The Winds of Khalakovo (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

The next day a bitterly cold snowstorm swept over the islands, leaving behind a cheerless sun and weather that drew warmth from the very marrow of the bones. Wind howled among the cobblestone streets of Old Volgorod, lifting the dusting of snow and creating whorls and eddies among the meager crowd that had gathered to watch the execution. Though many grumbled at the wind and biting snow, Rehada thought nothing of it; it matched perfectly the bitterness and resentment deep in her heart.

From this ancient circle where the gallows stood, the seven major streets of Volgorod fanned out like cracks in a frozen lake. Along one of these clattered a flatbed wagon pulled by two stout ponies. A soldier dressed in the uniform of the Posadnik’s guard drove the wagon with a light hand, while another, holding onto the driver’s seat for balance, stood in the bed, watching the three young men chained securely behind him.

As the wagon turned onto the empty street surrounding the circle, tack and chains jingling, the soldiers gave little or no notice to the crowd that had gathered. The boys, however, stared wide-eyed, their faces growing increasingly nervous, until finally the wagon pulled to a halt near the gallows. Standing on the stage were no less than a dozen armed streltsi. Such a show of force was abnormal, but Council was upon them, and apparently there had been some scuffle between the Landed and the Maharraht during the launching of a new trade ship. Rehada gave the story little credence, however; she had received no word that Maharraht would be coming to the island. More than likely it was a drunken brawl that had grown with the telling.

The driver climbed over the bench to join his comrade. They looked calm and collected in their long woolen cherkesskas. Even their woolen hats with tassels of gold lent them a look of austerity, as if a hanging were something that came as easily to them as polishing their black leather boots.

The crowd—most of them Landed peasants—pressed forward, but Rehada stood her ground, studying the boys as they were led one by one from the rear of the wagon to the wooden platform where nooses swung lazily in the wind. The first two boys were scrawny, the sons of a peasant family that lived on the outskirts of the city. They wore simple leather shoes, roughspun trousers and patchwork coats. Socks with holes for fingers to poke through covered their hands. They fought to keep their balance as the streltsi forced them to their places at the gallows, and though they wore looks of remorse as the nooses were fit around their necks, to Rehada it seemed like an act; she doubted they harbored any feelings of true regret for the atrocity they had committed three days before. She didn’t doubt they regretted
some
things—stealing into the home of one of the city’s richer widows; killing her when they found her unexpectedly home; forcing the third boy, a boy she had come to love, to return with them in a lame attempt at blaming him for their crime—but she doubted very much that they regretted the actual killing or the life of the young man next to them that now stood forfeit.

They had been discovered by the nephew of the socialite widow while forcing the third boy, Malekh, back to the house. The Posadnik’s men had been alerted, and in short order all three of them had been taken for murder. For days Rehada had felt responsible; Malekh had been heading to Izhny after delivering a message to her. Worse, it was a mostly innocuous warning that a man named Ashan might be coming to her island, that he might have a boy with him, and that she should send word immediately if he were discovered. It was doubly frustrating because she knew Ashan, an arqesh among her people—she knew the boy the note was referring to as well—and so of course she would have sent word immediately upon hearing of their presence on Khalakovo.

She stared at Malekh, who was just now being led to the third and final position of the gallows. This was no peasant. He was a boy that had begun training as her disciple, a boy his mother—the fates treat her kindly—should be proud of. He wore the garb of the Aramahn: a simple woven cap, inner robes dyed the deepest ocean blue, outer robes only a shade lighter. There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but nothing like the simpering of the two next to him. He was facing his death with, if not bravery, contemplation, and it served to raise her already high estimation of him, even in these last few moments of his life.

When the news of his hanging had arrived yesterday she had gone to the city jail to petition for his release, but because she was not his mother, or any other form of relative, they refused to allow her to speak with him, or to vouch for him to the magistrate. The Landed still did not understand that the wandering people were one. Blood mattered little to them, but it was all important to those that ruled the duchies, and so she’d been forced to leave before they’d asked too many questions about their relationship. It was risky enough coming to the hanging—few Aramahn attended such things, and those that did were often labeled as suspect, as Maharraht, either in mind or in deed—but she could not find it in herself to leave him here to face death on his own. Her presence, at the very least, was something she owed him.

The shorter and older of the two streltsi began reciting transgressions from the records of the court. As he did, the boy scanned the crowd and finally met her eyes.

And he smiled.

He
smiled
, as if to console
her
.

Pain and regret and anger coursed through her. She felt her hardened core crack and fragment, but she did not let those emotions show on her face. Neither did she return his smile, for that would be disingenuous. Instead, she held his gaze with a reassuring look upon her face. She had decided before she came that she would meet his eyes as long as he wished it. She would not turn away, even though the sight of him dangling like a crow from a farmer’s belt would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Learn
, she tried to say.
Learn, even in death, and you will be rewarded in the next life.

The strelet finished by reading the judgment of the magistrate.

From the corners of her eyes, she saw the seven other Aramahn turn their backs on the gallows, not from any lack of courage, but in protest, as a sign of disapproval. She, however, refused to turn away no matter how much she might wish to do so.

The rest of the crowd had not brought rotten vegetables or mud, as she had seen happen so often in the cities of the Empire to the west, nor did they shout epithets. They merely watched in silent condemnation.

The plumes of breath from each of the boys came white upon the wind, but unlike the two next to him, Malekh’s face had transformed into a look of confusion, as if the things he had been sure about only moments ago had been brought into doubt.

Go well
, she wished him, nodding once.

The strelet, his reading now complete, stepped back. As soon as he had, the other soldier pulled a thick wooden lever. The doors beneath the boys fell away with the clatter of wood. The rope snapped taut, and all three of them bounced once before swinging awkwardly in the wind.

When they came to rest, the crowd began to disperse, but Rehada remained, watching her young man swing for long moments, storing the image deep within her heart so that she might retrieve it when it was needed most. So lost in this effort was she that when two ponies entered the circle from a nearby street, breaking her trance, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Even then, she watched them from the corner of her eye and paid them little mind.

This was a mistake.

She should have noted their courtly dress, should have noticed the train of children following them, hoping for a coin or two. When she
did
look, she realized one of them was staring at her. Nikandr. The Prince upon the Hill.

Her face burned as she turned away and walked toward the nearest street. He had been on the far side of the circle, and the wind had been blustery. She was wearing clothes that he wouldn’t be accustomed to seeing her wear. It was possible, just possible, that he hadn’t recognized her.

But she knew in her heart that he had, and it made her anger burn even higher. To be found out by Nikandr because she had, in one of her few acts of compassion, come to bid a friend farewell, was galling, not because she and Nikandr had lain together, but because she had worked so hard to conceal her true self from him.

No matter. If he discovered she was Maharraht, she would welcome it. She was sick of hiding it in any case, especially from him.

She turned and headed up one of the curving streets that led uphill toward the Bluff, the section of Volgorod that held her home. The street, as far as she could see, was empty. The light of the sun angled in between the tall stone buildings, leaving much of her path in shadow.

She stopped when she saw someone sitting at the entryway to an alley.

He wore two sets of robes: a black inner robe that was wrapped by a wide belt of gray cloth and an outer robe that fell to the tops of his brown leather boots. It was his turban and beard, more than anything, that marked him as one of the Maharraht. His beard was cut long and square. The turban was almond-shaped and ragged; its tail hung down along the front of his chest like a sash of honor.

It was dangerous to dress this way on Khalakovo, one of the most powerful of the Duchies, and downright foolish to come into the city. These were the clothes worn—not exclusively, but most often—by the Maharraht, the sect of the Aramahn that were bent on the destruction of the Grand Duchy and their Landed ways.

Rehada approached, but then she stopped, gasping as she recognized him. He had a ruggedly handsome face and dark, commanding eyes. A ragged scar ran down from what was left of his ear to his neck and cheek. The upper part of the ear remained, and he wore a handful of golden earrings there.

This was Soroush, the leader of the Maharraht, and the father of her child.

He had always been a brazen man, but to come here when he was at such a disadvantage? Snow fell on his dark turban and the stone of jasper held within it. She knew the stone was useless—at least to Soroush—and she wondered if he wore it as a ploy or to remind himself of his past. Soroush was nothing if not steeped in the past.

She continued walking past him, and he stepped alongside her, the two of them falling into a pace that made it seem as if they had always been together. Still, there were feelings of anxiety and uncertainty welling up inside her. Had it been so long since she’d seen him that she could act this way? Had they fallen so far out of touch?

“You were told not to take a disciple,” Soroush said.

“I have been here seven years, Soroush. Questions were being asked.”

“Attachments, Rehada, are to be avoided.”

She scoffed. “Have you come this far to chide me over my urge to teach?”

They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps scuffing the light dusting of snow. She did not look toward him, but she could picture the muscles along his jaw working, as they had always done when she’d tested his patience.

“We have lost the boy,” Soroush said.

Then Rehada
did
look at him. His face was set in stone as he walked, refusing to return her gaze. “How?”

“I misjudged Ashan. He stole him away a month ago.”

“Then we are lost.”

“I do not believe so, not as long as Ashan is headed here to Khalakovo.”

“Can you be so sure that he is?”

“The rift over Rhavanki has nearly closed, while the one here over Khalakovo is widening.”

“That means nothing. If he suspects what you’re about, he’ll keep Nasim away.”

“I don’t think so. He believes that Nasim is the key to healing the rifts. He will bring Nasim here, and he will continue to study him. It is his only hope of unraveling his mysteries.”

They came to a larger street. Though there was some traffic—some peasants with baskets, others with carts—Soroush continued on as if he hadn’t noticed them. Rehada did so as well, so as not to draw attention.

“We cannot succeed without Nasim.”

Soroush nodded. “We shall see, but there is much to do in any case. Two days ago we gathered the first of the stones, and there are still four more to find.”

“You have learned so much?”

“We know how to find four, and the fifth may well indeed hinge upon Nasim.”

They were heading across an old walking bridge now. No one was in sight, but Rehada still felt terribly exposed.

Soroush stopped at the foot of the bridge, just before the street resumed its upward trek. His face was resolute, his body like stone. It made Rehada cold inside to see him like this. “Three days from now, take the road to Iramanshah at midday. Release your spirit the day before you come.”

Rehada was suddenly very aware of the beating of her heart. “What am I to do?”

“Can you not guess?” The expression upon Soroush’s face was not one of fervor, as she might have guessed, but of lamentation. “You will find for us our second stone.”

CHAPTER 5

Nikandr and Borund guided their ponies around the gallows where three young men hung from the ends of ropes. No doubt they had been taken for simple robbery, most likely for food. It was too common a scene in Volgorod of late. Ranos had taken a serious stance on such crimes—allow such things to go on, he’d said, and the city would devolve into chaos. And if Khalakovo’s largest city fell prey to such things, the rest would soon follow.

One of the boys was Aramahn, something he took note of not for its rarity but for the boy’s age. The Aramahn were, nearly to a fault, honest, and it seemed improbable that the boy had been caught stealing.

As they continued their way around the circle, Nikandr noticed a woman wearing black robes of mourning. She was a good distance away, and the wind was throwing the snow about, but he was sure it was Rehada. She seemed to notice him as well, for she immediately turned and strode down the nearest street and was lost from view moments later.

Had Borund’s presence made her act that way? They had agreed not to advertise their relationship, but in the instant their eyes had met she hadn’t seemed worried. She had seemed ashamed.

“How much longer?” Borund said irritably.

Nikandr glanced over, wondering if he’d seen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you could no longer stand the cold, Bora.”

“I can”—Borund sniffed—“when necessary.”

“You were the one who insisted on joining me.”Nikandr guided his pony onto a wide street that hugged the River Mordova on its final stretch toward the bay. As they passed a small graveyard, where chips of chalcedony marked the myriad of gravestones, the smell of the sea grew stronger.

Borund’s frown deepened the creases on his brow, but beneath his bushy eyebrows his eyes twinkled. “That was when I thought we were visiting the shipyard. Had I known he was buried among the wharfs, I might not have been so hasty.”

“Well, we’re nearly there now.” Nikandr nodded ahead, where the river emptied into the bay and the street turned onto the long, curving quay.

A large fishing ship was pulling in to berth—probably the first of the day. A sizable crowd was pressing in around it. He wondered if his brother in the Boyar’s house knew how bad it was getting down here.

From a large boulevard several hundred yards further up, ten streltsi leading a large black wagon turned onto the quay and marched toward the ship. The soldiers wore fur hats and thick black cherkesskas buttoned high up their necks. Their muskets were slung over one shoulder while their tall berdische axes were held in readied hands. The desyatnik of the streltsi—a man whose hat was gray instead of black—shouted at the crowd, demanding room for the palotza. The wagon carried a handful of workmen in Radiskoye’s livery and was adorned with the Khalakovo family seal: a sailfish arcing high above a turbulent sea. It pulled wide and then arced around until its rear was even with the gangway of the fishing ship.

The crowd made way for the streltsi and the wagon, but did so grudgingly. Many would go away hungry, Nikandr knew. There simply wasn’t enough to go around. The fishing beds that had been so reliable in years past had gone dry; add to that the pitiful yield the crops were looking to have and one could easily predict outright famine this year.

Nikandr and Borund stopped short of the crowd and tied their ponies near a ramp leading up to the doors of an immense workshop. An ancient figurehead of a man gripping a hammer in one hand and a large pearl in the other hung above the doors, one of which was propped open. They found Gravlos within, walking alongside a fresh spar, a curl of wood falling free from the plane he was using to smooth the rounded but still-raw shape of it. His wooden leg thumped softly as he went. When he realized someone was standing in his doorway he stood and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his forearm. His face was severe, but he managed a kindly smile when he recognized them.

“Lose your way?” He set his plane on a nearby worktable, winking as he did so.

Nikandr’s entire body tightened as something splashed to his left. Borund backed up as well, staring at a large tun that stood just inside the workshop doors. It was as tall as Nikandr’s chest and was filled nearly to the top with water. Nikandr approached, but it was with a sickly sense of dread, like when he’d played find-me-if-you-can as a child late at night with Ranos and Victania in the dark and mysterious halls of Radiskoye. When he finally came close enough to look down into it, he saw something folded over, as if a random bolt of weathered canvas had been tossed into the tun and then forgotten. The canvas rippled, and Nikandr saw what looked to be a jaundiced eye.

“I bought it from a fisherman this morning.” Gravlos picked up a stick that had been resting against the door and poked the thing. It rippled again, and an enormous jaw unfolded itself, revealing a triple row of thorn-sharp teeth. A thin tongue whiter than fresh-fallen snow slithered out and glowed momentarily.

Nikandr laughed from the sheer horror of the thing.

“The old sailors call them tarpfish,” Gravlos continued. “It was caught off the coast of Duzol, only three leagues out to sea.”

“Excluding Nikandr,” Borund said with a distinct note of awe, “that is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Gravlos began poking the fish again. “Wait, it gets worse.”

Only a moment later, the fish belched out a stream of shit-colored ink and began flapping around the tun. Water sprayed everywhere. All three men backed away, laughing and holding their sleeves against the fierce smell of rotted cabbage.

Nikandr couldn’t help but think of the wasting, of the rot that was growing within
him
, but to laugh with Borund felt good. It felt like the days of old, and he wasn’t about to feel sorry for himself at a time like this.

Borund pointed at it, still laughing. “What in the wide great seas made you buy such a thing?”

Gravlos nodded toward Nikandr. “You’ve not heard?”

Borund looked between Nikandr and Gravlos. “Heard what?”

Gravlos caught Nikandr’s eye, waiting for permission. When Nikandr nodded, he said, “I thought My Lord Prince would want to see it. He’s been flying around the islands, every spare moment he’s had outside of our work on the
Gorovna
, searching for clues.”

“Clues to what?”

“To the blight,” Nikandr answered.

Borund chuckled, but stopped when he realized Nikandr was serious. “We should have asked for more ships if you have so many to go about.”

“Easy words for you, Bora. Vostroma has not been hit so hard as Khalakovo.”

“And Rhavanki is worse off than you.”

“But that’s all changing. Rhavanki’s hauls have been better. Their first plantings look to be healthier than years past.”

“This is my point, Nischka. Nature will do what it will. It matters not what attention you might pay to it.”

This was a thought that came to Nikandr every day, but he refused to believe it. “Did you know that when herds of goats become sick, we have found hordes of black fleas on them?”

“Not surprising with diseased animals.”

Nikandr shook his head. “When we take them in and wash them with vinegar, the goats become well again.”

Borund laughed. “You should have told us. We could have brought you a herd.”

“The potatoes,” Nikandr continued, “if we discover mold in the roots, we know which fields should go untended. I can tell you by looking at a pack of wolves which are infected and how many days it will be before the pack devours them. If I watch the coast of an island for a day, I can tell by the flights of the gulls which shoals will yield the most herring.”

“And by the time the ships get there, things will have changed.”

“That isn’t the point. We learn more all the time, and someday we hope to understand the blight. Perhaps the wasting as well.”

Borund’s expression turned to sadness. “Nischka, the news of your sister’s illness was tragic, but do you really think you can unlock the secrets of her disease?”

Let’s hope so, Nikandr thought. “I’ll never know unless I try.”

Borund shook his head. “The blight and the wasting are unpredictable workings of the world, and nothing you do will change that.”

Suddenly the sounds of a grumbling crowd grew, making it clear the business of unlading the haul had gotten underway. It also made it clear that it was a smaller catch than the crowd had been hoping for—with so many visiting Khalakovo for Council, the palotza would need the ship’s entire catch and most likely several more beyond it.

Gravlos’s smile faded. He led them away from the doors toward the wooden ponies and workbenches. “It’s been getting worse.” He glanced meaningfully at Nikandr. “Not that I’m complaining. I know the people on the Hill have to eat as well. But some don’t see it that way. They say too much is taken from the city, more than a fair share.”

“Our share is what we take,” Borund said before Nikandr could reply.

Gravlos dropped his gaze. “That’s as may be, My Lord Prince, but there’s enough grumbling stomachs to go about, of that I can assure you.”

Borund opened his mouth to reply, but Nikandr raised his hand. “The blight isn’t something we’ll solve by talking, and we have other things to discuss.”

Gravlos nodded and motioned them toward one of his workbenches, upon which sat a complicated mass of wood and iron. Six cylindrical sections of wood, each of which looked like they’d been sawed cleanly from a windship mast, were connected with an arrangement of iron levers and hinges. It looked like two logs laid across one another with a third skewering them both. A complicated mass of hinges at the very center allowed for free movement of each spar. Nikandr knew it was the
Gorovna’s
rudder, the very same one he’d shown them on the ship two days earlier.

A healthy rudder, when fixed properly in the center of a ship, would align with the keels, and by using the levers at the helm, the rudders would divert the flow of the aether that ran along them, thus turning the ship in the desired direction. The key was not the outer casing of wood, but the obsidian core enclosed within it.

Nikandr could already see that something wasn’t right. Lying on the table, just beneath one of the exposed pieces, was a pile of black powder and stone that looked to have been purposefully chipped away.

He bent over to inspect it. “Why did you do this?”

“Run your finger over the stone.”

Nikandr had no more than touched one of the exposed faces than a section of it crumbled away, adding to the small pile.

Borund did the same to another section. “Was it inferior?”

Gravlos looked insulted. “
Nyet
, My Lord, it was not. I chose the blocks myself and inspected each section carefully after milling.”

Borund seemed less than convinced. “Then what happened?”

Gravlos shrugged. “Rudder stone can crack, but that’s after many years, and typically there are only a handful of fractures. Nothing like this.”

The stone hanging from Nikandr’s neck—hidden beneath his shirt—felt suddenly heavier. Clearly whatever had happened to the rudder had also affected his stone; at the very least they were loosely related. He nearly pulled it out to show Gravlos, to get his opinion, but his father’s words felt like they made more sense now—Borund was an old friend, but he couldn’t be trusted to keep word of it quiet—and so he left the stone where it was. “Could it have been the hezhan?”

“Perhaps.” Gravlos ran one hand over his bald head and shrugged. “Who would know?”

Borund rubbed the obsidian powder between his fingers and stared intently at the sparkle that remained. “Were the keels damaged?”

“
Da
, which is why the repairs will take so—”

“We cannot accept a ship such as that, Nikandr.”

“The damage did not travel far,” Gravlos continued. “Less than the length of your hand. We’ll be able to cut the keel and lengthen the rudder to—”

Gravlos was cut off by sounds from the crowd. Their grumbling had grown steadily during their conversation, but it had spiked considerably; men were shouting and several women could be heard screaming over them.

They moved quickly to the front of the workshop to see what was happening. No sooner had Gravlos pulled one of the doors open than the crowd pressed backward. A half-dozen people were forced onto the shallow ramp leading up to Gravlos’s doors.

With his high vantage, Nikandr could see that the streltsi had fanned out around the royal wagon and were using their axes to ward off the crowd. Their breath, coming quickly, blew as smoke upon the cold breeze of the harbor.

“Back!” shouted the desyatnik.

“He stabbed me!” a man screamed. He was bent over, perhaps nursing his leg, but when he pointed to one of the soldiers, steam rose from his blood-coated hand.

Several women continued to shout, shaking their fingers right under the officer’s nose. The crowd pressed in. More joined in, demanding that the rest of the fish be left alone.

It was then that Nikandr realized that there were only five crates on the wagon.
Five crates
from a ship that would have hauled four dozen only a few years ago.

“Best we stay inside, My Lords,” Gravlos said as he began swinging the door closed.

As soon as he’d said the words, however, one of the streltsi fired his musket into the crowd. A young man with a barrel chest was propelled backward into the older man behind him, his face a look of shock and wonder.

“My son!” screamed the man holding the wounded one. It was a cry that brought the entire scene to a stunned silence.

And then the quay was madness.