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 fiancee, 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.”
“I wouldn’t dream of robbing Gravlos of the pleasure.”
“But you worked on her, did you not? Is it not your right as well?”
Nikandr waved at the ship offhandedly. “A ship is a ship.”
She said nothing, and her face changed not at all, but she was weighing his words. She knew-knew how much he loved this ship. To speak of it in such a cavalier manner would speak volumes to someone like her, a woman who had always-despite what other faults she might have-been insufferably bright.
“I suppose you’re right. There’s much to do over the next few days. I doubt we’ll see much of one another until the dance.”
“Regrettably, that is most likely true.”
She glanced toward the gangway at a call from her Aunt Katerina.
Nikandr took her hand in his and kissed it. “Until the dance?”
She fixed her gaze on her hand, which was still held in his. Then she pulled it away and met his eyes. “I look forward to it.”
When they were growing up, the sisters had always had a subtle tone to their words. Sometimes it was Mileva, sometimes Ishkyna, and sometimes-though more rarely-it was Atiana. They would say something that sounded innocuous while in fact was steeped in meaning. Nikandr’s ear had come to recognize this tone, for more
