The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Ishkyna sniffed. “Little enough, indeed.”

  “Long journeys start with small steps, Shkyna.”

  “And slow journeys may end in disaster.” Ishkyna pulled on her coat for the cold walk above. “Best you quicken your step.”

  Dawn had yet to break when Atiana rode through the streets of Baressa with the strelet, Irkadiy. He was a logical choice for her escort; he had already been trusted once with her protection and the knowledge of her mission in the cemetery. He was a crack shot with a musket, and the best huntsman and tracker in Galostina. Best of all, he knew the area. He’d spent many summers here as a youth, visiting his family on his mother’s side. He still took dinner with many of them when he could, and raised glasses with old friends besides. It gave Atiana a sense of comfort that she had someone that knew not just the lay of the land, but the people as well.

  Irkadiy rode a healthy black gelding and wore the garb of a Galaheshi merchantman—a round turban and billowing coat and brown woolen pants with black boots that stopped halfway up his shins. His musket was slung in a holster affixed to the saddle. It was behind his left leg, mostly hidden, especially from someone viewing them from the front.

  Atiana rode a pretty roan mare. Her garb was that of a merchantman’s wife—an ornamented headdress with a yellow veil that hid her face. The dress she wore was intricately embroidered velvet with ermine accents. It was rich clothing, to be sure, but not so rich that it would mark her as a noblewoman.

  The streets near the Mount were nearly empty, giving the city much the same feel as the cemetery, but as they approached the famed Baressan market, more and more people populated the streets, most of them with small carts or wagons clattering along to set up their stalls for the coming day. Some eyed Atiana and Irkadiy, but most bowed their heads in greeting, and those that didn’t took little notice.

  Not far beyond the market, the cobbled street they rode along ended abruptly. Ahead there was little more than a curved edge to the street and a strip of green land before the straits opened up before them. They turned left and headed up the street toward the Spar.

  Atiana had heard stories of, but was still surprised to see, especially at this hour, a long line of merchantmen and landsmen waiting to cross the water. Goods were heading out from Baressa to Ramina, the port city on the northern end of the island. They would typically be bearing goods meant for windships bound for Oramka or the Empire proper. They waited their turn, and eventually came to the front of the line, just before the pulley houses, where the tariff master asked them questions about their destination and their purpose. He saw them as easy pickings, which was what Atiana had been hoping for. The more he felt they were a normal part of his day, the more quickly they’d be forgotten.

  They managed to gain passage while losing only a handful of coins, but the way the master watched Atiana as Irkadiy paid him was unsettling.

  Seven pulley houses stood at the edge of the cliffs. They were built outward into the air over the cliff such that strong ropes could be lowered below them. Outside of each were massive capstans, each with eight or more mules harnessed to them. The pulley masters called “Hiyah!” and whipped the ponies when it was time, and the ponies trudged, causing the ropes that ran above them and into the pulley houses to turn and force the inner workings to raise or lower the wooden cage that contained either cargo or people.

  Atiana and Irkadiy were led to the third pulley house, one of the smaller ones meant for a handful of people.

  The pulley master approached Irkadiy and held out two burlap cloths with ropes tied to them. “Blinders, for the ponies.” He stared at Atiana and smiled, revealing teeth stained brown by tabbaq. “You can wear one, too, if you like.” He laughed at that, but stopped when Irkadiy waved him away.

  “They’re good climbing ponies,” Irkadiy said.

  “Good or not, put them on. If they’re not used to it, they’ll be skittish. They won’t enjoy it, and neither will you if you’re caught in the cage without these.” He waggled the bags again.

  Irkadiy accepted them with a nod and put one over each pony’s head so that their eyes were covered. Only then did the pulley master swing open the large door, and allow them into the cage. The cage swung slightly as they stepped onto it, giving Atiana a strange feeling—as if she were stepping onto a small waterborne ferry.

  Her pony stamped her hooves loudly and threw her head back, perhaps trying to knock the mask from her eyes, but Irkadiy took the reins and ran his hand along her neck and spoke into the pony’s ear softly until she calmed down.

  The doors came closed with a creak and a bang. A bell was rung, the massive ropes and pulleys began to turn, and then they were headed down and out into open air.

  Atiana had ridden in dozens of windships and yachts and skiffs. She’d been a passenger on a waterborne ship a handful of times. She had never been bothered by them, even while she was sleeping in a cabin, unable to see much of the outside world. But riding in this contraption made her stomach churn. It felt as though the rope would snap at any moment. The cage itself was little more than four wooden fences, head-high, built onto a wooden platform. The platform seemed fragile, as though her feet, or their ponies’, might crash through at any moment.

  When it happened—and she was sure it would—they would plummet and buffet against the ivory cliff before plowing into the lower pulley house in the split second before their deaths.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, moving to the edge of the cage if only to pretend she was standing on the deck of a windship.

  To her right, two more sets of pulleys were drawing their cages up, or perhaps down. She wasn’t sure; she couldn’t see either of the cages yet. To her left four more moved, their cables swaying gently in the wind. As they neared what she judged as the halfway point, she saw a crowd of people packed like fish into a single cage—there must have been thirty of them, rising up along the cliff. Most of them wore the simple clothes of workmen. Nearly all of them took it as easily as taking a stroll, but one young man near the corner watched Atiana with a look of barely concealed terror. The two of them watched one another silently—one rising, the other falling—until he’d passed out of sight.

  She had wanted to study the Spar on their descent, but she found herself unable to. She could focus on nothing but reaching the bottom. Her foot began to tap of its own free will.

  “My Lady, please,” Irkadiy said. “You’re making them nervous.” He was standing at the reins of her pony, rubbing her neck, staring at Atiana’s foot.

  Atiana had to concentrate to stop it, but that just made her fears resurface.

  Ponies be damned. If she wanted to tap her foot, she was bloody well going to.

  Only after they had finally landed and boarded the large ferry did the terror leave her. She and Irkadiy shared the deck with dozens of others, a handful of ponies, and twenty cords of wood. She stood at the bulwarks, staring up at the bridge as the ferry’s drum beat time and the twelve oars below her cut into the blue-green water.

  “Can they have built the Spar in only four years?” Atiana asked Irkadiy.

  “It doesn’t seem possible,” he said.

  Far above, dozens of Aramahn stonemasons were moving along the bridge and the supports beneath the open section that had yet to be joined. It was stout, and massive, and yet Atiana couldn’t get the notion out of her head that after a surge of tide water below or a squall above, it would all topple into the sea.

  “I saw it in the dark,” she said.

  “And what did you see?”

  “An edifice. A structure every bit as impressive as what we see before us.”

  “It’s nothing more than a bridge, My Lady.”

  “If you could see the world through my eyes you would not say such things. This is a place that has been anathema to the Matri for centuries. To have it spanned so, and in such a short amount of time, smacks of hubris.”

  Irkadiy snorted. “The line of the Kamarisi is nothing if not proud, My Lady.�
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  Atiana shook her head. “I speak not of Hakan, but the Lady Arvaneh.”

  They made it to the other side of the straits, passing two ferries as they did so, and they gained the top of the cliffs after another harrowing ride—though Atiana had to admit that it wasn’t so bad as the first.

  It was freeing to move beyond the straits and into Vihrosh, Baressa’s smaller sister that stood on the northern side of the straits. It was much smaller than Baressa. An eighth-league beyond the cliffs and it was little more than a village. They were through it and into the hills beyond well before the sun had reached high noon.

  The land sloped downward beyond Vihrosh. They made good time, passing into the lowlands and into the wide plateau that covered much of the northern half of Galahesh. There was little breeze and the day was unseasonably warm. They both found themselves unbuttoning their clothes to let in a bit of air. Irkadiy seemed overly conscious of her exposed neck and arms—she caught him glancing at her more than once—but Atiana didn’t care. If she didn’t get some air she was going to pass out.

  Atiana had told Irkadiy that she wasn’t sure what they were searching for. She could tell from his sidelong glances that he dearly wished to ask her of their destination, but he was a good man, and he kept his questions to himself.

  Atiana wished she knew herself. She only knew after the experience she’d had in the aether, the feeling of being drawn westward as if a spire lay in that direction, had forced her hand. There was no choice now but to go to the area and see what she could see. She had considered coming while taking the dark, but the truth of the matter was she didn’t know how far beyond the straits she could travel, and she was still weak. It would take days before she would trust herself in the aether once more. Were Bahett not returning from his hunt tomorrow, she would have waited, but he would soon learn of her transgression. She’d gone to the drowning chamber and spied on Arvaneh without his leave, which made this ride all the more important.

  They came to an area that was lightly wooded with pine and oak, and shortly after that the woods thickened until they were traveling a road that cut through a thick forest.

  “Wait,” Irkadiy said.

  He reined his pony over and trotted back. He sat in his saddle, considering a road that ran off through the forest.

  “What do you suppose this is?”

  Atiana shrugged. “A homestead?”

  “Look at the ruts. Dozens of wagons have passed this way, and recently.”

  The inference was clear. If so many had passed, it may very well be what she was looking for.

  They took to the trail. Irkadiy was on edge. They could not see far on the road ahead, and the undergrowth was thick, making it difficult for them to forge a path through it.

  After they passed a ridge and the land took them downhill, Irkadiy guided their ponies into the forest until the trail was lost from view. After tying their ponies behind a copse of alder, Irkadiy retrieved his musket from its holster behind his pony’s saddle, and they began walking eastward on foot.

  The going was slow, but Atiana felt better for the cover of the forest around them. Clouds had moved in while they rode. A light drizzle fell over the forest, the sound of it like rashers of ham frying over a fire.

  Atiana watched the landscape ahead closely. She was aware of her surroundings as she had rarely been, and for a long while she wrote it off to how on edge Irkadiy was and how acutely aware of it she was, but the further they went, the more she realized there was something more.

  She had been a Matra for some time now. She had spoken at length to the other Matri about their abilities, and she had tried to learn as many of them as she could. She paid particular attention to her stolen time with Saphia when the others were far away and she could work closely with her. She had tried to attune herself to the aether while outside the drowning basin, with some small amount of success. She could feel the draw of the aether, could feel the presence of the rooks that were placed in or near the drowning chamber, could feel the receding presence of other Matri. She could even feel the subtle shifts in the currents caused by the spire high above Galostina, and this, as strange as it seemed, was what was causing the sharpening of her senses.

  And so she knew, well before she saw, that ahead of her lay a spire, and yet it was still strange to look upon it. As she and Irkadiy came to a stop beneath an ancient larch and he parted the lower branches, she saw it.

  A tall black tower of obsidian.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Why would they build such a thing?” Irkadiy whispered.

  Why, indeed? The empire had no need of such things. The lines between the mainland and Oramka and Galahesh were strong. They were naturally guided by the land itself and the relatively calm seas between. And there was no need for one between the northern and southern ends of Galahesh—the straits saw to that. So why? Why would they spend all these resources to build one?

  Atiana became suddenly aware that Irkadiy was ignoring the obelisk, his eyes narrowed and distant, as if he were listening more than looking.

  Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the trail they’d forged coming in. He said nothing, so neither did she.

  The sound of the rain—as well as the soft forest floor—covered their retreat, but by the time they’d reached the top of a nearby rise, Atiana became aware of forms mirroring their movement to her right. On her left there were more.

  Irkadiy sprinted downslope, trusting Atiana to keep up so they could stay ahead of the pursuit. She followed, nearly keeping pace with him. They came to the trough of the shallow vale and then attacked the incline on the opposite side, which was steep, much steeper than Atiana was used to climbing.

  Soon she began to flag. Irkadiy took her wrist and pulled her along, helping her to take the hill.

  “Stay!” a voice called from behind them in Yrstanlan.

  They pushed. Atiana’s legs were already burning, but fear was driving her onward.

  A musket crack sounded as bark exploded from the bole of a nearby tree. Another dug into the dirt near their feet.

  “Go on,” Irkadiy said as he shoved her and then spun around.

  A glance behind showed him sighting down the length of his musket. The musket fired, white smoke coughing from the muzzle, and one of their pursuers dropped, clutching his chest.

  Irkadiy reloaded as he ran, but grunted in pain as a musket shot grazed his leg.

  They reached the crest of the hill and were beyond it as several more shots whizzed over their heads. Further down, the slope leveled off at the edge of a marsh. Stands of cattails hugged the edge of the green-coated water.

  “Hurry,” she said softly.

  They ran and reached the edge of the marsh where Atiana snatched two of the cattails up. She motioned for Irkadiy to follow her and then she stepped into the water, being careful not to splash. She waded deeper into the water and wended her way into the cattail stand. As they slipped through the tall grasses—the cool water rising to their shins and then to their knees—she ripped off the base of the cattails and did the same a goodly length up. “Lie down,” she whispered while handing one of the cattail tubes to Irkadiy. “Breathe through this.”

  He took the cattail, doubtful, but they could already hear the pursuit approaching the top of the rise behind them. He swallowed hard, glancing toward the rise, and then lay down, setting his musket in the water next to him. After taking a huge breath, he inserted the makeshift breathing tube into his mouth and lay back. Atiana lay down as well, trying to calm herself as she inserted the tube and breathed through it.

  The stands of grasses and cattails would, she hoped, suppress their ripples, and the green muck on the surface would hide the mud they’d kicked up.

  She breathed slowly as the fetid water filled her nostrils and her body pressed against the slick muck. She calmed herself as she did in the drowning basin. She slowed her breath, slowed her heart, so that she could hear. She heard little at first except the patter of ra
in on the water and the weeds. But then she heard a pounding, as of men running. It approached—very close—and then stopped. She dare not open her eyes. The water was much too murky, and she didn’t wish them to sting. So she breathed, and she waited.

  Then the pounding resumed, slower this time.

  Soon she heard only the pattering. The men had gone on, searching ahead. They would not be fooled for long, though. She waited until they would have moved well beyond the marsh before reaching over and squeezing Irkadiy’s hand and poking her head above the water.

  Seeing that they were indeed alone, they stood and cut across the path they had taken earlier during their flight, making their way quickly but quietly toward their ponies.

  Atiana whispered, “They may have taken them.”

  Irkadiy shook his head and whispered back. “We hid them far enough. They won’t have found them yet.”

  The tone in his voice sounded more hopeful than certain, but they found both ponies right where they’d left them. They mounted and kept the ponies at a walk for some time. Atiana felt muskets being trained on them, felt something at the nape of her neck and the small of her back, phantom pain in the center of her wet bodice where the musket ball would strike. She resisted the urge to touch the scar where the musket shot had torn through her chest five years before. It still ached from time to time, and it was doing so now, worse than it had ever been except for the days that had followed Soroush’s failed ritual on Oshtoyets.

  In the end they made their way back to the road and then pushed hard for Vihrosh. They stopped outside of the city and found a clear stream that ran over gray rocks. While Irkadiy watched the path for signs of pursuit, Atiana stripped and washed the worst of the marsh stench from her clothes and skin. It wasn’t perfect, but it would prevent anyone from asking of it—or more importantly, remembering it. As she washed the clothes, she kept glancing toward the tree Irkadiy was hiding behind, wondering if he was going to pop his head around to steal a look. But he never did.