Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  He knew his way and went straight to the cell that held the Tatar prisoners he always visited.

  “Almas?” In the quiet, Taras’s whisper sounded loud.

  “You have not come to see me for many weeks, I think,” Almas said, putting his arms, up to the elbow, through the bars.

  Taras met Almas a year before, when he first rode toward Moscow. They’d become friends during the journey, but didn't meet again until nearly killing one another on the battlefield of Kazan. Almas was taken prisoner, along with many of his countrymen, and brought back to Russia in chains.

  Taras clasped Almas’s dirty, weak hand and nodded before remembering Almas couldn’t see it. He'd gone almost completely blind over the past year. “Yes. It’s been that long. My apologies. Things have been happening. Tell me, do you know what is going on topside?”

  “We hear only whispers of rumors. Sometimes not even those. Mourning bells tolled three days ago. Someone important has died, no?”

  “The Tsarina. She is gone.” Several seconds of silence greeted the news.

  “So, that’s it.” Almas’s voice sounded soft, sorrowful.

  “Ivan is mad with grief. He is acting strangely. It’s what I’ve come to see you about. He's declared any Tatar prisoners refusing to convert will be executed.”

  Silence again. “And what do you expect me to do about it, Taras?”

  Taras gathered his courage. In his heart, he knew what Almas’s answer would be. “I think you should consider conversion.”

  From out of the darkness came a wheezing chuckle. “Taras, my friend. I believe your heart is in the right place, but how can you ask this of me? You know where my faith lies.”

  “Almas, he’ll kill you. You’ve lived all winter in this hellish place, and talked every day about seeing the sun again. Will you now walk out only to die minutes later?”

  Almas stayed silent for a long time. “I will pray the sun shines on the day of my execution, that I may bask in its warmth one more time before I die.”

  Taras let his head fall forward to rest against the bars.

  “Surely you must have known I would not do as you suggest. Why have you come here Taras?”

  Taras shook his head. “I...have come out of respect for you. I wanted to save you.” His voice dropped to a whisper that sounded desperate even to his own ears. “I had to try.”

  “I respect you more for the effort, my friend, but I have no fear of death. When will this happen?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps not for a while yet. The Tsar is conducting a war with Livonia. Maybe if he is distracted for long enough, something else can be done. Perhaps he will change his mind.”

  “Perhaps.” Almas didn’t sound convinced. Taras wasn’t. “I will accept whatever fate Allah has in store for me,” Almas said. “Come, let us not talk of such dismal things. Tell me what has been happening to you.”

  Almas liked to hear of everyday things. Taras told him of his investigation with Nikolai. He told him of Inga and Yehvah, and his duties as a soldier. Often it amounted to rundown of Taras's mundane, day-to-day activities. Almas seemed to relish every syllable.

  Taras stayed for more than an hour, talking with Almas. He gave him all the supplies he’d brought in the pack, including some bread, two extra blankets, and a skin of water. He couldn’t smuggle much from the kitchens and still avoid notice. It seemed pitifully small, especially given the dozen other prisoners who shared Almas’s cell.

  “Thank you, my friend. It is appreciated.”

  “You always say that,” Taras murmured, guilt constricting his heart in his chest.

  Taras turned to go. “Think about what I’ve said, Almas. You can tell Ivan what he wants to hear, without it being true.”

  “I could not commit so great a crime against my faith, Taras. I thank you for your friendship. I do not wish to die any more than you wish me to, but I leave it in the hands of Allah for now.”

  With a sigh, Taras nodded. He hadn’t truly expected anything different. Almas was too honorable a man to tell cheap lies to save his own skin. Though the guards would extinguish it quickly, he left his torch so the prisoners could have a few extra minutes of light.

  “I will come again soon, my friend,” he said to Almas. Then made for the exit. He never spent long in the dungeons. He paid the guards well to keep his visits a secret. If the wrong people found out he visited prisoners of war—much less gave them gifts of luxury—it might be construed as treason. In truth, it was. Treason against Taras's chosen country. But Almas had been his friend before Kazan became his enemy.

  Taras climbed the ladder out of the dungeon with a sigh. He hated coming down here. Not because he disliked Almas’s company—on the contrary—but because when he left, a profound guilt inevitably expanded in his chest, threatening to suffocate him. It came both from helping Almas so much, and for not helping him enough.

  Never, before coming to Russia, had Taras been acquainted with such complicated contradictions: a friend who was also an enemy; a fellow boyar out to hurt the woman he loved; a great and terrible Tsar, who began to feel...somehow wrong.

  Chapter 8

  MOSCOW, APRIL 1549

  Taras navigated the halls of the palace, heading toward Nikolai’s rooms, his mind a turmoil of recent events. Three weeks had passed since the Tsar's announcement of war with Livonia. So far, neither Taras nor Nikolai had been required to go to the front. Adashev and the main army were thoroughly engaged, though. Taras worried that eventually he'd have to go. It would further hinder his search for answers about his mother.

  Unlike the war against Kazan, most of the palace stayed put. If Ivan ordered Taras to the front, Inga would not accompany him this time. Sergei hadn’t returned to the palace since the day he attacked her, but if Taras donned his war clothes, Sergei might feel bold again.

  In truth, Taras didn't know whether to be happy about Sergei’s absence or not. Apparently spending time at his family’s country estate, Sergei was undeniably avoiding a confrontation. At least he wasn’t around to leer at Inga. When Taras and Nikolai left the palace, he didn’t have to worry about her being attacked again. Still, the confrontation would come sooner or later, and Taras would as soon get it over with. Thinking about Sergei made Taras want to sheathe his sword in someone, so he pushed the thoughts away.

  He turned down the corridor leading to Nikolai’s rooms. They'd gone in search of the woman who reported his mother’s accident to the palace but could not find her. Days of searching yielded no clues. They couldn’t even find an abandoned dwelling where she once might have lived.

  Despite promising himself he wouldn't get his hopes up, Taras felt bitterly disappointed. They were back to where they had been: nowhere. No sign of the woman. No sign of her daughter. Taras wondered, not for the first time, if his quest was hopeless.

  Nikolai said he would ask around, as he always did. Taras wanted to press Nikolai for his sources but didn’t. They wouldn't talk to him anyway. They trusted Nikolai because he kept them secret. Taras could only continue to question boyars at court, or those he came across in the palace, and wait to see if Nikolai turned up anything.

  The courtiers were polite at first. Now they grew tired of Taras’s questions. He'd been in the Kremlin for two years now, so they no longer saw him as an ‘honored guest’ from England. He'd become part of the backdrop. He didn’t bother the same people day in and day out, of course. Every few months he made the rounds again to see if anyone remembered anything new. Those he spoke to became less appreciative and less cooperative each time he did.

  Then today, while he worked forms in the practice yard with other soldiers, a courier arrived with a note from Nikolai. He asked that Taras come to his rooms at his earliest convenience to discuss urgent business. The cryptic nature and the urgent part meant Nikolai’s news could only be about one of two things: Inga, or their investigation, and if something was wrong with Inga, Nikolai would have come to fetch Taras himself.

  Hurrying through t
he palace, he wondered what Nikolai had found out.

  He hoped the Council would not be called together tonight. Meetings with the Tsar held constant fear, now. They might mean war assignments, punishments, even executions if the Tsar felt particularly angry. In the month since Anastasia’s death, Ivan had grown steadily worse. The entire country waited and hoped for Ivan’s grief to subside, praying it would mean calmer time. So far it hadn’t happened.

  Taras rounded the corner and stopped short. The door to Nikolai’s room stood open. Nikolai leaned against the wall outside it, talking to Yehvah. They conversed out in the hallway where anyone could see, and certainly didn't do anything inappropriate, but something in their stance made Taras feel like an intruder.

  They stood close together, talking quietly. Nikolai smiled, murmuring something, and Yehvah laughed. Taras had seen Yehvah smile, even chuckle, but not laugh out loud like that. He was anxious to hear Nikolai’s news, but he turned to go anyway, deciding to give them some privacy.

  Nikolai chose that moment to glance over his shoulder, as though he sensed someone watching them. He smiled when he saw Taras and motioned him over. Taras approached slowly, wanting to give them a chance to finish their conversation, if necessary. They didn’t seem to need it, though. Yehvah instantly adopted a more formal stance when she noticed Taras, her smile going from genuine to polite. Nikolai merely thanked her for something and Yehvah bowed her head and walked away. She nodded to Taras as she went by him.

  “Yehvah,” he murmured softly.

  When Taras reached him, Nikolai’s eyes were bright, almost excited. A rarity for him. “I have news.”

  Taras glanced at Yehvah’s retreating figure. “Nikolai, I’m sorry if I intruded.”

  Nikolai’s smiled faded. “You didn’t. She, uh...” he scratched the back of his neck self-consciously.

  Taras put his hands up. “You don’t have to explain. I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”

  Nikolai smiled again and shook his head. “Come. We should go to the stables.”

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Do you have some place to be?”

  “No.”

  “Good. This might take all afternoon. I spoke to the master of the horse and he assures me the Tsar has decided to spend the afternoon with his falcons. There will be no council meetings tonight. We can take our time.”

  “Doing what? You’ve found something?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Taras rolled his eyes. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it may be nothing, but I have a feeling it is something.”

  “It being?”

  “I asked around about an older woman who may have grown up like a hermit in the woods. The chances are good that the woman who reported to Liliya at the palace is dead. Depending on when this daughter of hers was born—we don’t know how many winters she'd claimed when your mother died—she may be my age or older now. I focused on what I thought would be a good description of her.”

  They left the shelter of the palace and strode into the sunshine as Nikolai explained. The day was clear and the scent of spring hung in the air. “People tend to be closed-mouthed about this sort of thing. When a man lives alone in the woods, he’s a hermit. When a woman does it, she’s a witch. Decent people don’t want to be associated such things, even if they know someone who fits the description. It was never likely to turn anything up. If the woman did move into the city after her mother’s death, she wouldn’t have volunteered information about the way she'd been raised. But, I found someone who might be her.”

  “Mind you,” Nikolai added as they approached the stables, “it’s not something I have firsthand. One of my sources knows a man who knows someone who works in a tavern—barmaid I think—who might take care of an elderly woman who might have been raised in the woods.”

  Taras had to think that through several times to get all the links straight. “Forgive me, Nikolai, but this doesn’t sound promising. Why are you so sure it will be a good lead?”

  “I don’t know. It simply...feels right.”

  Nikolai wasn't a whistling sort of man. If he'd been conducive to it, he would have been whistling up a storm right now. Taras chuckled. He’d never seen Nikolai so...happy.

  “Are we still talking about a barmaid who may or may not exist, or is this about Yehvah visiting you?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Taras saw Nikolai give him a suspicious, sidelong glance. Taras fought to keep a straight face.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Nikolai said and quickened his step toward the barn so he outpaced Taras, his nose slightly turned up.

  Taras chuckled again.

  TWO HOURS LATER, THEY were no closer to returning than when they’d first left. Before riding out, Taras sent a page to find Inga and tell her where he’d gone. The sun would set soon, though, and she would worry if he didn’t return before dark, even if she knew where he'd gone.

  They’d found Nikolai’s friend—a brown-haired man whose name Taras never learned—who took them to his wife’s brother, a squirrelly little man named Sacha. He eyed them suspiciously, claiming he’d done nothing wrong and darting fearful glances at their swords, until his brother-in-law mentioned a tavern maid. Immediately Sacha’s eyes brightened, realizing he wasn't the object of their search. After that, he radiated friendliness and helpfulness.

  The tavern maid, called Anja, worked in the center—in other words, the worst part—of the city.

  “You see, my lords, when I bed—I mean talked—with her, she said she took in an old woman. The woman lived alone in the woods for years. She got lonely and came to the city, but couldn't care for herself because she’d been raised like a wolf in the wild. So, Anja, bless her heart, took pity on the woman and started taking care of her.”

  “Where can we find Anja?” Nikolai asked, his tone brooking no nonsense.

  “At the tavern.”

  Nikolai pursed his lips, which Taras knew meant annoyance.

  “Which tavern, Master Sacha?”

  “I can show you myself, my lord. I go there often to, uh, talk with Anja.” Without another word, Sacha took off down the street.

  Nikolai and Taras exchanged looks. “Does he think we’re priests?” Taras muttered. Chuckling, Nikolai thanked the brown-haired man who’d brought them to Sacha, then nudged his horse after Sacha. Taras brought up the rear.

  The spring thaw meant the streets of Moscow had become quagmires. Their horses stumbled and squelched through the muck with great difficulty. When they entered the innermost part of the city, the true underbelly of Moscow society, they were forced to dismount and grasp their horses’ bridles to keep them moving.

  The tavern was vile. Built of old, thin, rotting wood, mud caked every inch of the place. Scantily clad women hung out of every door and window, grime ground into every pore of their skin and fold of their clothing. The men grinning stupidly at them looked no better.

  Taras and Nikolai opted to wait outside for Sacha to bring his lady friend out to them, rather than go in and leave their horses as targets for professional thieves. Taras surveyed the city while they waited. He’d never been in this part of Moscow before.

  All around them the life of the city pulsed. Men sold wares, children played in the street, and youngsters tried their hand at pick-pocketing. Money and goods were passed around as they would be at market, though this wasn’t one. Every building housed a tavern or brothel of some sort. Outside them, tents were set up for dice and cards. The grime-covered people passing in the street eyed Taras and Nikolai with caution. Had they merely been two well-dressed men, they might have been attacked for their property, but even the lowest classes of society recognized the Tsar’s soldiers and gave them a wide berth.

  Sacha emerged with a woman in tow. She was young and slender with bright orange hair. There, her beauty ended. Her lifestyle had taken its toll, leaving her face scarred from Taras could only guess what, and her teeth nearly nonexistent. Those that remained were
black and rotted and she smelled like she hadn’t bathed in weeks.

  The instant her eyes rested on them, she froze, face pinched with fear, and threw her weight backward, halting Sacha’s forward progress.

  “Sacha, what’s this, then? What’ve you brung me into?”

  Nikolai stepped forward...and Anja stepped back. Nikolai stepped back, putting his hands up. He gave her the same smile he gave everyone they talked to. An honest, reassuring smile. Nikolai was skilled with it.

  His smile did nothing for Anja. She still looked ready to bolt.

  “Please. We only want to ask you some questions.” For some reason, the comment made things worse. Anja tried, without subtlety, to pry Sacha’s fingers off her wrist.

  Taras’s aunt once told him his charm and confidence could win the ear of any woman. He didn’t know if she spoke truth—he suspected it was her indirect way of trying to marry him off—but it couldn't hurt to try. He stepped up beside Nikolai, and Anja’s eyes went to him.

  He smiled at her. Her eyebrows went up and she stopped trying to get away.

  “Please, Lady. We mean you no harm. You are in no trouble. We are looking for someone we think you may know. That’s all.”

  “I’ll not sell anyone to the headsman.”

  He shook his head. “The person we’re looking for isn’t in trouble either. In fact, I would be most pleased to find her. She’s an elderly woman who used to live alone in the northern forest. She was probably raised there, and moved to the city when her mother died. I understand you have cared for such a woman before.”

  “Tatyana? Yes, I still care for her.” Her eyebrows went down again. “What do you want with her?”

  “I need details about someone who died near where she used to live. I only want to know if she knows anything about it. She may not. I simply want to find out. If she knows nothing, I promise I’ll leave her alone.”

  Anja narrowed her eyes and spread a glare between Taras, Nikolai, and Sacha for several minutes. “No.”