale-skinned, the sisters, and the rouge only served to draw attention to it, but he was surprised to see how much her face had filled in-her figure as well-since the last time he’d seen her three years before.
As she approached, Victania squeezed Nikandr’s arm and made her way to the gangplank.
“You were missed last night, My Lord Prince,” Atiana said. “This morning as well.”
Her tone was self-righteous, and it grated. “Duty called, My Lady,” Nikandr said, bowing deeply, “but fortunately we find ourselves here.”
“A pity I won’t be able to take the ship,” she said, glancing up at the masts.
“There’s nothing that would interest you, I’m afraid. She’s as bare as they come.”
Atiana raised one eyebrow. “Is that how you like them?”
Nikandr paused. “Is there a man that does not?”
A wry smile lit her face. “Perhaps you would grant me a tour.”
“I wouldn’t dream of robbing Gravlos of the pleasure.”
“But you worked on her, did you not? Is it not your right as well?”
Nikandr waved at the ship offhandedly. “A ship is a ship.”
She said nothing, and her face changed not at all, but she was weighing his words. She knew-knew how much he loved this ship. To speak of it in such a cavalier manner would speak volumes to someone like her, a woman who had always-despite what other faults she might have-been insufferably bright.
“I suppose you’re right. There’s much to do over the next few days. I doubt we’ll see much of one another until the dance.”
“Regrettably, that is most likely true.”
She glanced toward the gangway at a call from her Aunt Katerina.
Nikandr took her hand in his and kissed it. “Until the dance?”
She fixed her gaze on her hand, which was still held in his. Then she pulled it away and met his eyes. “I look forward to it.”
When they were growing up, the sisters had always had a subtle tone to their words. Sometimes it was Mileva, sometimes Ishkyna, and sometimes-though more rarely-it was Atiana. They would say something that sounded innocuous while in fact was steeped in meaning. Nikandr’s ear had come to recognize this tone, for more often than not it was meant as a challenge. She was daring him to unravel the mystery, daring him further to prevent her from winning.
“I await with bated breath,” Nikandr said.
The ceremony itself was short. A collective prayer for the Gorovna’s safe passage, a song written and sung for the occasion by one of Volgorod’s most famous troubadours, and for a select few a tour from the shipwright, Gravlos.
Then the gathering left-all except Borund, who was bidden by his father to judge the ship for its windworthiness. Gravlos was given the honor of launching her from the eyrie, but Nikandr soon took over and guided her eastward along the length of the island. It would be a short flight-out to open sea, a curve around the far end of the island, and back again. Enough time for Borund to assess her, enough time for a bit of celebration, and then a return to the shipyards for final fittings.
They were nearing an hour out to sea. The entire time Borund had looked as if he were at a funeral.
“Come,” Nikandr said, trying to lighten the mood. “We’ll give you a proper tour.”
Borund, who was thankfully facing Nikandr and not Gravlos, rolled his eyes and spoke softly, “Can’t we just share a drink in the kapitan’s quarters, Nischka?”
“It will take but a moment,” Nikandr replied under his breath.
“I’ve been on a hundred of these ships, Nikandr. I know what they’re about.”
Gravlos, who was eager to show off more of the ship than had been possible earlier, had come close enough to hear, and though he showed no disappointment on his face, his shoulders dropped, and the bow of his head he gave to Borund was longer than it needed to be. “Perhaps a turn at the helm, My Lord Prince…”
To Nikandr’s horror, Borund declined this as well and began pacing the deck, spending more time examining the forward cannon mount than anything else.
Gravlos’s face was red as he stared at Borund. Before Nikandr could say a word to him, he limped to the shroud running up along the mainmast and began yelling at the men to tighten the deadeyes. It wasn’t much longer before Borund stepped up to the aftcastle with an exasperated expression on his face. “It does seem terribly slow going, doesn’t it?”
“That’s natural,” Nikandr said, trying to hide his displeasure, “with only half her sails flying.”
“ Da, but we’re also taking a rather circuitous route.”
“Well then, perhaps I could arrange a skiff to take you back to Volgorod.”
Borund exhaled noisily. “Nikandr, I know I’m being a boor, but until last night I had been on a ship for nearly a week, and the winds were not kind, believe me. The last thing I wish to do”-he glanced toward Gravlos and lowered his voice-“is spend one more minute on this ship than I need to.”
Considering their history, Nikandr had hoped to bring Borund around to his way of thinking-to enjoy the day and the ship, to give honor to those that had spilled sweat and blood upon her decks-but now he saw that he would not. To him, this ship was nothing more than a row in his father’s ledgers, and it set his blood to boiling.
“Your wish is my command, My Lord Prince.” He called for the ship to come about.
Gravlos looked over severely, but Nikandr ignored him, and once Jahalan had sufficiently altered the winds, Nikandr steered the ship away from the lazy course he had set and flew straight for the shipyard, a course that would take them directly over the palotza.
Borund looked nervous when he realized what Nikandr was doing, but then he tipped his head back and laughed. “Well, that’s one way to go about it.”
Flying over the palotza was normally ill-advised, lest it be misinterpreted as an act of aggression, but the streltsi manning the palotza’s cannons had been briefed-they knew who was piloting the ship and would be much more forgiving than usual.
Just as they were coming abreast of the palotza, the ship’s master waved his hand over his head several times, the sign that danger had been spotted and that silence was required.
This was not a seasoned crew. It was a collection of old deck hands that Gravlos had put to work in the shipyard, but many of them had served in the staaya-the windborne wing of Khalakovo’s military-or the merchant marine, and old habits die hard. Once the signal was picked up, it was passed silently to the landward and windward sides and finally below to the few who would be manning the seaward masts. The two gun emplacements-one fore and one aft-were manned with a crew of three men each.
Nikandr, his heartbeat quickening, waved Gravlos over to the helm and raised his hand in the signal for the crews to begin loading grapeshot. They complied, finishing in respectable time, as Nikandr sent another sign to the ship’s acting master, calling for muskets.
The Gorovna was not complete and had been readied with only five muskets. They were removed from their locker by the master and four of them were passed out to the crewmen known to be good with the weapon. The fifth was handed to Nikandr.
He immediately pulled one of the walrus tusk cartridges filled with gunpowder from the bandolier across his chest and began loading the weapon. He finished well before the others and began scanning the ground below. It took him a moment to find it among the mottled patches of stone and snow-a skiff, nestled in a copse of scrub pine. Once he had found the ship, he found the men. Twenty paces away four of them kneeled at the edge of a tall cliff that ended hundreds of feet below in a forest of spruce. They appeared to be inspecting the ground, though for what reason Nikandr couldn’t guess.
It was possible they were Aramahn like Jahalan and Udra, but their almond-shaped turbans and long beards and threadbare clothing made him think otherwise. Plus, the Aramahn knew that to come so close to the palotza without permission was to risk trial and possibly death. They had to be Maharraht, members of a group that had decades ago broken with the peace-loving ways of the Aramahn, dedicating their lives to driving the Grand Duchy from the islands and drowning them in the sea.
Nikandr sucked in breath as one of them leapt from the cliff. The man’s descent quickened. He spread his arms wide, as if preparing for the cool embrace of the sea, not the singular end that would be granted by the earth and stone that lay below him.
Improbably, his descent slowed. His long robes were whipped harder than the speed of his fall could account for, and soon it was clear that the wind was carrying him like a gull on the upward drafts that blow along the cliffs. Like a feather on the breeze he was carried, arms held wide as many of the wind masters do. He soon regained the level where his comrades still stood, at which point he alighted to solid land as if stepping down from the mountain on high.
Nikandr coughed and pitched forward, supporting himself with one hand on the deck. A well had opened up inside him, a hole impossibly deep, impossibly black. It had coincided so closely with the man’s leap that he couldn’t help but think they were linked in some way, though how this could be he couldn’t guess.
On the cliff below, the one who had leapt turned and pointed up toward the Gorovna.
“Come about,” Nikandr called, “and bring her down by half!”
As one, the Maharraht bolted for the skiff.
“Jahalan, they have at least one havaqiram with them, probably two.”
“I feel him,” he replied, “but it is not just a havaqiram, son of Iaros. They have summoned a hezhan.”
Nikandr turned. “That’s not possible.”
“I agree that it should not be, but they have done it.”
Nikandr doubted him, but now was not the time for questioning; they needed to neutralize this threat before it could be brought to bear on the Gorovna — or worse, Radiskoye.
The skiff was airborne in less than a minute-the same time it took for the Gorovna to come about and close within striking distance.
“All fire!” Nikandr called.
The crack of four muskets rang out, followed a heartbeat later by the thunder of cannons. Bits of wood flew free from the stern of the skiff, and one of the Maharraht jerked sharply to his right, his shoulder and ribs a mass of red. One of the others helped him to the floor and immediately began binding his wounds while the other two steered the craft northward.
The clatter of four men reloading their muskets filled the air as Nikandr sighted carefully down the barrel of his musket. His mouth was watering, his throat swallowing reflexively. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and released it, slowly squeezing the trigger as the urge to curl into a ball grew markedly worse.
The pan flashed. The gun kicked into his shoulder.
The shot went wide. He’d been aiming for the man holding the sails, but it had struck the Maharraht tending to his wounded comrade. The man held his shoulder and stared up at the ship. Nikandr was close enough now that he could see the look of venom on the man’s face.
The wind continued to blow. The sails began to luff, and the ship twisted with the force of the wind. Jahalan was trying to adjust when a gale blew across the landward bow. It was so fierce that the ship’s nose was pushed upward and windward.
Nikandr blinked at nearby movement.
A heavy thud sounded next to him.
When he turned, he found a crewman lying on the deck, moaning and a river of red flowing out from underneath his head. The severe angle of the deck caused him to slide. Nikandr reached for him, but he was too far. He accelerated until Borund, holding tightly to a cleat, locked his meaty arm around the man’s waist.
Then the wind reversed.
The ship tilted sharply forward. There were only sixteen sails in use, but they were full and round and near to bursting.
A crack resounded from the upper part of the ship. Like a spruce felled in the forest, the topmost portion of the foremast tilted and was thrown amongst the rigging astern it.
“Reef the sails, men!” Nikandr called above the roar of the wind.
The crew began lowering the sails as the wind intensified. It was so loud that most would no longer be able to hear Nikandr’s commands.
The ship had now tilted to the point where the dozen men on deck, including Nikandr and Borund, were sliding toward the landward bulwarks. Nikandr landed well enough, but Borund cried out as the weight of the wounded man fell upon his ankle.
“Gravlos, right her!”
Gravlos fought hard against the controls, saying nothing as the ship tilted further and further.