The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [88]
“What might I do for the Boyar of Uyadensk?” Nikandr asked, bowing his head in mock sincerity.
“Put on your uniform, Nischka, and come with me.”
Nikandr took his brother in again. He was wearing his suit of office: the uniform of the Boyar. He ran to his room and retrieved his own, pulling it on as quickly as he could manage. “What’s happening?” he asked as he fell into step alongside Ranos.
“The Aramahn... They have come once again to petition for the boy’s release.”
“Why would that require my presence?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
They made their way to the first level of the palotza and traveled a long hallway to a chamber where Father held audience for matters of state. Dozens of Aramahn were waiting outside. Nikandr assumed they would shortly be allowed inside to speak with Father, but he was mistaken. When he opened the Duke’s entrance, he found the room packed wall-to-wall with robed Aramahn. There were some he recognized, but most he did not. This was not strange in itself given their transient nature, but the sheer number of them was. He had never seen so many of them in one place. Even in Iramanshah, large gatherings were rare, many of them preferring to meditate or to converse in small groups. They were an isolated lot, and this solidarity was troubling.
At the head of the room was a raised table with a dozen chairs facing the audience. Father’s secretary was calling the room to order. The array of men were seated: Father first, Pavol Andreyov, Polkovnik of the Streltsi, Veliky Pytorov, Admiral of the Staaya, Ranos and the four posadni of Uyadensk, and finally Nikandr.
“Who comes?” Father asked.
At the front of the crowd stood the seven mahtar of Iramanshah, all of them aged and venerable, their time among the winds behind them. Fahroz stood at the center, the honored position, and when the sounds of the gavel died away, she stepped forward. Her eyes mirrored the fiery layers of her robes, which were colored a deep orange. “My name is Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah.”
“State your cause.”
“We have come to petition for the release of Ashan Kida al Ahrumea and Nasim an Ashan.”
“Both are being held in the investigation of the death of Grand Duke Stasa Olegov Bolgravya.”
“As we well know, Duke Khalakovo. What we do not know is what gave the Duchy cause to suspect them and what has been discovered since.”
“As I’m sure you understand,” Father said in a rote manner, “with an investigation such as this is, our findings cannot at this time be shared.”
“Cannot or will not?”
A murmur ran through the crowd, and Father stiffened, striking the gavel several times until order was resumed.
“Will not.”
“Under the terms of the Covenant—”
“I know well the dictates of the Covenant, but it clearly allows us to defend ourselves against threats to the Grand Duchy.”
“You speak, of course, of the threat the suurahezhan represents, that it could very well have been summoned and sent by one of our own.”
Father remained silent.
“I will assume your silence, My Lord Duke, to mean assent. What I believe you fail to understand is that we are just as concerned. We are not so naïve as to think that the Aramahn are incorruptible. Far from it. We have only to look to the Maharraht to find examples. And so I hope you will share what you know so that we can assist, so that we can root out the infection in our midst before it spreads.”
Father was quiet for a time. Fahroz was speaking as if she believed the assumption that the Aramahn had been involved—in this lay her only hope to sway Father—but everyone in the room knew this was a sham. She was not lying, but she was trying to coax Father into sharing the information in any way she could or, failing that, make the entire Duchy look foolish for refusing.
“Your request is noted but denied.”
“We urge you to reconsider.”
“Noted,” Father said.
Fahroz nodded, as if she’d expected this answer. “We have been generous up to this point—”
Father knocked the gavel thrice. “Generous?”
Fahroz bowed her head respectfully, but this only seemed to