“When did you sleep last, Dyanko?”
“I’ll do well enough, Khalakovo.” He took the last of his vodka in one fierce swallow and focused on Nikandr carefully. “Now would you please tell me what happened to the spire?”
Nikandr sat deeper into his chair. “I don’t like your tone, Vostroma. I was sent by your Lord to assist in what ways I could.”
“And a fine job you’ve done of it.”
“I came upon a keep that had already been taken. Where were your men?”
“Sent to the fighting, as you should have been. Why were you, the vaunted Hawk of Khalakovo, so far behind them?”
“My business is my own.”
“Would that your business had led you away from Elykstava.”
“I destroyed three ships that lay off your coast.” Nikandr stood, slapping the glass of vodka onto Dyanko’s desk untouched. The liquor splashed over his desk, wetting the disheveled pile of papers that lay there. “I found your keep taken and risked the lives of my crew to stop the Kamarisi’s men from destroying your spire. Three of my ships are lost, dozens are dead, and you wish that my business had led me away?”
When Dyanko answered, his eyes were heavy and bloodshot. It was only with difficulty that he looked up to Nikandr. “Trouble follows you, Nikandr Iaroslov. Even you must admit that.”
“You’re drunk,” Nikandr said, turning away. “Sleep it off if you would, but you will first authorize a ship for me to take to Kiravashya. I intend to leave at dawn.”
Nikandr headed for the door but stopped when the rook suddenly cawed in the corner. Both he and Dyanko turned to the bird. For long moments the rook craned its neck backward until its beak was digging into its dorsal feathers. It shivered and its eyes fluttered. A clucking sound emanated from its throat as if a hunk of rotted meat were stuck in it.
Then, without warning, it fell from the perch and landed on the floor with a hollow thump. It tried to flap its wings, tried to regain its footing, but the bird was either too weak or too disoriented to do so.
Nikandr moved toward it until Dyanko scooped the bird up and fell back into his chair. He stroked the bird’s head and back tenderly and made soft clucking sounds into its ear, and strangely the bird calmed itself.
The bird stopped rubbing its head against Dyanko’s fingers. “I come for Nik…” It was quiet for a time, but then it seemed to regain itself. “I come for Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo.”
Nikandr knew immediately it was Mother. He could hear it in the way even those few words had been spoken, and he could feel it in his chest, though it was terribly faint.
“I’m here, Mother.”
The rook did not respond. It returned to its bestial self, blinking slowly, making a creaking sound like the hinges of some ancient and forgotten chest. But then it began flapping its wings furiously. It bit Dyanko’s fingers. He howled and dropped the rook, and the moment he did, it flapped into the air, cawing loudly over and over again.
It landed on Nikandr’s shoulder and from this position stared at Dyanko. “He has men in the donjon, Nischka. Two of them. Men from Yrstanla.”
Dyanko looked up at the rook, and then met Nikandr’s eyes. There was a look of uncertainty there, as if he was no longer sure how far he could press his authority, even if it was with an unfavored prince and a fallen Matra.
“Is this true?” Nikandr asked.
Dyanko swallowed, eyes shifting, but then he nodded slowly and spoke carefully. “Nearly a dozen found their way to Skayil shortly after the spire fell. They stole a skiff, but we captured two of them.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“They are on Vostroman ground, My Lord Prince.” He glanced sidelong at the rook. “They will be given to the Grand Duke to do with as he would.”
Nikandr stood, his chair scraping loudly backward. As he did, the rook flapped to its perch. Nikandr could already tell that Mother had left. He was surprised she’d been able to do this much so shortly after the spire had fallen. No doubt Elykstava’s proximity to Khalakovo helped, but Mother had always been strong in the aether, particularly with assuming rooks and the like.
“Take me to them,” Nikandr said.
“I take no orders from a Khalakovo, certainly not this one.”
Nikandr rounded the desk, pulling his khanjar from his belt as he did so. Dyanko tried to stand, but Nikandr was too quick. He grabbed Dyanko by the collar of his coat and shoved him back into the chair, scraping it across the floor until he was pressed against the shelves filled with ledgers in the corner.
“I don’t know the sort of problems you might have in giving information to me, but I was sent by the Grand Duke’s son, Borund. I am a son of the Duke of Khalakovo. I am a prince of the realm, and we are at war.” He pulled Dyanko back and slammed his head hard against the shelves. “Put aside your superstitions, Dyanko, son of Kantin, or I swear by the ancients that preserve us I’ll run you through and deal with the rest later.”
Dyanko’s skin went porcelain. His breath came like a rabbit’s. He stared, eyes bulging, first at Nikandr, then at the khanjar leveled against his throat, and finally at the door, as if he wished to flee or call for help. Nikandr wondered if he might faint.
“You wouldn’t dare draw the blood of Vostroma.”
“I know the Grand Duke, Dyanko, better than you. My wrists might be slapped, but do you think he will do anything beyond this over a man he’s relegated to Elykstava?” He let these words sink in. “Or will he be glad to find your seat vacant and offer it to another who’s owed favors?”
Dyanko blinked. He seemed, for the first time, to consider what might come after his death. His breathing began to settle. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the anger had left, as had the fear.
Slowly, he nodded. “I will take you to them.”
After talking with the soldiers who’d captured the two Yrstanlan windsmen, Nikandr spent an hour questioning the first. His name was Sayad, and he eventually admitted-after several whippings from Styophan-that his rank on the ship had been that of boatswain. Only after threatening worse to the second prisoner had Sayad admitted that his shipmate was named Fuad and that he’d been the ship’s carpenter.
They left Sayad and traveled to another part of the donjon, one separated by distance and two heavy doors. When the gaoler opened the cell door, Styophan went in first, holding a short whip still wet with Sayad’s blood. Nikandr waited for a minute as silence settled inside the cell. Only then did Nikandr step inside.
The space was cramped and wet and cold. Fuad had seen perhaps fifty winters. His dark hair was long and wet and hung in matted locks down his cheeks and neck. His turban had been removed from him, making him look more like a wet rat than a windsman.
Nikandr sat on a bench, while Styophan stood above Fuad, gripping and re-gripping his whip.
“Why the spires, Fuad?” Nikandr asked in Yrstanlan.
“I would not know.”
“You must have heard something.”
“The Kamarisi ordered it.”
“For what reason? It would seem if he wanted the islands he would want the spires as well.”
“Perhaps he wishes simply for you to be gone.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought, Fuad. I asked what you’d heard.”
“I am a carpenter on a ship of the Empire. What would I have heard?”
“The men who took you,” Nikandr said. “Two of them spoke Yrstanlan.” Nikandr let the words sit between them. “When you fell from the skiff and your comrades returned for you, you were heard ordering them to leave.”
“You would do the same in my place.”
Nikandr smiled. “I very well might, and as the kapitan, I would expect them to heed it. I would expect them to do it smartly as well, as your men did.”