The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (55 page)

“We have some time yet,” Styophan said in Anuskayan. “We’ll wait. If they return, we’ll go as planned, but if not, we’ll divide the men, Rodion. Vasiliy will go to the grey tower, while you and I go to find our prince.”

“
Da
,” came Rodion’s reply.

CHAPTER FIFTY

“I must return, or there will be questions,” Nabide said to Styophan, “but I’ve made arrangements. The cellars will remain safe. One of us will return if we hear that your prince has been returned to the tower, but do not let midday approach.”

“Why are you doing this?” Styophan asked.

She seemed surprised by the question at first, but then her gaze bore into him, and her look became grim. She pointed out to the red building where Nikandr had been taken. “The same reason as you.”

“You may die.”

Her smile softened, but her eyes were no less determined. “My entire life has been leading toward this one moment.”

Styophan saw in her the fierce resolve that he’d seen on the battlefield many times. She would most likely die when all was said and done, but she didn’t care. Her mind was on her people—the people of Hael, no matter that she had the blood of Yrstanla running through her veins.

Styophan nodded to her, and she nodded back.

“Go with her,” Styophan said to Rodion. “Tell them what’s happened, and prepare them.” He pointed out to the kasir grounds. “Break them into two, thirty with you and the rest for Vasiliy. Explain the lay of the grounds to all of them, especially the stables there.” He pointed to the long wooden structure to the west of the kasir grounds. “We’ll meet there when we have what we’ve come for.”

Rodion nodded soberly. “We’ll be ready.” And then he and Nabide took the stairwell down.

Styophan waited as the sun rose and Kasir Irabahce came to life. Servants moved about the grounds and among the buildings. It was a hive of activity, surely due to the celebration planned for the Kamarisi’s return. These men and women were going on their way, oblivious to the fact that the Kamarisi would most likely never return to the kasir.

Styophan was well aware of the fact that the time for the Kamarisi’s address was fast approaching. He could see, far to his left, the dome where Brechan and Datha and the rest of the Haelish men would descend.

“Come, My Prince,” Styophan whispered to the chill morning air.

But he did not, and it was less than an hour until the Kamarisi would speak. Perhaps Nikandr was being held so that Bahett could interrogate him or arrange for Nikandr’s ransom with the forces of Anuskaya. Why Soroush had been brought as well he had no idea, but it was clear Nikandr wouldn’t be returning to the tower.

He crept back down to the stairwell and made his way to the cellars. There, Vasiliy and Rodion waited.

“They’re ready?” he asked them both.

“
Da
,” came the sharp reply.

Styophan stepped forward and hugged Vasiliy’s stout form and kissed his cheeks. “I go to find our prince. Wait ten minutes, or until you hear signs of resistance, and then take the tower. We’ll meet at the stables.”

Vasiliy nodded. “Go well, Komodor.”

“Go well.” Styophan then nodded to Rodion, who in turn nodded to the lanky Yasha, and so on down the line. The men prepared their wheellock pistols. Styophan did the same, and then took to the stairs, his men following smartly behind.

Near the top of the stairs, standing with the door nearly closed, was Nabide. She’d been peeking through the crack in the door, but as Styophan came she turned to face him. “Take the leftmost path around the tower to reach Bahett’s home. Go through the tree garden there and you’ll find a small gate that leads through the wall. It skirts the grounds where the Kiliç Şaik practice their swordplay, but most have gone with the Kamarisi and Bahett into the city.”

“You have our thanks.”

“Keep your gratitude. I don’t do this for you.” And with that she pushed open the door and walked out, leaving it open behind her.

Styophan continued up the stairs and into an ostentatious hallway of striated white marble and rich tapestries. To his right was a set of two ornate doors. He rushed through these into the gravel yard outside and then ran, pistol in hand, as low and as silently as he could. His men did the same, spreading out into a formation three men wide and ten deep.

He’d not gone twenty paces when a door opened at the far side of the yard, a door set into a long, low house of granite with a green slate roof and a chimney that coughed smoke. Through the doorway stepped a boy carrying a basket filled with steaming buns covered loosely by red-banded cloth.

The boy stopped dead, hand still on the handle. He stared at them, a look of confusion on his young, round face, but then his eyes fixed on Styophan’s gun.

“Get back inside,” Styophan said softly, “and don’t come out again.”

The boy didn’t move.

“Get back inside, boy.” And then Styophan ran past, his men following.

They continued beyond the bakery to an empty yard of benches and standing stones and winter bushes thick with clinging snow. Ahead lay the grey tower where Nasim and the others would be. He continued along a well-worn path through a small copse of laurel trees that bent toward one another, forming a tunnel. On the far side, once they rounded the tower, they were faced with a long wall that cordoned off this section of the grounds from the larger, more grand buildings of state.

The iron gate Nabide had told them about was twenty paces along the wall, but Styophan paused at the edge of the trees, for in the field to their right there were seven men dressed in the hardened leather armor of the Kiliç Şaik. Two of them were practicing, though it was vicious—the clack of their wooden swords cutting through the crisp air while the five others watched. Styophan breathed, counting the seconds, wondering when the boy would raise the alarm. But no sounds came from behind them, and soon, one of the swordsmen struck a point against the other’s thigh.

The two men parted and bowed to one another, and then the seven of them fell into step and began walking toward their barracks, which were just north of the stables. Styophan had no idea how many Kiliç Şaik might remain here in the kasir, but he prayed to the ancients that they were few.

When they’d gone far enough, Styophan moved along the wall to the black gate. As he reached for it, a bell—like those near the helm of a windship—sounded from somewhere behind him. It rang over and over as men began to cry out, “To arms! To arms!”

Styophan rushed through the gate, but as he did he glanced toward the Kiliç Şaik. They’d turned and were already running toward their position.

Inside the gate was an immaculate lawn with a dusting of snow that led to the building of red stone. Three servants stood there looking toward the sounds of alarm, but as soon as they saw Styophan and the others, they bolted for the kasir’s massive, domed building.

Styophan turned to Yasha. “Take twenty men. Set up an ambush there.” He pointed to the row of bushes that ran along this side of the wall. “Pistols first, Yasha, then swords. Don’t treat them lightly.”

Yasha nodded and set himself to the task, choosing men and positioning them.

Styophan chose one desyatnik—Rodion and Mikhalai and seven more—and led them into the red building. The entrance revealed a hallway that ran the entire length of the building. Along both sides of the hall were niches with marble statues on pedestals, regal statues of the long line of the Kamarisi. Between the niches were doors leading to various rooms, offices perhaps, or rooms where the Empire kept records.

To his left and right were stairs leading up. No doubt he would find more of the same there, and on the third floor as well.

Styophan nodded to Rodion who immediately said, “
Da
,” and took three men down the hall, pistols and swords at the ready. “Nikandr Iaroslov!” he called as he went. “Nikandr Iaroslov! The men of Khalakovo have come!”

Styophan continued up the stairs to his right. When he reached the top of the landing, he nodded to Mikhalai. Mikhalai took three more men down a hall that was nearly the same as the one below—opulent and ostentatious—calling out Nikandr’s name.

Styophan headed up the stairwell, but before he’d gone ten steps, two janissaries in ceremonial garb holding tall spears appeared at the top of the stairs. Styophan fired at the nearest of them. The wheel spun, shedding sparks, and the gun bucked, but the shot merely caught the soldier in the shoulder.

Damn my eye.

Two of his streltsi discharged their weapons, and the janissaries fell, clattering down the marble stairs to the landing.

After a nod of thanks Styophan leapt over the janissaries and took to the last of the stairs up to a room with couches and fig trees in marble planters. On the far side of the room were two ornamented doors that Styophan could only assume led to Bahett’s private rooms. He stepped forward and kicked the center of the doors. With a crunch the doors flew wide.

From the nearby window Styophan heard the sound of gunfire.

Yasha and the Kiliç.

“Nikandr Iaroslov!” Styophan called. The grand room before him was a wide-open space with rich carpeting and tall windows and a gold filigreed ceiling. But it was empty. “Nikandr, My Prince! Khalakovo has come!”

He moved to another door and found it unlocked. The next room was smaller than the previous one, but no less rich. A large bed was set against one wall. A marble fireplace dominated another. Rich paintings lined the walls, including one of Bahett himself—still with two hands—standing tall in silk finery and a wide turban with a bright emerald brooch and a tall plume of vermillion and carmine.

“Nik—“

Styophan stopped, for a door opened, and from it strode Prince Nikandr. He held a knife in his hand, his own kindjal. He was staring at Styophan as if he were a ghost.

But then the sounds of battle came—guns no longer, but the ring of steel on steel—and Nikandr’s eyes hardened. He turned back to the room in which he’d been hiding, a dressing room from the look of it, and waved someone forward. Soroush Wahad al Gatha stepped out, staring at the streltsi gathered before him in much the same way Nikandr had.

Styophan waved him toward the doors. “My Lord Prince, please, come.”

Nikandr stared at the door, then looked to the painting of Bahett. “Styopha, what’s happened?”

“We’ve come to take you east, back to Anuskaya.”

Nikandr shook his head. “Bahett was to return here after the address.”

And then Styophan understood. Nikandr had come to murder Bahett. “No longer, My Prince. The Haelish will be moving against the Kamarisi even now.”

From the windows, the cries of men rose higher.

“My Lord, please.” Styophan motioned Nikandr toward the door. He looked haggard and confused. Styophan was nearly ready to take him by the arm and drag him from the room when Nikandr’s eyes widened. He stepped back and met Styophan’s gaze. “The Haelish are here?”

Styophan nodded. “They go to kill the Kamarisi. With any luck, Bahett will be taken as well.”

Nikandr shook his head. “Styophan, they can’t. We
need
Selim. We need him to send orders east.”

And now it was time for Styophan to be confused. “It’s already too late, My Lord.”

“
Nyet
. We must go there. They cannot kill the Kamarisi.”

Styophan couldn’t believe his ears. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Nikandr’s jaw worked as he looked to the streltsi, then to the nearby window, where the sound of swords still rang.

“How many men?”

“My Lord?”

Nikandr’s face grew angry. “How many men do you have?” he shouted.

“Forty-six.” He nodded toward the window. “Perhaps fewer.”

He glanced at Soroush, who nodded in return.

“Come, Styopha,” Nikandr said. “We go to Alekeşir.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Nikandr ran with Styophan and Soroush and the streltsi of Khalakovo, down the stairs from Bahett’s apartments. At the landing halfway down to the second level, two janissaries lay sprawled across the white marble. Blood slicked the floor around them. Like a river across a snowy landscape a trail of blood led down the marble stairs. Nikandr stopped to take up a sword from one of them. As they continued down he hefted it several times, getting the weight of it. The kilij had a strange balance to it, but he had practiced with them in the past to get their feel. On the second floor they found Mikhalai and two more soldiers, and finally they reached the ground floor, where Rodion and his men joined them. It was strange indeed to find these men here, men he and his brother, Ranos, had sent to Hael, but now that they were here it felt good indeed. They felt like his kindjal, familiar and deadly, for these were fighting men.

As they left the building, he saw on the snow-covered lawn a dozen streltsi locked in battle with the Kiliç Şaik. The snow around them was matted with blood and mud.

Nikandr flew down the steps, the others coming close behind. As they approached the skirmish, several of his streltsi discharged their wheellocks. The sound of the wheels spinning while sparks flew rose above the clang of swords, and then came the cracks of pistol shots. Five of the Kiliç Şaik took wounds to their shoulders or chests, but only two of them dropped.

And then they were locked in battle. Nikandr took one who fought with tall Yasha. The Kiliç saw Nikandr and retreated slowly, trading blows until he was next to one of his brother swordsmen. Then the two of them fought together, helping one another to fight off Nikandr and Yasha and Valentin.

One of them released a flurry of blows against both Yasha and Nikandr, but he was tiring from the effort.

It was all a ruse, though.

In a blur he spun away and swung low, taking Valentin’s left leg clean off at the knee. In one fluid motion he was back fighting Nikandr and Yasha as his brother in arms beat off Valentin’s final desperate sword stroke.

It was now Yasha and Nikandr against these two men. A few of the Kiliç that had caught pistol shots had finally succumbed to their wounds. A few others fell to the swords of his streltsi—who were dressed in the uniforms of the Empire’s western territories—but more of Nikandr’s men fell as well, faster than the Kiliç.