The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [123]
The blast from a cannon rose above all else, but Atiana could not tear her gaze from the eyes of Duke Khalakovo.
He, as well, seemed so intent on her that he barely noticed the world around them. “Your father has stolen away men who were not his. And yet he leaves his daughter here.”
Atiana had always been able to keep a straight face when being questioned. She was as competent in this as Ishkyna and even better than Mileva. But this was different. Truth was on her side, but Iaros wouldn’t believe a word of it.
Her throat had gone dry. “It—” She cleared her throat. “It must have been a mistake.”
“My son is on that ship.”
Atiana swallowed again. “I am sorry.”
Iaros’s expression hardened. He snatched Atiana’s arm and collected the pistol from Ranos and then marched her down the hall. Her heart was already beating heavily, but now she felt it pound within her chest. She felt blood course through her ears. Her fingers and toes began to tingle.
Pulling Atiana behind him, Iaros pushed open the heavy doors leading to the garden. The fighting had subsided. The Olganya had begun to pull away from its perch, while the two ships next to it were fully ablaze. The Maharraht had gained the ship, but as Iaros stalked forward, his grip like an iron shackle, an angry shout spoken in Mahndi came from the Olganya’s deck. A moment later two bodies fell downward beyond the far edge of the ship. They were followed moments later by a skiff.
A flurry of new shots rang out, and Atiana cringed. Two men—Soroush and the other from the beach—leapt from the ship to the perch, the tails of their turbans fluttering behind them like pennants. They landed, at which point one of them crawled onto the back of the other. The two slipped over the side of the perch and were lost from view.
After several more musket shots from Father’s men, all was silence save for the sounds of the wounded and the roar of the nearby fire.
Duke Khalakovo summoned a lungful of breath and shouted. “Zhabyn!”
Several moments of silence followed. Iaros’s grip on Atiana’s arm tightened, and she feared that if her Father did not show himself Duke Khalakovo would simply shoot her like a mongrel dog.
Finally Father came to the edge of the ship and looked down. The ship was beginning to list.
Iaros’s breath came in great heaves through his nostrils. She couldn’t look at him. All she could do was stare at Father, who looked down on her with a steely expression.
Iaros raised his pistol and pointed it at Atiana’s temple.
She could feel the barrel, could feel it in her bones, in every part of her being. Part of her wanted to cringe, to curl up into a ball and pray to her ancestors that the trigger would not be pulled. But she would not—she would stand tall and accept her fate. She was Vostroman, after all.
The seconds passed, and the ship continued to drift. The bowsprit had caught itself in the rear rigging of the ship next to it.
Her brother’s voice bellowed from the deck of the Olganya, “Nikandr, stop!”
And Nikandr’s form leapt from the deck of the ship.
CHAPTER 35
Nikandr’s shoulder flared in pain as he leapt. He grabbed the gaff rigging and slid downward. His hands slipped, but he caught the rope in the crook of his arm. It burned his skin until he slammed into the rigging block, barely catching himself.
He looked up as the heat from the fire below him intensified. Borund stood at the gunwale of the Olganya. A moment later, his father appeared next to him. They were in dire trouble. Without a havaqiram they would be at the mercy of the winds. It was possible to control a ship without a havaqiram, using the keels to control the heading of the ship against the prevailing winds, but the larger the ship, the more difficult it became. The Olganya was no Aramahn skiff, and would not respond well to such maneuvers.
Nikandr slipped over the side of the ship and made it to the nearby perch. The heat from both ships was strong—so strong