The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [179]
Radiskoye.
It was the last place she’d ever thought to find herself turning for help. It was a place she once, given the chance, would have burned to the ground. But times had changed. She had changed. And everything now rode on her ability to reach them.
CHAPTER 55
As Nikandr sat within one of the holds aboard the Kavda, the ship dipped and rose, dipped and rose. His stomach heaved. A pewter pot of water hung from a hook on the ceiling, but he didn’t have the heart to drink any more of it. It would only fuel his nausea.
They had been caught in a windstorm for over a day, but it felt like weeks. He had long since emptied his stomach onto the floorboards. He had thought himself a stout windsman, but he had always taken to the deck when things got bad. Never had he remained belowdecks—unable to gauge the winds—for more than a few hours at a time, and now that he had it had gotten to him.
Someone coughed. Nikandr looked up at Ervan and two of his men who were bracing themselves in the corner of the hold. They looked as sick as Nikandr felt. Other than Jahalan, Ashan, and Nasim—who were being kept in another hold somewhere on the ship—they were all that remained of the crew that he had brought with him on the Gorovna. He looked away, unable to hold Ervan’s gaze.
So many had died, but it was Pietr that occupied his mind the most. The others had died trying to save themselves, but Pietr—if Ashan was to be believed—had given himself willingly that Nikandr might live.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Ervan asked, his voice a croak.
It took Nikandr some time before he could reply, for his stomach always grew queasy with words. “I doubt—I doubt they would bring us to Vostroma. Grigory will—want to flaunt his prize”—he coughed—“in front of the dukes. And Vostroma, no doubt, will want to use me as a bargaining chip.”
Through the floorboards Nikandr could feel and hear wooden gears turning. Finally there came a heavy thud. Immediately the ship began to turn, to right itself so that it was once again aligned with the ley lines running from Vostroma to Khalakovo. They had reached the currents where the ship’s keel could once again be used to maneuver the ship—as it was meant to be—and even though this meant they were close to being handed over to the traitor dukes, Nikandr didn’t care. He would give almost anything for a break from the incessant movement.
Eventually, the ship began to glide more surely on the wind, and Nikandr took heart, taking it as a good omen despite their circumstances.
A short while later, a muffled cawing filtered down into the bowels of the ship. The rooks often called this way when landing on a ship, but the sounds kept going and going. It was ragged and raw and desperate, and he wondered whether someone was trying to kill the thing. Yelling could be heard over the bird’s caws, and though it was difficult to tell for certain, it sounded like Grigory. It continued for some time, the voice becoming higher in pitch and urgency.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway a short time later. Three streltsi opened the door and ordered Nikandr and Ervan up to the deck. They were led to the rear of the ship where standing over Nasim was Grigory holding a cocked pistol.
An old rook was flapping around the deck like a fish. After a moment, Nikandr recognized the old, miserable thing. It was missing one foot and had been with the Bolgravyas for more than two decades. Brunhald was its name, and it had seemed old when he had first laid eyes on it as a boy, now it seemed positively ancient—its feathers ragged, a bald patch on the back of its head, its beak chipped and misshapen.
Grigory, who was more used to the wasting than most, stared at Nikandr with a faint look of disgust, as if he didn’t dare step too close lest the wasting take him as well. He pointed the pistol at Nikandr’s chest. “What has he done?”
Nikandr