Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  “No. I will give you command of the Streltsi for now. They will be happy to assist you in any way. You will merely become their commander.”

  “Yes, your majesty. I am honored to serve in such a trustworthy capacity.”

  Ivan nodded impatiently. “It will be temporary. In this afternoon’s meeting, I will be making several important announcements, including a new, elite force of soldiers I am forming. Once trained, you will command them and the Streltsi will return to me.”

  “Of course, your majesty. Whatever you wish.”

  “You will command them,” Ivan went on, “but as your age often does not permit the kind of exploits this new force will follow, I thought perhaps Sergei would make an excellent field commander.”

  “You do my household much honor, great one. I can answer in Sergei’s stead that he will be both honored and pleased to perform such service for Mother Russia.”

  Aleksey bowed from the waist, keeping his stance as the Tsar walked away. He straightened when the Tsar disappeared into the palace.

  Odd, for Ivan to begin something like this as winter set in. Better to have done it in the spring, so the exploits could have been furthered by the summer weather.

  No matter. The will of the Tsar waited for no season. And no man.

  Chapter 13

  INGA RUBBED THE BACK of her neck as she walked down the corridor. When two boyar men she didn’t recognize came around the corner up ahead, she dropped her hand and straightened her spine, plastering a polite smile on her face.

  The two men glanced at her as she passed them, but didn’t truly see her. One look told them she was a servant, so their eyes passed right by. Inga sighed with relief when they did. Boyars only spoke to her if they needed something, and hours of work loomed ahead of her.

  The Tsar had called a special meeting for later in the day. He’d requested the presence of many powerful boyar families who lived primarily on out-lying estates. They arrived by the handful, now, making more work for the palace servants.

  Since finding out about Yehvah’s health, Inga had worked twice as hard on less sleep. For a while, exhaustion simply became part of life. Now her body had begun to adjust to the new circumstances, even if it wasn’t fully there yet.

  A clatter from somewhere behind her brought her up short. She turned, expecting to see someone come into view from one of the intersection corridors. She remained alone. Only silence met her ears. Shrugging uncomfortably, she turned back to her task. The afternoon grew late. The dinner hour would arrive all too quickly. She needed to check on the girls cleaning the east wing, gather special dinner requests from visiting boyars and relay them to Bogdan, and find Yehvah to tell her of a problem Yana, the laundress, said needed attention.

  Inga sighed. Her walk took her quite close to Taras’s rooms. He’d probably be there soon, if he wasn’t already, but her day remained too busy to stop. She probably wouldn’t see him until dinner or after, depending on when and where he dined.

  Seeing him always proved the highlight of her day, but often it didn’t come until well after sunset.

  Another strange noise from behind halted her. This one she couldn’t identify at all—a squeak combined with a click. What was that? She’d felt strange all day, after awakening with unease. Though the day had been quite ordinary, her nerves felt raw. Expectant, as if she stood on the cusp of something bad, or some negative energy lurked around every corner, waiting for its opportune moment to strike.

  Desperately pushing away images of Sergei sweeping toward her, in which she imagined him three feet taller than his actual height and covered with blood, Inga shook her head and moved forward again. Telling herself not to be silly, she turned her thoughts firmly back to her work.

  “Inga! There you are!”

  Inga jumped high enough to clear a bucket this time, before turning to glare at Anne. The dark-haired maid, whose age fell between Inga's and Yehvah’s ages, was mousy both in appearance and temperament.

  “Yehvah’s looking for you,” Anne said, breathing more deeply than usual.

  Inga suppressed a sigh. “I have to check on the girls in the east wing. They’ve had no supervision all day.”

  “I’ll do it,” Anne offered. “Yehvah says it’s urgent. She looked worried.”

  Inga nodded. “All right.” She headed back the way she’d come as Anne scurried in the opposite direction. Had it been anyone else, she’d have told them to also collect the dinner requests. Anne was too timid for such an assignment. The visiting boyars would walk right over her. She would have to see what Yehvah wanted, then either see to the orders herself or assign someone else.

  Hurrying down the long corridor, she swept around the corner, then jumped back as though burned, sucking in her breath. There, shoulder leaning against the wall, stood Sergei.

  He smiled lazily at her. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

  Remembering her promise to Taras, Inga stepped back. Sergei lunged for her. She darted under his arm, running to a table ten feet away. Grasping the ornate, earthenware pitcher sitting atop it, she spun when Sergei’s rough fingers closed around her wrist. He yanked her toward him and she slammed the pitcher into his head. It shattered against his ear and a sharp pain lanced across Inga’s palm.

  Sergei staggered back, looking shocked. Fear clutched at Inga’s chest. What she’d done could warrant execution. With a sob, she hurled herself past Sergei and down the corridor, cradling her injured hand. She didn’t run toward Yehvah and the kitchens. Both were too far away. If Sergei recovered in time, he could easily catch her. No, she ran toward a much closer place of safety.

  She prayed Taras would be in his rooms.

  As she bolted through the corridors, an echo reached her ears. At first, she thought her own footsteps reverberated in the quiet of the afternoon. Then she realized the second set of footsteps didn't belong to her.

  Sergei was chasing her.

  His footsteps grew louder with each corner she rounded. He had to be right on top of her. She didn't dare turn to look.

  Finally, the right passage. Taras’s rooms lay just ahead. If she could only make it...

  Something brushed the back of her dress and she nearly stumbled. Sergei fingers, reaching for her. “Taras!” It came out as a squawk and she doubted anyone but Sergei heard it. “Taras!”

  She threw herself into Taras’s rooms, gasping for air. The heavy door slapped the wall, then rebounded against her, nearly knocking her back into the corridor.

  Taras and Nikolai sat opposite one another in front of the fire while Anatoly served them from a silver tray. All three men jumped, eyes like wagon wheels.

  Taras lunged from his chair and stood beside her in a heartbeat, not bothering with the space between. Nikolai moved right behind him.

  “Inga, what’s wrong?” Taras grasped her elbows, forcing her to look at him.

  She drew ragged breaths, unable to answer right away.

  “Inga!”

  “I’m fine,” she panted. “Sergei. He’s back.”

  Taras’s face became entirely still, his eyes tight with anger. When he spoke, his voice was steely quiet. “Did he touch you?”

  She shook her head, still panting. “No. Hit him with a pitcher. Chasing me. I’m fine,” she added again when he didn’t look comforted. His eyes went to her hand.

  She frowned down at it for the first time, remembering the pain when she broke the earthenware pitcher on Sergei’s face. A gash in her palm oozed blood, marking her claims of being unhurt as lies. “From when the pitcher broke,” she said. “It’s not deep.” Clutching the hand to her stomach, she leaned forward, resting her head against his chest. Taras put his arms around her waist, his shoulders hunching as if to encircle her.

  He stepped forward, keeping his arms around her, and leaned out to peer into the corridor. Nikolai, who’d come around to stand sentinel on Inga’s other side, gazed in the same direction. Inga turned.

  The shadow of a man stood outside the door aga
inst the opposite wall, its form swaying and contorting in the light of the sconces lining the corridor. For eternal seconds, the three of them watched the shadow. Only the sound of Inga’s raw breathing accompanied the room's tension.

  The shadow turned and retreated down the corridor.

  Jaw turning to granite, Taras released Inga, grabbed his scabbarded sword from beside the door, and stalked out after the shadow.

  “Taras, wait—” Inga tried to grab his arm. It slid through her fingers.

  Fear rose in her throat like bile, so intense that even after she turned to Nikolai, seconds passed before she could speak. “If...Sergei’s here, it’s...the Tsar’s request. The meeting. If Taras kills him...”

  The instant the word meeting left her mouth, understanding dawned in Nikolai’s eyes and he'd bulled through the doorway before she finished.

  Anatoly still stood by the fire with his serving tray, so still and silent she’d forgotten him. Now he set it down and shuffled toward her. “Are you all right, Inga?”

  She nodded, though tears sprang to her eyes. She didn't have time for them before, but now...

  With an expression of utter kindness, Anatoly gathered Inga into his arms.

  “Sergei!”

  Up ahead, Sergei walked briskly. A calculated stance, moving quickly, but not swiftly enough to bring curiosity from any who saw him.

  Taras didn't care who watched. He ran through the corridors until the man came into view ahead of him.

  Sergei stopped mid stride. He paused, turning slowly to face Taras. Planting his feet, he straightened to his full height, utterly unafraid.

  Sergei overtopped Taras by a few inches, but didn't hold any more weight. The height might afford Sergei a slight physical advantage, but Taras seethed hard enough to pick a fight with a boulder.

  He marched up to Sergei, ready to attack. At the last moment, he noticed Sergei’s hand at his waist, under his cloak. Taras stopped two feet in front of the other man, chest heaving. A belt knife, no doubt. If Taras attacked without thinking, he would quickly find the weapon in his gut.

  “You want something, Master Demidov?”

  Taras’s hands shook with anger. He wanted to scream at Sergei, but nothing he said would be sufficient. If he started yelling, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from attacking. He glared at Sergei, from a pace away, chest heaving.

  “Why do you want her so much?” It was a growl, said through clenched teeth.

  Sergei cocked his head slightly to the side, raising his eyebrow. “Why do you?”

  “She’s mine.”

  Sergei’s face split in a malicious grin. “Come, now. Civilized men such as ourselves shouldn’t be fighting over...easy wenches.”

  Taras lunged at Sergei’s throat. Sergei’s knife flashed, aiming for Taras’s neck. Taras caught it with his bare hand. The knife didn’t puncture, but slashed his palm. Ignoring the searing pain, he wrapped his fingers around the blade and yanked it from Sergei’s grasp. Bringing his other fist around, he connected solidly with the other man’s jaw.

  Sergei staggered. Taras threw his bleeding hand out behind him and let go of the knife, not caring where it landed. He barely registered the clatter as it skittered across the stone floor. Slamming Sergei against the wall, he drew his sword. The tip came within inches of Sergei’s exposed throat before strong hands wrapped around Taras’s wrist, halting the sword.

  “Taras, don’t,” Nikolai yelled.

  The combined strength of his two hands proved stronger than Taras’s one, and the throbbing in his left palm made him weak.

  Nikolai dropped his voice to a whisper, coming around to face Taras. “Not here.”

  He jerked his head to one side and Taras looked over his shoulder. Boyars in the rooms nearby had come into the hallway when they heard the commotion. Servants and pages arrived from intersecting corridors, eyes drawn to the scene.

  When Taras and Nikolai glared at them, most ducked their heads and went back to their tasks, or back into their rooms. Still, they'd seen.

  Taras didn’t care. He struggled against Nikolai’s grasp. Every time he freed a hand or arm, Nikolai simply repositioned and held on tighter. An intolerable smugness came into Sergei’s expression as he realized Nikolai wouldn’t let Taras kill him today.

  Anger built in Tara’s chest until he shook. He lowered the sword and put his face close to Sergei’s. Sweat beaded Sergei’s brow and upper lip. He still looked cocky.

  “If you put your hands on her again, I’ll rip your heart out through your throat.” He pushed the tip of his sword into Sergei’s gut hard enough to cause pain. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Sergei’s answer came through gritted, half-smiling teeth. Taras pushed the blade in harder before letting go.

  Slamming his blade into its scabbard, Taras shook off Nikolai and stalked away.

  NIKOLAI FOLLOWED TARAS back to his rooms. Outside the door, Taras paused, trying to tamp down his anger.

  “You can’t let Sergei get to you,” Nikolai said quietly.

  Taras spun to face him. “You shouldn't have stopped me,” he growled.

  Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “If I hadn’t, you’d have been arrested by now. Sergei is in favor with the Tsar.”

  “So am I, supposedly.”

  “You are a foreigner. Sergei’s family has been part of the court for years. His father is a powerful man. I doubt the Tsar would rule in your favor, despite what Sergei may have done.”

  “I’m not afraid of Aleksy Tarasov.”

  “You should be. He has many connections and many spies. If you’d killed Sergei today, it would have been obvious to everyone and easy to punish you.”

  “Men at court duel all the time. The Tsar wouldn’t punish me for that.”

  Nikolai’s eyebrow jumped higher. “You don’t think so?”

  “Ivan’s justice—”

  “Has been questionable since his wife died.”

  Nikolai’s logic hit Taras like a kick to the chest. Since Anastasia’s passing, strange moods took Ivan at odd times. He was as likely to gut Taras for a minor infraction as to completely exonerate him for treason.

  “He wouldn’t let the Tarasovs kill me, at least,” he muttered stubbornly.

  Nikolai didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps not,” he said doubtfully, “but they still could have exiled you, and who would protect Inga from Sergei then?”

  Taras sighed, the last of the anger draining away. From the surface, at least. It still simmered in his chest, ready to rear up again if Sergei’s ugly face rounded the corner. He couldn’t argue with Nikolai’s reasoning. If he had to flee from Russia, he would simply take Inga with him, but the chance of finding the truth of his mother’s demise would disappear forever.

  He met Nikolai’s eyes and gave him a nod. Nikolai visibly relaxed.

  “You put yourself in danger too, my friend. Sergei knows where your loyalties lie now.”

  Nikolai shrugged. “Our friendship is common knowledge. I doubt the fact that I am helping you has escaped notice at this point. Besides, is having my loyalties known such a bad thing?”

  Taras shook his head. “No. But watch your back. Sergei disappeared because he didn’t want to have to deal with me after attacking Inga. If he’s back and as cocky as,” he threw his arm out in the direction the confrontation had taken place, “that, then something’s terribly wrong. He chased her to my doorway, Nikolai. He’s gained some power or knowledge he believes will protect him. You don’t want to be caught up in this.”

  “I don’t mind.” When Taras didn’t answer, Nikolai glanced at his door. “Do you think she needs a doctor?”

  “If she does, I’ll send for one.”

  Nikolai nodded, giving Taras a significant look. “If either of you need anything...”

  Taras nodded. “Thank you.”

  Inside, Anatoly had poured water into a basin and washed Inga’s cut hand. They both looked up as he entered, Inga with utter fear in her face.

/>   “What happened?” she whispered.

  “Nothing.” Taras couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. When she didn’t look comforted he added, “I didn’t kill him.”

  She let her breath out in a relieved whoosh as he crossed the room to her.

  “I probably will someday, you know,” he said quietly.

  She gave him a pleading look. “Sergei is not someone I’d like to see have a long life, Taras, but killing him could send you to the headsman.” Her voice sounded thick with fear.

  With a sigh, Taras reached out to take the wet, soiled rag from his servant. “Thank you, Anatoly. Let me do this.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Anatoly said quietly, then gave a quick bow and left the room. Bandages sat on the table beside Inga. Taras soaked the rag in the basin, rung it out, and applied it to Inga’s palm. The gash under her pinky was small. A spider's web of razor thin cuts arced outward from it. She winced when the rag touched them. Taras cleaned her hand silently, then applied the bandages.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked quietly when he'd finished.

  He stared at her, wondering how she’d come to that conclusion. “Of course not.”

  “But you’re angry you didn’t kill Sergei.”

  “He’s going to keep coming after you, Inga. Unless...”

  Inga dropped sad eyes to study her bandaged hands, shrugging her shoulders uncomfortably.

  Something occurred to Taras. It had always been this way for Inga. The boyars had leave to do anything they wanted to the lower classes, especially the servants. She couldn’t stop them, couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t experience justice or vengeance. And she had nowhere else to go.

  “I think I understand,” he said quietly, “why you’re so afraid all the time. I’ve never lived in a place where I truly can’t defend the people I care about when bad things happen to them. At least, not without the option of walking away.”

  Inga sighed. “Taras, please don’t start about leaving right now—”

  He put his hands up. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m not ready to leave either. Yet.”