“I’ll take care of it.” With a quick turn to Borund, Nikandr snapped his heels and bowed his head. “Good day to you, Borund.”
Borund did not reply as Nikandr left, and he was glad for it. As heated as the discussion had become, either one of them might say something they would come to regret.
Nikandr’s anger faded as the wounded ship approached. As was proper for an approach to the eyrie, only two of her mainmasts-starward and sea-ward-had any sails to speak of; the sails along her windward and landward sides were tucked in completely. Two of the foremasts were shattered near the halfway point, and the forward rigging was stripped bare; most likely the crew had taken it down to begin repairs before reaching the eyrie. The hull below the bowsprit had sustained several holes the size of pumpkins and a landscape of pockmarks from grape shot. The forward cannon, which would have sat at the base of the bowsprit, was missing. The crew had most likely jettisoned it, for any loss in the delicate balance between the masts would cause severe instability, forcing the kapitan to reduce the metal onboard to an absolute minimum or risk losing control of the ship.
By the time Nikandr reached the uppermost quay-the one reserved for the ships of war-the Kroya was near. Standing amidships on the platform reserved for the wind master was a man Nikandr didn’t recognize. He stood ahead of the starward mainmast, arms spread wide, eyes closed and face upturned. It was clear that there was no dhoshaqiram to control the heft of the ship. This qiram must be gifted, indeed-it was tricky, though not impossible, for the havaqiram to affect the ship’s altitude by directing the wind.
Crewmen stood at the gunwales, tossing bits of hardtack to the wind. Gray cliff gulls fought for it with piercing cries. When Nikandr had finally reached the perch, the eyrie master and his men were securing the ship. Two doors opened in the hull and gangplanks were maneuvered into place. One more was lowered from the upper deck, and from this a heavyset sailor lumbered down and shook forearms with the eyrie master.
Then he spied Nikandr.
Immediately he removed the ushanka from his balding head, held it to his breast, and took a knee two paces away from Nikandr.
Nikandr did not know this man well, but he tried to learn at the very least the kapitan, master, purser, and pilot on every one of his father’s two-dozen ships. Mladosh used to be the Kroya’s pilot, so he could only assume that the kapitan and master had both been wounded or killed.
“You may rise, Mladosh,” Nikandr told him. “Tell me what happened.”
He rose, but kept his gaze fixed on Nikandr’s black, knee-length boots. “Maharraht, my lord. A clipper and two schooners set upon us a day out from Rhavanki.”
Nikandr pulled Mladosh aside so the unlading of the hold could begin.
“My mother as my witness the day was clear,” Mladosh continued. “Hardly a cloud in the sky, but before we knew it the sky had cast over and the clouds had swallowed us. That was when they struck.”He pointed to the ship’s bow. “Seven men died on the opening salvo. The kapitan took a sliver of wood through the neck, died before the surgeon could get him below.”
On the deck, a dozen or so Aramahn gathered, smiling, kissing cheeks, and preparing to disembark. Like jewels among gravel, their loose, bright clothing and swarthy skin stood out against the weathered wood of the ship and the charcoal clothing of the crew.
“If it wasn’t for that one,” Mladosh said, pointing his thumb at the older Aramahn who had guided the ship to berth, “we’d’ve been lost.”
As often as the Aramahn moved among the ships, Nikandr could not keep track of them, but he had personally recruited the qiram-an Aramahn wizard-for the Kroya’s voyage. “Muqtada is dead?”
Mladosh nodded. “I pulled him from the Motherless hold. His name is Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. He was the only bonded wind master among them but by the ancestors was he strong!”
Motherless was the term most sailing men used for the Aramahn, referring to their penchant for constantly wandering the great ocean, rarely staying in one place for more than a season. They have no Motherland, the sailors would say; they come from nowhere, and that’s where they’ll go when they die.
Ashan had summoned enough wind to force the other ships away while Mladosh ordered the crew to release the ship’s hold of the ley lines that guided them southward along the Rhavanki archipelago. As Mladosh continued the tale, Nikandr studied Ashan, who was waiting for the last of the Aramahn to disembark. He wore inner robes of bright yellow; his outer robes were orange. Several layers of white cloth wrapped his shins and ankles. There was a calmness to his demeanor that transcended the placid disposition so many of the Landless possessed.
A circlet rested upon his brow, and an alabaster gem could be seen through his tousle of nutmeg-colored hair. The gem had an iridescent quality to it and a glow that told Nikandr that a hezhan, a spirit from beyond the aether, was bound to him. The bracelets at his wrists, however, gave Nikandr pause. One of them contained a large glowing opal, the other a stone of dull azurite. Three gems. Three spirits could this man commune with-and two of them at once! Such a thing was not unheard of, but it was rare. Mladosh and the rest of the crew were lucky, indeed, to have taken aboard a man such as this.
A young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, huddled close to Ashan. As carefree and confident as his guardian seemed to be, the boy was just the opposite. His arms were crossed tightly over his stomach. His gaze wandered the perch, the eyrie, even the bright white clouds, as if this were the last place on Erahm he wished to be. There was no circlet upon his brow, which was not strange in and of itself-most Aramahn never became proficient enough with spirits to bond with them. It only seemed strange that a man like Ashan would have a disciple with no abilities.
Ashan must have felt Nikandr’s gaze. As he negotiated the plank, guiding the boy ahead of him, he smiled at Nikandr and nodded politely.
As a group, the Aramahn were ushered to one side of the perch by an immigration clerk. He took each of their names in a thick, leather-bound journal before allowing them to continue on. He questioned Ashan for some time, as he was clearly a qiram of some renown. He spent a good deal of effort on the boy as well but seemed to get nowhere-the boy ignored him entirely while hugging his gut and gritting his jaw and blinking as if he were staring into the sun. Each time the official asked him a question, Ashan would reply, perhaps making excuses.
Finally, his questioning complete, the official released them, at which point Nikandr dismissed Mladosh and fell into step alongside them. “I hear I have much to thank you for,” Nikandr said.
Ashan waved as if it were nothing. “It was self-preservation, Nikandr, son of Iaros.”
“Do I know you?”
“We have not met, but I know you, certainly.”
“Well, Ashan, son of Kida and Ahrumea, we owe you much. Never let it be said that the Khalakovos leave debts unpaid.”
Ashan picked up his pace. They were just short of the busy quays, where it would be more difficult to speak, so Nikandr took Ashan by the elbow and slowed him until he stopped.
“How may I repay you?”
“There is no need to repay me for saving lives”-Ashan smiled, showing a healthy grin full of crooked and yellowed teeth-“not the least of which was mine.”
The boy was still using his rail-thin arms to hold himself about the waist. He looked so miserable that Nikandr found himself wishing there was something he could do for him.
Nikandr bent down and looked him in the eye. His stomach chose that moment to become queasy. Before he could manage it, a cough escaped him, but then he breathed deeper and forced the feelings down. “Are you well, boy?”
Nikandr expected him to shrink and shy away, but he didn’t. If anything, he gained a certain sense of gravitas: the look of pain faded, and he began to stare into Nikandr’s eyes with a singular focus that was wholly discomforting.
“As I explained to your official,” Ashan said sharply, breaking the spell, “Nasim has been dumb since he was a young boy. He rarely speaks, even to me, and when he does it is with words that have no meaning.”
Nikandr stood, ignoring those staring eyes. “No meaning to you or to him?”
“Indeed”-Ashan’s smile brightened-“that is the question. I believe they have profound meaning to him, but he cannot communicate his thoughts. They come out sometimes over the course of days. I thought I was a patient man before coming to know him, but now, after learning to piece together one small thought over the course of weeks… The word has taken on new meaning.”
“He looks like he’s in pain.”
