by Sarah Ash
“Don’t you recognize me, Olga?” His voice trembled, in spite of himself. “It’s me. Andrei.”
“Andrei is dead,” she said to his reflection. But her hand stayed where it was—close to, yet not touching, the bell. “Are you his ghost?” She asked the question as if the idea in some way intrigued her.
“Do I look like a ghost?”
“You look like a man who needs the attentions of a good barber. If you are Andrei, ghost, then prove it to me. Tell me something only Andrei could know.”
Andrei swallowed hard. What shared secret lay buried in his faulty memory that might convince her? He saw her hand inch closer to the bell. If she rang for help, all was lost.
“For my last birthday you sent me a copy of The Forbidden Tryst, the first play I ever saw you in. I opened the little package in front of my family—and my mother was scandalized when a lace-trimmed scarlet garter fell out.”
There was a pause. Suddenly her grave expression transformed into an expansive, welcoming smile. She rose from her dressing table, arms wide, and hugged him close.
“My lost boy! Where have you been? Making us all so sad! You should be ashamed of yourself.” She held him at arm’s length. “And, my darling, you badly need a bath!”
“Sorry,” he said, grinning through the tears that had filled his eyes. “This wasn’t quite the reunion I had planned.” And then he remembered. “Olga—you mustn’t tell a soul. No one knows I’m still alive. This must be our secret.”
“You can trust me; you know that.” She went to the outer door and bolted it. “There. Now even Masha will have to knock to be let in.”
Suddenly the dressing room wavered before his eyes and Andrei was forced to grab at the dressing table to steady himself.
Olga poured him a little glass of spirit from a squat bottle. “Here, drink this. It’s karvi from Smarna. It’ll warm you up.”
Andrei swallowed the whole measure of karvi in one gulp and felt the strong spirit glow its way down his throat.
“Thanks. I’m still not quite recovered.”
“Sit down. And tell me where you’ve been all this time.”
He lowered himself stiffly onto a threadbare armchair draped with a flower-embroidered shawl. He had not wanted to reveal his weakness to her.
“The Sirin was blown onto rocks in the storm. I was pulled from the sea by an old fisherman and his wife. They nursed me back to health. But the sea took my memory. They called me Tikhon. By the time I remembered my real name—” He faltered. “Eugene was Emperor.”
Olga reached for another slender cigar and held it to the candleflame until the tobacco glowed.
“So what do you plan to do?” she said, taking in a deep breath of the musky smoke.
“To go see my family.”
“The shock could kill your father.”
“Why so?”
She blew an elegant little ring of smoke from her red lips. “He is a broken man, Andrei. It’s rumored that he’s had a stroke. He’s gone to Erinaskoe to recuperate.”
A stroke. His father Aleksei had always seemed so strong, so robust. He could not imagine him weakened by illness.
His distress must have shown in his face for she drew closer, her voice softer.
“You didn’t know? I should have realized. Forgive me, Andrei.”
“So I am to remain incognito all my life? Or invent a new identity? It sounds like the plot of one of those absurd melodramas you delight in appearing in.”
“You have a new identity already: Tikhon.” She let her fingertips touch his cheek, stroking his beard.
“Olga!” he said, angry that she would not take his predicament seriously.
“And now you’re cross with me,” she said, pouting.
“I’ve risked my life coming to you. Trusting you with my secret. No one else knows but you.”
“I’m flattered. The whole affair is deliciously dangerous. But I have some advice for you. If—and when—you must break the news to your family, do it gently, a little at a time. Lay a trail of clues . . . let them build up their hopes again day by day, week by week. And Andrei—” She laid her hand on his shoulder, all the earlier playfulness gone from her voice. “Be careful how you go about it. Your very existence could be seen to pose a threat to the new empire.”
“You think Eugene—”
“Put yourself in his place.”
“Even if I were to openly pledge my allegiance to him and the new empire?”
Olga was silent a moment, considering what he had said. “Is that what you really want, Andrei?”
“You were born to rule, Andrei. But it is still too soon.” The voice, dry and sinuous as Olga’s cigar smoke, drifted through Andrei’s mind. He started, glancing up, wondering if he had inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud.
“All’s far from well in this new empire,” Olga said, stubbing out the last of her cigar in a tobacco-stained saucer. “You know I’ve just come back from Smarna? The first night we played Solovei’s Blood Masquerade, remember it? The one where the corrupt king is assassinated by the rebels in the middle of a masked ball? Well, there was a riot! The whole theater went mad with excitement, cheering and screaming when the king is shot. We had to bring down the curtain. After that, the Tielen governor closed the theater for two days. And he forbade us to perform the play again. We had to content ourselves with harmless romantic nonsense like The Corsairs and Soraya’s Secret—”
Someone tested the door handle. Andrei leapt up.
“Madame Olga,” a woman’s voice cried, rattling the handle. “Time to get ready!”
“One minute.” Olga rose too. “You must go, Andrei. Much though I love my faithful Masha, she is utterly indiscreet and babbles my secrets to anyone and everyone without thinking.”
Andrei hurried into the chilly little washroom. His leg was less stiff now that he had rested it. Olga opened the door, letting in a dank breath of stale air. Andrei turned to go—and then turned back on impulse, kissing Olga hard on the mouth.
“Ugh—that beard tickles,” she said, grimacing. But she did not pull away.
It was so long since he had kissed a girl, any girl. Yet the feelings the kiss stirred were disturbingly powerful. He wanted the sweet, tobacco-scented warmth of her body. He did not want to let her go.
“Madame Olga!” shrilled Masha’s voice from beyond the dressing room door. “We’re running late!”
“Let them wait!” cried back Olga.
“And if anyone asks—” he whispered in her ear.
“Trust me.” She gave him a little push into the secret passageway and blew him a kiss as she latched the door, leaving him in darkness.
The pure, delicate voice soared higher, each little cascade of notes like clear water falling, or a lone thrush fluting in the still, close air before rain.
Celestine de Joyeuse, the celebrated Francian singer, stood with one hand lightly resting on the fortepiano. She was much younger than Astasia had imagined from her illustrious reputation—not more than twenty-four or twenty-five. She was dressed in a gown of rich mulberry silk, with a single orchid pinned in her golden hair, and looked to Astasia quite the epitome of fashionable Francian elegance.
The song came to an end and for a moment the last perfect notes hung in the air. Then the applause began. Astasia clapped and clapped, unable to restrain her enthusiasm. Celestine sank into a deep curtsy, one hand clasped to her breast, murmuring her thanks before rising and gesturing to her accompanist.
The fortepiano player rose, unsmiling, and bowed his head. A tall, gaunt young man with pale skin and long, straight dark hair, he had more the air of an ascetic or a monk than a musician. Astasia thought she caught a secret, subtle little glance that passed between singer and accompanist. Can they be lovers? she thought, thrilling at the idea.
“And now, we would like to perform for you the song ‘October Seas,’ set to the words of your celebrated poet, Solovei.”
More applause greeted this tribute to Mirom’
s favorite author.
That Francian accent is charming, thought Astasia, sighing as she remembered how hard she had striven to learn to pronounce the Francian tongue. Celestine de Joyeuse must have a gift for languages as well as music. . . .
Astasia glanced at her husband as the recital continued. Eugene was staring beyond the illustrious Celestine with a distant, slightly frowning expression. She could sense he was not enjoying himself. She had hoped that the visit of one of the most celebrated musicians of the day might change his opinion of the art and might even give them something to discuss together. Eugene had already confessed to her that he had no ear for music. Give him a rousing military march to whistle and he was happy. This music was too subtle, too refined for his tastes. And then the artistry of Celestine’s singing overwhelmed all other thoughts, and the music—wild, soulful, and free—possessed her.
During the applause, she saw Gustave appear and make his way toward them. He whispered something to the Emperor she could not catch.
“Ah,” said Eugene. He nodded and leaned toward Astasia. “Forgive me. Some official business I must attend to.” He rose—and the rest of the audience rose too. Court etiquette. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, “you have enchanted us with your delightful voice. Please do not think me rude; state affairs intrude upon my pleasure and I must attend to them.”
“Your imperial highness honors me.” The singer sank into another deep curtsy as Eugene left the room with Gustave at his side.
The recital continued, but Astasia could no longer concentrate on the music or surrender to its spell. She knew it must be some matter of import to have drawn Eugene away from such a prestigious gathering.
Two senior officers were waiting for Eugene in his study, tricornes respectfully held at their sides.
“Trouble in Smarna, highness.” Eugene recognized the elder of the two as Henrik Tornberg, Commissar-General of the Southern Army. “A rebellion.”
“What kind of rebellion?”
“They’ve declared themselves a republic again. The rebels have attacked our men garrisoned in Vermeille. They have taken Governor Armfeld hostage.”
This was unacceptable. Though Armfeld was a damned fool to allow himself to be captured so easily.
“Maps, Gustave.”
Gustave unrolled a map of Smarna on the desk.
“This rebellion must be put down immediately,” Eugene said, pinpointing Vermeille with one finger. “Any hint of weakness on our part would be fatal for the empire at this early stage.”
“From what we can gauge, highness, the rebels’ stronghold, the Old Citadel of Colchise above Vermeille, is vulnerable to attack by sea.”
Eugene studied the coastline, pensively tracing the wide sweep of Vermeille Bay with one finger. Wasn’t Vermeille where Gavril Nagarian had grown up? Could there be some connection between the Smarnan rebellion and Gavril Nagarian that his agents had failed to identify?
He looked up at Gustave.
“Is this anything to do with Nagarian’s imprisonment, Gustave?”
Gustave gave a little shrug.
Eugene had no time for recriminations now. Swift action was essential.
“With a fair wind, Admiral Janssen could make Vermeille in three days with the Southern Fleet,” he mused. “Gustave, get me the admiral. How are our men in Vermeille holding up against the rebels, Tornberg?”
“Well enough, highness.”
“Tell them reinforcements are on their way.”
Tornberg saluted and hurried away, followed by his adjutant.
Eugene gathered up the map and went with Gustave to the communications room. His empire of New Rossiya was young and the bonds that forged it were all too fragile. He had anticipated resistance to his rule—but not in sleepy Smarna, the least politically active of the five princedoms.
“Admiral Janssen, highness,” Gustave said, pointing to the Vox Aethyria.
“Janssen?” Eugene cleared his throat. This was no time for any show of indecision. “Take the fleet to Vermeille Bay. There’s trouble in Smarna.”
“And how shall we respond to this trouble, highness?” came the crackling reply.
“Crush it. Show no mercy. Even if it means razing the whole citadel to the ground.”
CHAPTER 18
Kuzko and Andrei sailed the Swallow into harbor at Varangaya, close to the wide mouth of the Nieva estuary.
The port was famous for its flourishing leather and fur trade—and yet there, among the merchantmen anchored in the harbor, towered a Tielen warship, a standard of sky-blue and gold glittering from its topmost mast in the gusting sea wind.
“See that?” Kuzko jerked his thumb toward the ship. “That’s the flag of the new empire. Though it looks like the old Tielen flag to me.”
They tied up with other little boats at the far end of the quay, well away from the big ships. The sun was setting beneath a low-hanging canopy of dark grey cloud, and the last streaks of green and gold lit the harbor buildings with a strange, lurid glow.
“Wind’s on the turn,” said Kuzko, sniffing the air. “You can only smell the tanneries when it’s blowing from the north.”
The stink of rotting herring mingled with the raw reek of hides from the tanneries made Andrei’s eyes water.
“Ever been to Gadko’s?” asked Kuzko. Andrei shook his head. “That’s where we’re bound with our little ‘delivery.’ ”
At last, Kuzko’s business was concluded and the barrels handed over with a nod, a wink, and a secret handshake.
The taproom at Gadko’s was dark and overheated, the air a dingy yellow fug of tobacco smoke. Andrei followed Kuzko as the stocky old man elbowed his way through the throng of drinkers: shaven-headed merchants from Khitari, traders, Tielen sailors on shore leave. In his worn coat and seaboots, he was indistinguishable from any other fisherman.
He was tired. So tired his bones ached. He had overestimated his stamina, and the limp in his shattered leg had become more pronounced as the day wore on. He slumped down in a darkened alcove away from the firelight and rubbed it hard, as if the friction would lessen the dragging, bone-deep ache.
“Here you are, lad.” Gadko placed a frothing mug of hot cumin-spiced ale in front of him. “On the house. That’ll set you right.”
“Thanks.” Andrei drank it down, feeling the heat seep into his body, dulling the nagging pain.
In the corner closest to the fire, an old man started to croon a Muscobar love song, tapping out a rhythm with the bowl of his pipe against his mug. Another took up a balalaika and began to strum along. One by one, others set down their mugs and joined in; even Kuzko added his rusty bass to the refrain until the smoky air vibrated with their voices.
“Silence in the name of the Emperor!”
A gust of wet night air blew in. Andrei glanced up and saw that five burly Tielen sailors had entered the tavern. They all brandished clubs.
“I said silence!”
The balalaika chords stopped abruptly, but the singers continued on for a bar or two before their voices trailed away.
A man in a neat grey uniform came forward into the firelight. He carried a gold-tipped officer’s baton.
“Shore leave is canceled. All crewmen are to return to the Olava straightaway.”
A general groan arose. The five heavies began to push their way into the crowd, clubs raised menacingly.
“The Emperor has promised extra rum rations for every man who is on board within the hour. . . .”
One by one, Tielen sailors emerged, making their way reluctantly toward the open door.
“I’ve plenty of rum here!” came a slurred voice from near the fire. “Tell the Emperor what he can do with his extra rations—”
Jostling ensued. A man suddenly went flying across the floor, to land in an ungainly tangle of arms and legs near the door. Two of the Tielen crewmen scooped him up and dragged him out into the night; Andrei could hear him swearing and protesting as they hustled him across the quay.
The T
ielen sailors made one last tour of the tavern, glowering at anyone who stood in their way.
“Shore leave canceled?” Andrei had sensed tension in the air. “Is Muscobar under attack?”
“Careful, lad,” cautioned Kuzko.
But Andrei no longer cared who heard him. “What’s going on?” He slammed his ale mug down on the table. Heads turned. Suddenly he became aware that everyone was staring at him.
“Time to go, Tikhon.” Kuzko rose and began apologizing loudly. “You’ll have to excuse my boy. He was injured in the recent fighting. He gets confused sometimes. . . .”
Eugene woke with a start. It was not yet dawn, but his soldier’s instincts told him it was time to rise. He went to the window and drew back the heavy folds of blue velvet to gaze out at the wide Nieva, a faint glimmer in the fading night.
The Southern Fleet had set sail for Smarna. The rebellion would be crushed before it had a chance to spread. He had ordered that no news of the uprising be published in Muscobar until the citadel was back under Tielen command and Armfeld released. He had little doubt that the rebels, poorly armed and untrained, would soon surrender under the barrage of Tielen cannon.
So why did he feel this continuing sense of unease about the whole affair? Gustave, pragmatic as ever, had murmured to him that his misgivings were a natural reaction to this first challenge to his rule as Emperor.
“There will always be a few who resist your authority,” Gustave had said calmly, “and you must be prepared for such rebellions. Even the Great Artamon had to put down the uprising in Khitari when Khan Konchak sacked his garrison at Lake Taigal and executed his tax collectors. . . .”
But he needed Smarna. In his father’s day, Smarna had proved a vital defensive link in driving back the Francian war fleet.
He went back to the window. A fresh, pale spring light sheened the eastern horizon. The spires of the city churches glimmered like spears of gold piercing the rising mists. The sun would shine on Mirom today—but what was the weather like out in the treacherous Straits where the fleet was assembling?
