Dyanko looked up at the rook, and then met Nikandr’s eyes. There was a look of uncertainty there, as if he was no longer sure how far he could press his authority, even if it was with an unfavored prince and a fallen Matra.
“Is this true?” Nikandr asked.
Dyanko swallowed, eyes shifting, but then he nodded slowly and spoke carefully. “Nearly a dozen found their way to Skayil shortly after the spire fell. They stole a skiff, but we captured two of them.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“They are on Vostroman ground, My Lord Prince.” He glanced sidelong at the rook. “They will be given to the Grand Duke to do with as he would.”
Nikandr stood, his chair scraping loudly backward. As he did, the rook flapped to its perch. Nikandr could already tell that Mother had left. He was surprised she’d been able to do this much so shortly after the spire had fallen. No doubt Elykstava’s proximity to Khalakovo helped, but Mother had always been strong in the aether, particularly with assuming rooks and the like.
“Take me to them,” Nikandr said.
“I take no orders from a Khalakovo, certainly not this one.”
Nikandr rounded the desk, pulling his khanjar from his belt as he did so. Dyanko tried to stand, but Nikandr was too quick. He grabbed Dyanko by the collar of his coat and shoved him back into the chair, scraping it across the floor until he was pressed against the shelves filled with ledgers in the corner.
“I don’t know the sort of problems you might have in giving information to me, but I was sent by the Grand Duke’s son, Borund. I am a son of the Duke of Khalakovo. I am a prince of the realm, and we are at war.” He pulled Dyanko back and slammed his head hard against the shelves. “Put aside your superstitions, Dyanko, son of Kantin, or I swear by the ancients that preserve us I’ll run you through and deal with the rest later.”
Dyanko’s skin went porcelain. His breath came like a rabbit’s. He stared, eyes bulging, first at Nikandr, then at the khanjar leveled against his throat, and finally at the door, as if he wished to flee or call for help. Nikandr wondered if he might faint.
“You wouldn’t dare draw the blood of Vostroma.”
“I know the Grand Duke, Dyanko, better than you. My wrists might be slapped, but do you think he will do anything beyond this over a man he’s relegated to Elykstava?” He let these words sink in. “Or will he be glad to find your seat vacant and offer it to another who’s owed favors?”
Dyanko blinked. He seemed, for the first time, to consider what might come after his death. His breathing began to settle. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the anger had left, as had the fear.
Slowly, he nodded. “I will take you to them.”
After talking with the soldiers who’d captured the two Yrstanlan windsmen, Nikandr spent an hour questioning the first. His name was Sayad, and he eventually admitted-after several whippings from Styophan-that his rank on the ship had been that of boatswain. Only after threatening worse to the second prisoner had Sayad admitted that his shipmate was named Fuad and that he’d been the ship’s carpenter.
They left Sayad and traveled to another part of the donjon, one separated by distance and two heavy doors. When the gaoler opened the cell door, Styophan went in first, holding a short whip still wet with Sayad’s blood. Nikandr waited for a minute as silence settled inside the cell. Only then did Nikandr step inside.
The space was cramped and wet and cold. Fuad had seen perhaps fifty winters. His dark hair was long and wet and hung in matted locks down his cheeks and neck. His turban had been removed from him, making him look more like a wet rat than a windsman.
Nikandr sat on a bench, while Styophan stood above Fuad, gripping and re-gripping his whip.
“Why the spires, Fuad?” Nikandr asked in Yrstanlan.
“I would not know.”
“You must have heard something.”
“The Kamarisi ordered it.”
“For what reason? It would seem if he wanted the islands he would want the spires as well.”
“Perhaps he wishes simply for you to be gone.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought, Fuad. I asked what you’d heard.”
“I am a carpenter on a ship of the Empire. What would I have heard?”
“The men who took you,” Nikandr said. “Two of them spoke Yrstanlan.” Nikandr let the words sit between them. “When you fell from the skiff and your comrades returned for you, you were heard ordering them to leave.”
“You would do the same in my place.”
Nikandr smiled. “I very well might, and as the kapitan, I would expect them to heed it. I would expect them to do it smartly as well, as your men did.”
Nikandr watched as Fuad swallowed once, then again. “They are not my men.”
“Are they not?”
“I am a carpenter.”
“Perhaps you once were, yes.” Nikandr had noted his hands. They were large, and supple, and bore more than a few scars that looked similar to the cuts and scrapes a carpenter might receive from his tools. “Why the spires, Fuad?”
“I don’t know.”
Nikandr nodded to Styophan, who whipped Fuad across the shoulders twice. Fuad pulled himself back up from the whipping, staring fiercely into Nikandr’s eyes.
“How many ships has the Kamarisi set upon the wind?”
“I know only of the three that came here.”
Nikandr waited as Styophan whipped him again.
“Your Kamarisi would understand, were you to give us such simple things, Fuad. He would not want you to suffer, no matter what your station.”
Fuad licked his lips, pulled himself higher against the wall. He glanced at Styophan, but did not speak. His eyes were steel, and full of hate.
“I spoke with the boatswain at some length,” Nikandr said. “You may have heard it… Like you he was loath to speak of anything beyond his duties to the ship. But then I remembered something the men told me, the ones who took you. They said that Sayad was already on the skiff. They said that he leapt from within it despite your orders. Why would he do that, Fuad? Why would he have leapt to help you while the rest remained?”
“He is young,” Fuad said.
“Young indeed,” Nikandr replied. “I will admit that I don’t know much of the customs of Yrstanla. I’ve had little enough use for them. But those of the military? Those of ships? Those I have paid attention to.” He stood and began pacing in front of the bench. “It is said that many sailing men-kapitans, especially-will take their sons to war. On their own ships. They give them titles of coxswain or boatswain or quartermaster if they’re able men. It’s a right of passage, evet? If something like this war had come along, I wonder if a kapitan wouldn’t take his son along with him. It would be something difficult to pass up, I would imagine.”
Nikandr stopped and turned to face Fuad. “Had I a son, Fuad, I would have taken him on my ship.”
Fuad stared. No longer was there hatred in his eyes. No longer was there steel.
Now there was worry, though he was clearly trying to hide it.
“Shall I return to the other cell? Shall I speak again to Sayad?”
Fuad did not reply.
Nikandr made his way to the door, raised his hand, ready to knock so he and Styophan could leave. “Though I promise you, once Styophan and I enter his cell, only two men will be leaving it alive.”
Fuad was breathing more heavily. His nostrils flared as he looked between Nikandr and Styophan.
Nikandr knocked on the door.
The jingle of keys could be heard, the sound of a key rattling home.
“Fifty-seven.”
The words had come softly, like words spoken in the middle of the night.
“Pardon?” Nikandr said, still facing the door.
“The Kamarisi sent fifty-seven ships.”
