[ Improbable. She likes that. Add probability to anything and the world becomes a little more interesting. But Anahid follows his gaze and... Ah. Her smile drops, expression growing skeptical. ]
[ He honestly doesn't miss a beat. Did he miss his calling as a musician?
He grins at her with great amusement. Perhaps he should take this part seriously, but he can never help himself. When people regard his ideas with the belief they're impossible, he always meets them with unbreakable optimism. ]
That's the invention I told you was brilliant. Now, [ Lifting his hand, he grins toothily. ] don't judge it by how it looks. Not everything brilliant looks brilliant at first.
[ Anahid considers that for a second, his dependable chorus line of his given name, before pushing it away. She absolutely cannot refer to a sitting monarch so informally. Her mother would know, somehow, and have a heart attack from the other side of the map.
Plus, need to save that shiz for either dramatic tension or comedic purposes. ]
When looking for brilliance, I don't normally start my search in the midden heap, your Privyness. [ On the other hand, she remembers Siyon; and her shoulders lose some of their concern. ] Is this your invention?
[ He's quick to claim it. Nikolai has no qualms about it being ugly and seemingly useless. It's a brilliant invention! He'd never oversell one of his ideas or inventions if he didn't believe in it.
As they approach it, Nikolai nods toward one of the Grisha standing rather gloomily by the side of the lake. He's a man who stands a little taller than Nikolai with a broader build. The air around him is gentle; he's a Squaller who's encouraged Nikolai's whims one too many times. ]
Mikhail, Anahid. [ He waves his hand between them, although he purposefully gestures toward Anahid when he says 'Mikhail' and visa versa. ] Anahid, Mikhail. Now that we all know one another well enough, let's get this marvellous idea of mine into the air.
[ Mikhail may roll his eyes, but he does so with a smile. ]
[ She spends a few moments engaging him in small talk, figuring it would be rude to dismiss him as a mere prop in Nikolai's ambitions. And then Mikhail gestures to what Anahid had assumed was a large tarp, laid wrinkled and haphazard in the grass, and urges them both to stand back. Anahid falls back to a safe spot beside Nikolai, looking a bit more excited now.
Within moments, the balloon is filled to capacity with air and hovering neatly above the yellow-painted basket. Anahid had missed some of the spectacle; she had been too busy watching Mikhail's hands as he did his thing, coalescing whippings of wind from the air around them like plucking berries off a bush.
The downside is it already feels a bit colder now, with so much wind brought to bear, and she still hasn't gotten the hang of dressing for it - Ravka breeds them hardy, apparently, and under a thick layer of wool. It'll be even worse once they're soaring in the sky. ]
You know, [ she says to Nikolai, as Mikhail is unlatching the door for them to step through, ] fog is just a cloud that weighs too much to remain in the air. If you've ever walked through it on a winter morning, you've touched a cloud already. [ And, as if punctuating - ] Not that I would presume to correct his Majesty's goals.
[ Said partly because Mikhail is in earshot, maybe, and how would it look if she was overly familiar? Her penchant for sass is tucked to the side; at least for now. ]
[ He sounds like a parrot. If he were a pirate, he'd have one on his shoulder, but given he's a privateer, he's gone without such a companion.
He doesn't step into the little box, standing off to the side and gesturing for Anahid to step inside first. ]
Touching a cloud on the ground isn't the same as touching a cloud in the air. It could be fluffier high above our heads. Fog is just a cloud that's upset. Why else would it sink so low to the ground?
[ Nikolai's more than aware that he's talking shit. Sometimes he likes to make stories up on the fly. It's partly why Sturmhond's legend is so aggressively big and wild—his imagination knows no bounds, and he's always had an aptitude for creativity.
Turning to Mikhail, he cocks his brow. ] You're going to test your strength from the ground, aren't you? [ He smiles lopsidedly as he claps him on the broad shoulder. ] You know what I say—stretching your limits is a brilliant way to learn what you're capable of. Do try and keep us afloat for at least a few minutes, will you?
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. Good-naturedly and with a familiarity that's perhaps uncommon amongst monarchs and those who serve them: ] Stop dawdling, Moi Tsar.
[ Nikolai pouts and mutters loudly enough for all to hear, ] I'll dawdle if I please. [ He does as he's told, skipping over the threshold of the wooden contraption he calls a basket and closing the door behind him. Mikhail latches it securely.
Clapping his hands over the smooth sides, Nikolai sighs dramatically as he peers at the grounds with a small, pleased grin. ]
[ Even though he gestures for her to go first, Anahid hesitates for a second before lifting her skirt an inch to step inside. Not out of any particular fear, but because she needs a moment to weigh the discourtesies - disregard a king's gesture or step ahead of him? She may have been slotted into this role of accidental diplomat against her will, sure, but she's determined to take it seriously.
Besides, she likes listening to him speak. The same Ravkan that sounds like the bleating of a dying sheep from her lips is a lot more silvery from his. When he passes judgment on fog merely being in a pique, she can't quite mask the way her lips twitch with amusement.
This will be nice, she decides. Maybe if they get really lucky, she'll be able to catch a glimpse of Ketterdam! These silly thoughts intrigue her enough that she almost misses Nikolai's next words...
[ She whirls on him, eyes wide, and her voice cracks like a whip. ]
Nikolai—!
[ Anahid had assumed, if nothing else, that his invention had been tested on something. If not people, then sacks of potatoes weighing roughly the same. Now she's kicking herself for not assuring that fact. She should have asked Mikhail. Although the colour has drained somewhat from her face, she lifts her chin and remains straight as a rod.
In a low voice: ]
If we die here, my country's economy will collapse from paying reparations to Ravka. I hope you realise that.
[ They're already a few feet off the ground, and Anahid is too well bred to raise a fit at the door. All she can do is remain glued in one spot, pretending her heart isn't hammering with anxiety. Her nails dig into the wood, palms sweaty. Mom's spaghetti. ]
[ Nikolai laughs loudly, scrunching his nose slightly. He shakes his head, gripping the edge of the wooden frame tightly. It's not out of fear but in a bid to try and contain his movements. ]
You should've seen your face! Of course, I've tested it. I wouldn't wish for you to come aboard something so dangerous.
[ Sometimes he really does need a supervisor.
She's at ease now, even if tension layers her stiffly. It got her to stop following formalities, didn't it?
He turns, resting his back against the wood and forearms along the edge. His posture is relaxed. The light breeze ruffles some of his thick hair. Nikolai appears at ease in the sky; he feels freer up here, his golden crown no longer weighing him down. ]
You're in safe hands, Anahid. [ He smiles brightly at her. ] I'm glad you know my name. I was getting a little worried about you.
[ With a cock of his head to the right, he doesn't turn. ]
Look.
[ As they ascend, Mikhail looks smaller and smaller. The grounds of the Grand Palace are expansive and green, looking as though it's come right out of one of those books with bright vivid paintings. The palace stands tall with the Little Palace glistening from the sunlight. ]
[ The top and bottom of her jaw come together with a tiny click but her expression is, for a brief second, so thunderous that it might as well have been a shattering boom of disapproval. Her shoulders betray her, though. They're laid low by his laugh. ]
Of course I know your name, your Duplicitousness. And your little stunt has guaranteed I will never use it again.
[ Fortunately, her hands do ease where they lay, knuckles no longer white with panic. Anahid doesn't need to close her eyes to steady her heart back to a reasonable pitch. The gentle air around them does that for her.
It really is lovely up here, she's forced to own. Ravka's lush scenery is as pretty as a painting. The Little Palace, where her contingent of visiting alchemists are generously quartered, looks like watercolour from far away. But the Grand Palace is etched in perfect detail, every hard line remaining in cold relief. A statement as much as a fortification. Its architects knew that they were doing. All of that holds her attention less than the flat where grass meets sky, the line of trees that seem to be endless. ]
There's so much... [ Not knowing the term for it in Ravkan, she spreads her hands. ] فضای خالی, going unused. Back home, they ran out of city so long ago they started building it — [ Another impatient gesture. ] عمودی. You know, up. Families cramped in apartments that seem to get taller and taller every day. And more ships coming in as our world grows smaller.
[ It's said soberly. Isn't that why Ravka's in debt? Nikolai hadn't been the one to empty the coffers and then some, but he had inherited a problem he was not quite sure how to fix without deepening those empty pockets even more.
It's why he's trying to rely on what comes naturally to him: his charm. The previous king had a different approach entirely—and not one Nikolai wishes to follow. He hopes to find a way. If not, perhaps Sturmhond will lend a hand.
Turning, he leans his elbows against the edge and peers down at what he can see of the Ravka he knows so well. ]
Ketterdam is quite closed in. It's almost like the city's allergic to greenery, although it does have a lot of green on its money.
[ Belatedly, it occurs to her that perhaps she didn't need to comment quite so critically about the empty space in the palace grounds to, you know, the king. Just because the pressure Anahid feels of his station is entirely self-inflicted doesn't mean she can pick it and drop it at her convenience.
But then he mentions Ketterdam. Her ears prick with interest; and all those intruding little thoughts (brought to her in her mother's forbidding voice) fall to the side. The urge to balance on her toes to get an even better view is quite strong, although disregarded. ]
Will we be able to see it from here?
[ In this essay, I will show Anahid being the 'I can visit your entire country in under three days'-style tourist. ]
[ Os Alta is too far away from Ketterdam, and regardless of how high they may go, Ketterdam will remain out of reach. That's how he thinks the merchants prefer it. Out of sight, out of reach, and far away from responsibility when they make empty promises they don't intend to keep.
He feels a little guilty that he can't show her a rooftop. ]
Kerch is far away. You'd have better luck seeing Ketterdam lifting this thing from a ship in the True Sea.
[ Her chin dips a little, a spark of a tell of disappointment - and then she lets it go. His wink goes ignored, except for the way her nails curl just a bit closer to her palms; her expression is carefully neutral. ]
I hope the waters are to your liking when you do.
[ Not, I hope the waters are calm — because she can't imagine he'd prefer that in half a dozen different scenarios.
As they continue to slowly glide up, Anahid spots a few different things in the vast grounds. Two men on horses, circling a small animal with sagging joints; the cruel end of a sporting hunt. Sorcerers - Grisha, she reminds herself again, determined to avoid a repeat of the gasps she'd heard after mistakenly assuming merzost was the Ravkan word for magic - performing drills in a perfect five by five square, little dots where all she can make out is a smear of coat colour. A woman paces above them. From this distance, Anahid wouldn't know it's a woman, except that their exquisite stormcloud of a commander is a bit infamous. The nobility have thrilled to share their puddling gossip with a polite foreigner.
And... hm. ]
I've heard an odd rumour, [ she says. ] May I share it with you?
[ Nikolai Lantsov isn't particularly skilled with a needle and thread. He knows he's been clumsy in looping the stitches that make Nikolai the King different to Sturmhond the Privateer (and especially so with their similarities—aren't all the best lies founded in truth?), but it's hard to portray himself as someone who'd prefer easy waters to those that would give his crew something to do. What's the point of Nazyalensky training the Squallers and Tidemakers if there's no challenge for them to prove themselves?
The sight below them is one he's seen many times before from his airships. Everything appears to be in working order… even when an Inferni (Saints, is that Pavel?) accidentally lights something on fire. It burns brightly, the smoke billowing in thick grey clouds.
Nothing to worry about.
He turns to her like a child being offered a chocolate treat. ]
[ That's enough to get her to unbend a bit, smiling once more. ]
I heard the prefect of your military is also in charge with finding you a wife.
[ Prefect, in this case, being used because she still hasn't figured out the ranks of Ravkan military hierarchy; she falls back on a word that makes sense, even if it's so literal it loops around to be nebulous. Maybe if she had spent less time learning their card games, she'd be acquitting herself more deftly right now. ]
That's an interesting use of your forces.
[ Her voice is even. Her expression is amused, pulling dimples out of angles. ]
[ If he chooses to try and weave a tangent on her choice of title, she will have her answer given to her on a golden platter, isn't she? And he'll have no control over how she perceives him, possibly walking away thinking he's an airhead of a king abusing his rank and misunderstanding the purpose of his military.
Either way, she's going to have an answer. ]
General Nazyalensky claims that I am… what's the word? [ He furrows his brows even though the word sits on the tip of his tongue. ] Ah, yes. Hopeless.
[ He regards Anahid with an amused look. ]
Which I'm not. I'm utterly charming and unquestionably handsome. I have other things to do than find a wife.
[ Like keeping a demon at bay and a country from unravelling like a knitted scarf.
Glancing up at the tarp, still miraculously filled with air, he gestures toward it with a wave of his hand. ]
[ Between the balloon and the basket, there is an understated mechanism: a pull handle, a small canister of oil, and a flint-tinder strike. When pulled, it will heat up the air inside the balloon. With Mikhail's gusts pushing them up, they haven't needed it... yet. But they'll eventually be beyond his reach.
The air is already getting a bit thinner, the biting Ravkan chill a bit less friendly now. Anahid buries one hand in the other, hiding red knuckles. ]
In fact, what even is your role in all this? Moral support?
Edited (fucking typos you'd think I never preview my tags!! ) 2023-10-01 11:15 (UTC)
Being incredibly good-looking and hilarious. I'm the entertainment that's meant to cause you some angst. Do you look over the ledge or do you pay attention to me?
[ He says that as though he's about to follow it with a 'Duh'… if that word existed in Ravkan. But his face gives away how silly he thinks of her to ask such a ridiculous question.
This is all Nikolai brings to the table. Along with amazing plots, brilliant plans, and envious fashion. ]
I wonder… [ Resting his elbow against the edge, he leans his cheek into his fist and smiles at her. It's very un-King-like, which means it's very Nikolai. ] What is your role? Other than refuse to admit that you're cold.
[ Because she dresses like she's still in Bezim, all bright patterns and loose, thin sleeves. Maybe having it brought up so casually is what goads her into what she says next. He wasn't supposed to notice what she tries to hide. ]
Did you know your left earlobe trembles a little bit when you lie? I noticed it when you told me the... balloon-carriage was untested. [ Just took her the value of hindsight to figure out what it meant. ] And I noticed you let Mikhail refer to you by title, no grousing or correcting; perhaps he would be a fine choice for a wife.
[ She folds her arms over the edge, staring out at the lake. From this high up, the sun makes it look like a sheet of gold. ]
I have two eyes and am capable of holding as few as three thoughts in my head at one time. I can pay attention to you and the scenery just fine, moi Tsar.
[ Stop, she hears, in her mother's horrified soprano. For once, it doesn't work. (And why should it? It's not a real voice, just a figment left over from having squirms and skinned knees trained out of her.) ]
I thought you invited me up here as a friend. I didn't realise a role was required.
[ He smiles broadly throughout her speech, greatly amused by what she chooses to say and how she says it (although, he does touch his left ear gently as though he can determine whether it does truly tremble when he lies—how has no one ever noticed that before?
Easily. No one pays attention to the spare.).
At the end, he bows his head, nodding, although he still smiles. Nikolai Lantsov is many things, but he enjoys being called out on his bullshit—especially when it's done in such a manner. (He doesn't quite like it when it's done cruelly.) ]
You're right, although… isn't coming up here as a potential friend a role in itself?
[ He lifts his brows at that, his smile still broad, those teeth of his threatening to glimmer in the sun. ]
Up here, you can be anything. [ He gestures wildly at the endless skies. ] I don't have to be the King of Ravka. For all I want, I could be a dragon. Everyone loves dragons. You could be the Queen of the Skies.
[ It's not an appealing prospect. It'll be lovely for a few days, sure, but soon that novel gleam will cease to fill her. Despite his whimsy, there's no nourishment to be found in clouds. ]
I don't want to be that sort of queen. If I truly could be anything, I— [ Hm.
With uncommon restlessness, she toys with the end of her plait. She hadn't taken the risk of wearing her hair down, like she predicted she wouldn't. Her answer may disappoint him. ]
I'd be a coin.
[ That's what she settles on, finally; with a smile for him over her shoulder. ]
[ He doesn't repeat it disparagingly, though. Nikolai brushes his fingers against his chin as he considers this for a moment. Anahid wouldn't pick that to simply bring the conversation to a close. Perhaps she chose it to see how he'd react, but he's learned there's a little more to her than what she may prefer to present.
He always finds the most interesting people. ]
Well, a coin has perceived value. Everyone wants a coin, don't they? Preferably a gold one, if they can afford it. But a coin travels the world without much fanfare; it passes from hand to hand, sometimes with a lot of care, and gets to experience the world through our most capitalistic means.
[ That sounds very profound for him, so he adds: ]
Or you're a gold coin that belongs to a pirate. If I had to be a coin, it'd be that. Find myself on every pirate ship known to the True Sea, and even be dropped to the depths of the ocean to be discovered by some sea monster.
[ Even though she says something rather silly, he takes it seriously. Anahid is simultaneously heartened by it and feels a tinge of guilt for her earlier skepticism about his desire to touch a cloud. It isn't just that, though; it's the way he intuits her meaning. Pulling a lot from a little as if she had handed him everything. ]
A coin you had in your pocket two weeks ago could be anywhere by now.
[ Coins don't get prohibitively seasick. Coins pass over knuckles and through lives without anyone telling them they can't wear a certain colour or be in a room unchaperoned.
... and they're always needed, aren't they? Anahid has yet to read about a society that didn't build itself up around currency. ]
I think you would be profoundly irritated as soon as you realised coins don't have mouths with which to speak to sea monsters. [ Nikolai. Almost-fond punctuation to her remark, even if it doesn't go further than her own thoughts. ]
[ He cocks his brow, his face lighting up much like a child's. This is Nikolai Lantsov with his grand imagination, where nothing is impossible. He gets to be a boy, not a royal, not a Lantsov. If he wants a coin to have a mouth, it'll have a mouth—and it won't be because of his name or his position in society.
When he scrunches his face thoughtfully, Anahid should know immediately he won't let this go. ]
What if it's a coin that has a mouth? One that's rare to find, and exists only on an island no one has discovered yet? A coin that's off-map.
[ And exist in children's stories, if someone were inspired to write about a coin. ]
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That seems optimistic.
[ Beat. ]
Sire.
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[ He honestly doesn't miss a beat. Did he miss his calling as a musician?
He grins at her with great amusement. Perhaps he should take this part seriously, but he can never help himself. When people regard his ideas with the belief they're impossible, he always meets them with unbreakable optimism. ]
That's the invention I told you was brilliant. Now, [ Lifting his hand, he grins toothily. ] don't judge it by how it looks. Not everything brilliant looks brilliant at first.
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Plus, need to save that shiz for either dramatic tension or comedic purposes.]When looking for brilliance, I don't normally start my search in the midden heap, your Privyness. [ On the other hand, she remembers Siyon; and her shoulders lose some of their concern. ] Is this your invention?
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[ He's quick to claim it. Nikolai has no qualms about it being ugly and seemingly useless. It's a brilliant invention! He'd never oversell one of his ideas or inventions if he didn't believe in it.
As they approach it, Nikolai nods toward one of the Grisha standing rather gloomily by the side of the lake. He's a man who stands a little taller than Nikolai with a broader build. The air around him is gentle; he's a Squaller who's encouraged Nikolai's whims one too many times. ]
Mikhail, Anahid. [ He waves his hand between them, although he purposefully gestures toward Anahid when he says 'Mikhail' and visa versa. ] Anahid, Mikhail. Now that we all know one another well enough, let's get this marvellous idea of mine into the air.
[ Mikhail may roll his eyes, but he does so with a smile. ]
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[ She spends a few moments engaging him in small talk, figuring it would be rude to dismiss him as a mere prop in Nikolai's ambitions. And then Mikhail gestures to what Anahid had assumed was a large tarp, laid wrinkled and haphazard in the grass, and urges them both to stand back. Anahid falls back to a safe spot beside Nikolai, looking a bit more excited now.
Within moments, the balloon is filled to capacity with air and hovering neatly above the yellow-painted basket. Anahid had missed some of the spectacle; she had been too busy watching Mikhail's hands as he did his thing, coalescing whippings of wind from the air around them like plucking berries off a bush.
The downside is it already feels a bit colder now, with so much wind brought to bear, and she still hasn't gotten the hang of dressing for it - Ravka breeds them hardy, apparently, and under a thick layer of wool. It'll be even worse once they're soaring in the sky. ]
You know, [ she says to Nikolai, as Mikhail is unlatching the door for them to step through, ] fog is just a cloud that weighs too much to remain in the air. If you've ever walked through it on a winter morning, you've touched a cloud already. [ And, as if punctuating - ] Not that I would presume to correct his Majesty's goals.
[ Said partly because Mikhail is in earshot, maybe, and how would it look if she was overly familiar? Her penchant for sass is tucked to the side; at least for now. ]
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[ He sounds like a parrot. If he were a pirate, he'd have one on his shoulder, but given he's a privateer, he's gone without such a companion.
He doesn't step into the little box, standing off to the side and gesturing for Anahid to step inside first. ]
Touching a cloud on the ground isn't the same as touching a cloud in the air. It could be fluffier high above our heads. Fog is just a cloud that's upset. Why else would it sink so low to the ground?
[ Nikolai's more than aware that he's talking shit. Sometimes he likes to make stories up on the fly. It's partly why Sturmhond's legend is so aggressively big and wild—his imagination knows no bounds, and he's always had an aptitude for creativity.
Turning to Mikhail, he cocks his brow. ] You're going to test your strength from the ground, aren't you? [ He smiles lopsidedly as he claps him on the broad shoulder. ] You know what I say—stretching your limits is a brilliant way to learn what you're capable of. Do try and keep us afloat for at least a few minutes, will you?
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. Good-naturedly and with a familiarity that's perhaps uncommon amongst monarchs and those who serve them: ] Stop dawdling, Moi Tsar.
[ Nikolai pouts and mutters loudly enough for all to hear, ] I'll dawdle if I please. [ He does as he's told, skipping over the threshold of the wooden contraption he calls a basket and closing the door behind him. Mikhail latches it securely.
Clapping his hands over the smooth sides, Nikolai sighs dramatically as he peers at the grounds with a small, pleased grin. ]
This will be a great first test.
1/2
Besides, she likes listening to him speak. The same Ravkan that sounds like the bleating of a dying sheep from her lips is a lot more silvery from his. When he passes judgment on fog merely being in a pique, she can't quite mask the way her lips twitch with amusement.
This will be nice, she decides. Maybe if they get really lucky, she'll be able to catch a glimpse of Ketterdam! These silly thoughts intrigue her enough that she almost misses Nikolai's next words...
But not quite. ]
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[ She whirls on him, eyes wide, and her voice cracks like a whip. ]
Nikolai—!
[ Anahid had assumed, if nothing else, that his invention had been tested on something. If not people, then sacks of potatoes weighing roughly the same. Now she's kicking herself for not assuring that fact. She should have asked Mikhail. Although the colour has drained somewhat from her face, she lifts her chin and remains straight as a rod.
In a low voice: ]
If we die here, my country's economy will collapse from paying reparations to Ravka. I hope you realise that.
[ They're already a few feet off the ground, and Anahid is too well bred to raise a fit at the door. All she can do is remain glued in one spot, pretending her heart isn't hammering with anxiety. Her nails dig into the wood, palms sweaty.
Mom's spaghetti.]no subject
You should've seen your face! Of course, I've tested it. I wouldn't wish for you to come aboard something so dangerous.
[ Sometimes he really does need a supervisor.
She's at ease now, even if tension layers her stiffly. It got her to stop following formalities, didn't it?
He turns, resting his back against the wood and forearms along the edge. His posture is relaxed. The light breeze ruffles some of his thick hair. Nikolai appears at ease in the sky; he feels freer up here, his golden crown no longer weighing him down. ]
You're in safe hands, Anahid. [ He smiles brightly at her. ] I'm glad you know my name. I was getting a little worried about you.
[ With a cock of his head to the right, he doesn't turn. ]
Look.
[ As they ascend, Mikhail looks smaller and smaller. The grounds of the Grand Palace are expansive and green, looking as though it's come right out of one of those books with bright vivid paintings. The palace stands tall with the Little Palace glistening from the sunlight. ]
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Of course I know your name, your Duplicitousness. And your little stunt has guaranteed I will never use it again.
[ Fortunately, her hands do ease where they lay, knuckles no longer white with panic. Anahid doesn't need to close her eyes to steady her heart back to a reasonable pitch. The gentle air around them does that for her.
It really is lovely up here, she's forced to own. Ravka's lush scenery is as pretty as a painting. The Little Palace, where her contingent of visiting alchemists are generously quartered, looks like watercolour from far away. But the Grand Palace is etched in perfect detail, every hard line remaining in cold relief. A statement as much as a fortification. Its architects knew that they were doing. All of that holds her attention less than the flat where grass meets sky, the line of trees that seem to be endless. ]
There's so much... [ Not knowing the term for it in Ravkan, she spreads her hands. ] فضای خالی, going unused. Back home, they ran out of city so long ago they started building it — [ Another impatient gesture. ] عمودی. You know, up. Families cramped in apartments that seem to get taller and taller every day. And more ships coming in as our world grows smaller.
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[ It's said soberly. Isn't that why Ravka's in debt? Nikolai hadn't been the one to empty the coffers and then some, but he had inherited a problem he was not quite sure how to fix without deepening those empty pockets even more.
It's why he's trying to rely on what comes naturally to him: his charm. The previous king had a different approach entirely—and not one Nikolai wishes to follow. He hopes to find a way. If not, perhaps Sturmhond will lend a hand.
Turning, he leans his elbows against the edge and peers down at what he can see of the Ravka he knows so well. ]
Ketterdam is quite closed in. It's almost like the city's allergic to greenery, although it does have a lot of green on its money.
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But then he mentions Ketterdam. Her ears prick with interest; and all those intruding little thoughts (brought to her in her mother's forbidding voice) fall to the side. The urge to balance on her toes to get an even better view is quite strong, although disregarded. ]
Will we be able to see it from here?
[ In this essay, I will show Anahid being the 'I can visit your entire country in under three days'-style tourist. ]
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No.
[ Os Alta is too far away from Ketterdam, and regardless of how high they may go, Ketterdam will remain out of reach. That's how he thinks the merchants prefer it. Out of sight, out of reach, and far away from responsibility when they make empty promises they don't intend to keep.
He feels a little guilty that he can't show her a rooftop. ]
Kerch is far away. You'd have better luck seeing Ketterdam lifting this thing from a ship in the True Sea.
[ He widens his smile as he winks at her. ]
I haven't tested that yet.
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I hope the waters are to your liking when you do.
[ Not, I hope the waters are calm — because she can't imagine he'd prefer that in half a dozen different scenarios.
As they continue to slowly glide up, Anahid spots a few different things in the vast grounds. Two men on horses, circling a small animal with sagging joints; the cruel end of a sporting hunt. Sorcerers - Grisha, she reminds herself again, determined to avoid a repeat of the gasps she'd heard after mistakenly assuming merzost was the Ravkan word for magic - performing drills in a perfect five by five square, little dots where all she can make out is a smear of coat colour. A woman paces above them. From this distance, Anahid wouldn't know it's a woman, except that their exquisite stormcloud of a commander is a bit infamous. The nobility have thrilled to share their puddling gossip with a polite foreigner.
And... hm. ]
I've heard an odd rumour, [ she says. ] May I share it with you?
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The sight below them is one he's seen many times before from his airships. Everything appears to be in working order… even when an Inferni (Saints, is that Pavel?) accidentally lights something on fire. It burns brightly, the smoke billowing in thick grey clouds.
Nothing to worry about.
He turns to her like a child being offered a chocolate treat. ]
I love rumours, especially when they're odd.
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I heard the prefect of your military is also in charge with finding you a wife.
[ Prefect, in this case, being used because she still hasn't figured out the ranks of Ravkan military hierarchy; she falls back on a word that makes sense, even if it's so literal it loops around to be nebulous. Maybe if she had spent less time learning their card games, she'd be acquitting herself more deftly right now. ]
That's an interesting use of your forces.
[ Her voice is even. Her expression is amused, pulling dimples out of angles. ]
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Either way, she's going to have an answer. ]
General Nazyalensky claims that I am… what's the word? [ He furrows his brows even though the word sits on the tip of his tongue. ] Ah, yes. Hopeless.
[ He regards Anahid with an amused look. ]
Which I'm not. I'm utterly charming and unquestionably handsome. I have other things to do than find a wife.
[ Like keeping a demon at bay and a country from unravelling like a knitted scarf.
Glancing up at the tarp, still miraculously filled with air, he gestures toward it with a wave of his hand. ]
Flying this thing, for example.
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[ Between the balloon and the basket, there is an understated mechanism: a pull handle, a small canister of oil, and a flint-tinder strike. When pulled, it will heat up the air inside the balloon. With Mikhail's gusts pushing them up, they haven't needed it... yet. But they'll eventually be beyond his reach.
The air is already getting a bit thinner, the biting Ravkan chill a bit less friendly now. Anahid buries one hand in the other, hiding red knuckles. ]
In fact, what even is your role in all this? Moral support?
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[ He says that as though he's about to follow it with a 'Duh'… if that word existed in Ravkan. But his face gives away how silly he thinks of her to ask such a ridiculous question.
This is all Nikolai brings to the table. Along with amazing plots, brilliant plans, and envious fashion. ]
I wonder… [ Resting his elbow against the edge, he leans his cheek into his fist and smiles at her. It's very un-King-like, which means it's very Nikolai. ] What is your role? Other than refuse to admit that you're cold.
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[ Because she dresses like she's still in Bezim, all bright patterns and loose, thin sleeves. Maybe having it brought up so casually is what goads her into what she says next. He wasn't supposed to notice what she tries to hide. ]
Did you know your left earlobe trembles a little bit when you lie? I noticed it when you told me the... balloon-carriage was untested. [ Just took her the value of hindsight to figure out what it meant. ] And I noticed you let Mikhail refer to you by title, no grousing or correcting; perhaps he would be a fine choice for a wife.
[ She folds her arms over the edge, staring out at the lake. From this high up, the sun makes it look like a sheet of gold. ]
I have two eyes and am capable of holding as few as three thoughts in my head at one time. I can pay attention to you and the scenery just fine, moi Tsar.
[ Stop, she hears, in her mother's horrified soprano. For once, it doesn't work. (And why should it? It's not a real voice, just a figment left over from having squirms and skinned knees trained out of her.) ]
I thought you invited me up here as a friend. I didn't realise a role was required.
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Easily. No one pays attention to the spare.).
At the end, he bows his head, nodding, although he still smiles. Nikolai Lantsov is many things, but he enjoys being called out on his bullshit—especially when it's done in such a manner. (He doesn't quite like it when it's done cruelly.) ]
You're right, although… isn't coming up here as a potential friend a role in itself?
[ He lifts his brows at that, his smile still broad, those teeth of his threatening to glimmer in the sun. ]
Up here, you can be anything. [ He gestures wildly at the endless skies. ] I don't have to be the King of Ravka. For all I want, I could be a dragon. Everyone loves dragons. You could be the Queen of the Skies.
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[ It's not an appealing prospect. It'll be lovely for a few days, sure, but soon that novel gleam will cease to fill her. Despite his whimsy, there's no nourishment to be found in clouds. ]
I don't want to be that sort of queen. If I truly could be anything, I— [ Hm.
With uncommon restlessness, she toys with the end of her plait. She hadn't taken the risk of wearing her hair down, like she predicted she wouldn't. Her answer may disappoint him. ]
I'd be a coin.
[ That's what she settles on, finally; with a smile for him over her shoulder. ]
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A coin?
[ He doesn't repeat it disparagingly, though. Nikolai brushes his fingers against his chin as he considers this for a moment. Anahid wouldn't pick that to simply bring the conversation to a close. Perhaps she chose it to see how he'd react, but he's learned there's a little more to her than what she may prefer to present.
He always finds the most interesting people. ]
Well, a coin has perceived value. Everyone wants a coin, don't they? Preferably a gold one, if they can afford it. But a coin travels the world without much fanfare; it passes from hand to hand, sometimes with a lot of care, and gets to experience the world through our most capitalistic means.
[ That sounds very profound for him, so he adds: ]
Or you're a gold coin that belongs to a pirate. If I had to be a coin, it'd be that. Find myself on every pirate ship known to the True Sea, and even be dropped to the depths of the ocean to be discovered by some sea monster.
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A coin you had in your pocket two weeks ago could be anywhere by now.
[ Coins don't get prohibitively seasick. Coins pass over knuckles and through lives without anyone telling them they can't wear a certain colour or be in a room unchaperoned.
... and they're always needed, aren't they? Anahid has yet to read about a society that didn't build itself up around currency. ]
I think you would be profoundly irritated as soon as you realised coins don't have mouths with which to speak to sea monsters. [ Nikolai. Almost-fond punctuation to her remark, even if it doesn't go further than her own thoughts. ]
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[ He cocks his brow, his face lighting up much like a child's. This is Nikolai Lantsov with his grand imagination, where nothing is impossible. He gets to be a boy, not a royal, not a Lantsov. If he wants a coin to have a mouth, it'll have a mouth—and it won't be because of his name or his position in society.
When he scrunches his face thoughtfully, Anahid should know immediately he won't let this go. ]
What if it's a coin that has a mouth? One that's rare to find, and exists only on an island no one has discovered yet? A coin that's off-map.
[ And exist in children's stories, if someone were inspired to write about a coin. ]
I'd like to be that coin.
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