The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [7]
“And here he is,” Father said. “As promised.”
Nikandr embraced each of them in turn, kissing their cheeks as he did so. “Father... My Lord Duke... Welcome.”
Zhabyn, with his sleepy eyes and an expression that made it clear he was not amused, took Nikandr in, glancing toward the ship. “Your father tells me you worked on the ship yourself.”
“That is so,” Nikandr said, pleased he would take note.
Zhabyn turned to Father as if Nikandr were no longer present. “It had best perform, Khalakovo, no less than the others.”
Father smiled, pointedly ignoring Nikandr. “I have been assured that it will.”
Zhabyn stared up at the ship, his emotionless eyes somehow critical. He walked past Nikandr and strode up to the deck as if it were already his. Father, sparing a flash of disapproval for Nikandr, followed.
Nikandr’s sister, Victania, was speaking with Zhabyn’s son. She was covered in several layers, but it was clear to anyone who cared to look that she was not well. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips colorless. She had applied powder to her face, but the hollows of her eyes were dark, and there was no hiding the jaundice in the whites of her eyes. She was well along in the wasting, a disease that had grown more rampant over the last decade. Other islands like Rhavanki had had it worse in recent years, but if father’s physics were to be believed, Khalakovo seemed to be making up for lost time.
The disease struck randomly, with no apparent rhyme or reason. The peasants often thought that touch or breath caused it, but there had been too many cases of solitary souls contracting the disease, and a good many who came into contact with the afflicted but never became ill. It was looked upon as a sign of weakness by most, but in Victania Nikandr could see only strength. She was more active by half than most healthy women. She was doing her best to look beyond the disease, to do what she could with the time remaining to her.
As the gathered noblemen made their way to the deck, she broke away and pulled Nikandr aside. “It was not a wise choice you made this morning, Nischka. Zhabyn was ill pleased.”
“So it seems.”
“Borund as well. Mark me well, brother. You’d best see to it that your voyage is a pleasant one.”
“You worry too much. I merely came early to ensure that all was well with the ship.”
Borund, the heavily built son of Zhabyn, and one of Nikandr’s closest friends growing up, was just now taking the gangplank. He, like his father, was ignoring Nikandr for the present, but that would soon pass. They hadn’t seen one another in several years, but once they’d had a chance to talk their old habits would take over and they’d be playing jokes on one another as they’d always done.
“And what of last night? Their arrival?”
“The same.”
Victania scoffed.“Nyet, brother. Today you said your goodbyes to the ship and last night you said goodbye to your whore.”
“She’s no whore, Tania.”
“I don’t begrudge you your fun, Nischka. Ancients know you’ll have little enough of that once the chill of Vostroma’s daughter falls across your bed. But you’d best be careful. Father wants no complications.”
Nikandr suppressed his annoyance. “There will be no complications.”
“My dear Nikandr,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “there already are.”
Nikandr took in the crowd, wondering what she meant, but then he saw them. The three sisters. They were standing near the back, speaking with their Aunt Katerina. They wore billowing dresses, fur coats, and ermine caps, and though their tastes had grown apart in recent years, they were still dressed similarly enough to one another that a whole host of memories were dredged up from his childhood.
Katerina and two of the sisters—Mileva and Ishkyna—were staring up at the ship, but Atiana, Nikandr’s fiancée, was staring at him. He stared back, uncomfortable under her gaze, and surprisingly, more than a little embarrassed. When they were young, he and Borund used to tease them mercilessly.