1636 The Kremlin Games (40 page)

Still, it wasn’t enough. Not with the number of peasants who had managed to buy out or simply run off. That move had delayed the harvest in a number of places and that delay had been crucial. It had destroyed millions of rubles worth of crops. The bureaucratic service nobility placed the blame for the disaster at the feet of the czar. And though they were unlikely to actually starve because of it, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them had been ruined.

*     *     *

“There is grain aplenty in Poland. The storm missed them and they got their harvest in with little damage,” Patriarch Filaret said. The Little Duma, Privy Council, was meeting to discuss the response to the storm and its effect on the price of grain.

“We don’t have the money to buy Polish grain,” Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev countered.

“After what they did to us during the Time of Troubles, they owe us a little grain and Rzhev showed we have the might to take it.”

Mikhail wished he could be somewhere else. The meeting had been going on for hours, mostly in a deadlock between his father and his cousin. Sheremetev wanted to stop the contributions to Gustav Adolf and try for a closer alliance with Poland. The patriarch wanted to keep relations with Sweden good and coordinate with them in attacking Poland from two fronts at once. Mikhail was leaning toward his father’s side, mostly, because he agreed with Sheremetev that Gustav Adolf was, in the long run, the greater danger. But to Mikhail that meant that Gustav Adolf was the one who needed to be wooed, not the one to attack.

Let the Swedish king rule western Europe. He’d earned it. Russia would expand to the east, into territory that they already tacitly owned. A transcontinental railroad from Moscow to the Pacific would give Russia half a continent of growing room. In spite of his respect for the charismatic Emperor Gustav Adolf, Mikhail thought he would prefer to be remembered as a builder rather than a conqueror.

“Given the effects of the storm, we will have to, at least for now, curtail the shipments of grain to the Swedes. But General Shein will prepare the army for the possibility of action between our realm and Poland.” Mikhail raised a hand as Sheremetev started to speak. “Just in case.”

If this were a story they would all shut up now that he had made his royal ruling. But, of course, they didn’t shut up. They kept right on arguing back and forth for another hour. Eventually, after they had forgotten who had suggested it, they agreed on Mikhail’s plan of action. Mikhail would have liked to be satisfied with that, but he wasn’t, His power over the boyars and church were both getting weaker, not stronger, as time went on. When the meeting finally broke up, he happened to see Sheremetev’s expression. It worried him.

*     *     *

This was a disaster
, Sheremetev thought as he left the chamber where the Little Duma met. War with Poland would be a disaster for both countries, no matter who won. It would be a disaster for the Sheremetev lands and for both nations, leaving them open to the ravages of the Swede. Russia needed Poland as a buffer against the west. It needed a Poland strong enough to fight off the threats from central and western Europe. And the patriarch was going to destroy that buffer even if he won. There was no other choice.
Filaret has to go
.

*     *     *

“Natasha, you see Czarina Evdokia often, do you not?” Boris asked.

Natasha, hearing the tone of his voice, took a long look at him. Boris was always a bit pasty-faced, but these days he was dreadfully pale. And had dark circles under his eyes. Which, oddly for the current situation, almost made her laugh. He looked so much like Bernie’s cartoon. “Yes, I do, Boris. Why?”

“I’m worried,” Boris said. “I know there’s something going on. Something bad. But I’m excluded. The word is out that I’m too close to the Dacha to trust.” He sighed. “It’s to be expected, of course. Nevertheless, I do hear rumors. One is that the
strelzi
are angry, and are making alliances with a number of men in Moscow.”

“What do you want me to tell Evdokia?” Natasha asked.

“To be careful. Very careful. Even to get out of Moscow, if they can.”

Chapter 66

September 1635

“Zeppi seems to think so, but our research has shown that you spend much more in fuel for moving the same weight with heavier than air craft,” Gregorii Mikhailovich explained rather more fully than Colonel Shuvalov thought was really necessary.

“Zeppi?” Lufti Pasha asked.

“A member of our staff hired from, ah, central Germany,” Colonel Shuvalov said. The Ottoman sultan, Murad IV, insisted on maintaining the pretense that the Ring of Fire was a hoax and that up-timers didn’t exist—while he sent his agents everywhere to learn whatever they could from that nonexistent future lore.

“I understand.” Lufti Pasha smiled at Colonel Shuvalov. Clearly a man who knew how to play the game. “We will not be meeting him, I take it?”

“I am afraid not,” Colonel Shuvalov said. “He is supervising an installation in Dedovsk.”

The installation in question was a prototype telephone system, about which Bernie said he knew almost nothing and was skeptical it would succeed. He was not even there. The project was being carried out entirely by Russians working for Director Sheremetev, who was hoping to be able to dispense eventually with the up-time advisers; both of whom, for different reasons, were obstreperous.

But there was no reason to get into that with the Ottomans. Politely, the colonel gestured toward a corridor leading off from the salon. “Now, if you will come this way, we will show you the chemistry labs, where we make dyes and medicines—and if we can get better access to your naphtha, we will be making fuels and plastic materials.”

Shuvalov took the visiting Turks off with him, discussing Russia selling them manufactured goods and buying oil and gold. The Turks seemed rather more willing to part with oil than with gold. Natasha thought that would change over time.

*     *     *

“We have very little choice, Papa,” Pavel said. “A thousand AK3’s to the Turks, due very soon, with more to follow. From what they’re saying, a lot more.”

Boris nodded. He thought selling the new weapons to the Ottoman empire was probably short-sighted, but . . .

It was hard to say. The war raging between the USE and Poland could produce any number of outcomes. In some of those outcomes, having a well-armed Turkish neighbor could be to Russia’s advantage.

Besides, it was probably all a moot point. The AK3 was a simple weapon to make, when all was said and done. Selling one to the Ottoman Empire or the Poles or anyone else was not much different from selling a million of them since there was no way that they could keep the Ottoman Empire or the Poles—or the Swedes, for that matter—from getting hold of an example rifle. So they might as well sell as many as they could. At least they weren’t selling the Ottomans the breech-loading cannon. Yet, anyway.

And, otherwise, things were getting better . . . mostly. Not so much for the bureau men as for Russia in general. Oil and silver were arriving from the Ottoman Empire, even some food from their Balkan provinces. Wheat was expensive in Moscow, but not yet too expensive. Steam engines, rifles and other things were going south in exchange.

“And so, certain boyars gain more silver and gold from the, ah, southern trade,” Boris said. “But at least they haven’t shorted the grain supply . . . much.”

“And our people are prepared.” Pavel smiled. Potatoes had become incredibly popular among the peasants. You could hide a plot of potatoes from the taxman, or at least hide how many there were. There was considerable upset among the bureau men about the amount of farming equipment that was going south. But it was quiet, underground resentment. “Three of our people have paid off their debt and gone to work for the railroad.”

“Signing loan from the railroad?” Boris asked and Pavel nodded. Even with the economy expanding and with inflation, enough rubles for a peasant to pay his way out of debt were hard to come by. So companies that had the money had started using signing loans to clear the peasant’s debt, or, more accurately, transfer it to the company. Since the railroad was owned by the Sheremetev family, it had plenty of money for signing loans.

Except for its habit of nicking other peoples’ serfs, the railroad from Moscow to Smolensk was a project that Boris strongly approved of. It used wooden rails, which would require constant maintenance. But Russia was well-supplied with wood, whereas iron and steel were far too expensive for such a massive project.

Boris wondered about the railroad. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was one of the leaders of the pro-Polish—it might be better to say, less-anti-Polish—faction in the
Boyar Duma
. The railroad could serve to facilitate trade with Poland, and through Poland with Austria-Hungary, but it could also be used as logistical support for an attack on Poland. Boris wondered which the director-general had in mind. Probably both.

Meanwhile the industrial base along the Volga was producing more and more goods. Mostly simple stuff. The stuff that didn’t need that much infrastructure. But it was surprising how much fell into that category, when it wasn’t competing with established products.

“And our factory?” Boris waited for his son to find the figures, then said, “Excellent. Absolutely excellent.”

Freeze drying is expensive and time consuming when compared to canning . . . if you already have the infrastructure for a canning industry. It’s much less so when it’s competing against small-scale canning and down-time preservation methods. Once you had the foods freeze-dried, they were lightweight and stayed good for a long time. Which made them highly prized, both by the military and the civilian population. Boris’ family and some partners from the Grantville Section had put together a small freeze-drying plant near the family’s lands and added a lot of gardening. Carrots, onions, peas, cabbage, beets, even berries, were all being diced up and freeze-dried, then sealed in waxed paper pouches and stored in crates. Quite a bit of it was sold to the army and more in Moscow. Aside from the extra income, it meant that they had fresh (or the next thing to it) fruits and vegetables even in late winter and early spring. Which did good things for the health of his family and his serfs.

The new farming equipment meant that he needed a lot less labor in the fields most of the time, which had given the serfs time for the gardening. Boris, with his connection to the Dacha and the information from Grantville and the Ring of Fire, was running a year or more ahead of his neighbors, which meant that his family was doing a lot better than others of the same rank. Which was a good thing because there was considerable inflation of paper money, and silver was increasingly hard to come by. A paper ruble was—by law—worth the same as a silver ruble, but—in fact—worth less. How much less? No one knew. Gresham’s Law was working at full force in Russia where the ruble was legally the same whether silver or paper, but not in Grantville where American dollars weren’t tied to silver. Boris was, of course, paid in paper rubles—so the farm income was especially important.

Boris went back to his paperwork, wondering how things were going at the Dacha.

Chapter 67

October 1635

Father Nikon walked down the hallway of the patriarch’s palace as though he had every right to be there. He didn’t. At least not officially. The person who occupied the patriarch’s seat would have said he didn’t, but he had God’s permission to be here, so he didn’t much care what Filaret thought. The monastery he was from wasn’t the one his papers said he was from, or he would have had guards escorting him everywhere. Father Nikon was here because Filaret feared the up-time wisdom and wanted to keep it all to himself. But God had provided that wisdom to the entire world and Filaret was serving the devil in attempting to restrict it.

Archbishop Joseph Kurtsevich and Father Nikon had discussed the matter several times and both the wealth and the new spiritual wisdom that God had sent from that other future had demonstrated that Filaret didn’t hold God’s favor. Control of the God-provided wealth of knowledge from the future didn’t belong in the hands of a man who was so stingy with its benefits.

Filaret was holding back the religious truth revealed by the up-timers. God had passed a great new miracle by bringing forth an entire new town from the future. Possessing new truths, practical as well as spiritual. But the false patriarch, Filaret, was suppressing the truth in order to maintain his personal power. He was rejecting the spiritual aspects of that new truth, considering only those dribbles that might seem useful to him at the moment.

So Father Nikon had been told. So Father Nikon believed.

He would remove the impediment and God’s Grace and the up-timer’s knowledge would flow into Holy Rus as a great flood of cleansing.

Here in the patriarch’s palace, priests’ robes were not the least bit uncommon. And three additional priests wouldn’t be noticed in any way, so long as they kept their six-shooters hidden. Father Nikon was proud of his. It would be the instrument of God’s will. There were privileges that went with devotion to God. Father Nikon was confident that he would receive them in this world or the next.

The door to the patriarch’s private quarters were guarded but that was expected. Father Nikon walked by them and then turned to face the guard as though just remembering something. The guard turned to look at him and Father Simon grabbed him by the throat and stuck a knife in his back. But the man didn’t die quietly. He jerked and tried to scream and banged a fist on the door to the patriarch’s rooms.

*     *     *

Filaret looked up when the pounding on the door began, annoyed. “What is that noise?” he grumbled. “Go out there and stop it.”

The guard, obeying his instructions, opened the door only to be flung back into the room as the door was slammed inward. Filaret stood, in shock, as the men rushed into the room.