Soroush did not question, nor did he linger. The two of them merely nodded to one another and went their separate ways.
As the bulk of the Maharraht walked down the path toward Iramanshah, Soroush’s skiffs returned to the Bhadyar, and soon the ship was away. The Chaika took wing and headed back out to sea the way they’d come. They rounded the island and approached the eyrie from the south, so as to pretend that they had come directly from Rafsuhan. Nikandr thought surely there would be a ship sent to find them, but none came, and by the time the sun rose in the east, he hoped that the Matra he’d sensed had not understood what she was seeing. Perhaps she was too far away to see clearly. Or perhaps she’d seen Nikandr and reasoned that whatever was happening was innocent.
The sun had risen fully by the time they approached the eyrie. Early morning light shone bright against the massive cliffs and the long stone quays. The eyrie held five dozen perches, but there were only a dozen being used, and these only by smaller crafts unfit for flying between the duchies. The ships of war had already flown westward toward Vostroma.
After the eyrie master had signaled them their berth and they’d moored to the perch, Nikandr left the ship, planning to head for the stables to fetch a pony, but he hadn’t even finished navigating the quay when he saw his brother Ranos and several men in gray cherkesskas and square woolen caps-the uniform of the Staaya-approaching him.
He knew immediately. He knew that Nataliya had seen him. Knew that Ranos had been alerted. Knew that he and his men were now in grave danger.
Ranos looked haggard. His beard and mustache were trim, as always, but his eyes were dark and the skin along his cheeks and neck seemed to sag, giving the impression of a man who was eating less and drinking more. These past few years serving under Borund had not been kind to him.
“Quickly,” Ranos said as he put his arm around Nikandr-not in a brotherly way, but as he might do for someone he was trying to shelter-and led him toward the square that housed the eyrie’s offices.
“What did Mother tell you?” Nikandr asked.
“Be quiet until we can make it out of this square and to the-”
Ranos’s words trailed off as two full desyatni-twenty soldiers-wearing the uniforms of Vostroma entered the square. As it had been since Father had ceded the Duchy to Borund, the Khalakovos had nominal control over the larger cities and the eyrie. The Vostromas lorded themselves over just about everything else.
The desyatnik of the soldiers, seeing them, called a halt and slipped down from the saddle of his pony. He walked purposefully across the square, as nearly everyone else-windsmen and landsmen alike-cleared the way.
Nikandr groaned inwardly. He knew the officer. His name was Feyodor. He was old, burly, and angry that he’d been passed up for promotion for years, and though he seemed to know that his failure to rise among the ranks and his quick temper both stemmed from his drinking, it did little to stop him from taking it out on anyone who found themselves in his way. Borund was in a foul mood indeed if he’d sent Feyodor to detain Nikandr.
Feyodor held up his hand as Nikandr and Ranos approached. Ranos, however, held Nikandr’s arm tightly and guided him toward a handful of ponies, where two more Khalakovan streltsi stood.
The Vostroman soldiers dismounted, most of them ordering themselves into ranks, weapons at the ready, as the others gathered the ponies.
“Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo, halt!”
Ranos kept on pulling Nikandr along until they both heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Even then Ranos was still determined to continue, but Nikandr feared that if Feyodor were pushed too far, he might indeed fire, and as poor a shot as the man was reported to be, he might hit Ranos, so he stopped and turned.
Ranos immediately stepped between him and Feyodor. “He is my charge, Feyodor. He’s returning with me to Volgorod.”
“The Duke requires your brother’s presence, Boyar.” Feyodor’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he dearly wished to be still sleeping, not standing at the eyrie in the day’s early light. He took one step forward, past his men, and spoke low to Ranos, the pistol still pointed toward Nikandr. “I don’t know what he did, but I’ve not seen Borund so angry in years. Best he come now. Things will simmer down before nightfall and you’ll have him back, safe and sound in the Boyar’s mansion.” He glanced once over his shoulder. “I’ll bring him myself if you’ll only step down.”
“I won’t, Feyodor. He is a Khalakovo, and we stand on Khalakovan ground. He’ll not be taken like a criminal to stand before an interloper.”
Feyodor’s watery eyes hardened. “He will, Boyar. Trust me in this.”
Ranos was prepared to press the issue. The tensions between him and Borund had always run high, but the last year had been filled with a series of escalating incidents. The palotza would levy new taxes from Volgorod so that Borund could funnel more of Khalakovo’s money to Vostroma. Ranos would find ways to tilt the books so that the levies produced only a quarter of what Borund had hoped. Borund would levy more in turn, forcing Ranos to become even more creative.
It had gotten to the point that armed men from the palotza were escorting tax officials to businesses without leave from the Boyar, who by the strict reading of the treaty needed to approve their presence.
Nikandr stepped in front of Ranos.
Feyodor was edgy, and worried about losing face, a terrible combination in a man such as him, but he lowered his pistol when Nikandr raised his hands.
“I’ll go,” Nikandr said, more for Ranos’s benefit than Feyodor’s.
Ranos breathed heavily, his gaze alternating between Feyodor and Nikandr. He seemed shocked at what Nikandr had done, betrayed, but as the seconds ticked by his shoulders dropped and he released a slow breath.
“Treat him well, Feyodor,” Ranos said, “or I’ll come for your head.”
The muscles along Feyodor’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to reply, but he merely pointed Nikandr toward his ponies.
Nikandr mounted up, and in moments they were off, heading along the eyrie road toward Radiskoye.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Nikandr waited as the door to his cell clicked and opened.
As far as he could tell it was the afternoon of the next day. He’d been given only water and slim bits of dry bread since he’d come. He’d been famished since waking, but now the hunger had faded, replaced by a gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
Outside his cell, the rustle of a dress came. A moment later, the door clanked, and in strode Victania. Nikandr stood immediately, and as the guard closed the door and locked it, Nikandr embraced her.
“You look well,” he said.
And she did. Her cheeks were healthy and full, her eyes bright and sharp. He still marveled when he saw her, half expecting her to have succumbed to the wasting once more, but the ancients had been kind in this at least. Not only had she recovered physically, she’d regained her abilities with the dark. She’d become one of the strongest of the Matri, rivaling even Mother’s great strength.
“I’ll sit,” Nikandr said. “I fear this won’t be pleasant.”
“Don’t smile, Nischka, because it won’t. They know of your trip to Iramanshah.”
“I’d rather guessed, Tania. What happened? Mother said it was all arranged, that you’d be the one in the drowning basin.”
“Nataliya came and relieved me early. Somehow they suspected. Perhaps one of the other Matri warned her.” Victania paused, gathering her thoughts before speaking again. “They know of the Maharraht. They know you gave them safe passage to the island.”
“They were not Maharraht. They were Aramahn.”
“Don’t lie to me, Nikandr.”
“I’m not lying. They’ve forsaken the path of violence. The qiram among them are going to ask to be burned.”
“And the ones who left on the ship?”