The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [93]
“Can there be any doubt as to Nasim’s nature?”
Nikandr didn’t know what to think, but he had to admit the possibility was real. “What if it is so? What would you propose we do?”
“Give me time. Let me speak with the two of you together.”
“You don’t understand.” Nikandr tucked the stone back into his shirt. “The halls of Radiskoye grow tense. The dukes ask thrice each day over the progress we’ve made.”
“What do you tell them?”
“We tell them to wait, that we will soon find resolution.”
“And do they believe you?”
Nikandr shook his head. “At first they were content to let us conduct the investigation as we saw fit, but they are now requesting that they be allowed to ask the questions.”
If there was any concern in Ashan’s heart at these words, he did not show it. “Will you allow it?”
“I think my father may already have agreed were it not for your brethren. They have come, in numbers greater every day. I have just come from their latest appeal for your freedom.”
Ashan smiled—a genuine gesture, it seemed to Nikandr. “Shall I prepare for my departure?”
Nikandr chuckled sadly.
Ashan pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them, not unlike what Nasim did when the worst of his pains were upon him. “Allow me to speak with them.”
“Father will not allow it.”
“Fahroz will give you a week, perhaps, but no more.”
“Da, and then they will call the qiram away from our fishing ships. Then trade ships. Then the military. It would seem to put pressure on me to get an answer from you.”
“I know you not well at all, son of Iaros, but I know you better than that. I would tell you what I know of Nasim—I think you know this—but the answers still lay hidden. I need more time.”
“Haven’t you been listening? We don’t have time.”
“Last month, Nasim began to scream when he saw a woman’s red scarf. He was inconsolable. The month before that he laughed hysterically at a dead turtle we found lying on the beaches of Samodansk. He does these things, and there is little to connect them. I must consider carefully before I speak.”
“I thought I made our situation clear.”
“A situation every bit as clear as mine, My Lord Prince.”
“Were the Duke of Vostroma to be given the boy, believe me, he would find evidence, one way or another—the dukes that rally beneath his flag will allow nothing less. They will make the boy talk or they will hang him as a traitor to the Grand Duchy and fabricate the rest. Either way, your young charge will be dead, and you will never be able to say that you were powerless to prevent it.”
“You know in your heart that Nasim is innocent.”
“Innocent or not, Nasim was involved. Silence now leads to the gibbet. We have waited so long to give the dukes news that they believe Khalakovo was in league with you. They believe we arranged for the murder of Stasa.”
“Preposterous.”
“Not at all. Our history is rife with murder. It gives everyone pause that an arqesh would be involved, but you are a man, like they are. No matter how peaceful you prove yourself to be, they will always think you capable of it. The only way to help Nasim now is to give me answers so I might convince the other dukes that this was merely—”
Nikandr stopped, for there was a feeling within his chest, a discomfort that felt like heartburn. He swallowed, unable to speak.
Ashan stared, clearly confused.
The feeling of discomfort intensified, and suddenly Nikandr knew unerringly the direction from which it came. Ashan glanced toward Nasim’s room and stood as Nikandr backed away toward the door. Ashan looked like he wanted to accompany him, but Nikandr stepped outside and ordered the guardsman to lock it. Then he rushed up the hall to Nasim’s room.
Nasim was sitting on the floor, cross-legged. The carpet had been rolled up and sat against the bed. The floor was made of hard granite tile. Nasim was working a piece of the tile