movement of each spar. Nikandr knew it was the Gorovna’s rudder, the very same one he’d shown them on the ship two days earlier.
A healthy rudder, when fixed properly in the center of a ship, would align with the keels, and by using the levers at the helm, the rudders would divert the flow of the aether that ran along them, thus turning the ship in the desired direction. The key was not the outer casing of wood, but the obsidian core enclosed within it.
Nikandr could already see that something wasn’t right. Lying on the table, just beneath one of the exposed pieces, was a pile of black powder and stone that looked to have been purposefully chipped away.
He bent over to inspect it. “Why did you do this?”
“Run your finger over the stone.”
Nikandr had no more than touched one of the exposed faces than a section of it crumbled away, adding to the small pile.
Borund did the same to another section. “Was it inferior?”
Gravlos looked insulted. “ Nyet , My Lord, it was not. I chose the blocks myself and inspected each section carefully after milling.”
Borund seemed less than convinced. “Then what happened?”
Gravlos shrugged. “Rudder stone can crack, but that’s after many years, and typically there are only a handful of fractures. Nothing like this.”
The stone hanging from Nikandr’s neck—hidden beneath his shirt—felt suddenly heavier. Clearly whatever had happened to the rudder had also affected his stone; at the very least they were loosely related. He nearly pulled it out to show Gravlos, to get his opinion, but his father’s words felt like they made more sense now—Borund was an old friend, but he couldn’t be trusted to keep word of it quiet—and so he left the stone where it was. “Could it have been the hezhan?”
“Perhaps.” Gravlos ran one hand over his bald head and shrugged. “Who would know?”
Borund rubbed the obsidian powder between his fingers and stared intently at the sparkle that remained. “Were the keels damaged?”
“ Da , which is why the repairs will take so—”
“We cannot accept a ship such as that, Nikandr.”
“The damage did not travel far,” Gravlos continued. “Less than the length of your hand. We’ll be able to cut the keel and lengthen the rudder to—”
Gravlos was cut off by sounds from the crowd. Their grumbling had grown steadily during their conversation, but it had spiked considerably; men were shouting and several women could be heard screaming over them.
They moved quickly to the front of the workshop to see what was happening. No sooner had Gravlos pulled one of the doors open than the crowd pressed backward. A half-dozen people were forced onto the shallow ramp leading up to Gravlos’s doors.
With his high vantage, Nikandr could see that the streltsi had fanned out around the royal wagon and were using their axes to ward off the crowd. Their breath, coming quickly, blew as smoke upon the cold breeze of the harbor.
“Back!” shouted the desyatnik.
“He stabbed me!” a man screamed. He was bent over, perhaps nursing his leg, but when he pointed to one of the soldiers, steam rose from his blood-coated hand.
Several women continued to shout, shaking their fingers right under the officer’s nose. The crowd pressed in. More joined in, demanding that the rest of the fish be left alone.
It was then that Nikandr realized that there were only five crates on the wagon. Five crates from a ship that would have hauled four dozen only a few years ago.
“Best we stay inside, My Lords,” Gravlos said as he began swinging the door closed.
As soon as he’d said the words, however, one of the streltsi fired his musket into the crowd. A young man with a barrel chest was propelled backward into the older man behind him, his face a look of shock and wonder.
“My son!” screamed the man holding the wounded one. It was a cry that brought the entire scene to a stunned silence.
And then the quay was madness.
CHAPTER
A healthy rudder, when fixed properly in the center of a ship, would align with the keels, and by using the levers at the helm, the rudders would divert the flow of the aether that ran along them, thus turning the ship in the desired direction. The key was not the outer casing of wood, but the obsidian core enclosed within it.
Nikandr could already see that something wasn’t right. Lying on the table, just beneath one of the exposed pieces, was a pile of black powder and stone that looked to have been purposefully chipped away.
He bent over to inspect it. “Why did you do this?”
“Run your finger over the stone.”
Nikandr had no more than touched one of the exposed faces than a section of it crumbled away, adding to the small pile.
Borund did the same to another section. “Was it inferior?”
Gravlos looked insulted. “ Nyet , My Lord, it was not. I chose the blocks myself and inspected each section carefully after milling.”
Borund seemed less than convinced. “Then what happened?”
Gravlos shrugged. “Rudder stone can crack, but that’s after many years, and typically there are only a handful of fractures. Nothing like this.”
The stone hanging from Nikandr’s neck—hidden beneath his shirt—felt suddenly heavier. Clearly whatever had happened to the rudder had also affected his stone; at the very least they were loosely related. He nearly pulled it out to show Gravlos, to get his opinion, but his father’s words felt like they made more sense now—Borund was an old friend, but he couldn’t be trusted to keep word of it quiet—and so he left the stone where it was. “Could it have been the hezhan?”
“Perhaps.” Gravlos ran one hand over his bald head and shrugged. “Who would know?”
Borund rubbed the obsidian powder between his fingers and stared intently at the sparkle that remained. “Were the keels damaged?”
“ Da , which is why the repairs will take so—”
“We cannot accept a ship such as that, Nikandr.”
“The damage did not travel far,” Gravlos continued. “Less than the length of your hand. We’ll be able to cut the keel and lengthen the rudder to—”
Gravlos was cut off by sounds from the crowd. Their grumbling had grown steadily during their conversation, but it had spiked considerably; men were shouting and several women could be heard screaming over them.
They moved quickly to the front of the workshop to see what was happening. No sooner had Gravlos pulled one of the doors open than the crowd pressed backward. A half-dozen people were forced onto the shallow ramp leading up to Gravlos’s doors.
With his high vantage, Nikandr could see that the streltsi had fanned out around the royal wagon and were using their axes to ward off the crowd. Their breath, coming quickly, blew as smoke upon the cold breeze of the harbor.
“Back!” shouted the desyatnik.
“He stabbed me!” a man screamed. He was bent over, perhaps nursing his leg, but when he pointed to one of the soldiers, steam rose from his blood-coated hand.
Several women continued to shout, shaking their fingers right under the officer’s nose. The crowd pressed in. More joined in, demanding that the rest of the fish be left alone.
It was then that Nikandr realized that there were only five crates on the wagon. Five crates from a ship that would have hauled four dozen only a few years ago.
“Best we stay inside, My Lords,” Gravlos said as he began swinging the door closed.
As soon as he’d said the words, however, one of the streltsi fired his musket into the crowd. A young man with a barrel chest was propelled backward into the older man behind him, his face a look of shock and wonder.
“My son!” screamed the man holding the wounded one. It was a cry that brought the entire scene to a stunned silence.
And then the quay was madness.
CHAPTER
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