Free The Winds of Khalakovo by Bradley P. Beaulieu Page A

onboard to an absolute minimum or risk losing control of the ship.
    By the time Nikandr reached the uppermost quay—the one reserved for the ships of war—the Kroya was near. Standing amidships on the platform reserved for the wind master was a man Nikandr didn’t recognize. He stood ahead of the starward mainmast, arms spread wide, eyes closed and face upturned. It was clear that there was no dhoshaqiram to control the heft of the ship. This qiram must be gifted, indeed—it was tricky, though not impossible, for the havaqiram to affect the ship’s altitude by directing the wind.
    Crewmen stood at the gunwales, tossing bits of hardtack to the wind. Gray cliff gulls fought for it with piercing cries. When Nikandr had finally reached the perch, the eyrie master and his men were securing the ship. Two doors opened in the hull and gangplanks were maneuvered into place. One more was lowered from the upper deck, and from this a heavyset sailor lumbered down and shook forearms with the eyrie master.
    Then he spied Nikandr.
    Immediately he removed the ushanka from his balding head, held it to his breast, and took a knee two paces away from Nikandr.
    Nikandr did not know this man well, but he tried to learn at the very least the kapitan, master, purser, and pilot on every one of his father’s two-dozen ships. Mladosh used to be the Kroya’s pilot, so he could only assume that the kapitan and master had both been wounded or killed.
    “You may rise, Mladosh,” Nikandr told him. “Tell me what happened.”
    He rose, but kept his gaze fixed on Nikandr’s black, knee-length boots. “Maharraht, my lord. A clipper and two schooners set upon us a day out from Rhavanki.”
    Nikandr pulled Mladosh aside so the unlading of the hold could begin.
    “My mother as my witness the day was clear,” Mladosh continued. “Hardly a cloud in the sky, but before we knew it the sky had cast over and the clouds had swallowed us. That was when they struck.”He pointed to the ship’s bow. “Seven men died on the opening salvo. The kapitan took a sliver of wood through the neck, died before the surgeon could get him below.”
    On the deck, a dozen or so Aramahn gathered, smiling, kissing cheeks, and preparing to disembark. Like jewels among gravel, their loose, bright clothing and swarthy skin stood out against the weathered wood of the ship and the charcoal clothing of the crew.
    “If it wasn’t for that one,” Mladosh said, pointing his thumb at the older Aramahn who had guided the ship to berth, “we’d’ve been lost.”
    As often as the Aramahn moved among the ships, Nikandr could not keep track of them, but he had personally recruited the qiram—an Aramahn wizard—for the Kroya’s voyage. “Muqtada is dead?”
    Mladosh nodded. “I pulled him from the Motherless hold. His name is Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. He was the only bonded wind master among them but by the ancestors was he strong!”
    Motherless was the term most sailing men used for the Aramahn, referring to their penchant for constantly wandering the great ocean, rarely staying in one place for more than a season. They have no Motherland, the sailors would say; they come from nowhere, and that’s where they’ll go when they die.
    Ashan had summoned enough wind to force the other ships away while Mladosh ordered the crew to release the ship’s hold of the ley lines that guided them southward along the Rhavanki archipelago. As Mladosh continued the tale, Nikandr studied Ashan, who was waiting for the last of the Aramahn to disembark. He wore inner robes of bright yellow; his outer robes were orange. Several layers of white cloth wrapped his shins and ankles. There was a calmness to his demeanor that transcended the placid disposition so many of the Landless possessed.
    A circlet rested upon his brow, and an alabaster gem could be seen through his tousle of nutmeg-colored hair. The gem had an iridescent quality to it and a glow that told Nikandr that a hezhan, a spirit from