The Straits of Galahesh

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

W hen Nikandr woke in the hold of the Drakha, he had no idea how much time had passed. It had been near sunset when he’d been taken down and-as Grigory had ordered-placed in chains in the holding cell. He could see little outside the barred window set into the door, but he could see some light.

He vaguely recalled his own order to Styophan that he and the rest of his men comply with Grigory’s demands-there was no need for the duchies to be warring, not when they needed one another so desperately-but it all seemed so distant, so dreamlike, that he wondered if it had happened at all. Yet here he was in a cell, his legs manacled, the chain between them running through a stout ring set into the angled hull that acted as one of the cell’s four walls.

Despite the chains, despite lying on the floor, he’d fallen asleep nearly instantly once the streltsi had left him alone. He was still drowsy now, even though he was sure that he’d been asleep for over a day.

It was clear that they weren’t flying. The ship was too stable for that, though there was a creaking as the wind rocked the ship against the three landward masts. They couldn’t remain long, however. The janissaries would return. Had they been near a city of any size, they already would have, but they were at the eastern edges of the Empire, a region that hadn’t seen real war since the War of Seven Seas. It was a place that would have been drained of its fighting men long ago, leaving only the untrained and undisciplined ghazi in place with a handful of janissaries to command them when the need arose.

Much to the Grand Duchy’s advantage, as it turned out.

Nikandr wondered where his men were. Most likely they’d been spread among the rest of Grigory’s ships so that no resistance could be formed.

Nikandr took his soulstone in his hand and gripped it. He could not sense his havahezhan, but as tired as he was, as far as he had pushed it, he refused to do more than simply search for it. Surely if Grigory had known of his abilities he would have taken the stone from him. Even without this, he was surprised Grigory hadn’t taken it as he had years ago. Perhaps after doing so he had thought better of it. Or perhaps he didn’t care. They both knew they were far from the reach of the Matri.

In a few hours, the sun went down, and darkness reigned. He heard men coming and going, working on the ship in preparation of launching, most likely in the morning. Nikandr wondered when Grigory would come to see him, but then he thought that perhaps Grigory had decided not to. He had already ignored his brother Konstantin’s orders, and though he hadn’t apparently been able to bring himself to kill Nikandr outright, he’d decided to leave him where he would raise the fewest number of questions.

With that realization, and his continued feelings of exhaustion, Nikandr laid back on the floor and fell asleep.

When he woke again, he was not alone.

Grigory sat on a stool near the door. Light was coming in through the window. By the ancients, he’d slept through the entire night.

In his lap Grigory held a clay mug. When Nikandr had pulled himself up and propped himself against the hull, he leaned forward and set the mug near Nikandr’s feet. Nikandr could smell Grigory’s unwashed scent, even from this distance. It was the smell of a man who refused even so much as washing himself down with a wet rag as a proper windsman should.

As Grigory returned unsteadily to his stool, Nikandr noticed the pistol at his belt. His first thought was that it was only for show, that it was unloaded, but the more he thought about it, the more he doubted this. A sober Grigory might come with an empty pistol in an attempt to cow Nikandr. A drunk Grigory would bring a loaded one.

When Grigory fell onto the stool, Nikandr took the mug and drank the water within it quickly. After he’d set it down with a heavy thud against the deck, he met Grigory’s haunted eyes.

“How long have you been here?” Nikandr asked.

Grigory didn’t answer. He merely stared into Nikandr’s eyes as if trying to find the answers to the questions he dearly wished to ask but couldn’t ask of Nikandr.

“If you don’t wish to speak, leave. I can’t suffer to be in the room with a traitor to his own brother.”

“Why would he send you?” Grigory asked. His words were not slurred, but they were slow in coming.

“Did the letter not say?”

“Would I be asking if it did?”

“He sent me because no one else would come.”

“Because they didn’t believe you.”

Nikandr pulled himself higher. “Would you have?”

Grigory paused, his hand moving momentarily to the handle of the pistol before returning to rest on his thigh. The gesture was so casual Nikandr wasn’t even sure Grigory knew he’d done it. “The kapitan you found on Elykstava… Was he telling the truth?”

Nikandr nearly sighed, but he had to tread carefully with Grigory. He could not act dismissive or brash, but neither could he allow Grigory to bully him. “I pushed him hard, Grigory. If he were lying, I would have known.”

“But the Spar,” Grigory said. “If it were destroyed, would it… Do you think it would make a difference in the war?”

“ Da,” Nikandr said. “I think it would.”

Grigory’s eyes closed, and for long moments Nikandr thought he was falling asleep, but then they snapped open and focused on Nikandr once more. “Are you so great a kapitan that you could lead us there? Are you so great that you could destroy it with only a handful of ships?”

“I only know I must try.”

“Ah. Nikandr Iaroslov… Ever the comrade.”

“Grigory, you’re drunk.”

Grigory stared down at Nikandr, his face suddenly angry. He stood, his hand moving to the butt of his pistol. “Do you think I cannot do the same?” And then he drew it, pointing the barrel at Nikandr’s chest. “Do you think you’re the only one who can command a ship?”

“Of course not. Grigory, put the pistol away.”

He pulled the hammer back to full cock. “You can’t even keep your bride.”

“That was five years ago.”

“It was yesterday! I remember it! Zhabyn Vostroma remembers it!” He pointed eastward with the pistol. “My brother, the good Duke, certainly remembers it!”

Nikandr didn’t dare open his mouth. Grigory’s face was red. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. One wrong move and Grigory would pull the trigger and be done with it, the son of a duke or not.

“Where did the kapitan say to attack the Spar?”

“What?”

Grigory shook the pistol inches from Nikandr’s face. Despite himself, Nikandr cringed and turned his head away from the gaping maw of the pistol.

Grigory shouted, “ Where did he say it would be weakest?”

“In the center, where the keystones have only just been laid into place.”

Grigory stood there, half crouched over Nikandr, the pistol unwavering, and then he brought himself to a stand. He did not adjust the pistol’s aim, however, and a smile came over him. “I’ll take these ships, Khalakovo. I’ll take the Yarost as well. It’s Bolgravyan, after all. You and your men, however, will remain here. You will guard the remainders of the ships.”

“Those husks? They’re useless, Grigory.”

“They are ships of the Grand Duchy, and you will guard them with your life.”

“The janissaries will return.”

Grigory turned to the door and turned the handle. “Then best you get to your preparations.”

“You’re a coward.”

Grigory turned and aimed. Pulled the trigger.

The pistol roared in the small space. Wood bit deeply into Nikandr’s cheek.

The shot had gone wide, just next to Nikandr’s head and into the hull.

Grigory stared at Nikandr, then the hole where the musket ball had struck, and Nikandr was not at all sure he’d meant to miss. He appeared unsure of himself, perhaps sensing through the haze of liquor that he’d gone too far, but then it was gone, and he stormed out of the room.

Shortly after, Nikandr was taken by the Bolgravyan streltsi to the worst of the ships. Styophan and Vlanek and Jonis were all there. Everyone but Anahid.

The nine windworthy ships, plus the Yarost, departed soon after, leaving Nikandr and his men standing on the deck of a ship that had been stripped of everything valuable. Grigory had given them each a musket, and granted them twenty rounds of ammunition apiece. The rest they had taken.

As the ships flew off into the morning air, Nikandr stared up the cliff, wondering when the men of Yrstanla would return.

Nikandr glanced at Styophan, then to the men beyond him. Nikandr was glad that Grigory hadn’t in his rage decided to have any of them killed-or worse, killed them himself-but he’d left Nikandr alone on the shores of Yrstanla with no real hope of returning to Galahesh or Anuskaya.

“Take stock,” Nikandr said. “Search the ships and find if there’s any way we can make them windworthy.” Even as he spoke, Nikandr was shaking his head. Their ship, a six-masted brigantine, was the smallest of the three ships. He had hoped to find enough canvas to sail her, but he was nearly as worried as not that he would find the canvas. The ships were nearly worthless; it was a wonder that any one of them still held their loft. “Send Jonis and Mahrik to the top of the cliff. Have them prepare defenses.”

Nikandr paused, for Styophan was looking over his shoulder to the cliffs behind him. Nikandr turned and saw a large black bird sitting on a small outcropping near the ship’s stern.

“Go,” he said to Styophan without turning his head.

Styophan snapped his heels and left.

Nikandr walked along the deck slowly, keeping his eyes on the bird.

The bird was larger than a rook, and along its breast and wrapping around to its back was a streak of bright white feathers, but it had the same intelligent gleam in its eye that so many of the island rooks seemed to possess. By the time Nikandr reached the stern, he was within a few paces of the bird. It remained, watching him. He was sure that it had been assumed. He took out his soulstone necklace and held it in his hand. He cast his mind outward, as he did when he knew his mother or Atiana were near. He felt so little that he thought perhaps one of the Matri he hadn’t spoken to in years might have come-Duchess Rosa of Lhudansk or Ekaterina of Rhavanki.

Then he sensed something familiar, but it was so faint he thought surely he was merely wishing it were so.

“Atiana?” he said.

The bird studied him with an unblinking eye. It arched its head back and ran its beak down one wing and flapped its wings. He thought surely it would speak, that he would hear the cadence of Atiana’s words, but then the rook cawed-its voice much lower than the rooks of Anuskaya-and took wing. As it flapped and headed up and over the cliff, heading inland, he wondered whether he had imagined it all.

The day became bitterly cold, so cold that it was impossible for the men to work on the cliffs above. He called them in after midday, and bid everyone to stay within the ship. The enemy would not brave this weather in any case. They would be safe at least until the cold snap broke. But the winds became so fierce that he began to wonder about the wisdom of remaining within the ship. The hull was stout enough, but it was lashed to the cliffs, and the landward mainmast had received damage during whatever storms Grigory had experienced on their way north. With that and the constant rocking against the cliff-something that was never meant to be done for very long-he worried that remaining here would doom them as well. At least on the winds, assuming they could break away from the cliff, they could brave the weather. Here they would eventually be crushed against the stone rock face like grist in a mill.

He went up on deck as the sun began to set. The winds grew stronger the longer he watched. It forced him and the rest of the crew to hold to the ropes and the gunwales wherever they went. The farthest ship, a twelve-masted galleon, was rocking so badly he wondered whether it would last the hour. As its landward mainmast cracked, the ship’s stern twisted inward toward the cliff, then the wind shifted and threw it forward.

They couldn’t release from the cliffs-not in weather like this-and they couldn’t remain here. “Up, men!” he called down the hatch. “We go up to the top of the cliffs.” It was not something he relished, remaining out in the open in this weather, but there was no longer a choice.

Styophan ordered Jonis up the rope first to help those who would come next.

Level ground was only fifteen paces above them, but it was taking Jonis minutes to make the climb. The wind threw the rope back and forth, bashing him into the rock face as he climbed. He tried to fend it off with his legs, and they also tried to steady the rope from below, but the wind was howling so fiercely now there was little they could do.

Nikandr felt for his havahezhan, but for the first time in years he felt nothing. Nothing. He had often wondered when the bond with the spirit might be broken, and he was sure that it now had been after the days and days of a constant, draining bond.

Snapping and cracking sounds rose from the fore. The galleon two ships ahead was beginning to break apart. A large crack in the hull formed and widened. The gravel ballast spilled from inside as the ship was thrown back and forth.

“Hurry, Jonis!” Nikandr bellowed above the wind.

At last Jonis reached the top. As he slipped over the edge, Mahrik took to the rope, moving little faster than Jonis had. When he had made it two thirds of the way up, their ship tilted sharply, the landward side dipping down as the mizzen cracked neatly in two. The deck was nearly impossible to stand upon now. The men looked to one another, eyes wide, trying to hold back the fear but finding it impossible with the elements raging against them.

The ship directly ahead of theirs, a ten-masted barque, broke free of its mooring lines and floated out toward sea, but then the wind brought it rushing back again.

“Hold!” Nikandr yelled.

Just before the barque smashed into their ship.