Breaking from custom, Grigory did not welcome Nikandr onto his ship. He merely stared, waiting for Nikandr to state his business.
For Nikandr’s part, he was surprised at how quickly and vividly the memory of Grigory firing a shot into the chest of his man, Ervan, came to him, and more than this, his actions on the shores of Duzol… He’d left Atiana for dead after she’d caught a stray bullet in the struggles on Uyadensk.
He had tried to prepare himself for standing face-to-face with Grigory-he’d been imagining the scene ever since learning of Konstantin’s wish for Nikandr to find him-but now that he was here he found it difficult not to reach for the pistol hanging from his belt.
“Your brother has sent me,” Nikandr said at last.
“Has he now…” Grigory looked doubtful, as if he was sure, even before Nikandr presented evidence, that this was all some lie on Nikandr’s part to deceive him.
From the inside of his cherkesska, Nikandr pulled out the folded paper that had been waiting for him in the kapitan’s desk. It had Grigory’s name written upon it in Konstantin’s hand, and it had a red wax seal of Bolgravya holding it closed. After taking one deliberate step forward, he held it out for Grigory.
Grigory was too far away to accept it, and there was a clear note of reluctance on his face to meet Nikandr halfway, but his curiosity seemed to overcome any revulsion he still harbored for Nikandr, and he stepped forward and took it. He examined the seal carefully-more than was needed-and then cracked it open. He unfolded the note and read it twice before raising his gaze and staring at Nikandr. His face had already flushed, but now it was positively red.
He remained this way, his eyes boring into Nikandr, and then he turned his head and stared up at the cliff and the ships that were lashed to it.
When he turned back to Nikandr, something cold and hard had settled within him. Gone was the emotion. Gone was the redness of his skin. They had been replaced with a cold calculation that made Nikandr nervous.
“Take him and the others belowdecks,” Grigory said as he tucked the letter into his long black cherkesska and began walking toward the stern of the ship, “and place them in chains.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
W hen Nikandr woke in the hold of the Drakha, he had no idea how much time had passed. It had been near sunset when he’d been taken down and-as Grigory had ordered-placed in chains in the holding cell. He could see little outside the barred window set into the door, but he could see some light.
He vaguely recalled his own order to Styophan that he and the rest of his men comply with Grigory’s demands-there was no need for the duchies to be warring, not when they needed one another so desperately-but it all seemed so distant, so dreamlike, that he wondered if it had happened at all. Yet here he was in a cell, his legs manacled, the chain between them running through a stout ring set into the angled hull that acted as one of the cell’s four walls.
Despite the chains, despite lying on the floor, he’d fallen asleep nearly instantly once the streltsi had left him alone. He was still drowsy now, even though he was sure that he’d been asleep for over a day.
It was clear that they weren’t flying. The ship was too stable for that, though there was a creaking as the wind rocked the ship against the three landward masts. They couldn’t remain long, however. The janissaries would return. Had they been near a city of any size, they already would have, but they were at the eastern edges of the Empire, a region that hadn’t seen real war since the War of Seven Seas. It was a place that would have been drained of its fighting men long ago, leaving only the untrained and undisciplined ghazi in place with a handful of janissaries to command them when the need arose.
Much to the Grand Duchy’s advantage, as it turned out.
Nikandr wondered where his men were. Most likely they’d been spread among the rest of Grigory’s ships so that no resistance could be formed.
Nikandr took his soulstone in his hand and gripped it. He could not sense his havahezhan, but as tired as he was, as far as he had pushed it, he refused to do more than simply search for it. Surely if Grigory had known of his abilities he would have taken the stone from him. Even without this, he was surprised Grigory hadn’t taken it as he had years ago. Perhaps after doing so he had thought better of it. Or perhaps he didn’t care. They both knew they were far from the reach of the Matri.
In a few hours, the sun went down, and darkness reigned. He heard men coming and going, working on the ship in preparation of launching, most likely in the morning. Nikandr wondered when Grigory would come to see him, but then he thought that perhaps Grigory had decided not to. He had already ignored his brother Konstantin’s orders, and though he hadn’t apparently been able to bring himself to kill Nikandr outright, he’d decided to leave him where he would raise the fewest number of questions.
With that realization, and his continued feelings of exhaustion, Nikandr laid back on the floor and fell asleep.
When he woke again, he was not alone.
Grigory sat on a stool near the door. Light was coming in through the window. By the ancients, he’d slept through the entire night.
In his lap Grigory held a clay mug. When Nikandr had pulled himself up and propped himself against the hull, he leaned forward and set the mug near Nikandr’s feet. Nikandr could smell Grigory’s unwashed scent, even from this distance. It was the smell of a man who refused even so much as washing himself down with a wet rag as a proper windsman should.
As Grigory returned unsteadily to his stool, Nikandr noticed the pistol at his belt. His first thought was that it was only for show, that it was unloaded, but the more he thought about it, the more he doubted this. A sober Grigory might come with an empty pistol in an attempt to cow Nikandr. A drunk Grigory would bring a loaded one.
When Grigory fell onto the stool, Nikandr took the mug and drank the water within it quickly. After he’d set it down with a heavy thud against the deck, he met Grigory’s haunted eyes.
“How long have you been here?” Nikandr asked.
Grigory didn’t answer. He merely stared into Nikandr’s eyes as if trying to find the answers to the questions he dearly wished to ask but couldn’t ask of Nikandr.
“If you don’t wish to speak, leave. I can’t suffer to be in the room with a traitor to his own brother.”
“Why would he send you?” Grigory asked. His words were not slurred, but they were slow in coming.
“Did the letter not say?”
“Would I be asking if it did?”
“He sent me because no one else would come.”
“Because they didn’t believe you.”
Nikandr pulled himself higher. “Would you have?”
Grigory paused, his hand moving momentarily to the handle of the pistol before returning to rest on his thigh. The gesture was so casual Nikandr wasn’t even sure Grigory knew he’d done it. “The kapitan you found on Elykstava… Was he telling the truth?”
Nikandr nearly sighed, but he had to tread carefully with Grigory. He could not act dismissive or brash, but neither could he allow Grigory to bully him. “I pushed him hard, Grigory. If he were lying, I would have known.”
“But the Spar,” Grigory said. “If it were destroyed, would it… Do you think it would make a difference in the war?”
“ Da,” Nikandr said. “I think it would.”
Grigory’s eyes closed, and for long moments Nikandr thought he was falling asleep, but then they snapped open and focused on Nikandr once more. “Are you so great a kapitan that you could lead us there? Are you so great that you could destroy it with only a handful of ships?”
“I only know I must try.”
“Ah. Nikandr Iaroslov… Ever the comrade.”
“Grigory, you’re drunk.”
Grigory stared down at Nikandr, his face suddenly angry. He stood, his hand moving to the butt of his pistol. “Do you think I cannot do the same?” And then he drew it, pointing the barrel at Nikandr’s chest. “Do you think you’re the only one who can command a ship?”