The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (89 page)

It was the
Bhadyar
, Nikandr realized, and Soroush was standing at the gunwale. His men were lowering ropes, but there’d be no chance to climb if the barque continued to pull them down. Nikandr reached the shrouds and climbed up as quickly as he could. He came to the nearest halyard that had been caught beneath the lowest of the foremast’s yards. He cut the rope as quickly as he could manage, but there were many more, and as they managed to cut some, the two ships would shift, pulling more of the barque’s rigging against their own.

He could feel the havaqiram aboard the ship above them trying to slow the descent of their ships, but these winds were beyond anything a lone havaqiram could hope to outmatch.

Nikandr tried to feel for his own hezhan once more, but again felt nothing, so he climbed further, to the uppermost reaches of the foremast where he and Vlanek sawed furiously at the ropes.

Suddenly the mast was pulled sharply windward. One of the galleon’s yards had slipped beneath the foremast’s shrouds.

“Cut the shroud!” he yelled.

Only Styophan remained on deck. He pulled his shashka and sliced it across the heavy ropes of the shroud. With four quick swings the shroud snapped up and away, and at last they were free.

Their brigantine floated out to sea, twisting in the wind like the seed of a sycamore. Nikandr leaned forward and kissed the mast, silently thanking the ship for its kindness.

By the time he’d climbed down to the deck, the
Bhadyar
had moved directly above them. The havaqiram above was skilled—Nikandr knew this much—for he was able to match both the pace and the slow spin of their ship. Nikandr and the others grabbed and steadied the rope ladders the Maharraht lowered, and in short order they were up and onto the deck of the
Bhadyar
.

Nikandr sat in Soroush’s cabin at the rear of the ship, sipping bitter araq from a sandalwood cup.

Soroush had asked him here once Nikandr’s men were all safe. He’d given him the araq to warm him up, but then had gone to see to the safety of the other ships. Nikandr had never been inside a cabin such as this. He’d been involved with the capture of four Maharraht ships; three of them had previously been Grand Duchy ships and one had been a ship built by the Maharraht themselves, but he’d never been inside one of the kapitans’ cabins. Colorful glass baubles hung from the ceiling, their colors mirrored by the carpets layering the floor. In one corner, a shisha was held in place by twine, and next to it was a shallow box with a hinged lid that no doubt held a variety of tabbaq.

Soroush returned some time after Nikandr’s second cupful, and by then Nikandr was finally beginning to feel the effects of the strong, fragrant liquor. “Your man from the cliff is safe,” he said, “but we could not find the one who fell.”

Nikandr nodded grimly. He wished they could have gone to the base of the cliffs to search for Mahrik, but it would have been foolish to do so with the storm as strong as it was. Most likely he’d fallen against the rocks below, or if he’d somehow made it to the sea he would quickly have been overwhelmed by the crashing waves.

“My thanks to you for saving us,” Nikandr said in Mahndi.

Soroush sat in the kapitan’s chair and poured himself a cup of araq. His turban and his beard twinkled with the gleam of melting snow. “A pity Mahrik could not be saved.”

Nikandr looked at him closely, surprised he remembered Mahrik’s name. He wondered just how heartfelt those words were, but he could sense no deception, and it made him wonder just how much the experience on Mirashadal and Rafsuhan had changed Soroush. This was a man that had led the Maharraht for years. He had always seemed ruthless, steadfast in his belief that for the Aramahn to be free the Landed must die. And now here he was, lamenting—genuinely—a Landed windsman he hardly knew.

“How did you find us?” Nikandr asked.

Soroush, staring beyond his cup of araq, took long moments to formulate his response. “We were skirting the edge of the Empire’s lands when we came upon a bird. A gallows crow.”

“A black bird with a white hood.”

“
Yeh
.” Soroush’s eyes were distant, as if he were reliving the moment. “It landed on a shroud and stared directly at me. One of the crew tried to scare it away, but it remained. Only when a musket was trained on it did it take flight, but it returned shortly thereafter and landed near the helm. Again the men wanted to kill it—fearful it was a bird sent by the Matri—but I forbade them.” Soroush’s voice became softer, almost reverent. “I came to the helm, and the bird pecked at the levers. I realized it was always pecking at the leftmost. Slowly, I pushed it inward, and the crow cawed furiously, but as I pulled it out, and the ship turned windward, it remained silent. Until we were heading on the bearing that took us directly over your position.” Soroush paused, shaking his head. “It must have been one of the Matri, but it never spoke. Why would this be?”

Nikandr shrugged. “I saw it as well, less than an hour before you came upon us. I thought I felt one of the Matri as well, but it was faint. Very faint. And then the bird left.”

“Whoever she was, you owe her your life. We would not have come upon you in the direction we were headed.”

“But why? Why are you here?”

“We’ve been skirting the Sea of Khurkhan for over a week, and the days before that we were watching the islands to the east.”

While giving Soroush a questioning look, Nikandr took a swig of his araq, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing.

“We had hoped to find the Hratha,” Soroush said. “After leaving you on Uyadensk we returned to Rafsuhan, but found almost no one. They had murdered any they could find before leaving the island.”

“What of Muqallad and the children?”

Soroush grit his jaw. There were tears welling in his eyes, but he blinked them away. “They were no longer children. They were akhoz, and of them we could find no sign. Those few that survived by hiding in the woods said that Muqallad left the island the day after the ritual.”

“With the Hratha?”

Soroush shook his head. “Thabash returned to Siafyan and there gathered more ships and men. And then he headed northwest, across the Sea of Khurkhan.”

Nikandr thought back to the glint he’d seen on the sea days before. It must have been Thabash and his men. “They’re headed for Galahesh,” Nikandr said, knowing it was true.

Soroush nodded and finished his araq, his lips pulling back from the bite of it. “I believe they go to meet Muqallad.”

“And to find the final piece of the Atalayina.”

“Perhaps,” Soroush said, “but they will not find it.”

“What do you mean?”

While drawing in a deep breath, Soroush glanced toward the door, then down at his desk. He seemed to come to some decision, for he leaned down, opened the drawer, and retrieved from it a satchel of the softest goat leather. After setting this on the desk and closing the drawer, he opened the satchel’s drawstring and pulled out a stone that was unmistakable. He set it on the desk near Nikandr. The knock it made against the wood sounded as though it were made of lead, not stone.

Nikandr picked it up. It was indeed heavy, more like pure gold than stone. The copper lines that ran through the blue stone lent it a raw beauty and an undeniable feeling of age, as if the stories about the fates having created it along with the worlds were true. He remembered Bersuq as he’d held the other two pieces—sisters to this one—above his head. He remembered Bersuq’s
will
as he’d kept himself from crying out, until eventually it had become too much and he’d released his pain to the uncaring sky.

He was also uncomfortably aware of what this stone would mean to Soroush. His brother had died in fusing the other two for Muqallad. Nikandr wasn’t sure in those waning moments whether Bersuq had questioned his decision. Surely he must have, and if
he
had thought this way, what must
Soroush
think? If he believed Bersuq had been misled, it would only fuel Soroush’s determination.

“How did you come by it?” Nikandr asked.

Before Soroush could respond, soft footsteps approached the cabin door. The door opened, and in stepped a woman in robes of blood red. She wore a simple headdress of silver and pearls, and at the center of her brow rested a stone of alabaster, softly glowing in the dim light. She was striking, especially her eyes, which were bright and piercing, as if she could understand one’s very nature with but a glance.

She stared down at the stone Nikandr held in his hands. One of her hands was heavily bandaged, but with the other she stepped forward and snatched it from him. “You would share this with
him
?”

Soroush leaned back in his chair, as calm as a frozen lake. “You would rather I kept it hidden?”

“
Yeh
! He has no right to even look upon it.”

As she said these words, Nikandr realized he knew this woman. “You are Ushai. You were once a disciple of Fahroz.”

She glanced at Nikandr, then turned her gaze back on Soroush. There was deep betrayal in her face, more than this stone could account for. And then Nikandr understood. She and Soroush were lovers. Or had been at one time.

“Whether you want to admit it or not,” Soroush said, “he has done much for us.”

“We don’t need him.”

Soroush shrugged and looked to Nikandr. “The fates have seen fit to bring us together once more. Who am I to deny them?” Ushai made to speak, but Soroush raised his hand. “Enough. He is here, and he will help us when we reach Galahesh.”

Ushai’s face turned to one of disgust. “He is a forgotten prince, lost among the seas. He can do nothing to help.”

Soroush stared up to Ushai and held out his hand. Ushai seemed angry at first, but then she softened and gently laid the Atalayina into the palm of Soroush’s hand.

“We shall see, Ushai.” Soroush stared into the depths of the Atalayina and smiled briefly. “We shall see what he can do.” Three days later—days filled with merciless winds and snow and hail—they approached the shores of Galahesh. Nikandr and Styophan stood at the bow of the
Bhadyar
, staring out into the gray fog that lay ahead of the ship. They flew low, close enough to see the white-tipped waves of the sea.

Nikandr was tense—tense because of the weather and the landing that would take place a little more than an hour from now. Soroush had brought seventy fighting men, a dozen of them qiram. They would land far to the north of Baressa and head south, some scouting ahead to find Muqallad’s hiding place, which they hoped would be somewhere near the Spar.

Visibility was down to a quarter-league, and the fog was becoming thicker. More than this, there was a source of discomfort in Nikandr’s chest. He’d woken with it this morning, and it had taken him some time to realize it was due to Nasim. He was to their southeast, somewhere on Galahesh.

The burning at the center of his chest told Nikandr something was wrong. It was akin to the feelings years ago on Uyadensk and Duzol, but this was different in that he’d felt nothing like it since Nasim had been healed. He didn’t know what this meant, but he was sure Nasim was in danger.

“The Spar will not be easy to bring down.” Styophan was leaning against the bulwarks, staring aft toward the three trailing ships.

“The keystones, Styophan. If we can destroy one, I hope it will be enough.”

“As you say, My Lord, but if it’s as simple as that, the Kamarisi will not leave it untended.”

“
Da
,” Nikandr replied, “but we will try.”

Styophan, as if taking silent inventory of the men they had at their disposal, chose not to reply, but it was clear he considered their mission suicide.

Soroush, after passing out final orders, joined Nikandr and Styophan and looked beyond the sails and into the fog.

“Where will we land?” Nikandr asked.

They had decided that attacking the Spar directly—while containing an element of surprise—would be unwise. They had munitions aboard the ships, and they might fire them all at one point along the massive structure, but it was still questionable whether this would be enough. It would most likely only damage the bridge, and that was an unacceptable outcome.

Soroush pointed out into the fog. “There is a deep vale ten leagues northwest of the Spar. We’ll moor the ships there and head inland toward Vihrosh. Bahett, the Kaymakam of Galahesh, keeps several small storehouses filled with munitions. One is particularly vulnerable. It is there that we will go.”

Revulsion flared up within Nikandr. This was the sort of information the Maharraht painstakingly collected. No doubt they had similar details for each of the Grand Duchy’s cities. That it helped Nikandr now didn’t change the fact that Soroush and his followers were still enemies of Anuskaya.