The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (64 page)

Nikandr nodded to Yevgeny, who nodded in return.

Next to him stood Konstantin Bolgravya, a man only a handful of years older than Nikandr. He looked healthy, and his bright eyes seemed accepting, almost pleased, of Nikandr’s presence. Strangely enough, Konstantin was probably his closest ally in this tent. He’d asked Nikandr to save his brother, Grigory. Not directly, of course. He wouldn’t have placed himself in a position where Nikandr could have said no directly. Instead he’d sent his lover, Mileva Vostroma, to pose the question for him. Nikandr had agreed, because it had given him a slim ray of hope to make his way to Galahesh to save Atiana. He’d even found Grigory, but Grigory had refused Nikandr’s help. In fact, he’d imprisoned Nikandr and then abandoned him to die for having the impudence to bring a note penned by Konstantin himself, a note that had somehow heightened the embarrassment of being saved by Nikandr, whom Grigory hated above all others. Grigory had later died at the Spar on Galahesh, but he’d died bravely. He’d commanded the ship that had crashed into the Spar, breaking it and killing Muqallad, effectively saving Galahesh, the islands, the entire world from Muqallad’s plans. As strange as it was—and as hard as it was for Nikandr to admit—Grigory had died a hero. Konstantin had somehow seemed relieved when he’d learned of it, and he had thanked Nikandr in private.

Nikandr nodded to Konstantin, who returned the gesture with a reticent yet heartfelt smile.

Yegor Nodhvyansk watched as Nikandr stepped toward the warmth of the low fire. Nikandr remembered how Yegor had acted as the voice of reason on Khalakovo when the southern dukes—especially Leonid Dhalingrad and Zhabyn Vostroma—had begun to toss accusations at the feet of Nikandr’s father. It had happened after the Grand Duke, Stasa Bolgravya, had been killed by an elder suurahezhan on Radiskoye’s eyrie, and tensions had been running hot. Yegor was older now, perhaps wiser in some ways, less willing to stick his neck out. Nikandr could only hope he could once again show his good judgment. Plus, Nikandr had learned while speaking to his mother that Leonid’s rule had not been kind to Nodhvyansk.

When Nikandr nodded to Yegor, the duke merely stared back with emotionless eyes.

And then there was Borund.

The image of the seven mahtar of Iramanshah hanging from ropes in the garden of Radiskoye flashed through Nikandr’s mind. Borund had ordered their deaths, and yet he’d been strangely protective of Nikandr. Nikandr was sure he’d somehow maneuvered the situation so that Nikandr could be ordered to the warfront, to help protect the Grand Duchy against the ships Sariya had just unleashed against the Grand Duchy.

Another image came. An image of his dog, Berza, being shot while bounding across a meadow of flowers and heather. A shot that had come from Borund himself. How far they’d come since their childhood, when they’d been fast friends. The mantle of leadership will do that, Nikandr’s father used to say.

Nikandr reached the edge of the circle, giving Borund the final nod. “My Lord Dukes.”

At a wave from Borund, Andreya bowed and took his leave. A rook, sitting atop an iron perch at the back of the tent, began flapping its wings. The dukes turned to look, but the rook merely tucked its head into its wing as if it were having a bad dream.

Borund waved to the low seat at Nikandr’s side.

Together, the five of them sat.

That was something, at least, the fact that they were treating him as an equal, for now.

A bone mazer filled with vodka sat on the arm of each chair. In unison they picked up the mazers and raised them to one another.

“
Budem zdorovy
,” Nikandr said before downing the vodka in one burning mouthful.

“
Budem
,” the dukes responded in kind, raising their mazers before downing them as well.

“You may wonder why I’ve asked to speak with only the four of you.”

“Because we’re the only ones who will listen,” Borund said, “but we won’t listen for long, Nischka. Get on with it.”

“What I tell you first you may speak of freely outside of this tent.”

Yevgeny bared his teeth, fighting the burn of the vodka he’d just swallowed. “And what you say after?”

“In good time, My Lord Duke. I come with news from Alekeşir, from the Kamarisi himself.” The dukes looked among one another, confused. Yevgeny even looked angry. But Borund seemed calm, more calm than Nikandr could ever remember him being.

He told them the same things he’d told his mother, how the Kamarisi, before he’d been killed by Datha in the streets of Alekeşir, had told him of Bahett’s plans, how Sariya had arranged for it all with the men and women of Kohor, how strange new ships had been built on Ghayavand. He mentioned the attacks on the islands as well, for if he left it for them to say, it would be a mark used against him.

“So you know that our islands are being attacked,” Yegor said.

“I do.”

Yegor sat more stiffly in his chair. “Then what, good Khalakovo, would you have us do now?”

“I would have you wait. Do not fall into the trap Sariya has laid for us.”

“You would leave us defenseless,” Yevgeny said.

“
Nyet
. Prepare the fleet. Position our ships to meet the threat. But under no circumstances can we approach Ghayavand.”

“Because Sariya wishes it…”

“Because she has been working these past two years to orchestrate that very thing.”

“You said she was in the Gaji.”

“She was, but before going there she spent time in Alekeşir, enthralling Hakan’s son before taking Nasim to Shadam Khoreh. There were those in Kohor who became her allies as well, and many were sent to Ghayavand to begin preparations.”

Borund leaned back in his chair, which creaked beneath his stout frame. “There is one difficulty, of course.”

“You speak of Leonid.”

Borund nodded, his jowls folding as he did so. “Our Grand Duke.”

“He is our Grand Duke, but he does not rule in your stead. You are all the dukes of your own islands, are you not?”

“That may be,” Borund said. “But we are now at war, and we defer to Dhalingrad to lead us.”

“Leonid is foolhardy.”

“He’s taken us deep into the Empire’s territory.”

“We all know that Yrstanla was woefully unprepared after Hakan’s gambit on Galahesh failed. Any one of you could have taken us this far, but I daresay you wouldn’t have done so as quickly. You wouldn’t leave our lines of supply so open to attack.”

None of the dukes nodded, none of them said a word, but Nikandr could tell he’d scored a mark. They knew as well as he did how vulnerable the islands now were. It was only because the Empire had wasted their resources in Hakan’s blindness that the islands hadn’t been attacked on another front. That and the fact that the Maharraht had been decimated by the events on Rafsuhan and Galahesh.

Borund, apparently uncomfortable with the silence, shifted in his chair and said, “We defer to the Grand Duke.”

“Only until Council is held.”

“The Mantle is not passed on at Council, Nikandr.”

“It once did. Else why is there a vote of confidence the opening day of each Council? The Covenant of Anuskaya details that the vote shall be made, each year, or when five of nine demand it.”

Yevgeny seemed to be the uncomfortable one now. He was a man built on tradition and ceremony, and that made him uneasy with change. “No one has paid attention to such things for a hundred years.”

“And yet it is there, so that if the Grand Duke takes us to a place of woe or desperation, he can be unseated.” Nikandr paused for a moment before continuing. “For the good of the Grand Duchy.”

Yegor said, “But he hasn’t done such a thing. Not yet.”

“He will. When he learns of the ships on Ghayavand, he will send our entire fleet to root it out, for it will not only expose his mistakes, it will shine light upon them. He’ll wish to correct it before anyone says anything against him.”

“As he should,” Yegor replied.

“In other circumstances, I would agree. But not in this. It will spell our ruin.” Nikandr raised his hand to them, seeing all of them ready to speak. “You may put little trust in me. None of us has seen eye to eye at various times in the past, and I’ve not helped, as brashly as I’ve acted. I grant you all this, My Lord Dukes. But you must agree that I’ve always worked to protect our Grand Duchy. I love our islands above all else. These have been strange times to live in. The blight. The wasting. The rifts. At first we all doubted their existence. I was no different from you. And now we all acknowledge them as truth. As things to be respected, even feared. We all agree that if we continue on the same course as we have been, the islands are doomed. Is this not the very reason Leonid has pushed so hard to gain a foothold on the Motherland? He fears we’ll soon lose the islands entirely. And he would be right if the rifts were simply left to spread on their own. But they are
not
being left alone. Sariya has plans for them. And she is dearly hoping we’ll fall into her trap. Do not do so, My Lords. Do not give her what she seeks.”

“Which is what?” Borund asked.

“Can it be anything less than what she and Muqallad sought over the Straits of Galahesh? She hopes to bring about indaraqiram.”

In the silence that followed, Nikandr looked to each of them. The brazier had died further, making each of the dukes look as though he’d been dipped in blood.

“Leonid may agree with you, Nikandr.” This came from Konstantin, an ally Nikandr had never expected to find among the southern duchies.

“And he should be given that chance. Grant me an audience with him tomorrow, and I’ll present these choices to him.”

“And if he doesn’t agree?” Borund asked.

“Then I ask that you call Council and vote him down.”

The dukes shifted in their seats.

“You don’t have the votes,” Borund said.

“Not yet, but Ranos is on his way. He’ll be here in two days if all goes well.”

As the reality of this struck the gathered dukes, the tent went deadly silent, which was good news for Nikandr. He thought they might force him from the tent, refuse to listen to him, perhaps drag him before Leonid to explain himself—no matter that he was next in line for the Scepter of Khalakovo. The fact that they were quiet meant they were considering, and if they were considering, they would see just how reckless Leonid had been. Most of all, though, they would realize just how dangerous a gamble it was. Send in ships, and they risked losing all. Wait, and it would give Nikandr and others time to find Sariya and remove her from Ghayavand.

“Go to your brother’s tent, Nikandr. We will discuss it. We’ll tell you of our decision in the morning.”

Nikandr stood and bowed to them. He felt confident that he’d won them over. But as he left the tent and the cold of night swept over him, and their looks of doubt began playing within his mind, he wondered if he’d misplaced his trust.

But what was he to do? He had to trust. The Grand Duchy was not built on one island alone, nor one man.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Nikandr was led to the tent of Khalakovo, and inside, he was surprised to see Isaak, his father’s seneschal, sitting with bent back at an impossibly small desk, writing a letter. A lantern hung from the roof of the tent, lighting Isaak’s wrinkle-lined face with deep shadows and golden light.

“Isaak, what in the name of the ancients are you doing here?”

Isaak turned in his chair and took him in with a perturbed look on his face. His long white beard waggled as he spoke. “Don’t use their name in vain, and I could ask the same of you.”

“I’ve come to prevent our Grand Duke from making a grave mistake.”

“
Have
you?”

“I have.” Nikandr moved to one of the many cots in the darker portion of the tent, pulled off his cherkesska and sword belt, threw them down, and fell into the cot, not even bothering to remove his boots.

“Boots off, My Good Prince. You may leave them by the door.”

“I’m no longer a child,” Nikandr said, his eyes covered by the arm he’d draped over them. All of the stress from the Gaji, from Shadam Khoreh, from Alekeşir and the chase here toward Izlo, all felt as though it had been building and was shedding from him only now—now that he’d reached a touchstone from his childhood.

“Then you should know better. Off with your boots or it’s off with your head.” A phrase Nikandr hadn’t heard in twenty years. He couldn’t help but smile. “And then get you some rest. You look like you’ve one foot in your grave.”

Nikandr took off his boots as he’d been bade, set them by the door and fell back into the cot. The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was the soft
scritch scratch
of Isaak’s writing.

When he woke, it was to someone shaking his shoulder.

He jerked upright and found the tent occupied by a stout man with a long beard with a white streak running down the middle. On his head was a pale blue kolpak trimmed in black fur. In the center of it was a brooch of a rearing bear, the sign of Dhalingrad. Nikandr hadn’t seen him in years, but once he’d wiped the sleep from his eyes he recognized him. Vadim Dhalingrad, Leonid’s second son.

Two streltsi stood behind him. Both with hands upon their belted pistols.

Nikandr looked to them coolly, then met Vadim’s gaze.

“Up, Khalakovo.”

“Would you like some tea, Vadya?”

Vadim reared back his hand to slap Nikandr, but Nikandr was too quick. He leaned back, making Vadim miss, and then rolled backward off the cot.

By the time he’d risen to a stand, the hands of the streltsi had shifted from merely resting on the butt of their pistols to gripping them.

“I wonder if you could take me to see the Grand Duke. There is much we must speak of.”

Vadim, ten years Nikandr’s senior, went red in the face. He looked as though he was ready to draw the shashka that hung from his belt, but Nikandr was within easy reach of his own sword. As good as Vadim was reported to be, he wouldn’t draw his sword here, not against someone as good with a blade as Nikandr was, and not when he’d clearly been sent by his father to fetch Nikandr.

Without a word Vadim strode from the tent, leaving his men to wait for Nikandr.