often than not it was meant as a challenge. She was daring him to unravel the mystery, daring him further to prevent her from winning.
“I await with bated breath,” Nikandr said.
The ceremony itself was short. A collective prayer for the Gorovna’s safe passage, a song written and sung for the occasion by one of Volgorod’s most famous troubadours, and for a select few a tour from the shipwright, Gravlos.
Then the gathering left-all except Borund, who was bidden by his father to judge the ship for its windworthiness. Gravlos was given the honor of launching her from the eyrie, but Nikandr soon took over and guided her eastward along the length of the island. It would be a short flight-out to open sea, a curve around the far end of the island, and back again. Enough time for Borund to assess her, enough time for a bit of celebration, and then a return to the shipyards for final fittings.
They were nearing an hour out to sea. The entire time Borund had looked as if he were at a funeral.
“Come,” Nikandr said, trying to lighten the mood. “We’ll give you a proper tour.”
Borund, who was thankfully facing Nikandr and not Gravlos, rolled his eyes and spoke softly, “Can’t we just share a drink in the kapitan’s quarters, Nischka?”
“It will take but a moment,” Nikandr replied under his breath.
“I’ve been on a hundred of these ships, Nikandr. I know what they’re about.”
Gravlos, who was eager to show off more of the ship than had been possible earlier, had come close enough to hear, and though he showed no disappointment on his face, his shoulders dropped, and the bow of his head he gave to Borund was longer than it needed to be. “Perhaps a turn at the helm, My Lord Prince…”
To Nikandr’s horror, Borund declined this as well and began pacing the deck, spending more time examining the forward cannon mount than anything else.
Gravlos’s face was red as he stared at Borund. Before Nikandr could say a word to him, he limped to the shroud running up along the mainmast and began yelling at the men to tighten the deadeyes. It wasn’t much longer before Borund stepped up to the aftcastle with an exasperated expression on his face. “It does seem terribly slow going, doesn’t it?”
“That’s natural,” Nikandr said, trying to hide his displeasure, “with only half her sails flying.”
“ Da, but we’re also taking a rather circuitous route.”
“Well then, perhaps I could arrange a skiff to take you back to Volgorod.”
Borund exhaled noisily. “Nikandr, I know I’m being a boor, but until last night I had been on a ship for nearly a week, and the winds were not kind, believe me. The last thing I wish to do”-he glanced toward Gravlos and lowered his voice-“is spend one more minute on this ship than I need to.”
Considering their history, Nikandr had hoped to bring Borund around to his way of thinking-to enjoy the day and the ship, to give honor to those that had spilled sweat and blood upon her decks-but now he saw that he would not. To him, this ship was nothing more than a row in his father’s ledgers, and it set his blood to boiling.
“Your wish is my command, My Lord Prince.” He called for the ship to come about.
Gravlos looked over severely, but Nikandr ignored him, and once Jahalan had sufficiently altered the winds, Nikandr steered the ship away from the lazy course he had set and flew straight for the shipyard, a course that would take them directly over the palotza.
Borund looked nervous when he realized what Nikandr was doing, but then he tipped his head back and laughed. “Well, that’s one way to go about it.”
Flying over the palotza was normally ill-advised, lest it be misinterpreted as an act of aggression, but the streltsi manning the palotza’s cannons had been briefed-they knew who was piloting the ship and would be much more forgiving than usual.
Just as they were coming abreast of the palotza, the ship’s master waved his hand over his head several times, the sign that danger had been spotted and that silence was required.
This was not a seasoned crew. It was a collection of old deck hands that Gravlos had put to work in the shipyard, but many of them had served in the staaya-the windborne wing of Khalakovo’s military-or the merchant marine, and old habits die hard. Once the signal was picked up, it was passed silently to the landward and windward sides and finally below to the few who would be manning the seaward masts. The two gun emplacements-one fore and one aft-were manned with a crew of three men each.
Nikandr, his heartbeat quickening, waved Gravlos over to the helm and raised his hand in the signal for the crews to begin loading grapeshot. They complied, finishing in respectable time, as Nikandr sent another sign to the ship’s acting master, calling for muskets.
The Gorovna was not complete and had been readied with only five muskets. They were removed from their locker by the master and four of them were passed out to the crewmen known to be good with the weapon. The fifth was handed to Nikandr.
He immediately pulled one of the walrus tusk cartridges filled with gunpowder from the bandolier across his chest and began loading the weapon. He finished well before the others and began scanning the ground below. It took him a moment to find it among the mottled patches of stone and snow-a skiff, nestled in a copse of scrub pine. Once he had found the ship, he found the men. Twenty paces away four of them kneeled at the edge of a tall cliff that ended hundreds of feet below in a forest of spruce. They appeared to be inspecting the ground, though for what reason Nikandr couldn’t guess.
It was possible they were Aramahn like Jahalan and Udra, but their almond-shaped turbans and long beards and threadbare clothing made him think otherwise. Plus, the Aramahn knew that to come so close to the palotza without permission was to risk trial and possibly death. They had to be Maharraht, members of a group that had decades ago broken with the peace-loving ways of the Aramahn, dedicating their lives to driving the Grand Duchy from the islands and drowning them in the sea.
Nikandr sucked in breath as one of them leapt from the cliff. The man’s descent quickened. He spread his arms wide, as if preparing for the cool embrace of the sea, not the singular end that would be granted by the earth and stone that lay below him.
Improbably, his descent slowed. His long robes were whipped harder than the speed of his fall could account for, and soon it was clear that the wind was carrying him like a gull on the upward drafts that blow along the cliffs. Like a feather on the breeze he was carried, arms held wide as many of the wind masters do. He soon regained the level where his comrades still stood, at which point he alighted to solid land as if stepping down from the mountain on high.
Nikandr coughed and pitched forward, supporting himself with one hand on the deck. A well had opened up inside him, a hole impossibly deep, impossibly black. It had coincided so closely with the man’s leap that he couldn’t help but think they were linked in some way, though how this could be he couldn’t guess.
On the cliff below, the one who had leapt turned and pointed up toward the Gorovna.
“Come about,” Nikandr called, “and bring her down by half!”
As one, the Maharraht bolted for the skiff.
“Jahalan, they have at least one havaqiram with them, probably two.”
“I feel him,” he replied, “but it is not just a havaqiram, son of Iaros. They have summoned a hezhan.”
Nikandr turned. “That’s not possible.”
“I agree that it should not be, but they have done it.”
Nikandr doubted him, but now was not the time for questioning; they needed to neutralize this threat before it could be brought to bear on the Gorovna — or worse, Radiskoye.
The skiff was airborne in less than a minute-the same time it took for the Gorovna to come about and close within striking distance.
“All fire!” Nikandr called.
The crack of four muskets rang out, followed a heartbeat later by the thunder of cannons. Bits of wood flew free from the stern of the skiff, and one of the Maharraht jerked sharply to his right, his shoulder and ribs a mass of red. One of the others helped him to the floor and immediately began binding his wounds while the other two steered the craft northward.
The clatter of four men reloading their muskets filled the air as Nikandr sighted carefully down the barrel of his musket. His mouth was watering, his throat swallowing reflexively. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and released it, slowly squeezing the trigger as the urge to curl into a ball grew markedly worse.
The pan flashed. The gun kicked into his shoulder.
