The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (46 page)

Nikandr paused, knowing the words he was about to say would drive a wedge between them—even more than their argument had, more than her pending marriage had—and yet he said them anyway. “
Nyet
, I cannot.”

He expected the rook to caw, to flap around the room as Atiana lost control as her emotions flew high. It did not, however. What it
did
do was much more disturbing. It stood completely still, one eye trained upon him, blinking once, twice, as thunder shook the air outside the chamber.

“You are needed, Khalakovo.”

Nikandr shivered at those words.

“I’m needed here.”

After one more brief pause, the rook flapped up to the ledge where Soroush’s musket lay, and then was gone in a rush of wings through the driving rain.

W
ith three streltsi walking ahead and another three behind, Atiana and Ishkyna strode among the stalls of the bazaar. Irkadiy was leading the guardsmen. He watched Atiana closely—making her feel overprotected—and yet it did little to silence her fears of being out in the open among so many in so foreign a place.

She’d finished speaking with Nikandr only that morning, and her anger was still high. But really, she should have expected it. He’d been invested in this—the rifts and the healing of those afflicted by the wasting—for so long he’d become blinded by it. He thought that what he needed to do to protect his homeland was to solve the riddle of the rifts, but there came a time when one had to fight the threat that lay directly before you. Later he could return to that if he so chose, but not now. Not when the Grand Duchy itself was threatened.

And yet, he was a grown man, a stubborn man at times, and there would be no changing his mind. Not until the events on Rafsuhan played themselves out.

As they wended their way toward the granite edifice that marked the center of the bazaar, Atiana watched among the dozens of stalls she could see, wondering who might be watching them, wondering if anyone was following or lay in wait ahead. The vendors behind their tables looked up as they approached, sensing money. Their hawkers bowed, displaying wares in their extended hands—trinkets of every imaginable color; kaftans and slippers of fine silk; kolpaks of worsted wool; glass pitchers, red or golden or blue, bright from the sun shining down through the cloth over the stalls; weapons and shields and armor, most of it decorative or so old they would be useless on the battlefield; the skins of animals, supple leather or striped fur or scaly hide. There were even curious inventions—clocks that struck the time on the hour; miniatures that when wound properly would play a lonely, foreign tune upon a tiny mechanical harp.

Atiana saw all of this, but she also found herself studying the vendors and buyers for things amiss. She never saw anyone openly staring at her, but she became convinced that they were watching her from the corners of their eyes, or spying upon her once she’d passed.

Only the food made her pause. There were spices and herbs and roots. There was smoked fish, sweetmeats, pickled goat’s feet. There were grapes and melons and beans, braided garlic and a sea of onions and potatoes. Nearly every stall that sold food—and a good many that didn’t—had hanging from their tents clusters of bottles filled with wine the color of garnet and ruby and evening primrose. It was a wonder that there was any shortage of food whatsoever among the islands, but no sooner had the thought occurred to her than the sheer number of people walking through the bazaar registered. There were hundreds of thousands in Baressa, and nearly as many on the island of Oramka to the north. There was food, but there was no shortage of mouths to feed, either.

The bazaar’s central structure was closer now, and it was more massive than Atiana had realized. It was called the Kirzan, the rock, and it had once been the seat of power on Galahesh, abandoned after the War of Seven Seas. The men of Yrstanla had always been a suspicious lot, and they had practically given it away after the peace treaties with the young Grand Duchy had been signed.

Early this morning she and Ishkyna had received a note from Vaasak Dhalingrad to come to the Kirzan at midday
to discuss the arrangements of the new treaty
, but Atiana knew it was no such thing. Something had happened. She just didn’t know what.

Beside her, Ishkyna walked soberly. She had looked at hardly a thing since entering the bazaar—she’d merely matched Atiana’s pace, staring straight ahead, allowing the sights and sounds and smells of the bazaar to wash over her like rain—but then she came to a stall selling matroyshkas, and she stopped. There were dozens of them, red and green and purple, but she looked at only one. A bright yellow doll with a patterned blue babushka. She opened it slowly, almost reverently, to reveal the second doll hidden within. She set the larger one aside and opened the others, each one smaller, hiding within the larger doll, until she came to one that was as small as her thumb. Her hands shook as she opened this last. She stared within the empty confines as Atiana came to her side.

“What is it?” Atiana asked.

Ishkyna ignored her. “How much?”

The old woman sitting behind the table, clearly a woman of the islands, had a scar along her throat. She did not smile nor stand up from her stool where she was carefully painting another matroyshka. She held up three fingers for Ishkyna to see, and then she went back to her painting.

Ishkyna carefully put the matroyshka back together again and reached inside the purse at her wrist. She pulled out a medallion of gold. It was a coin of Anuskaya, but it could easily buy every doll in the stall. Ishkyna placed it on the table. The dull thump the coin made on the cloth-covered table made the woman look up. She stared at Ishkyna, her eyes hard but not harsh. She glanced at Atiana then, and then the streltsi around them.

Ishkyna put the matroyshka in her cloth purse and walked away. The streltsi looked to one another, worried, but without saying a word the three ahead followed Ishkyna while the other three remained.

When Atiana looked back to the table, the coin was gone, and the woman had gone back to her painting.

When Atiana had caught up to Ishkyna, she asked, “Do you mind telling me what that was about?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I know, but it’s important to you.” She meant that it would therefore also be important to
her
, but Ishkyna merely sniffed and kept walking.

Finally the bazaar fell away and the bulk of the Kirzan towered over them. It stood on the highest point of the bazaar, watching the land around sleepily, as a lynx watches the snowy field. At the top of the stairs, beneath tall colonnades, were brass-bound doors and two city guardsmen. The guardsmen took note of them, but little more than that, and they were soon through doors and into the interior, which held more stalls. These stalls, however, housed glass cases and refined men standing behind them. They stood wearing bright silk turbans and fine kaftans, waiting and smiling patiently if they weren’t already speaking with a patron, of which there were few.

Irkadiy led the way to a curving set of marble stairs that led to the second floor. There was a wide, open hall. The floor was covered in a variety of mismatched carpets that somehow complemented one another. Sitting at a large, round table in the center of the room were Vaasak Dhalingrad, Atiana’s father—

And Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya.

Atiana stared for long, confused moments, unable to comprehend Grigory’s presence, here of all places. Galahesh felt so foreign. To find someone so rooted in her past, someone so vile to her, was as jarring as falling from the rigging of a windship. Nikandr’s refusal to return to Vostroma was even more infuriating than only moments ago. To have Grigory here only served to remind her of the distance that stood between her and her love, a gap as wide as the straits and getting wider.

Father rose after speaking low to Vaasak and Grigory. “Welcome, daughters.” As Atiana and Ishkyna approached, the other men rose and bowed while Father granted them a smile. He stepped in to kiss Ishkyna. The two of them touched stones, and then he turned to Atiana.

“What is
he
doing here?” Atiana asked before he could move to embrace her.

Ishkyna had not moved toward the table. She was staring at Grigory with a look of unbridled disgust. Ishkyna—even more than Mileva—had been protective of Atiana after learning what he’d done.

Father’s sleepy eyes glanced back to one side, toward the table. “Atiana,” he said, his voice low. “Had I been able, I would have strung him in the courtyard of Galostina for all to see, but such a thing
wasn’t
possible, nor is it possible for me now to tell his brother, the Duke, whom to send to represent him.”

“A dozen others could have taken his place.”

“Konstantin would beg to differ, and his stakes are high in this. There are few enough Bolgravyas left after what happened on Khalakovo. I would think of anyone
you
would understand this. Now come”—he held his stone out for her to touch—“we have much to discuss, and the sooner we have it done, the sooner Grigory will be gone.”

Atiana swallowed her next words, for they were petty. She detested that Grigory had crawled his way back into her life, but there was little enough to do about it now. She took her soulstone and touched Father’s. She felt the warmth within her chest expand ever so slightly. They had touched stones only weeks before, but it was nice to do so again after feeling so alone in this foreign place.

Father led them to the table and waited until she and Ishkyna had taken their seats. Grigory and Vaasak, who had stood at her approach, sat, followed at last by Father.

“Now,” Father said, motioning to Vaasak, “finish what you were saying.”

Vaasak bowed his head. There were empty glasses before Atiana and Ishkyna. Vaasak took up a blue bottle of vodka and poured healthy servings for them both. “I was saying, Your Highness, that the papers are nearly ready. I’ve been dealing closely with Siha
ş
, and I believe that they’re nearly ready for your signature. Only one obstacle remains.”

Father straightened himself in his chair. “And what would that be?”

“The Kamarisi wants an additional tribute of gems each year. One thousand more of each.”

Vaasak and Grigory watched closely as Father considered these words. Atiana could tell he was tense. The forefinger of his right hand tapped against the inlaid mosaic of the table. Atiana was not privy to all of the numbers from the mines, but a thousand more of each would be nearly impossible. They could barely conduct trade with such a hit to their yearly totals, much less fend off the Maharraht and their incessant attacks, especially considering how viciously they’d been attacking Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk.

“A thousand cannot be allowed,” Father said. His voice was breathy, as if he were speaking only to himself, as if he knew exactly what this demand meant.

Vaasak was already nodding his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I pushed him. I tried to maneuver to half that. I offered windships, iron, gold.” Vaasak lowered his voice and leaned in toward Father. “I even offered him his choice of brides, but Siha
ş
would have none of it. On this the Kamarisi is adamant.”

Father’s chair creaked as he slumped further into it. He stared at the table, mesmerized, while continuing to tap his finger. “He knows we have no choice.”

“You can’t be considering this,” Atiana said. “The Kamarisi is setting a trap.”

Father turned to her calmly, his heavy eyes weighing her before he spoke.

“Your mother told me of your warnings, but what if you’re wrong?”

“What if I’m right?”

“If you’re right then I may very well be making a poor decision this day. But if you’re wrong, and we pull away from the table, we will not be able to find our place at it again.”

“He will take you, Father, or kill you.”

“We are not enemies, Atiana. He has a war raging to the west. He has unrest brewing in the north. He has discontent festering in places he thought to be his most loyal. He has nothing to gain by attempting to retake something that has been out of the Empire’s reach for generations.”

“If he can gain the islands, he will have more than enough resources to win to the west, to stifle whatever uprising might be brewing in the north. With a victory over the islands, discontent will turn to satisfaction. Do not risk yourself—”

Father pounded his fist on the table, rattling the bottle and tipping over one of the glasses of vodka. As the vodka pattered onto the carpet, he spoke with an intensity that shocked Atiana. “I
must
risk it! We are dying, daughter! Vostroman, Bolgravyan, Khalakovan. Mirkotski and Rhavankan. We are being dragged beneath the waves. By the blight. By the Maharraht. By the wasting, still, no matter what your beloved Nikandr might think he is doing for hearth and home. We are pulled low as the tide rises. Yrstanla makes demands. They wish for stones. They wish for wood. They wish for liquor.” He looked at her closely. “They wish even for our daughters. And what am I to do?”