Dancing with Bears

by Michael Swanwick

  “Most of all, live life with all your heart and nerve and sinew. If you can talk with the common bloke without putting on airs and walk with the nobs without letting them relieve you of your watch and wallet… If you can enter a strange city dead broke and leave with your pockets stuffed with cash…Why, then, old son, you’ll be a confidence man, and all the Earth and everything in it will be yours.”

  Face screwed up with disgust, Kyril turned and left without saying a word.

  “Well,” Darger murmured. “I thought I understood young boys. But clearly I do not.” His hand hesitated over the Telegonia, but instead moved on to the papers. Kyril had brought both major dailies, the Moscow Conquest, and the New Russian Empire. Darger carefully read through the social notes in each. There had been time enough for the Muscovy officials to approach Surplus with plans to catch his errant secretary and claim the library for themselves. As soon as they did, Surplus was supposed to announce a masked ball.

  But there was still no news.

  Chortenko came out to greet the carriage personally. “Gospozha Zoesophia! What a delightful surprise.” He took her gloved hand and kissed the air above it. Then he offered Surplus a hearty, democratic handshake. “I have informed the duke you are coming, and he looks forward to the meeting with his usual attentiveness.”

  “He does not seem to get out of the Kremlin much,” Surplus observed, retrieving his walking stick from the carriage.

  Chortenko’s mouth quirked upward, as if he were secretly amused. “The great man’s work is his life.”

  At that moment, a door opened and closed somewhere in the mansion so that briefly the yelping of hounds could be heard. “You have dogs!” Zoesophia cried. “Might we see them?”

  “Yes, of course you shall. Only not just now. I have arranged for the Moscow City Troop to escort us to the Kremlin, and they are forming up on the other side of the building at this very moment. Shall we take my carriage or yours?”

  “I am always keen for new experiences,” Zoesophia said, “whether they be large or small.”

  But every hair on Surplus’s body was standing on end. His hearing was acute, as was his sensitivity to the emotions of his dumb cousins. Those dogs were not barking out of ordinary canine exuberance, but from pain and terror and misery. Surplus’s ears pricked up and his nostrils flared. He could smell from their pheromones that they had been extremely badly treated indeed.

  Chortenko’s spectacles were twin obsidian circles. “You look alarmed, my dear fellow. Has something startled you?”

  “I? Not at all.” Surplus turned to his coachman and with a dismissive wave of his paw sent their equipage back to the embassy.“Only, sometimes I am struck by sudden dark memories. As a man of the world and a sometime adventurer, I have seen more than my share of human cruelty.”

  “We must trade stories someday,” Chortenko said amiably.“Those who appreciate such matters say that if you have not seen Russian cruelty, then you do not know cruelty at all.”

  Chortenko’s carriage was painted blue-and-white, like his mansion, so that it resembled nothing so much as a Delftware teapot. When it was brought around, Zoesophia and Surplus were given the back seats, while Chortenko and his dwarf savants sat facing them.

  Bracketed by horsemen, they started for the Kremlin.

  “Tell me, Max,” Chortenko said, turning to the dwarf on his left. “What do we know about the tsar’s lost library?”

  “In 1472, the Grand Duke of Moscow Ivan the Third married Princess Sofia Paleologina, a niece of the last Byzantine emperor, Andreas, more rightly known as the Despot of Morea. Despotism is a form of government where all power is embodied in a single individual. The individual self does not exist. As her dowry, Sofia brought to Moscow a wagon train of books and scrolls. Moscow was founded by Prince Yuri Dolgurki in 1147. Soddy podzolic soil is typical of Moscow Oblast. It is apocryphal that the books were the last remnants of the Great Library of Alexandria.”

  “Of course, anything labeled apocryphal may also be true,” Chortenko mused.

  “The Italian architect Aristotle Fioravanti was commissioned to build a secret library under the Kremlin. Fioravanti also served as a military engineer in the campaigns against Novgorod, Kazan, and Tver. Kazan is the capital of Tartarstan. Tartar sauce is made from mayonnaise and finely chopped pickled cucumber, capers, onions, and parsley, and was invented by the French to go with steak tartare. The last documented attempt to find the library was made by Tsar Nikita Khrushchev.”

  “Yes, well, we seem to have gotten off the subject.” To Surplus, Chortenko said, “Have you heard the rumors? They say that the library has been found.”

  “Really? That would make a splendid present for the Duke of Muscovy, then. One worthy of a Caliph.”

  “That is true. Yet one cannot help wondering what would happen were the secret of the library’s location in private hands. Surely that lucky person-whoever he might be-would find himself in a position to claim an enormous reward, eh?”

  “Unless he was a government official. Then, of course, his reward would be the simple knowledge that he had done his duty.”

  “Indeed. Yet a private citizen would not be in a position to know whether the reward he was being offered was worthy of his heroic discovery. Perhaps the best possible arrangement would be a partnership involving somebody highly positioned within the government and somebody who was not even a citizen of Muscovy. A foreigner, possibly even an ambassador. What do you think?”

  “I think we understand each other perfectly.” Surplus settled back into the cushions, warmed by the abrupt conviction that all was right with the world. “I think also that it is about time that the embassy had a masked ball. I shall advertise the event in the newspapers just as soon as I get back.”

  The troops clattered up the great causeway to the Kremlin, driving before them businessmen, mendicants, office-seekers, and assorted riffraff unfortunate enough to have chosen that day to petition favors from the government. At the Trinity Tower gate, they were halted and then, their jurisdiction extending so far and not an inch farther, turned back. After an examination of credentials, the carriage was allowed to pass within, accompanied by an escort of Trinity Tower Regulars. At Cathedral Square they alit and, after their papers were presented again, the Inner Kremlin Militia escorted the party to the entrance of the Great Kremlin Palace. There, the Great Palace Guards assumed responsibility for the party, led them up a marble staircase, and directed them onward.

  “It seems odd we must go through one palace to get to another,” Surplus remarked.

  “Nothing is straightforward in this land,” Chortenko replied.

  They passed under twin rows of crystal chandeliers in Georgievsky Hall, an open, light-flooded room of white pillars and parquet floors in twenty types of hardwood, then through its great mirrored doors to the octagonal Vladimirsky Hall with its steep domed ceiling and gilt stucco molding. From whence it was but a short walk to the entrance of the most splendid of the Kremlin’s secular buildings, Terem Palace.

  Two eight-foot-tall guards, whose genome was obviously almost entirely derived from Ursus arctos, the Russian brown bear, loomed to either side of the entrance. The blades of their halberds were ornamented with ormolu swirls, and yet were obviously deadly. They bared sharp teeth in silent growls, but when Chortenko presented his papers (for the fourth time since entering the Kremlin), they waved the party within.

  Surplus took one step forward and then froze.

  The walls were painted in reds and golds that were reflected in the polished honey-colored floor, leaving Surplus feeling as if he were afloat in liquid amber. Every surface was so ornately decorated that the eye darted from beauty to beauty, like a butterfly unable to alight on a single flower. Somewhere, frankincense burned. From one of the nearby churches he heard chanting. Then, small and far away, a church bell began to ring. It was joined by more and closer bells, climaxing when all the Kremlin’s many churches joined in, so that his skull reverberated with
the sound.

  “This is quite grand,” Surplus heard his own voice saying, in the aftermath. It was all a bit overdone for his plain, American tastes and yet, somehow, he wanted to live here forever.

  “I completely approve,” Zoesophia said warmly-though by the shrewd look in her eyes, Surplus judged that she was taking mental notes for changes she would make once she came to power.

  A messenger hurried by. From his unblinking gaze and rapid stride, it was clear that he was a servile. Another passed, going the other way. “Come,” Chortenko said. His bland, round face showed no expression at all.

  They followed.

  The Duke of Muscovy’s chambers took up the top floor of the palace.

  The room was dominated by a nude statue of a sleeping giant. It stretched from one end of the building to the other. The giant lay gracefully sprawled upon a tremendous couch with mahogany legs as thick as tree trunks, and red velvet upholstery tacked down with nails whose gilded heads were forged in the shape of double-headed eagles. He was magnificently muscled, and his face was that of a god-Apollo, Surplus speculated, or possibly Adonis. One could gaze upon him for an hour.

  The giant shifted slightly, tossing his head and throwing back one arm. His eyes did not open

  Surplus’s heart sank. In a strangled voice, he said, “This is the Duke of Muscovy?”

  Chortenko’s smile reached no further than his lips. “Now you understand why so few people are allowed to see him. The great man has cognitive powers superior even to those of the fabled Utopian computers. He is the perfect ruler for Muscovy in all aspects but one. He is orderly in his thoughts, analytic in his assessments, loving in his intentions toward his subjects, ruthless toward his enemies, decisive when it comes time to act, patient when all the facts are not yet in, and absolutely without personal interest or bias in his decisions. Alas, he cannot appear in public. The citizenry would reject him as a monster.”

  Zoesophia sighed. “He is the most perfect expression of male beauty I have ever seen, not even excepting Michelangelo’s statue of David in the Caliph’s private collection. It is ironic. He is as desirable in his way as I am in mine-and yet he and I are perfectly useless to one other.”

  “Does he never wake?” Surplus asked.

  “Were he to stand, his great heart could only support the body for a matter of hours before bursting,” Chortenko said. “So, of necessity, the Duke of Muscovy reigns in a state of perpetual sleep.”

  There was the sharp click of heels as a servile messenger hurried by and mounted the steps of a railed platform by the duke’s head. He leaned forward and in a rapid monotone began reciting a report. When he was done, the duke nodded wordlessly, and he left.

  “Now that all of your questions have been addressed,” Chortenko said, “I shall go to learn the answers to my own. Do not attempt to approach the duke, for the guards will not permit it.”

  As always, Chortenko felt a secret thrill of excitement as he mounted the stairs to the dais by the sleeping giant’s ear. There was no telling what he might learn, if only he asked the right questions. He gripped the wooden rail, worn smooth by many a thousand hands, and said, “Your Royal Highness, it is your servant Sergei Nemovich who speaks.”

  “Ahhh… yes… the ambitious one,” the duke murmured quietly, as does one who speaks in his sleep. His voice was astonishingly small, coming from such a titanic body.“It was you who arranged matters so…that none of my other…advisors…could approach me.”

  “True, Majesty. It was you who told me how.”

  “I slept. Awake, I would not…have aided your conspiracy.”

  “Since you will never awaken, that is irrelevant. I have brought with me the Byzantine ambassador, and one of the women the Caliph sent you as a present.”

  “I have been dreaming… of food riots in Uzhgorod. Wheat must be sent… to prevent…”

  “Yes, yes, that is most commendable. But it is not what I have come to speak with you about.”

  “Then speak.”

  To the far side of the room, Chortenko saw one of Surplus’s ears twitch slightly and had no doubt that, though an ordinary human could not have overheard him from such a distance, the dog-man could. The woman he was not so sure about. She appeared to be lost in thought. Well, let them eavesdrop. Nothing they heard would give them much comfort. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Our friends below are coy about their plans. When will they make their move?”

  “The market for tobacco is down slightly, while the demand for illegal drugs of all sorts has declined steeply… Absenteeism in the officer class is up, prostitution is booming, and there are reports of vagrants seen pushing wheelbarrows full of human feces. Taken together with various promises that have been made, you can expect an invasion of Moscow within days. Possibly as soon as tonight.”

  “Really!” Chortenko, who had thought it a matter of months at a minimum, could not have been more astonished. But he composed himself. “What preparations should I make that have not yet been done?”

  “Eat well and rest. Move all artillery units out of the city and make sure that all known rakes and libertines have been flensed from your own forces. Have Baron Lukoil-Gazprom killed.”

  “Good, good.” Chortenko rather liked the baron, insofar as he liked anybody, for the man’s blunt, bluff predictability. But he could see how the baron’s twin propensities for unthinking action and reflexive assumption of command in an emergency might get in his way.

  The Duke of Muscovy’s preternaturally handsome face twisted briefly, as if in pain. “Your scheme…endangers…my city.”

  “It is worth the risk. Tell me, would it cause trouble with Byzantium if its ambassador were to disappear?”

  “I dreamed of Baikonur… and wolves…”

  “Try to pay attention, Your Royal Highness. I spoke with Gospodin de Plus Precieux as you directed, telling him of the rumors that the lost library of Ivan the Terrible had been discovered. As you predicted, he showed no surprise. Then, when I proposed a conspiracy to defraud the state, he assented immediately, without requiring even an instant’s thought.”

  “Then he is…nothing more than a confidence trickster who has somehow displaced the true ambassador. You may do with him as you wish.”

  “He also brought a woman with him,” Chortenko reminded the duke. “One of the Byzantine sluts.”

  “Only…one?” “Yes.”

  “Then she is a spy…and her, too, you may…do with as you wish.”

  This pleasant news Chortenko received with just a touch of regret. More to himself than to his master, he murmured, “So it is nothing but a sad and shabby story all around. A pity. I would have liked to have found the Tsar’s lost library.”

  “It is not…lost. I deduced the library’s…location…ten years ago.”

  “What?”

  “It lies below the Secret Tower, in a concealed chamber. There has been some subsidence there recently. Not enough to endanger…the tower… But perhaps it would be well to move the books to a more secure location.”

  “You have known this for a decade and you never told anyone?” Chortenko said angrily.

  “Nobody…asked.”

  Chortenko drew in a long, exasperated breath. This was exactly why the time had come for the duke’s reign to come to an end. Yes, he could answer questions-but only if one knew which to ask. His strategies for expanding Muscovy’s influence were brilliant-but he had no aims or ambitions of his own. The goal of restoring the Russian empire had originated with Chortenko and a few others, such as the soon-to-be late Baron Lukoil-Gazprom. The duke was so lacking in intention that he even conspired in his own overthrow!

  Worst of all, he could not appear in public. And a war-a true war, one involving millions-could not be fought with a leader who dared not show his face. The duke himself had confirmed this: Without a leader able to inspect troops, make speeches, and fire up the populace, the sacrifices required to raise an army of conquest simply would not be made.

&nbs
p; No, the time had come for the duke to die. That had not been a part of Chortenko’s original plan. He had meant to let loose rumors that the duke had fallen ill, confirm those rumors, solicit the prayers of the Muscovian citizenry, declare a day of fast and penitence, orchestrate items in the newspapers: Doctors Fear Worst, followed later by Duke in Decline, a few variants of No Hope, Say Kremlin Insiders, a sudden and unexpected Miraculous Rally! and then at last Duke of Muscovy Dies, and Nation Mourns, and Succession Passes to Chortenko. After which, the still-sleeping former duke would have been quietly demoted to advisor.

  However, his new friends were jealous allies, and viewed the Duke of Muscovy as a rival. The duke’s death was part of the price of their cooperation. Chortenko regretted that, for losing that brilliant mind would be a sacrifice equivalent to the slaughter of an entire battalion. But he was prepared to lose any number of battalions, if it meant gaining an empire.

  “Just once, I would like… to see… my beloved city… of Moscow. I would be willing… to die… if that is what it cost.”

  “Trust me, that will never happen.”

  Chortenko descended from the dais with renewed confidence in the future. He rejoined his companions. Zoesophia’s expression was tense and distracted, as befit one who had just seen all her plans and future crumble before her face. Surplus looked unhappy and irresolute.

  “This way,” Chortenko said, and led them down to the very bottom of the palace, to a door which none but he ever employed. “I told our driver not to bother waiting for us with the carriage. Instead, we will return through an underground passage that leads directly to the basement of my manor.”

  Zoesophia nodded distractedly. She scowled to herself, lips twitching slightly, a woman in furious thought on matters that had little to do with her present situation. But if her reaction was disappointing, Surplus’s was not. He stiffened and looked about himself wildly, gripping his walking stick at its midpoint preparatory to using it as a weapon. His every muscle was tense. He was clearly terrified.