As Nikandr continued down the slope, a massive galleon belonging to the Duchy of Mirkotsk climbed and arced northward, passing high overhead. Four masts were affixed in each of the primary directions: starward, landward, seaward, and windward, sixteen in all. It was a large ship, difficult to pilot, but that was no excuse for the way it was heeling to its windward side. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called like a gull, wishing it safe journey. Moments later, several of the men hanging among the lower rigging waved.

Soon the eyrie came into view. It lay at the edge of the sea, affixed to a towering gray cliff that separated the dark waters from the steady rise of the hills beyond. From this distance the five long quays built into the face of the cliff looked like natural stone ledges, but he knew that each had been built painstakingly by Aramahn stone masons over the course of a decade. The quays each held twelve stout perches that were supported by graceful sweeps of stone as they extended outward from the cliff; they were used to moor, lade, and unlade the windships. The eyrie was-as troubling as it sometimes seemed-the heart of commerce for Khalakovo, the goods it brought the life blood. Windsmen and landsmen-hundreds of them-unladed the cargo and hauled it along the ramps leading up from the quays to the eyrie’s grand courtyard-a cluster of offices, warehouses, and auction squares that stood on a wide plateau at the edge of the cliff.

A coach pulled by four ponies passed Nikandr on the road, the driver bowing his head as he passed. Nikandr waited for it to crest the hill behind him before retrieving a silver flask from inside his woolen cherkesska. After downing a healthy swallow of the bittersweet brew, he shoved the flask back into his coat. The warmth of the draught suffused his gut, doing its best to quell the feelings of unease that had been his constant companion over the last two months.