Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  “I think I must stay in Yehvah’s line of vision, but we can walk away from the group.”

  He nodded and turned, and she fell into step beside him.

  “Remember when we met yesterday and I thought I knew you from somewhere?”

  She nodded.

  “It took Nikolai reminding me, but I remember where I know you from.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “The snowball incident.”

  She faced him, but had trouble meeting his gaze. She glanced at his eyes. “Yes.”

  “You have no idea how badly I felt about that. I truly had no idea of what Sergei had done. I wanted to apologize, but no one would let me near you.”

  The last statement made Inga forget to be bashful. He wanted to apologize?

  “It was . . . a long time ago, my lord.”

  He nodded. “I know but . . . if you only knew, if only I could convey to you how long I thought about it, even after my family left. I felt horrible. I suppose I still do. Let me apologize now.”

  Inga shook her head, taking a step back from him. “My lord, there is no need—”

  “There is.”

  “No. My lord Taras,” she said sternly, “I am a servant. You are a boyar. You can do whatever you want to me, and need not apologize.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. Then he looked at the ground, laughed without humor and scratched the back of his head.

  “Inga,” he said quietly. “That’s simply not true.”

  “It is true here,” she glanced at the Wall and back to Taras.

  His penetrating gaze bored into hers until she dropped her eyes.

  “Perhaps you are a servant, but you are also a human being. Even if it’s not socially sound, for myself, for my own soul, I need to apologize to you. All right?”

  She nodded, not sure what else to do.

  “I was raised to make amends for things, Inga. That’s what I want to do.”

  “That’s not necessary, my lord.”

  He put up his hands. “It may not be necessary for you. It is for me. How can I make things right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Inga shook her head again. She couldn’t think of anything on the spot. Even if she could, she would not be able to take it from him. Even this conversation bordered on improper. He said nothing for a time, and she peeked up at him. He stared down at her, and she could almost see his mind working. Finally, he smiled.

  “Then let us leave it open-ended. If you ever need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I will help any way I can, until I feel my amends have been made.”

  He glanced over her shoulder. “Yehvah is coming. You’d

  better go.”

  Inga looked behind her. Yehvah had spotted the two of them. Her eyes had narrowed considerably. Taras already moved away from her, toward Nikolai.

  Inga moved back toward the group of women, and Yehvah met her in the space between.

  “What was that about?”

  “He . . . wanted to ask me a question.” Inga didn’t know why she lied. She sensed Yehvah would not like the truth.

  “What did he ask?”

  “I need all the young ladies to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, facing me," the Head Clerk's voice saved Inga from having to have to answer Yehvah's question. "Chins up, shoulders back, stand up straight. Yes, that’s it. . ..”

  Inga hurried forward and hooked herself on to the end of the line. Yehvah stood in front of her, watching the head clerk with guarded eyes. People hurrying through the courtyard, including boyars and newly-arrived partygoers, stopped to watch. Taras and Nikolai inched forward to observe the scene.

  The head clerk walked down the row, inspecting each woman and asking questions. “What do you do? Seamstress? Seamstresses have strong fingers, not arms. You? Lady-in-waiting? I don’t suppose your mistress has you do much manual labor? What about you? I suppose you could do, though you’re not much to look at, are you?”

  He picked out two women near the end of the line. One worked as a laundress, turning the massive press all day. The other, the daughter of a stable hand who often helped her father in his work. Next, he came to Inga. Yehvah stepped closer to her.

  “And what do you do, my dear?”

  “I work mostly in the kitchens, my lord.”

  “One of yours, Yehvah?”

  “Yes, my lord, and I will be needing her desperately for the next few hours.”

  He looked Inga up and down. “Take off your scarf, woman.”

  Inga blinked. When she didn’t move, the clerk reached behind her and yanked her head scarf off with one rough tug.

  Inga had a lot of hair. It was fair—though not so much as her skin—and she’d never cut it. Full and thick, it curled naturally at the ends and up near her forehead. She always wore her platok, except when she slept. She even wore it in the bath, unless she had to wash her hair. Without it, here in a public courtyard, she felt naked.

  As soon as the clerk saw her hair he shook his head. “No Yehvah, she’s perfect. I’ll take her, too.”

  “My lord—”

  “She’s the prettiest woman here, and she works in the kitchens, so she has strong arms. She’s exactly what I am looking for. I only wish there were three more like her.”

  “My lord, we are already shorthanded—”

  “You can take someone from another place to fill your kitchens, woman.”

  “It’s difficult work, my lord. No one who hasn’t done it before can simply. . . start.”

  “Exactly. Difficult work, so she will do well in the ballroom tonight.”

  Inga gasped. Her heart pounded. Yehvah did not object because she needed Inga in the kitchens tonight. She objected because she feared what was happening. Inga didn't entirely understand why, but she recognized fear in the wrinkles around Yehvah’s eyes.

  “My lord,” Yehvah’s voice got louder, “she is under my stewardship. You cannot simply—”

  Inga didn’t see the clerk’s hand move. It cracked loudly when it struck Yehvah’s cheek.

  “My authority far exceeds yours, maid, and you will do as you are told. This young woman, along with those two, will serve in the Great Hall tonight. We have so many guests that we are short of servants, and we need people who are both beautiful and strong to carry heavy platters without dropping them.”

  The slap forced Yehvah’s head around, and now she stood looking at the ground, chest heaving, back slightly bent from the force of the blow.

  Inga stepped toward Yehvah. She put one hand on Yehvah’s upper arm. “Please, my lord. I am happy to serve tonight.”

  The clerk blinked as though noticing her for the first time. “Of course you are. You see?” He glared at Yehvah again. “At least your girls know their place. You ought to take a lesson from them.” He turned, surveying the courtyard with an upturned nose. “Have all three girls report to the Master of Tailors within the hour. They need to be fitted for their livery.”

  “Might I make one request, my lord?” It was Yehvah again. The clerk turned very slowly, looking shocked to his toenails that she'd spoken again. “I think I am entitled.”

  “You are entitled to whatever I say you are entitled to.” He huffed out a breath. “Very well, state your . . . request.”

  “Let her hair stay covered.”

  His eyebrows knitted together. He looked from Yehvah to Inga and back again. “What difference does—?”

  “Please, my lord. You are taking my servant from me for the evening. All I ask is she be allowed to keep her hair covered. You may cover it with whatever you wish—whatever is most becoming. I only ask that it remain unseen.”

  The clerk turned his body fully to Yehvah and made a mocking bow. “We’ll do our best.”

  He practically bounced out of the courtyard.

  Yehvah had not moved during the exchange. She now raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Back to your tasks.”

  The line of un-chosen women immediately dispersed.

&n
bsp; Inga looked around. Two kinds of boyars peopled the Russian court: those who'd stopped and, when the clerk slapped Yehvah, quietly vacated the awkward situation, pretending they had seen nothing; the other type stayed after the backhand, smiling appreciatively, as if the insubordinate servant had gotten what she deserved.

  As even they lost interest and wandered away, Inga glanced to her right. Nikolai and Taras still stood close by. Taras gazed at her, a mixture of concern and confusion on his face. Nikolai peered at Yehvah with what Inga thought was concern, though she must have imagined that.

  When everyone else had gone, Nikolai put his hand on Taras’s shoulder and said something, jerking his head toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Taras allowed Nikolai to guide him away.

  Inga and Yehvah found themselves miraculously alone in the courtyard. Inga went around behind Yehvah and put her arms around the older woman’s shoulders, hugging her tight.

  “Don’t worry, Yehvah. I’ll be fine.”

  Yehvah wiped a tear from her own cheek. “It’s not tonight I’m worried about, Inga. You are very capable of this. It’s only that . . .”

  “I know,” Inga whispered. “I know.”

  Chapter 18

  THE SUN WENT DOWN AN hour later, leaving the sky black as pitch, but the oblong throne room blazed with light. Torches in sconces lined the walls. Candles flickered from every crevice and outcropping that would hold them. Chandeliers, dancing with hundreds of flickering flames, hung from the ceiling. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of milling bodies created a thick, humid atmosphere.

  Taras danced a great deal more than he would have wished. It wasn’t as if, once he began, he could become comfortable with it. Each dance was different and intricate. He would make it through one without too many missteps, only to pray he wouldn’t fall on his face during the next.

  He wiped sweat from his brow. All around him swirled distinguished guests of the tsar. The boyar men wore long, thick beards, and were dressed much as he was. The Russian women looked . . . large. Their figures weren't truly large, but they wore so many layers, they appeared larger than most women. The women who actually were large looked bigger than the men. They wore color caked thickly over their faces. Women in England put color on their faces, but not to this extent.

  Many of the women had bright red smeared haphazardly over their cheeks, like war paint. When he asked about the fashion, Nikolai explained they were attempting to make themselves less beautiful. If they appeared unattractive to men, it would discourage adultery and help them to be loyal to their husbands. Taras thought the idea ridiculous, but didn’t say so. Nikolai seemed to think it made complete sense. Then again, Taras had to concede that the women who wore this paint, despite their obvious beauty, repulsed him. He supposed it was working.

  Then he caught sight of Inga.

  He had not noticed the servants moving silently through the crowd, offering up drinks and refreshments as the dances went on around them. Then, he came face to face with her and gazed straight down into her eyes. She smiled shyly, and offered him the tray she held. He didn’t even see it.

  She wore a fine silver gown with white embroidery, as did all the other servants. It showed her petite slenderness, in contrast to the bulky, full-figured costumes of the boyar women. Her hair was visible. She usually wore a colorless, threadbare scarf. It covered her head completely, coming down over her forehead and leaving her hair hanging in a sack at the nape of her neck. She still wore a scarf, but one made of silver silk that shimmered in the candlelight. Fine, white-blond strands peeked out between the scarf and her forehead, and below her shoulders her thick mane cascaded down her back, curling at her waist.

  She was dressed simply, compared with those attending the ball, but the lack of paint and simple elegance of her costume gave her a natural beauty, and Taras had a hard time looking away from her. She looked radiant.

  “Taras.” Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of his trance, and he half-turned to the other man. “Come. There is someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

  Taras nodded, turning back and taking a drink from Inga’s tray as an excuse to look at her again. The goblet had to be vodka. An ornate, wooden thing, it must have been painted with some sort of oil because it, too, glistened under the candles. Taras paused, hoping she’d meet his gaze again. She did, and he winked at her before turning to follow Nikolai through the crowd.

  Nikolai stopped and addressed a man with a barrel chest and arms only equaled on a blacksmith. His beard, though full, was well groomed, and the white streaks in it gave him a distinguished look.

  “My lord, may I present Taras Nicholaevich Demidov. Taras, this is Mikhail Glinsky, Master of the Horse.”

  Taras immediately turned serious. He put his right fist to his chest and bowed from the waist. The Master of the Horse inclined his head in return. He stood taller than Taras, and more solidly built, though his gut hung a few inches over his belt.

  “It is good to meet you, Taras. I have heard much about you.” Glinsky tugged at his full beard. “Tomorrow is Sunday, so services will be held. The next day, however, I want you to report to my chambers at midmorning. I will take you to my right hand, who oversees the training of the tsar’s army. Make sure you sleep well the night before. We mean to test you thoroughly and find out what you can do and where we can best use you in the tsar’s service.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I look forward to it.”

  “As do I. Enjoy yourself tonight, so you sleep well tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  Glinsky nodded and turned away.

  When he was out of earshot, Taras turned to Nikolai with chagrin. “You couldn’t have given me some warning before the introduction?”

  Nikolai laughed heartily—the first time Taras had heard such a sound from him.

  “You hold yourself remarkably well in the face of authority. The Master of the Horse would never deign to show his approval of a soldier, especially one who has not yet found his place in the army. One can never be told in advance of such an introduction. A man’s true colors come through when he doesn’t have time to rehearse.”

  Taras shook his head ruefully. Russia would definitely keep him on his toes. He prayed Nikolai was right about the Master of the Horse.

  The dancing continued for more than an hour. When it ended, Taras was famished. He kept busy by constantly looking around for Inga. Every time the drinks on her tray ran out, or were replaced with mostly empty goblets, she would disappear for several minutes. Invariable, though, she returned with more.

  Finally, the musicians were sent away and heavy tables dragged in, draped in lavish tablecloths of every color. The cloths felt thick enough to keep a man warm during a winter’s night. Benches were furnished and covered with plush cushions and thick pillows. Taras sat down next to Nikolai, for whom he already felt a deep kinship.

  Then the food arrived. The women brought out smaller dishes—pitchers of mead and bottles of vodka, side dishes and garnishes, sauces of every kind. The manservants, sometimes two or three at a time, brought out the main dishes: whole roasted boars and mounds of de-boned reindeer meat. One held a pile of what could only be described as limbs. Heavy bones with inches of thick, wonderful-smelling meat were piled higher on the tray than Taras was tall. They set it down directly in front of him.

  “What is this, Nikolai?”

  “This is the essence of an entire Siberian bear.”

  Taras’s eyebrows jumped to his forehead, but Nikolai had already torn into a leg large enough to fill both men's bellies. Taras picked a chunk of meat from the pile and hesitantly bit into it. The meat proved tougher than most he’d had, and was heavily spiced, but perhaps that was the taste of the meat itself. It burned his nose and throat, and he coughed trying to choke it down. Nikolai laughed again and clapped him on the back.

  “This is a man’s meat. Welcome to Russia, my boy.”

  Taras laughed and kept eating. The mound of bear di
sappeared amazingly fast, along with the other dishes. Hot borscht was served—something he remembered from his childhood. The soup, made of beets and heavy with garlic, brought memories of his father, who used to eat the dish religiously.

  Ivan sat on a dais above the others. He ate from an ornately gilded table, laid with a sable runner. His wife, the beautiful Anastasia, sat beside him. She had the elegant, demur beauty of a hand-crafted doll, but something about her bespoke gentleness and feminine authority. The dishes were served to the royal couple first—after the tester, of course—and Ivan watched his guests with pleasure.

  The servants wandering through the hall made sure Taras’s goblet stayed full, but he only sipped from it. He did not want to be drunk in the Russian court. Not yet. He wasn’t comfortable enough to risk doing anything he wouldn’t remember the next day.

  When the feasting died down and Taras had eaten more than his fill, the tsar stood and raised his hands. Silence fell.

  “Let the entertainments begin.”

  The boyars cheered. They looked eagerly around to see what form these “entertainments” would take. Taras leaned over to Nikolai.

  “I thought the dancing was the entertainment.”

  Nikolai chuckled softly, giving Taras a pitying look. “Not remotely.”

  All the diners were seated in roughly one half of the massive hall. Taras assumed it was done so everyone ate together under the watchful eye of the tsar. The other half of the room stood completely bare.

  Now, the mammoth oak doors swung inward. The dinner guests turned eagerly toward them. No less than three men threw their entire strength into swinging each of the two doors in. Through them came something that made Taras’s eyes pop.

  The largest metal cage he’d ever seen rolled in on wheels that groaned with every quarter turn. Inside sat the largest bear Taras could have imagined. Standing on all fours, it would have been six feet tall at the back, it’s head even taller. If it reared up, it would have been ten or twelve feet at least. Its thick, matted fur was the black of the night sky during a storm. Taras could smell the creature from across the room. One of the handlers grasped a heavy chain attached to a thick iron collar around the beast’s neck.