The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (91 page)

He held his ankle tightly, grimacing in pain, but when he looked back up at the
Bhadyar
, there was a clear note of satisfaction in his eyes.

They fired more muskets. They fired their cannons as well, but the Hratha had caught them completely off guard.

Soroush, whose left arm was bloody, stormed over to Nikandr. “What have you done?”

Nikandr could only stare.

“He’s given them the Atalayina.”

Nikandr looked over and found Ushai, standing near the helm. Her expression was one of anger and cold hatred.

And he couldn’t blame her. All he could do was stare, and nod.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “I’ve given them the final piece.”

They looked for the Hratha ships, but they had had superior angle and speed. It was soon clear the enemy would not be caught. With the fog as thick as it was, they could not give chase, so they turned back. Soroush was still loath to return for Grigory, but the chance to add more fighting men to theirs was too important to pass up.

It took a little more than an hour of ringing their brass bell to hear Grigory’s reply. As they approached, Nikandr saw how badly the
Yarost
had been damaged. There were many men on deck. More than there would usually be. Most likely—however they’d managed it—Grigory had ferried as many men as he could to his ship before fleeing.

As his skiff drifted in and Nikandr threw the mooring ropes over, the crewmen eyed him with a mixture of wonder and awe. He had expected perhaps distrust or anger, but not a single windsman looked at him this way. Except for Grigory.

Grigory stalked forward across the deck and met Nikandr as he stepped down onto deck. Grigory looked tired, he looked angry, but the thing that made Nikandr worried was the fact that he looked embarrassed.

“How did you find us?” Grigory asked.

Nikandr stared over Grigory’s shoulder to Avayom Kirilov, a man who—despite flying in battle against Khalakovo five years ago—had been a true soldier and a stout kapitan for both Stasa Bolgravya and his son, Konstantin, after Stasa’s death. Avayom looked to Nikandr with an expression of apology, but Grigory was his commander. He could do nothing but pull his hands behind his cherkesska and wait for Grigory to play this out.

“Would you rather I hadn’t found you at all?”

Grigory’s face reddened. “You were flying with Maharraht ships. We saw you descend.”

“They have allied with us. They would not have Muqallad destroy Galahesh and the islands with it.”

Spit flew as Grigory shouted, “And I would?”

“Grigory,” Nikandr said softly. “Let us retire to your cabin. There are things we should discuss.”

“What we must
discuss
are your traitorous actions. First, you
stole
this ship from Kiravashya’s eyrie.”

Nikandr looked to the helm. Behind it, at a post made for the purpose, was a rook. He had seen it as he approached the ship, but he thought it merely a rook ready to be used, separated by a distance too great for the Matri to assume it and communicate with Grigory. But now he realized the storm must have died enough for the Matri—most likely Radia Vostroma or Iyana Dhalingrad—to tell him what had happened on Kiravashya.

“Your brother gave me that ship.”

“A right he no longer had, Khalakovo. It was a ship needed in the defense of the realm, a ship he had already given to the Grand Duke in our time of need.”

“With his own, a duke can do what he will. Is it not so?”

Grigory raised his voice until he was practically shouting. “And though I ordered you to guard our ships, you’ve come, and you’ve done so arm-in-arm with the Maharraht.”

“There are strange things afoot, Grigory.”

“Strange things, indeed, but I tell you this, Nikandr Iaroslov, I will suffer no traitors on this ship.”

Nikandr stepped forward until the two of them were close enough to strike blows. “I am no traitor, Bolgravya.”

Before Nikandr knew it Grigory had pulled the kindjal from its sheath at his belt. The knife shook in his hands, and his eyes were wild as he stalked forward.

Nikandr backed away, ready to grab for Grigory’s arm should he lunge. Styophan was ready to jump in and grab Grigory, but Nikandr waved him away. If he did that, there would be no turning back.

“My Lord Prince!” This was from Avayom. “There is another way to solve this.”

Grigory’s eyes lost none of their craze, but he stopped. He waited for Avayom to continue.

“
Bazh na bazh
,” Avayom said. “Settle it once and for all and be done with it.”

Grigory looked to Avayom, and then back to Nikandr.

Bazh na bazh
was a duel—pistols, usually, followed by swords if neither had been felled. Nikandr was confused why Avayom would offer this solution—Grigory could, after all, merely order Nikandr belowdecks as he had before, with no consequences—but then Nikandr realized that perhaps Avayom
wanted
Nikandr to win. Grigory was known to be a decent shot, but in his state he would probably miss. And if it came to swords, there was little doubt as to the outcome. It made Nikandr wonder just what had gone on since Grigory had abandoned them on the cliffs.

Grigory, after glancing to the faces of the men around the ship, nodded sharply. There was really no choice in the matter—not any longer. Once Avayom had stated that the challenge could be made, it was implied that Grigory would accept. If he didn’t, he would lose face, and that, for whatever reason, was not something Grigory would allow himself to do.

Nikandr nodded as well.

In the minutes that followed, the two of them were each allowed to prepare their pistols. Grigory loaded his carefully. Nikandr had to replace the flint that had been lost on the
Bhadyar
. It was still loaded, so he merely lifted the frizzen and added powder to the pan before closing it once more.

The crew cleared the windward side of the ship. Nikandr and Grigory paced to opposite ends. They turned and faced one another, each holding their weapon toward the sky.

Nikandr refused to lower his pistol. Grigory held his steady as well, waiting for Nikandr to fire first. Nikandr would not, however. If Grigory felt the need for this duel to continue, he would need to take the opening shot.

Realizing Nikandr’s intent, Grigory lowered his pistol and aimed.

Nikandr’s heart pounded in his chest.

Grigory fired.

The report of the pistol resounded over the ship.

The shot struck the bulwarks behind Nikandr.

Nikandr released his breath, realizing how mad this was.

He lowered his own pistol and aimed wide of Grigory. When he pulled the trigger, the pan flashed and the shot flew harmlessly over Grigory’s right shoulder.

In a moment Grigory had pulled his shashka and was stalking forward.

Nikandr pulled his own and the two of them met amidships. Nikandr beat off a flurry of hasty sword strokes. He retreated as Grigory expended a furious amount of energy. Their blades rang, and for a moment he wondered what Soroush must be thinking, hearing these sounds coming to them through the fog.

Nikandr baited Grigory over and over again, and eventually Grigory accepted. He lunged too deeply, and Nikandr sidestepped the thrust and brought the pommel of his sword across Grigory’s forehead.

Grigory was dazed, but he managed to nick Nikandr’s leg while falling backward.

Nikandr grit his teeth and stomped his boot onto Grigory’s sword. He dropped to one knee, keeping the blade firmly pressed against the deck and allowed Grigory to grab his sword hand. With both of Grigory’s hands occupied, Nikandr brought his fist down and across Grigory’s cheek. Grigory’s eyes fluttered for a moment.

Nikandr struck him again, the sound of it resounding through the deck. On the third strike, Grigory’s eyes went up in his head and his arms went slack.

A
tiana rode behind Siha
ş
on his pony over a snow-covered plain. After a night that had seemed endless, the sun was rising, and Atiana could see through the morning mist a keep that stood at the edge of the tall white cliffs.

It brought Atiana no relief whatsoever. They had ridden throughout the night, weaving through the cold streets of Baressa, skirting the Shattering and heading west as quickly as they could manage. They heard sounds of pursuit several times throughout the harrowing ride, but when their pursuers had come too close, the gallows crow had led them safely through danger. Once they had reached the city’s outskirts, they had found the streets not just empty and silent, but eerily so.

They may have found shelter, but Atiana’s mind was still afire. It was clear that Ishkyna wasn’t completely lost, and yet Atiana knew there was something deeply, deeply wrong. Ishkyna wasn’t acting normally, and she appeared to have risen in power sevenfold. To do what she’d done on the walls of the kasir and throughout the city… Ishkyna could never have done this. She was too undisciplined. Too uninterested in the aether to plumb its depths to such a degree.

But even Saphia Khalakovo could not have done what Ishkyna had done with apparent ease, as if she were
part
of the aether.

Perhaps she was. Atiana couldn’t know for sure, but she doubted Ishkyna had found her body lying in the upper reaches of the kasir.

Nyet
, Ishkyna had changed, perhaps for good.

As they reached an escarpment and began taking a narrow but gently sloped path down toward the keep, Siha
ş
glanced back at her. He’d been doing such things ever since there had been enough light. The look in his eyes was not one of distrust, but of judgment. It was a weighing look.

He doesn’t trust me
, she thought. He was wondering whether she should be left so that he could return to the Kamarisi and free his lord. He might come to the conclusion that killing her would be wisest. Her mind went wild with the possibilities, but Siha
ş
merely turned back and guided their pony onward.

His thoughts were anything but misguided. Ishkyna had revealed the truth. She had said that Atiana was still under Sariya’s spell, that she’d been under it for some time now—ever since the two of them had communed with one another in the aether—and yet, even knowing this, Atiana wasn’t sure. Ishkyna could be wrong, could she not? Atiana had been so close to Sariya. She had
known
her mind. Known it fully. As well as she knew her own.

She shook her head vigorously.

Had she been doing this all along? She couldn’t remember.

Siha
ş
glanced back.

“I’m fine,” she snapped in Anuskayan.

His face grew incrementally more grim.

“I’m fine,” she said, softer, this time in Yrstanlan.

“You’re troubled.”

“Of course I’m troubled.”

“I only mean to say it’s understandable.”

She didn’t respond, and after a time he cleared his throat. “The Kamarisi. I don’t know how I can reach him.”

She didn’t know Siha
ş
well, but she knew him well enough to know that this was a plea for help, for understanding. He was a man of cold steel and hot blood. He knew nothing of the Al-Aqim and the Matri and their powers of the dark.

Atiana’s attention was caught by movement near the top of the keep. Over the edge of the cliff, carried by the updrafts, was the gallows crow, its wings spread wide, motionless as it glided back and forth. For a moment it seemed like pure joy.

Atiana hoped it was.

Siha
ş
noticed her shift in attention and turned to look.

“We will speak with her,” Atiana said, “and we will see what can be done for the Kamarisi.”

They reached the keep, and Siha
ş
’s men took the ponies. Irkadiy joined Siha
ş
and Atiana on the second floor of the keep, a room filled with four beds and several old wooden chests. No sooner had they levered the lone window of the room open than the gallows crow flapped to the stones of the sill and rested there, taking in each of them in turn.