compact.
Nikandr slipped as far as he could to his left. The sword bit into the wood just to his right.
The Hratha was close now, allowing Nikandr to reach forward and grab his leggings. He pulled with all his might and the Hratha tumbled forward. Nikandr pulled his kindjal from his belt and stabbed it into the man’s throat. Blood spurted and immediately the Hratha’s hands went to his neck, trying to stop the flow of blood.
Nikandr pushed him away, allowing himself and Styophan to gain the deck.
They moved quickly to the stairs, but just as they reached the top, where the men slept, they heard the sounds of ringing steel above. A musket was fired as they climbed the stairs toward the main deck. Then another, as men shouted in Mahndi, “Stop them! Stop them!”
Nikandr made it back to deck just in time to see the two Hratha running along the windward mainmast. They moved with sure steps, as if their feet were glued to the wood-an effect, no doubt, of the qiram’s bonded hezhan.
A half-dozen Maharraht, including Soroush, were lined up along the windward gunwales, each of them bearing muskets. One fired, catching the Hratha that was closest to the ship, but immediately after the boom of a cannon came and grape shot tore into them and the wood of the gunwale. The shot was not well aimed, but it caught four of them. Blood and bits of wood flew outward from the men gathered there.
As cries of pain fell across the deck, Nikandr rushed to the gunwales. Another Hratha ship was passing just below them along the windward side.
Nikandr dropped as he noticed, from the corner of his eye, the forward cannon pointed up toward him.
A boom shook the ship, and more grape shot bit into the bulwarks, spraying his side with splinters of wood.
He made it to his knees in time to see the dhoshaqiram, a knife in one hand, leap from the end of the windward mainmast. He flew downward and used the knife to punch into the other ship’s mizzen mainsail. Downward he slipped, slowing himself with the cut of his knife against the canvas. The sail flapped free as he reached the foot of the sail and crashed against the deck.
He held his ankle tightly, grimacing in pain, but when he looked back up at the Bhadyar, there was a clear note of satisfaction in his eyes.
They fired more muskets. They fired their cannons as well, but the Hratha had caught them completely off guard.
Soroush, whose left arm was bloody, stormed over to Nikandr. “What have you done?”
Nikandr could only stare.
“He’s given them the Atalayina.”
Nikandr looked over and found Ushai, standing near the helm. Her expression was one of anger and cold hatred.
And he couldn’t blame her. All he could do was stare, and nod.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “I’ve given them the final piece.”
They looked for the Hratha ships, but they had had superior angle and speed. It was soon clear the enemy would not be caught. With the fog as thick as it was, they could not give chase, so they turned back. Soroush was still loath to return for Grigory, but the chance to add more fighting men to theirs was too important to pass up.
It took a little more than an hour of ringing their brass bell to hear Grigory’s reply. As they approached, Nikandr saw how badly the Yarost had been damaged. There were many men on deck. More than there would usually be. Most likely-however they’d managed it-Grigory had ferried as many men as he could to his ship before fleeing.
As his skiff drifted in and Nikandr threw the mooring ropes over, the crewmen eyed him with a mixture of wonder and awe. He had expected perhaps distrust or anger, but not a single windsman looked at him this way. Except for Grigory.
Grigory stalked forward across the deck and met Nikandr as he stepped down onto deck. Grigory looked tired, he looked angry, but the thing that made Nikandr worried was the fact that he looked embarrassed.
“How did you find us?” Grigory asked.
Nikandr stared over Grigory’s shoulder to Avayom Kirilov, a man who-despite flying in battle against Khalakovo five years ago-had been a true soldier and a stout kapitan for both Stasa Bolgravya and his son, Konstantin, after Stasa’s death. Avayom looked to Nikandr with an expression of apology, but Grigory was his commander. He could do nothing but pull his hands behind his cherkesska and wait for Grigory to play this out.
“Would you rather I hadn’t found you at all?”
Grigory’s face reddened. “You were flying with Maharraht ships. We saw you descend.”
“They have allied with us. They would not have Muqallad destroy Galahesh and the islands with it.”
Spit flew as Grigory shouted, “And I would?”
“Grigory,” Nikandr said softly. “Let us retire to your cabin. There are things we should discuss.”
“What we must discuss are your traitorous actions. First, you stole this ship from Kiravashya’s eyrie.”
Nikandr looked to the helm. Behind it, at a post made for the purpose, was a rook. He had seen it as he approached the ship, but he thought it merely a rook ready to be used, separated by a distance too great for the Matri to assume it and communicate with Grigory. But now he realized the storm must have died enough for the Matri-most likely Radia Vostroma or Iyana Dhalingrad-to tell him what had happened on Kiravashya.
“Your brother gave me that ship.”
“A right he no longer had, Khalakovo. It was a ship needed in the defense of the realm, a ship he had already given to the Grand Duke in our time of need.”
“With his own, a duke can do what he will. Is it not so?”
Grigory raised his voice until he was practically shouting. “And though I ordered you to guard our ships, you’ve come, and you’ve done so arm-in-arm with the Maharraht.”
“There are strange things afoot, Grigory.”
“Strange things, indeed, but I tell you this, Nikandr Iaroslov, I will suffer no traitors on this ship.”
Nikandr stepped forward until the two of them were close enough to strike blows. “I am no traitor, Bolgravya.”
Before Nikandr knew it Grigory had pulled the kindjal from its sheath at his belt. The knife shook in his hands, and his eyes were wild as he stalked forward.
Nikandr backed away, ready to grab for Grigory’s arm should he lunge. Styophan was ready to jump in and grab Grigory, but Nikandr waved him away. If he did that, there would be no turning back.
“My Lord Prince!” This was from Avayom. “There is another way to solve this.”
Grigory’s eyes lost none of their craze, but he stopped. He waited for Avayom to continue.
“ Bazh na bazh,” Avayom said. “Settle it once and for all and be done with it.”
Grigory looked to Avayom, and then back to Nikandr.
Bazh na bazh was a duel-pistols, usually, followed by swords if neither had been felled. Nikandr was confused why Avayom would offer this solution-Grigory could, after all, merely order Nikandr belowdecks as he had before, with no consequences-but then Nikandr realized that perhaps Avayom wanted Nikandr to win. Grigory was known to be a decent shot, but in his state he would probably miss. And if it came to swords, there was little doubt as to the outcome. It made Nikandr wonder just what had gone on since Grigory had abandoned them on the cliffs.
Grigory, after glancing to the faces of the men around the ship, nodded sharply. There was really no choice in the matter-not any longer. Once Avayom had stated that the challenge could be made, it was implied that Grigory would accept. If he didn’t, he would lose face, and that, for whatever reason, was not something Grigory would allow himself to do.
Nikandr nodded as well.
In the minutes that followed, the two of them were each allowed to prepare their pistols. Grigory loaded his carefully. Nikandr had to replace the flint that had been lost on the Bhadyar. It was still loaded, so he merely lifted the frizzen and added powder to the pan before closing it once more.
The crew cleared the windward side of the ship. Nikandr and Grigory paced to opposite ends. They turned and faced one another, each holding their weapon toward the sky.
Nikandr refused to lower his pistol. Grigory held his steady as well, waiting for Nikandr to fire first. Nikandr would not, however. If Grigory felt the need for this duel to continue, he would need to take the opening shot.
