The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (46 page)

“A cruel place is Yrstanla,” Rodion said.

Styophan leaned over and spit. “Cruel, indeed.”

He surveyed the lawn as a dozen janissaries rode by. It would be easy enough for Styophan and his men to position themselves among the crowd when the Kamarisi came to address the people of Alekeşir. The Haelish were another matter. They were tall and muscular. They’d stand out no matter where they were stationed.

“They’ll have to be hidden,” Rodion said, echoing Styophan’s own thoughts.

Styophan stared across the grand circle, to the place where the wagon with the girl was now turning. The beginnings of a plan were forming. There would be many men here. Hundreds of soldiers, well trained, all bent on protecting the Kamarisi at all costs. But this was a place that hadn’t been attacked in centuries. One Kamarisi had been murdered at this very place, but that had been generations ago, and it had been a betrayal from within, not an attack from an enemy of the state. They could not count on the Kamarisi’s men being lax—they would all be well prepared—but if Styophan could attack to the fore, forcing the Kamarisi to retreat down one of these wide avenues, they might be caught in a place where they least expected an attack.

Two days, Styophan thought. They had two days to scout the surrounding area and make preparations.

Styophan and Rodion took the time to walk the entirety of the circle. Rodion stopped and bought two apples from a cart using a few of the Empire’s coins they’d been given by Datha. He handed one out for Styophan, but Styophan wasn’t hungry. He was too worried. Rodion shrugged and took a loud bite of his apple.

“I’m beginning to think those crones were wrong,” Rodion said as he crunched on his apple.

“About what?”

Rodion leaned in and spoke more quietly. “With so many tall men at our side, and the Kamarisi here”—pointed with his apple toward the massive dome—“we may just pull this off.”

“Have you already forgotten about Edik?”

Rodion shook his head. “I loved Edik like a brother, Styopha. You know this. But, ancients preserve him, he never knew when to keep his mouth shut.”

They stopped as a palanquin borne by eight stout men shuttled past them and down a narrow street that curved as badly as the mighty Vünkal.

“I hope you’re right,” Styophan said.

They continued until they’d reached the very place from which they’d begun. Styophan was watching a vendor standing behind with a cart filled with sugared pistachios and almonds and some strange bone-white nut Styophan had never seen before. Styophan had seen him when they’d arrived at the circle, but now he was staring at the two of them and Styophan wasn’t sure if he was suspicious or if he just wanted them to come closer to his cart.

“Styopha…”

Styophan was just about to walk over, to buy something if only to find out what he was about, when Rodion elbowed him in the small of his back.

Styophan turned toward the circle.

More janissaries were riding past, twenty in all. Unlike the ones that had ridden past earlier, these were dressed in full regalia, and they rode tall black horses, beasts whose coats gleamed under the high sun. These were men from the kasir or he was a miller’s daughter.

Rodion, however, wasn’t staring at the janissaries. He was staring to the rear of their line. Behind them came a wagon, and behind
it
were twenty more janissaries. Quite a guard for a few slaves or prisoners, but it was notable since the people in the cage were clearly being taken to Irabahce.

Styophan was just about to ask Rodion what he’d seen when the people in the cage registered.

Something black and bottomless opened up inside his chest and widened until it felt as though Styophan would fall inside.

How? he thought. How could they have arrived
here
?

At the front of the cage, holding the bars as the wagon rolled on, were two young men, both dressed in the robes of the Aramahn. One was Nasim, the boy who’d nearly caused the destruction of Khalakovo seven years ago. He’d seen him on the ship he and Nikandr had taken from Rafsuhan back to Khalakovo after Muqallad had fused two pieces of the Atalayina together. The other was Sukharam, the boy Nasim had brought back with him from Ghayavand.

Curled near their feet was a man lying down and facing away from Styophan. He seemed old and frail, for his robes hung loosely, revealing the curve of hipbone and shoulder. Even his emaciated ribs showed through the cloth.

Toward the back of the cage were three more men.

Soroush Wahad al Gatha. Ashan Kida al Ahrumea.

And his Lord Prince, Nikandr Iaroslov himself.

They were all of them bound in iron. At their wrists, their ankles, and their necks were cuffs and collars of black iron. The janissaries knew, of course, the powers of these men, and had prevented their use with those dulling restraints.

His first instinct was to call out, but he realized how foolish this would be. The janissaries would not know that there were Anuskayan men in the city. They could not.

So his next fear was that Nikandr would recognize him.

“Say nothing,” Styophan said.

He worried now that Nikandr
would
see him, that he would call or wave or do something else foolish, but on the opposite side of the roadway, the statue of Hakan had caught their attention—that or the sheer level of industry in and around the dome. They all stared that way, Ashan and Nikandr speaking with one another in low tones.

Just as they were passing, however, Nasim looked his way. His gaze darted to Nikandr, then back to Styophan, but he said nothing.

Thank the ancients for small favors.

All too quickly they were gone, but in their wake was a host of harrowing thoughts.

They couldn’t go through with their attack, not as they’d planned it, for to do so would be to abandon Nikandr and the others. Nasim was the key to healing the rifts, and if what Nikandr said was true, so was Sukharam. He had little use for Soroush, but Ashan was known far and wide as a wise and powerful man.

These men were needed. The islands needed them. The world needed them. He couldn’t have abandoned them even if Nikandr weren’t here.

“Come,” Styophan said. “We need to speak with Datha.”

Rodion fell into step alongside him. “It isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

“
Hayir
, it is not.”

Styophan walked along the high bank of the Vünkal. He walked alone. He’d sent Rodion ahead, for he needed to think. Needed to figure out how he was going to tell Datha that they couldn’t continue, not until they’d saved Nikandr and Nasim and the others.

On his right was a low wall, the top of a stone divide that separated the fish market and the warehouses from the quays and the water down below. The ships—barges and flat fishing ships and other light watercraft—bobbed as the lights of Alekeşir, vast Alekeşir, played over the water. Beyond the river, the city’s landscape rolled like an inland sea. It was night, and the moon was but a sliver in the sky. Much of the city was lit softly by lanterns on tall posts—more of the ostentatious lifestyle of Yrstanla. Had this been Volgorod, the city would be near pitch dark. Not so in Alekeşir. No doubt the oil that filled those lanterns had traveled a thousand leagues from the sea, or overland from some distant corner of the Empire.

The market had closed, but there were still men talking. He heard a child giggling, then a squeal and another giving chase. Somewhere in the city, a dog barked until it yelped and fell silent.

Styophan stopped for a moment, allowing the sights and sounds and smells to wash over him. He’d been thinking of what to do ever since leaving the circle, but he’d come up with nothing. He didn’t know how he could save Nikandr. He wasn’t even sure that he should. Perhaps the wiser choice was to continue with their plans and kill the Kamarisi. Perhaps then, in the chaos, they could steal in to Irabahce and take Nikandr back.

When you go to Alekeşir
,
the path will lead to your graves
.

But what of His Lord Prince? The wodjan said that they would kill the Kamarisi. Did that mean he should go on with that plan? Or did it mean he might save Nikandr and still kill the Lord of Yrstanla?

“It’s not safe here after too long,” called a rough voice.

Styophan turned and found the quay master, an old man with a limp and a crooked jaw, approaching him. His hair was long and curled. Greasy. He had not seemed like a man worthy of much trust, but neither had he seemed overly loyal to the Kasir. With the coin they’d brought with them, Styophan had figured it would be enough to buy several days silence at the least, and before today he’d figured that was all they would need.

The man approached and stood next to Styophan, looking out over the city, but not quite looking away from Styophan, either. He smelled of alcohol and garlic.

“I remember,” Styophan said. “You told me when we arrived.”

“From Avolina…” He let the words sit there between them.

“From Avolina,” Styophan relied easily.

“Said you’d been sent by the Kaymakam. Waiting for orders to head toward the war in the east.”

Styophan remained silent, but he turned himself toward the quay master, a not-so-subtle sign that he’d better get to the point.

He took the hint and squared himself up, and when he spoke again, it was with a notably softer voice. His voice creaked, though, as if he’d caught the cough but had never rid himself of it. “Might’ve been a messenger that came from Avolina this morning. Might’ve been asking for the soldiers who went through their city. Took two barges on the order of the regent himself. Said”—he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—“they were looking for news on a young janissary that’d gone missing the day those soldiers left.”

Styophan shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Which is why I sent him to the southern quays. Said barges go up and down the Vünkal every day, but that none had stopped from Avolina at my docks. You know what he said to me after that?”

“I don’t.”

“Said they searched along the river. Said they found bits of his uniform. Tatters, he said, that caught up in the branches of some tree. A half-league further they found the head of his horse lying in the shallows. It’d been cut clean from its body. Clean, he’d said, as if from a single swing of a blade.”

Styophan could feel himself breathing now, his chest expanding, contracting. The quay master was watching him closely for any sign that he’d known about this, but Styophan had been through much. He knew how to master his emotions. “What of it?” he asked.

“I don’t get into people’s personal matters as a rule. But this? I worked on a farm when I was young. I know what it takes to cut through that much meat. That much bone.”

Styophan laughed. “Tales grow in the telling.”

“That they do, but this one seemed to have a fair bit of truth in it. There aren’t many who can do that sort of thing. But the Haelish?” He nodded grimly. “Maybe the Haelish could.”

Styophan nodded in return, carefully preparing himself to snatch the knife from his belt if it was needed. He didn’t want to, though—he’d seen enough killing on this ill-fated journey through Hael and Yrstanla—but he would do it in a moment if he thought this man would turn on him. “I imagine they could. They could cleave
me
in half. And you too.” Styophan looked around theatrically, laughing again. “Do you think they’re coming to tear the walls down?”

The quay master smiled. He looked out over the city again, as if he’d just shared something with an old friend—a strange story, a bit of gossip. “He comes back, you want me to clear him away?”

Styophan had paid him well for the berths that were furthest into the inlet by the warehouses—the ones most hidden from casual view both from the walkway above the quay and the river itself. He’d not told the quay master why, and the crooked old man hadn’t asked, but he was no fool. He wanted to know if Styophan was nervous. He was baiting Styophan. If Styophan said he wanted to keep the messenger away, he’d know Styophan was guilty, and he’d tell the city guard. The kasir would know before the day was out about the strange barges on the river.

“
Hayir
,” Styophan said while shaking his head. “Send him my way if you seem him again.”

“Will do.”

“Too bad about the horse,” Styophan said as he walked toward the ramp leading down to the quay.

“
Evet
. Too bad.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Datha met Styophan at the stairs to the hold. He led Styophan to a place on the floor where a horsehair blanket was laid out, and there Datha sat, motioning for Styophan to do the same.

Low-burning lanterns hung from the wooden beams, shedding meager light on the mass of Haelish men.
They’re stacked tighter than cordwood
, Styophan thought. Most of the Haelish sat as Datha did, but others were up, hunched over from the low ceiling, walking back and forth simply to stretch their legs or to get some sense that they weren’t trapped in this place until their true mission began.
Such men aren’t made for life aboard a ship.

The air smelled of man and piss and shit. At the far end, three of the men lay on pallets. They coughed and moaned, and though Styophan couldn’t see them clearly, he knew that their eyes would be dark, the pits of their arms and knees blackened. They were close to death. He could hear it in the way they coughed. It was not only wet, but it went on and on. Soon they would start coughing up blood.

“There were none with the withering when we left,” Styophan said to Datha.

“And now there are three, laid low in less than a week.”

Styophan shook his head. “A week…”

What were they to do when the wasting progressed so far in a mere handful of days? It used to be that it would take months for such symptoms as these men were starting to manifest. Was it now the same on the islands? Was it perhaps even worse? He couldn’t help but think of Rozalyna. Had she been stricken? Was she already dead? And if the pace of the disease was accelerating, what it would be like in a month? In a year? Would men die in mere days? Would children fall in hours? Who would be left in this world if the disease continued unchecked?