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 straight 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.
