someone he was trying to shelter-and led him toward the square that housed the eyrie’s offices.
“What did Mother tell you?” Nikandr asked.
“Be quiet until we can make it out of this square and to the-”
Ranos’s words trailed off as two full desyatni-twenty soldiers-wearing the uniforms of Vostroma entered the square. As it had been since Father had ceded the Duchy to Borund, the Khalakovos had nominal control over the larger cities and the eyrie. The Vostromas lorded themselves over just about everything else.
The desyatnik of the soldiers, seeing them, called a halt and slipped down from the saddle of his pony. He walked purposefully across the square, as nearly everyone else-windsmen and landsmen alike-cleared the way.
Nikandr groaned inwardly. He knew the officer. His name was Feyodor. He was old, burly, and angry that he’d been passed up for promotion for years, and though he seemed to know that his failure to rise among the ranks and his quick temper both stemmed from his drinking, it did little to stop him from taking it out on anyone who found themselves in his way. Borund was in a foul mood indeed if he’d sent Feyodor to detain Nikandr.
Feyodor held up his hand as Nikandr and Ranos approached. Ranos, however, held Nikandr’s arm tightly and guided him toward a handful of ponies, where two more Khalakovan streltsi stood.
The Vostroman soldiers dismounted, most of them ordering themselves into ranks, weapons at the ready, as the others gathered the ponies.
“Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo, halt!”
Ranos kept on pulling Nikandr along until they both heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Even then Ranos was still determined to continue, but Nikandr feared that if Feyodor were pushed too far, he might indeed fire, and as poor a shot as the man was reported to be, he might hit Ranos, so he stopped and turned.
Ranos immediately stepped between him and Feyodor. “He is my charge, Feyodor. He’s returning with me to Volgorod.”
“The Duke requires your brother’s presence, Boyar.” Feyodor’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he dearly wished to be still sleeping, not standing at the eyrie in the day’s early light. He took one step forward, past his men, and spoke low to Ranos, the pistol still pointed toward Nikandr. “I don’t know what he did, but I’ve not seen Borund so angry in years. Best he come now. Things will simmer down before nightfall and you’ll have him back, safe and sound in the Boyar’s mansion.” He glanced once over his shoulder. “I’ll bring him myself if you’ll only step down.”
“I won’t, Feyodor. He is a Khalakovo, and we stand on Khalakovan ground. He’ll not be taken like a criminal to stand before an interloper.”
Feyodor’s watery eyes hardened. “He will, Boyar. Trust me in this.”
Ranos was prepared to press the issue. The tensions between him and Borund had always run high, but the last year had been filled with a series of escalating incidents. The palotza would levy new taxes from Volgorod so that Borund could funnel more of Khalakovo’s money to Vostroma. Ranos would find ways to tilt the books so that the levies produced only a quarter of what Borund had hoped. Borund would levy more in turn, forcing Ranos to become even more creative.
It had gotten to the point that armed men from the palotza were escorting tax officials to businesses without leave from the Boyar, who by the strict reading of the treaty needed to approve their presence.
Nikandr stepped in front of Ranos.
Feyodor was edgy, and worried about losing face, a terrible combination in a man such as him, but he lowered his pistol when Nikandr raised his hands.
“I’ll go,” Nikandr said, more for Ranos’s benefit than Feyodor’s.
Ranos breathed heavily, his gaze alternating between Feyodor and Nikandr. He seemed shocked at what Nikandr had done, betrayed, but as the seconds ticked by his shoulders dropped and he released a slow breath.
“Treat him well, Feyodor,” Ranos said, “or I’ll come for your head.”
The muscles along Feyodor’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to reply, but he merely pointed Nikandr toward his ponies.
Nikandr mounted up, and in moments they were off, heading along the eyrie road toward Radiskoye.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Nikandr waited as the door to his cell clicked and opened.
As far as he could tell it was the afternoon of the next day. He’d been given only water and slim bits of dry bread since he’d come. He’d been famished since waking, but now the hunger had faded, replaced by a gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
Outside his cell, the rustle of a dress came. A moment later, the door clanked, and in strode Victania. Nikandr stood immediately, and as the guard closed the door and locked it, Nikandr embraced her.
“You look well,” he said.
And she did. Her cheeks were healthy and full, her eyes bright and sharp. He still marveled when he saw her, half expecting her to have succumbed to the wasting once more, but the ancients had been kind in this at least. Not only had she recovered physically, she’d regained her abilities with the dark. She’d become one of the strongest of the Matri, rivaling even Mother’s great strength.
“I’ll sit,” Nikandr said. “I fear this won’t be pleasant.”
“Don’t smile, Nischka, because it won’t. They know of your trip to Iramanshah.”
“I’d rather guessed, Tania. What happened? Mother said it was all arranged, that you’d be the one in the drowning basin.”
“Nataliya came and relieved me early. Somehow they suspected. Perhaps one of the other Matri warned her.” Victania paused, gathering her thoughts before speaking again. “They know of the Maharraht. They know you gave them safe passage to the island.”
“They were not Maharraht. They were Aramahn.”
“Don’t lie to me, Nikandr.”
“I’m not lying. They’ve forsaken the path of violence. The qiram among them are going to ask to be burned.”
“And the ones who left on the ship?”
“The same. Believe me, Victania. We’ve come from Rafsuhan, and trouble is brewing, trouble that will eclipse what’s happening in the west.”
“Don’t change the subject. They’ve convened a tribunal, Nikandr. They’re discussing your transgressions now in Father’s hall. They will find you guilty. The only real question is the punishment that awaits.”
“They won’t hang me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Victania’s features grew fierce, a look she rarely leveled against him. “Watch your tongue. You don’t know what it’s like here anymore. Did you hear what I said? They’ve convened a tribunal, and they very well may decide to swing you from the end of a rope.”
“Such things can only be decided at Council.”
“We are at war, Nischka. And Borund has been licking his gluttonous chops at the seat he already holds in all but name. Think… Think what Ranos would do if his brother were hung in the very courtyard of Radiskoye.”
Nikandr considered this. Perhaps the war with Yrstanla was more serious than he’d guessed. Vostroma might even fear for its very welfare, and with Khalakovo in thrall, they might just use this incident as an excuse. And if he were hung, Ranos would rally the streltsi of Volgorod and he would come for blood, and then Borund would have two traitor brothers of Khalakovo to present to the other dukes. Many of the duchies, certainly those in the south, had already begun to refer to Khalakovo as the northernmost island of Vostroma. Father’s honored place at Zhabyn’s side or not, the dukes might very well decide to grant Vostroma their wish-for permanent assumption of Khalakovan lands.
“It will take the northern dukes less than a minute to see through this. They know what a bully Borund is.”
“If this had happened three years ago-even one year ago-I might have agreed with you, but they are
