1636 The Kremlin Games (31 page)

“Madam Sheremetev.”

“Because . . .”

“She said that if she sends a bad report about me, the czar would change his mind about letting you marry me. And you told me he said yes already. So which is it, dammit?”

“Yes, the czar gave his consent,”
Vladimir said, suddenly even more worried. “But a bad report—if it is bad enough—
might
cause him to reconsider. That is, I agree, what Madam Sheremetev strongly implies at every opportunity.”

“Does the old bat actually have that kind of power over us?”

“Probably not. But she does want you to believe that.”

“What can we do?”

“It’s the way they are, the Sheremetevs. Obviously, she wants something else. Some kind of procedure, some kind of machine, something her family can make money and power off of.”

“Well, do we bribe her? Or just blow her off? We better decide something quick. She said, not quite in so many words, that she’s going to send her report pretty soon.”

Vladimir knew this was pretty standard procedure for the Sheremetev family and confirmed that she was likely to write such a letter. He wasn’t all that worried about it actually convincing the czar to cancel the wedding. After all, Brandy was friends with the czarina, which equated to having a pretty good friend at court. “If there is something you can think of to give her, go ahead.”

After some consideration, Brandy decided to try giving the old bat photography, or at least to point her in that direction. Brandy had a talk with Father Gavril, the Orthodox priest sent to Grantville, and they determined that photographs didn’t count as prohibited drawings any more than icons did, but for a different reason. Photographs were in effect drawn by God—His light painting the image rather than the corrupt hand of man. Brandy put together a packet and gave it to Madam Sheremetev who sent it off to Moscow and was almost nice to Brandy for a week or so before she started asking for something else.

By the time the ice would start forming on the Oka River in the fall of 1634, the Sheremetev family would be making photographs on their estates and arguing that they didn’t owe any duties on them because they had gotten them directly from Grantville not from the Dacha.

By that same time, of course, Natasha already had a steam engine factory, a celluloid/cellophane/rayon factory, a wood pulp-based paper mill, a shop making capacitors and half a dozen other projects up and running. Each managed by a member of the
Streltzi
class who was becoming effectively a
deti boyar
of the Gorchakov family.

*     *     *

Brandy would never be more glad to see the back of anyone as she would be to see the backs of the dragon ladies when they headed back to Russia.

Brandy was plenty busy with her correspondence and her work with Vladimir.

As the wedding approached, Brandy got a letter from Natasha describing the Sheremetev’s machinations with the photography.

Having established that because the Sheremetev clan got the photographic process directly from Grantville instead of from us
, Natasha wrote,
they are now claiming that they got everything from the Fresno scrapers to steam engines directly from Grantville and not from the Dacha.

Cass Lowry is still working in the gun shop,
Natasha’s letter continued,
and has made friends among Sheremetev’s supporters. I find myself wishing that he was either a little less useful or a lot less obnoxious. He seems to think that he was literally adopted into the clan, not just that he’s become one of their supporters. The idiot. The Sheremetevs are just using him. Apparently, Cass was given a harem and quite a bit of money and lands. For which Sheremetev gets his own Bernie, though not one who seems to work as well as the real Bernie does with us down-timers.

Chapter 49

May 1634

“Princess?” Anya said. “What are these?” Anya held up some sheets of paper and Natasha looked at them.

“Oh. Those.” Natasha sat down next to Anya and said quietly, “You know the dies we made for the Gun Shop?”

Anya nodded.

“I had an extra set made and sent it to Murom. I’m having AK3’s made for my armsmen.”

“How many?”

“Not a lot. A couple of hundred. You know that we’d be last in line, with Andrei Korisov and Cass Lowry doing the distribution.”

*     *     *

“Have you seen the latest?” Pavel Egorovich Shirshov asked, handing a pamphlet to Ivan Mikhailovich Vinnikov.

The guard captain looked at the pamphlet and began to read silently.

“Out loud if you don’t mind,” Pavel Egorovich said testily. Though a skilled craftsman, he didn’t read.

Ivan Mikhailovich cast him an apologetic look and began to read out loud. “If we are to have a constitution it must ensure the rights of all Russian citizens . . .” He continued reading. It was an argument that without a section limiting government, the constitution would be just another way to tie the people down. The writer actually seemed to wonder if a constitution was a good idea at all. Then he went on to—purportedly—quote a conversation between members of the boyar class. A cousin and a younger son of one of the great families. They were reported to have said that the great families thought that a constitution would be a great thing if they got to write it. The conversation was supposed to have been overheard in a brothel.

“Any idea who wrote this?” Ivan asked, a bit nervously. This was the sort of thing that could get people in serious trouble.

Pavel shook his head. “A boy in Moscow was selling them on the street. Couldn’t have been more than ten or so.” That was happening more and more frequently. Scandals mixed with political opinion.

“I talked to one of them a bit a few days ago.” Pavel commuted back and forth between the Army’s dacha and the Kremlin every few days. “He sells his papers to make a bit of money. He buys them from a man he thinks is a bureau man, but it could be a merchant. There is apparently more than one man, and they don’t all meet in the same place.”

*     *     *

“It says here that this Patriarch Nikon caused it.” Colonel Pavel Kovezin stared at the broadsheet with distaste clearly showing on his face.

Machek Speshnev, who had brought this news to the colonel, nodded. A lieutenant in this regiment of
Streltzi
, Machek was a pious man. This information had struck a chord with him, as well as with many other members of the Palace Guard Regiments.

“I’m surprised this information became public, but it has. The question is, is there anything we can do about it?” Machek’s family would most definitely wind up as oppressed “Old Believers,” he was sure. “I don’t think I’d care to be sent up north, chasing, beating and killing priests.”

The very idea was repugnant.

A lot of information that was coming from the up-timer histories was repugnant. Inconceivable, a lot of it.

Colonel Kovezin stopped staring at the broadsheet. “How many people have seen this?”

“A lot of them,” Machek admitted. “The things have been being passed around all over the city. Along with the ones about killing rats, boiling water, not drinking so much . . .”

“This city is being buried in paper,” Colonel Kovezin said. Then he grinned. “We live in interesting times. Never mind this. I’m sure the patriarch is well aware of it and will make a pronouncement. Try to keep the men calm. Today is a big day for us and I want everyone’s attention kept on his duty.”

Machek grinned back. “Today is the day?”

“Yes. Today we receive our new rifles. Never mind the flurry of paper coming out of the Dacha. It’s not our problem.”

Chapter 50

Moscow

June 1634

Third Lieutenant Boris Timofeyevich Lebedev was savoring the victory. Right up to the time he was called into the commandant’s office. He had beaten Third Lieutenant Ivan Maslov in the Polish invasion scenario two weeks ago and won a nice purse in bargain. The betting had been five to one against him. Lebedev, known as Tim to his friends, had been playing the Polish and he had won by ignoring Smolensk. After all, Poland already held Smolensk. They had held it since the Time of Troubles. And Poland, just like Russia, only had to worry about Smolensk if they didn’t have it.

Now he was trying to figure out what he had done wrong, that would get him summoned by the commandant. Tim put his shoulders back and entered the commandant’s office not looking left or right, stood at attention and saluted as smartly as he was able. The commandant returned the salute with a casual half wave. Then he asked him the last question he ever expected to hear. “So, Third Lieutenant Lebedev, how did you manage to defeat the entire Russian Army and take Moscow, in just ten weeks?”

“Sir?”

“Come now, Lebedev. It’s all over the Kremlin. I understand the odds were five to one in favor of that baker’s son, Ivan Maslov?”

“Sir? Are you talking about the Polish invasion scenario?” Tim was out of his depth. It wasn’t one of the official war games.

“Yes, of course, Lebedev.” The commandant pointed to a map on the left wall. The map showed part of Russia and part of Poland. “Show me how you did it.”

Tim walked over to the map pointed where he placed his troops and how he moved them using the River Volga as the supply line. “Russia is not Moscow; Russia is the Volga. In the Time of Troubles, Poland took Moscow but they couldn’t keep it. But the Volga controls transport . . .”

Just as Tim was getting into his description of what he’d done, he heard another voice.

“Would it interest you to know, Lieutenant Lebedev, that Polish troops took Rzhev three days ago? From the somewhat vague first reports we have, there are around ten thousand troops there now, a mixture of the magnate’s personal troops, mercenaries and Cossacks.”

“What?” Tim faced the new voice and recognized General Mikhail Borisovich Shein. Then, in a state of shock, he blurted out the first thing that come to mind. “But that’s the wrong place, sir.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” General Shein said wryly.

Tim stood mute.

“Speak up, Lieutenant,” the commandant said. “Why do you think Rzhev is the wrong place?”

“It’s too far upriver, sir. The Volga is navigable at Rzhev but only barely. Tver would be a better choice, even if it is farther. You’d want to take Rzhev, too. Later. After the first strike. But if you take Rzhev first, you warn Tver and give them time to fort up and block any river traffic from going past.”

General Shein looked at the commandant. “He’ll do.”

*     *     *

After that, things moved quickly. Third Lieutenant Boris “Tim” Lebedev found himself suddenly assigned as aide de camp to General Artemi Vasilievich Izmailov.

“Third Lieutenant Boris Lebedev reporting as ordered.”

“Who are you?”

“Sir, I’m to be your cadet aide de camp.”

“I asked for Maslov! The baker’s boy.” General Izmailov was clearly not pleased.

“Ivan?”

“You know him?”

“Yes, sir. We’re friends at the military academy.” That was the semiofficial name of the still semiofficial officer training school that was growing in the Kremlin.

General Izmailov paused and give Tim’s uniform a careful once over. “Let me guess. Your father is a boyar or duma man?”

Suddenly Tim understood. “A great uncle, sir.” The pride that Tim’s voice usually had in that announcement was notably missing. The general had asked for the best student in the cadet corps, Ivan Maslov. Instead he had gotten . . . well, not the highest in family rank. There were a lot of high family kids among the cadets. It was quite the fashion these days. No, what the general had received was a cadet of acceptable social rank and lesser skill. Even if Tim had beaten Ivan once.

General Izmailov was not usually placed in independent command. For the same reason—he didn’t have enough social or family rank. In fact, he was officially second in command of the army they were raising right now, placed temporarily in command of the advance column.

General Izmailov shrugged and got down to business. “I’ll be leading a reconnaissance in force and—if necessary—a delaying action while the reserves are called up. The reconnaissance force is made up in part from
Streltzi
Prince Cherkasski has loaned us from the Moscow Garrison.” Prince Ivan Borisovich Cherkasski was the chief of the
Strel’etsky prikaz
, Musketeer Bureau. “They’re under Colonel Usinov. We have small detachments from the Gun Shop and from the Dacha. And two regiments of cavalry under the command of Colonel Khilkov.” General Izmailov gave Tim a look. “Usinov has more experience but Khilkov’s family is of higher rank. We have peasant levies for labor battalions. About four thousand of them. We have four brand-new cannons from the Gun Shop and some of the
Streltzi
we’re getting have been equipped with the new AK3’s. From the Dacha we’re getting
Testbed
, the flying machine. I am told it is to be used only for reconnaissance. And we’re getting thirty of the scrapers. There won’t be time to use them much on the march, but they should help a lot with fortifications when we find our spot.”

Tim nodded his understanding. “What about the radio network, sir?”

“Apparently there is no link going toward Rzhev. There is one going toward Smolensk, which would have given us warning if they’d come that way. Which may have something to do with why they’re coming from Rzhev. Unfortunately, most of the radio network has been put in places where it would be convenient for members of the great houses, not where it would help the army.”

The assumption was that they would meet the advancing Polish forces somewhere between Rzhev and Moscow. Meanwhile Tim was assigned fourteen different jobs, some of them in direct conflict with the others. Or at least that’s how it seemed. He was to coordinate with the labor battalions, the
Streltzi
, the Dacha contingent as well as the Gun Shop contingent, and make sure that all the various units were in the right marching order. Except that the people in charge hadn’t actually decided the marching order yet. So he was given one order and then fifteen minutes later given a different order by someone else.