by Dave Duncan
“A pass? Sergeant, you know who I am! Stand aside and detail some men to escort me.”
His hesitation told her that there was no standing order about obeying or disobeying the Czarina, no rule that said she could not leave the palace at will.
“By the stars!” she roared. “My husband will hear of this!” She spread her glare around the others. Even the youngest of them had several years on her. “You dare defy your Czarina? You shall dance with the knout in the Market, I swear! All of you! Two hundred strokes for you, Suvorov, and fifty for each of the rest.”
That sort of argument they understood. Suvorov glowered, but clearly saw no honor in winning the argument and total disaster in losing it. He stepped aside with a mocking bow to save face.
“Aleksei, Posnik, escort Her Majesty.”
The men designated crowded in at her back, jostling Afanasii and the Temkin guards aside, but Sophie did not argue priority. The instant she knew she had won, reaction set in and she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. She stalked out without a word.
She had a lesser tussle at the outer gate, which was held by men-at-arms of the Household Regiment. Playing on the blood feud between the forces, she demanded a larger escort and was granted four pikemen; she quashed a brewing battle over precedence by putting the streltsy in single file on the right and the others on the left. With all factions now represented, she should win past any other checkpoints.
Out into windy streets under icy stars. High Town alone would rank as the largest city in Skyrria, without counting the rest of Kiensk. Within its crenellated walls stood the sprawling Imperial Palace, the national treasury and mint, barracks of both streltsy and Household Regiment, court houses, state armory, government offices, and many palaces of princely families, some now fallen into ruin. There were also stables, prisons, bathhouses, elementaries, a hospital, and other buildings of obscure purpose.
The Temkins had been a minor clan before Sophie’s father married the Czarevna Katrina. Their palace was one of the smallest, but also one of the newest, having been designed for Sophie’s grandfather by imported Ritizzian architects. Lights showed in the windows. Sophie hauled on the bell rope herself; the door swung open at once.
The entrance hall was a glittering marvel of marble and gilt, of frescoes and candles in crystal lanterns, and there the entire staff seemed to be gathered, all ashen-faced and taut as bowstrings with terror, from the tiniest scullery drudge up to Majordomo Lokurov, who had been acclaimed a national hero in the Narthanian wars. They were packed back against the walls, in doorways, some on the staircase, and all except Lokurov knelt as she entered. He bowed. There was no sign of Tasha or Yelena, and the noose of fear drew tighter around Sophie’s throat.
“Where is my sister? Where is Princess Yelena?”
Lokurov was a portly, ponderous man, whose beard was just starting to show gray. “Their Highnesses are in their chambers, Your Majesty. They are…unharmed.” The hesitation implied not seriously.
“You,” Sophie told her escort, “wait here. And behave yourselves!” She headed for the wide staircase, aware that she was leaving armed men from three different commands mixed in with a herd of panic-stricken civilians. That was like waving a flaming torch in a hay barn, but even the streltsy had caught the scent of fear now. Whatever had happened here would draw the Czar’s personal attention.
Raising her skirts, she started up the stair and Lokurov came shambling behind her. “Explain!” she commanded.
He began puffing out words of explanation, but one name would have been enough—Fedor. Fedor! Sophie trod on a hem and very nearly fell headlong up the steps. That explained the universal terror and the reluctance to talk. Fedor had been showing a very dangerous interest in Tasha ever since that day her betrothal was announced.
If the Czarevich was back in High Town, then Igor probably was, too.
“Did he—” she began, realized she must not ask. Oh, not that, spirits! “Go on, man!”
“The Princesses were holding a salon, Majesty…some highborn ladies…the string quartet from Ritizzia…just taking their leave…”
Arriving at Tasha’s room, Sophie hammered on the panels with both fists. The Temkin Palace was not a fortress like the Imperial Palace; its doors were enameled, not iron-studded, but they were stout enough. “Tasha! It’s me, Sophie! Open up.” And to Lokurov: “Keep talking! Then what happened?”
It was a tale far too familiar. Czarevich Fedor, drunk, had come calling on a girl he fancied in the company of some equally brutish friends. The servants had not dared deny him entrance. He had found Tasha, abused her, insulted her, and forced his attentions on her. In all other cases Sophie had heard tell of, he went on to rape his victim and his friends either found victims of their own or took turns with his. Lokurov was trying to convince her that in this instance it had not gone so far.
“He, er, did tear her gown, Majesty. She scratched his face. He struck her, knocking her down, and then…well, I think he realized…she ran…”
“Others saw this?”
“Oh, yes, Majesty. Many witnesses. Princess Yelena, the ladies, and many servants. I had been summoned, but had not arrived. Her Highness fled past me, screaming. She ran up to her room and locked herself in. Princess Yelena ran upstairs also.” Of course Yelena would head straight for baby Bebaia. “The Czarevich’s companions persuaded him to leave then.”
Any lesser man than Fedor would be hanged for this.
“She slid the note underneath the door, Your Majesty.”
Tasha was clattering the bolt inside.
“Very well. Inform Princess Yelena that I am here and ask her to join us.” Sophie slipped in through the opening and Tasha hit her like a runaway wagon, hurling her back against the jamb.
Screaming and weeping…It took several minutes of hugging and soothing before the Czarina was able to look for damage by the light of the solitary candle. The right side of her sister’s face was puffed and red. She would have a black eye by morning, and it was too late to prevent it swelling. Her gown had been ripped open to the waist. All in all, it was not too bad, considering what usually happened, but Tasha was still shivering with an ague, racked by hysteria, hardly able to breathe.
Sophie hugged her again. “Now listen, darling. I must know. Whatever you will tell everyone else, you must give me the truth now. Did he rape you?”
Gasp. Gulp. Tears trickling down the Czarina’s neck…
“No.”
“You’re certain? I mean, this is the truth?”
“Yes.” More gasps, very loud in Sophie’s ear. “He forced a kiss on me, pawed me…I struggled. Then he tore my dress. I clawed his face. He hit me. There were people there, all screaming. I ran up here and bolted the door. No one came…until Lokurov…”
Sophie hugged her even tighter. “Good. I wish you’d torn his eyes out. But there’s no permanent harm done.”
“Doesn’t matter!” her sister sobbed. “Everyone will say it happened. They’ll all think he…did…did it.”
Tasha was inexperienced, not stupid, and she had had time to brood. Certainly no king would ever accept a rape victim as his queen. Royal majesty would not allow it. Tonight’s scandal was quite enough to terminate the Chivian betrothal.
Coverup! Ship all the staff out of Kiensk, back to Faritsov…No. Impossible. The boyars’ wives had already fled home with the story. The secret was out.
Nevertheless, Sophie said, “Nonsense! You’ll come with me now, sleep with me tonight, and we’ll deal with Fedor tomorrow.”
“I want to stay here, and you with me!”
That made more sense, except that if Fedor had returned to Kiensk, his father was probably around also. “No. Find a cloak.”
“Must change,” Tasha mumbled, looking at the remains of her gown. It was a spectacular ruin. Fedor had ripped the heavy brocade open to her waist, but he had also rent three more layers, including a lace shift—which might look flimsy but was tough as iron—and torn all the gr
ommets out of the linen petticoat below. Had he been disappointed to find how little of Tasha there was inside?
“Leave it. Did he just…” Sophie mimed two hands grabbing and pulling apart. “All at once?”
Tasha nodded. Her teeth were still shattering.
The brute must have the strength of horses. “Wrap up well, dear. We’ll go and tell Yelena where you’ve gone.”
• 6 •
Tasha whimpered at the sight of the armed men waiting downstairs, but the ensuing quick walk in the dark seemed to steady her. By the time they reached the Imperial Palace, she was breathing more easily and clinging less tightly. Sophie felt better, too, in that every step made her rage burn hotter. She had crossed a bridge when she faced down the streltsy and she was never going to go back. Igor must be made to see his son for the lunatic sot he was and bring him to heel. If no one else in the empire would tell him so, then it was his wife’s duty.
The guards had changed. There were streltsy on the main door and others had replaced Suvorov’s troop in the hall. None spoke, but they all stared at her, some leering, most glaring with a rage that plainly said their predecessors were in trouble. So Igor was back and she would have it out with him now, tonight, while her fury was hot. By tomorrow her mad courage might have faded back to timid sanity.
She hurried up the stair in the dark, one hand trailing on the rail, letting Tasha follow. They stooped through into the Robing Room, lit by a single twinkle of candle but empty of people. A whiff of dog confirmed that Igor was home.
Another single candle lit the anteroom where Eudoxia slept. She was not present, although her bedclothes lay rumpled on the couch. Sophie closed and locked the outer door. The inner door was slightly ajar, with light showing beyond.
“I’ll go first. We have company.”
Tasha squeaked. “Who?”
“The one man who can bring that brute to justice. If you feel like having screaming hysterics again, darling, just let yourself go.” The hinges groaned. A dog growled. Two dogs.
“Quiet!” said the Czar. “Iakov, quiet!”
Sophie blinked at the brightness of a hundred candles. Igor hated shadows, always insisting on abundant light. He sat facing the door, huge in his bulky robes, glaring, toying with the thongs of his knout. He frowned when he saw Tasha as well. Sophie curtseyed, but did not kneel. He noticed. Tasha sank down on the rugs and touched her face to the floor.
Yes, two dogs. One was the enormous Iakov, but the other was even larger, a pitch-black monster as big as a pony. They crouched on either side of his chair, baring teeth like daggers at the intruders.
“What does this mean, wife? Have you no shame?” His voice was low and controlled. Rage was not an emotion, it was a weapon. He would rage later. “The entire court will hear how the Czarina walks the streets by night!”
“I expect it will, sire. But the shame is not mine.”
She had done it! She had spoken up at last.
He noticed and sneered through his beard. “Convince me.”
“I was summoned to an emergency, sire. Tasha…” Sophie hauled her reluctant sister to her feet. “No, let him see your face. There, Your Majesty! When will the Chivian Ambassador arrive, do you know?” Dimitri’s last letter had promised it would be soon. State wedding and the bride with a black eye?
Igor said nothing, still toying with the knout. That was another of his tricks, for no one could long endure a silent stare from the Emperor of Skyrria, but his eyes’ angry glitter acknowledged that there was more to this affair than a wilful wife in need of a beating.
Tasha moaned but did not resist as Sophie lifted away her cloak. She stood in silence, shaking violently, her delicate little breasts exposed to the Czar’s furious gaze. After a moment, Sophie covered her up again and put an arm around her.
Still he waited.
“This is your niece, my sister, a royal princess. I demand that the man who did this be brought to justice, Your Majesty!”
He scowled. “I expect she led him on.”
“No, sire. Tasha, tell His Majesty how it happened.”
With many pauses, mumblings, and gasps for breath, Tasha repeated her story, looking all the while at the floor. She did not mention the criminal’s name, but Igor had worked that out for himself. The tale was damning—witnesses of quality, no provocation, no room for misunderstanding. The way Tasha described it, Fedor had just walked in the door and ripped her dress off. No doubt that was how she remembered it.
When she finished, Sophie said, “Were she the humblest of your subjects, the penalty for such a crime would be death, would it not?”
The Czar of Skyrria scowled without quite meeting her eye. “Bah! Youthful high spirits. He had a cup of wine too many. She’s probably been teasing and taunting him for months.”
“And the Chivian Ambassador will undoubtedly hear—”
“Will hear nothing!” Igor roared, jumping to his feet. The dogs tensed, hackles rising again.
Sophie’s knees turned to soup and her heart to stone. It took more courage than she had known she had, but she stood her ground. “You would let no other man off with this…” Not true. “Except the streltsy, of course.”
“Yes, the streltsy!” the Czar repeated, stepping forward and putting his great nose close to hers. “The streltsy!” His breath reeked of wine. “And do you know why I favor the streltsy, wife? Do you know why I encourage them to rape and loot and do anything they want? And never punish them?”
“No, sire, I have often wondered.” She was past caring now. Any minute he would strike her.
“Because it keeps them loyal! Loyal to me! Without my arm defending them, they would be torn to pieces, all of them. What can the princes and boyars and all the other traitors offer them to match that?” He was spraying her, but she was sure his rage was faked. “Only my dogs are more loyal than my Wolf-heads.”
Fedor ought to be beheaded and she really did not care how the charge sheet read. “There were streltsy with Fedor tonight.”
Igor reared back as if she had hit him with a mace. “No!”
“So say the witnesses!”
He roared at Tasha: “You’re lying!”
Sophie held her sister in place when she might have fled or fallen. “No, sire. Three streltsy.”
“Who? What were their names?” He sank back on his chair, mumbling. “Never mind, I can find out. I will find out.”
Sophie twisted the knife. “Sire, do be careful!”
Igor looked up, aghast. He was blind to rape or murder, but conspiracy was his demon.
“No,” he mumbled. “Not Fedor. He wouldn’t.” Subvert the streltsy?
“Why wouldn’t he? What else does he stop at? Murder? He revels in it. Torture. Rape? Certainly. This is not the first time, Your Majesty! The Czarevich has molested even my ladies-in-waiting. Princess Agnia, Princess Ketevan—he raped them, right here in the Imperial—”
She realized with dismay that she had raised her voice to the Czar. She was standing over him, practically shaking her fist at him, and now his scarlet glare of rage was genuine. She remembered hints that Wife Number Three had shouted and that was why She Who Must Not Be Named had disappeared so abruptly.
“Ketevan?” Igor sneered. “Bulat’s girl? Yes, we laughed over that. It will teach that slimy traitor what happens to those who conspire against me. I hope Fedor bred a child on her. I’ll make her father rear it, by the stars!”
“That’s what they say, isn’t it? No girl is safe from the Czarevich and—”
Sophie felt the palace collapse beneath her feet.
“And what?” the Czar asked in a very soft, feline snarl.
And no boy safe from the Czar. That was another of his weapons against the princes, like the midnight attacks on the villages or letting Fedor abuse their daughters. If they displeased him, the Czar might abuse their sons. They all knew it, and yet it was the one unspeakable thing. Call him tyrant, murderer, sadist, or rapist and he would smile—the people eve
n seemed to admire his atrocities, as if those showed strength in an autocrat. But to lust after men was feminine and weakness and the merest hint that he did so would bring instant death to the speaker. It had taken Sophie long enough to learn who were her rivals for her husband’s bed.
And now she had almost said the unspeakable.
“And what?” he repeated, rising.
“And that is wrong, sire! Fedor shames you. But now, I beg you, my sister is exhausted. Let me put her to bed here, where she can feel safe—and then you can show me how much you have missed me, for I have most certainly missed you.”
The issue hung in the balance for a dozen heartbeats before the Czar actually smiled. She could not read what lay behind that smile. He might be admiring her courage or planning to strangle her.
“Very well. Sleep well, Princess. Come in when you are ready, wife. But hurry, for my desire burns hot.”
He walked over to the corner door and then turned. “Ah, my pets! Come, Iakov. Come, Vasili.” The monsters leaped up and ran after him, wagging their tails. The one he called Vasili almost filled the doorway.
With her heart pounding like heels on a dance floor, Sophie went in to him, closing and locking the door. His chamber was smaller than hers and stank of animal, but the dogs had been banished to the anteroom. His clothes lay in a heap on the floor. He sat upright in bed, bare-chested, drinking from a wine bottle by the light of a hundred candles, which would burn until day. He watched her as she dropped her robe and climbed in beside him. Then he tossed the empty bottle away, lay down, and rolled around to face her.
“So you want a baby, do you?”
“Very much, Your Majesty.”
“You’re a fool. You produce another czarevich or a czarevna, and what’ll happen to it the moment I’m dead? Or even before? Fedor will twist its head around till it comes off, that’s what. But if whelping’s what you want and just in case you have any crazy ideas that I’m not capable of doing what is necessary…”
He did what was necessary.
Afterward she lay in silence staring up at the canopy, waiting to be dismissed. Other women enjoyed what had just happened, and there had been times at first when she thought she might learn to. She lacked practice.
