The Straits of Galahesh

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Two points off the landward bow of the Chaika, by the bare light of the moon, the coast of Uyadensk came into view at last. Nikandr had hoped the snowstorm had enough strength to cover their arrival, but it had abated shortly before nightfall. Still, movement around the palotza would be low, and if Victania’s plan had worked, she would be the one in the drowning chamber tonight. And even if she wasn’t, the attention of the other Matri would be focused on Vostroma as the battle with Yrstanla widened and intensified.

The ship reached the shores of the island and headed inland toward the valley that housed Iramanshah. They plotted a course that avoided the villages on the northern side of the island. It made their approach painfully slow, but it was necessary. He couldn’t risk Borund hearing about this, at least until it was too late for him to do anything about it.

The Chaika and the Bhadyar continued until they came to the meadow east of the valley’s entrance. As the Bhadyar filled their skiffs with the men, women, and children who would be left here in Iramanshah, Nikandr took his own skiff down.

When he reached solid ground and slipped over the side of the skiff, he saw the outline of two men near the entrance to the valley. One was hunched with age. His name was Hilal, and he was one of the seven mahtar of Iramanshah. A younger man stood by, holding his arm. Hilal was blind and infirm and needed help to walk, yet when Nikandr approached, the young man bowed and stepped away, leaving Nikandr and Hilal alone.

“I thought they might not come, son of Iaros,” Hilal said.

“Your thoughts echoed my own,” Nikandr replied.

The skiffs were just now dropping from the Bhadyar. Nikandr wondered what those men and women would be feeling. To say it was difficult would be to insult their sacrifice. But he had wondered often since learning of their decision: would this be freeing for them after following the path of violence for so many years? Or would it taste bitter? Would they hate themselves for falling back into a life they had long ago rejected?

“These last many months on Rafsuhan were trying for them,” Nikandr said as the skiffs touched down.

“Of this there can be no doubt.” Hilal was silent for a time. “Did you know that Fahroz came to the village?”

Nikandr felt a chill run through him, and he wondered if Hilal could sense such things. “Did she?”

“ Yeh. She left only days ago.”

“And what did she want?”

“She wanted to speak with you. She hoped to see Nasim as well.”

Nikandr shook his head, laughing lightly. “Nasim left my care only days ago with Ashan. He wouldn’t tell me his destination, but I suspect he’s gone to find Mirashadal.”

“The fates work in strange ways,” Hilal said in his faraway manner, leaving Nikandr to wonder whether his words were meant as question or statement.

The Maharraht approached. “I must go,” Nikandr said, “but I hope we can speak again.”

“I hope so as well. Fare well, son of Iaros.”

“Fare well, son of Sadira.”

Nikandr turned and headed down the well-worn path toward the Maharraht skiffs. He stopped when he recognized the form of Zanhalah. She looked toward him, but she did not call out, she did not wave, and if Nikandr had been close enough to see her face, he was sure that she would not be smiling. Many more came, few of them acknowledging Nikandr’s presence.

He did not feel like a savior to these people, but he felt he deserved more than cold shoulders and suffering silence. But the Maharraht were proud, and this was a difficult step for them, so he let it be.

The last to come was Soroush. It was difficult to tell his mood, as dark as the night was. Nikandr thought he seemed regretful, though for what Nikandr wasn’t sure.

“Will you still return to Rafsuhan?” Nikandr asked.

“There are more who would come, hiding now in the hills and the forests. I would see them home.”

Nikandr found it interesting he used the word home to describe the Maharraht returning to the fold of the Aramahn, but he said nothing of it.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Nikandr thought of asking him of his intentions. He wanted to ensure that Soroush wouldn’t return to wage war against the Grand Duchy; a part of him still wanted to take Soroush back to Radiskoye, to see him hung for what he’d done, but these were empty thoughts at best. He owed Soroush his life, and what was more, he’d never thought to see the Maharraht splinter as they had. They’d been so resolute since their formation, and yet here they were, dozens of them, not only turning their backs on the Hratha, but forsaking the ways of violence.

Only the ancients knew if it would hold, but he hoped it would.

Nikandr was ready to break away when he felt a presence through the soulstone at his neck. He reached for the stone as a chill washed over him. It was not Mother, nor was it Victania. It was another of the Matri, and the presence felt strong, which meant it was most likely Nataliya, Borund’s wife.

“What is it?” Soroush asked.

“You must go,” Nikandr said. “Quickly. Head west for a day, as we agreed.”

Soroush did not question, nor did he linger. The two of them merely nodded to one another and went their separate ways.

As the bulk of the Maharraht walked down the path toward Iramanshah, Soroush’s skiffs returned to the Bhadyar, and soon the ship was away. The Chaika took wing and headed back out to sea the way they’d come. They rounded the island and approached the eyrie from the south, so as to pretend that they had come directly from Rafsuhan. Nikandr thought surely there would be a ship sent to find them, but none came, and by the time the sun rose in the east, he hoped that the Matra he’d sensed had not understood what she was seeing. Perhaps she was too far away to see clearly. Or perhaps she’d seen Nikandr and reasoned that whatever was happening was innocent.

The sun had risen fully by the time they approached the eyrie. Early morning light shone bright against the massive cliffs and the long stone quays. The eyrie held five dozen perches, but there were only a dozen being used, and these only by smaller crafts unfit for flying between the duchies. The ships of war had already flown westward toward Vostroma.

After the eyrie master had signaled them their berth and they’d moored to the perch, Nikandr left the ship, planning to head for the stables to fetch a pony, but he hadn’t even finished navigating the quay when he saw his brother Ranos and several men in gray cherkesskas and square woolen caps-the uniform of the Staaya-approaching him.

He knew immediately. He knew that Nataliya had seen him. Knew that Ranos had been alerted. Knew that he and his men were now in grave danger.

Ranos looked haggard. His beard and mustache were trim, as always, but his eyes were dark and the skin along his cheeks and neck seemed to sag, giving the impression of a man who was eating less and drinking more. These past few years serving under Borund had not been kind to him.

“Quickly,” Ranos said as he put his arm around Nikandr-not in a brotherly way, but as he might do for someone he was trying to shelter-and led him toward the square that housed the eyrie’s offices.

“What did Mother tell you?” Nikandr asked.

“Be quiet until we can make it out of this square and to the-”

Ranos’s words trailed off as two full desyatni-twenty soldiers-wearing the uniforms of Vostroma entered the square. As it had been since Father had ceded the Duchy to Borund, the Khalakovos had nominal control over the larger cities and the eyrie. The Vostromas lorded themselves over just about everything else.

The desyatnik of the soldiers, seeing them, called a halt and slipped down from the saddle of his pony. He walked purposefully across the square, as nearly everyone else-windsmen and landsmen alike-cleared the way.

Nikandr groaned inwardly. He knew the officer. His name was Feyodor. He was old, burly, and angry that he’d been passed up for promotion for years, and though he seemed to know that his failure to rise among the ranks and his quick temper both stemmed from his drinking, it did little to stop him from taking it out on anyone who found themselves in his way. Borund was in a foul mood indeed if he’d sent Feyodor to detain Nikandr.

Feyodor held up his hand as Nikandr and Ranos approached. Ranos, however, held Nikandr’s arm tightly and guided him toward a handful of ponies, where two more Khalakovan streltsi stood.

The Vostroman soldiers dismounted, most of them ordering themselves into ranks, weapons at the ready, as the others gathered the ponies.

“Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo, halt!”

Ranos kept on pulling Nikandr along until they both heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Even then Ranos was still determined to continue, but Nikandr feared that if Feyodor were pushed too far, he might indeed fire, and as poor a shot as the man was reported to be, he might hit Ranos, so he stopped and turned.

Ranos immediately stepped between him and Feyodor. “He is my charge, Feyodor. He’s returning with me to Volgorod.”

“The Duke requires your brother’s presence, Boyar.” Feyodor’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he dearly wished to be still sleeping, not standing at the eyrie in the day’s early light. He took one step forward, past his men, and spoke low to Ranos, the pistol still pointed toward Nikandr. “I don’t know what he did, but I’ve not seen Borund so angry in years. Best he come now. Things will simmer down before nightfall and you’ll have him back, safe and sound in the Boyar’s mansion.” He glanced once over his shoulder. “I’ll bring him myself if you’ll only step down.”

“I won’t, Feyodor. He is a Khalakovo, and we stand on Khalakovan ground. He’ll not be taken like a criminal to stand before an interloper.”

Feyodor’s watery eyes hardened. “He will, Boyar. Trust me in this.”

Ranos was prepared to press the issue. The tensions between him and Borund had always run high, but the last year had been filled with a series of escalating incidents. The palotza would levy new taxes from Volgorod so that Borund could funnel more of Khalakovo’s money to Vostroma. Ranos would find ways to tilt the books so that the levies produced only a quarter of what Borund had hoped. Borund would levy more in turn, forcing Ranos to become even more creative.

It had gotten to the point that armed men from the palotza were escorting tax officials to businesses without leave from the Boyar, who by the strict reading of the treaty needed to approve their presence.

Nikandr stepped in front of Ranos.

Feyodor was edgy, and worried about losing face, a terrible combination in a man such as him, but he lowered his pistol when Nikandr raised his hands.

“I’ll go,” Nikandr said, more for Ranos’s benefit than Feyodor’s.

Ranos breathed heavily, his gaze alternating between Feyodor and Nikandr. He seemed shocked at what Nikandr had done, betrayed, but as the seconds ticked by his shoulders dropped and he released a slow breath.

“Treat him well, Feyodor,” Ranos said, “or I’ll come for your head.”

The muscles along Feyodor’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to reply, but he merely pointed Nikandr toward his ponies.

Nikandr mounted up, and in moments they were off, heading along the eyrie road toward Radiskoye.