Read Online The Winds of Khalakovo by Bradley P. Beaulieu - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bradley P. Beaulieu
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approach of a galloping pony. It turned out to be Ranos. He looked cross, even from a distance.
“You were to wait,” Ranos said as he pulled his roan pony to a stop. His cheeks were flush. He wore a belted woolen coat, similar to Nikandr’s fitted cherkesska, but it didn’t have the same ornamented cartridge pouches on the chest, and the cuffs, embroidered with golden thread, ran halfway up his forearm.
“You were busy,” Nikandr said. “I thought we’d go ahead.”
Ranos glanced at Borund, who was keeping his round face as straight as he could manage. “I was busy , as you say, dealing with your mess.”
“ My mess?”
“You could have done better than throwing a fish at them, Nischka, and I daresay you could have done it sooner.”
Nikandr urged his pony forward, forcing Borund and Ranos to keep up. “Well, next time I’ll just turn a blind eye, shall I?”
“Come, come,” Borund said, reining his black pony between them. “Nikandr did well enough.”
Nikandr frowned. Well enough?
“We’re finally together,” Borund continued, “and we’re off to see the ships, da ?”
Ranos looked between them, clearly displeased, but then he smoothed his wide moustache and visibly unwound. “I suppose you’re right.”
Ranos led the way down several switchbacks to the eyrie’s third quay. The eyrie was alive around them: the clatter of carts, the bark of the clerks, the ever-present cry of the gulls both high among the ships and far below where they built their nests. The quays were just as busy as they had been the day of the Gorovna’s launching, the only difference being that there were four times the number of streltsi standing guard among the warehouses and the quays. All five cannon emplacements were manned as well. Father was not willing to take any chances after what had happened to the Gorovna . The Maharraht would be foolish to attempt anything now, but in reality this show of force was as much for the landing dukes as it was for the protection of Khalakovo. With politics in play, they could ill afford to look weak.
They stopped at the first perch. The ship moored there was an ancient and wounded carrack. Ranos made a grand gesture of stopping and turning to Borund. “This,” he said while giving Borund a short, polite bow, “is the first.”
The ship’s hull had dozens of battle scars from her decades of service. Nearly every mast had been repaired instead of replaced. Even the figurehead, a charging ram, was marred by several pockmarks from some ancient battle. Nikandr knew it wasn’t a sign of neglect but a remembrance of the ship’s first kapitan, who had died at that very spot on its maiden voyage. Borund, however, who had up until this point held an eager expression on his face, didn’t know this, and so as he examined the carrack, his face became more and more splotchy. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and swallowed heavily.
Nikandr clamped his jaw to keep himself from smiling.
“Old she may be,” Ranos continued, “but she’s stout, and once the new mainsail’s complete, she’ll be tip-top.”
For years Nikandr and Borund had played jokes on one another. He would normally have played the role of instigator himself, but Borund had become too wary, so he’d enlisted Ranos, and from what he could tell it had been a wonderful choice. He was barely able to contain his amusement over his brother’s straight face. He feared Borund would notice and sense the nature of this exchange, but Borund wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His eyes were locked on the ship, jaw clamped shut, a look of deep indignation on his face.
“Your father promised us stout ships....”
So grave was Borund’s voice that Nikandr nearly confessed, but their time together had so far been very stiff, and he hoped that by breaking the ice, the old camaraderie between them would return. And so he strode to the edge of the perch and slapped the ship’s hull. “Believe me, I
“You were to wait,” Ranos said as he pulled his roan pony to a stop. His cheeks were flush. He wore a belted woolen coat, similar to Nikandr’s fitted cherkesska, but it didn’t have the same ornamented cartridge pouches on the chest, and the cuffs, embroidered with golden thread, ran halfway up his forearm.
“You were busy,” Nikandr said. “I thought we’d go ahead.”
Ranos glanced at Borund, who was keeping his round face as straight as he could manage. “I was busy , as you say, dealing with your mess.”
“ My mess?”
“You could have done better than throwing a fish at them, Nischka, and I daresay you could have done it sooner.”
Nikandr urged his pony forward, forcing Borund and Ranos to keep up. “Well, next time I’ll just turn a blind eye, shall I?”
“Come, come,” Borund said, reining his black pony between them. “Nikandr did well enough.”
Nikandr frowned. Well enough?
“We’re finally together,” Borund continued, “and we’re off to see the ships, da ?”
Ranos looked between them, clearly displeased, but then he smoothed his wide moustache and visibly unwound. “I suppose you’re right.”
Ranos led the way down several switchbacks to the eyrie’s third quay. The eyrie was alive around them: the clatter of carts, the bark of the clerks, the ever-present cry of the gulls both high among the ships and far below where they built their nests. The quays were just as busy as they had been the day of the Gorovna’s launching, the only difference being that there were four times the number of streltsi standing guard among the warehouses and the quays. All five cannon emplacements were manned as well. Father was not willing to take any chances after what had happened to the Gorovna . The Maharraht would be foolish to attempt anything now, but in reality this show of force was as much for the landing dukes as it was for the protection of Khalakovo. With politics in play, they could ill afford to look weak.
They stopped at the first perch. The ship moored there was an ancient and wounded carrack. Ranos made a grand gesture of stopping and turning to Borund. “This,” he said while giving Borund a short, polite bow, “is the first.”
The ship’s hull had dozens of battle scars from her decades of service. Nearly every mast had been repaired instead of replaced. Even the figurehead, a charging ram, was marred by several pockmarks from some ancient battle. Nikandr knew it wasn’t a sign of neglect but a remembrance of the ship’s first kapitan, who had died at that very spot on its maiden voyage. Borund, however, who had up until this point held an eager expression on his face, didn’t know this, and so as he examined the carrack, his face became more and more splotchy. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and swallowed heavily.
Nikandr clamped his jaw to keep himself from smiling.
“Old she may be,” Ranos continued, “but she’s stout, and once the new mainsail’s complete, she’ll be tip-top.”
For years Nikandr and Borund had played jokes on one another. He would normally have played the role of instigator himself, but Borund had become too wary, so he’d enlisted Ranos, and from what he could tell it had been a wonderful choice. He was barely able to contain his amusement over his brother’s straight face. He feared Borund would notice and sense the nature of this exchange, but Borund wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His eyes were locked on the ship, jaw clamped shut, a look of deep indignation on his face.
“Your father promised us stout ships....”
So grave was Borund’s voice that Nikandr nearly confessed, but their time together had so far been very stiff, and he hoped that by breaking the ice, the old camaraderie between them would return. And so he strode to the edge of the perch and slapped the ship’s hull. “Believe me, I
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