“So many times that I wonder if you say it in your sleep, but I’ve never once believed your words. The Duchy needs this marriage, Nischka.”
“A fact you’ve made me well aware of, but you can’t expect me to love her simply because you say so.”
The rook flapped its wings and cawed. “Nyet, but I can expect you to treat her family with more than formality. While they’re here on the island, you will embrace them, and that starts with the launching of the Gorovna.”
Nikandr stood. “Is that all, Mother?”
There was a pause as the rook gave him a baleful stare, but then it cawed and pecked at the iron perch, producing dull, metallic tings. “Go,” it said. “Bid your farewells to your precious ship.”
And with that the presence he felt in his soulstone fled. He waited for a few moments to be sure, the rook flapping its wings and hopping along the perch, showing none of the intelligence it had only moments ago, and then he retrieved the vials and tucked them inside his cherkesska.
After leaving several banknotes on Aleksei’s desk, he left. He didn’t see Aleksei among the throng of clerks occupying the outer office. No doubt the man had secreted himself away to take care of business without being bled by the likes of Nikandr.
He left the building and strode through the cobblestone courtyard, passing six wagons being loaded with grain from the Empire of Yrstanla, far to the west. The grain would be headed not to Radiskoye, but to the seaside, to Volgorod, where hundreds of starving families would be waiting for their weekly allotment. With the blight worse than it had ever been—fishing and hunting and farming yields all at record lows—grain was the only thing keeping the islands from collapsing under the weight of their own demands. The farming season was about to begin, though, and everyone was hopeful that this year would break the stranglehold the blight had taken on the islands.
Beyond the courtyard was a wide road—sheer cliffs to one side, a low stone wall to the other. He followed this to the highest of the quays, the one reserved for ships of state. The calls of the gulls came louder. A strengthening wind assaulted him as he strode past the large ships moored to the first several perches.
He stopped when he reached the fifth. There rested the Gorovna. His ship. The ship that would soon be given away to the Vostromas as part of the sweeping arrangements surrounding his marriage to Atiana.
His first instinct was to go aboard and complete his business with the grub, but he stopped himself. This was not the time to rush. He closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the distinct odor of fresh wood that mixed with the smell of the ocean. He realized the fear that had been building within him since he’d left Rehada’s home was gone. The only thing he could feel was a sense of pride at what he and so many others had accomplished. The ship might be transferring hands, but it would always bear his mark, and he would bear the mark of the ship as well. He had started a young man who knew the wind, but now... Now he knew ships, which was an entirely different thing. Helping design and build her had made him a better man, and for that, he was glad.
He strode along the edge of the perch, close enough that he could run his hand along the freshly painted surface of her hull. He loved the feel of it—the smooth landscape of the delicate grain, the knowledge that every small part of her was connected to the others. He sensed the very nature of the wood, its ability to provide lift—at least, he liked to think that he could. Such things were the domain of the Aramahn, but there was no one, not even the shipwright, who could claim a closer bond with this ship.
He stopped as he neared the windward mainmast and stared upward, taking her in in all her glory. Twelve masts, each cut from ancient specimens Nikandr had chosen himself. Five hundred trees had been felled to fill her frame. She bore thousands of yards of sail and rope. Fifty men would sail her, and she would live longer than Nikandr, longer than his sons if the fates were kind.
He took the gangplank up to the main deck. Even though the ship was lashed to the perch, it swayed with the wind. The surefootedness that had served him so well took over, his pace slowing, his steps widening ever so slightly. A handful of crewmen were aboard, making her shipshape. Several took note as he climbed the stairs up to the aftcastle, but they neither waved nor approached; they knew and respected his wish to be alone.
He made his way to the helm—the one piece of the ship he alone had crafted. The helm had three stout levers made from winter oak; he touched each of them in turn with a melancholy smile. It would be sad to see this ship go, but it would be an honor to pilot her on her first true voyage, even if it was brief.
Knowing that time was growing short, he pulled one of Aleksei’s vials from inside his coat. He stared at it soberly, his stomach churning from the look of the thing. He had decided that this would be the place he would consume it. He was not overly superstitious, but there was a certain sense of rightness to doing this here. The grub and the poison contained within it was said to burn the wasting from those who consumed them. The only legal methods for treatment of the disease were to visit leechmen or licensed physics, but Nikandr knew that neither could do a thing to halt its progress. They’d done nothing for his sister, Victania, and they’d do nothing for him. And so, to his shame, he had resorted to the black market in hopes of smothering the disease before it had truly had a chance to take hold. So far, nothing had worked, but the effects of these grubs were legendary among the right circles. He prayed to the ancients it would work, not only for his sake, but for Victania’s as well—the second would be hers if all went well.
The moment he unstoppered the vial, the air filled with the rancid scent of cod liver oil. His lips rose involuntarily as he grabbed the tail and pulled the white thing out. It dripped golden liquid back into the reservoir as he stared, thoughts of crunching down on its pale white skin running through his mind. He had never eaten a more repulsive thing than this. Ancients willing, he never would again.
Before he could think overly much about it, he stuffed it into his mouth whole and began chewing. The slick texture of the oil only made the bulbous grub seem that much more revolting. The cod liver oil was heavy, and it tasted like the fermented haddock that the people of Mirkotsk—though he’d never understood why—enjoyed so much. Things grew worse when the viscous interior of the grub, which tasted like rotted chestnuts, squirted free and inserted itself into the mix. He wished he could swallow the thing whole to be done with the chewing, but there was simply too much of it. Any attempt to swallow it now and he would launch his breakfast—what little he’d eaten of it—and the grub all over the deck. So he chewed and chewed and chewed, until finally he pierced the tail, where the poison was said to reside. A bitter, mineral taste spread throughout his mouth. The tip of his tongue went numb. He chewed even faster until finally he was able to get down the first mouthful.
Swallowing a part of it made things infinitely worse, for he was now fighting the urge to gag while simultaneously trying to force the bulk of it down. He swallowed, chewed more, swallowed again, as his stomach began to heave.
Then finally, all of it was down.
He leaned forward, holding on to his knees while breathing deeply. The scent of the deck was gone, as were the smells of the sea. All that remained was the bitter scent of the oil and weeks-old chestnuts.
The numbness on his tongue was growing worse, but he was able to stand and once again breathe with some small amount of ease.
But then his stomach reeled and he began heaving and gagging heavily. He turned and ran to the gunwale behind him. As he stood there, hands gripping in rigor, the contents of his stomach raged up his throat and coursed toward open sea.
CHAPTER 2
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 fr
om 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 fiancée, 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.”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 2