1636 The Kremlin Games (45 page)

Anya nodded, remembering a night when Bernie, Filip, and she had talked about freedom, slavery and serfdom. How many conversations like that had there been? How many quiet words and beliefs had Bernie Zeppi dropped like seeds into fallow ground, not because he intended to create a revolution but simply because of who he was.

And what would Cass Lowry have dropped in place of those seeds? The man might be an up-timer in his origins, but he thought like a nobleman. Lowry believed, deep inside, that he deserved more and better than anyone else. From what Bernie had said, that had been true of him even when he was a teenager with no greater title than that of an athlete.

“You’re right. Cass Lowry would have fit right in with the service nobility, and we never would have seen that there was a better way.”

“That’s what bothers me the most. How quickly the people here are giving up on that better way. How fast ivory towers can come down. Exchange Bernie for Cass Lowry, Mikhail for Sheremetev, and heaven is whisked away, with only memory of it making what we have now seem an annex of hell. My knight in shining armor arrived four years ago and by the time I noticed he was here, it was too late,” Natasha said.

“We could run, you know,” Anya said. “I’ve done it before. We could go east to the wild lands. Russia doesn’t really control Siberia. No one does.”

“You ran away to Siberia?” Natasha blinked her eyes in astonishment.

“No. I ran away to Moscow,” Anya said. “I wasn’t even a serf. I was a slave. I ran and got lost in Moscow, found any work I could, anywhere I could. My point is we’re a lot better situated now. We have money and can get or forge travel papers. On the other hand, you’re an important person. I just had one slave owner looking for me. We’d have the whole government looking for us. We’d have to go farther.”

“What about everyone else? What about Bernie and Filip?”

“We could take Filip and Bernie!”

“And everyone else? We could run. We could even take Bernie and Filip, perhaps a few others. But what about the staff of the Dacha? We can’t all run. Not everyone would even want to.”

“I know.” Anya looked down at the bed they were sitting on. “But we may not have a choice. I don’t think Cass Lowry will change and I don’t think Boyar Sheremetev will back away from supporting him, certainly not for me and probably not for you. It may be run or submit to Cass. And I’m not sure I could do that, not anymore.”

*     *     *

Natasha knew that Anya was preparing to run, but took no action either to aid her or prevent her. Natasha couldn’t make up her mind. In a way the Dacha was a very effective cage. Its bars were of duty stronger than high carbon steel. She couldn’t abandon her scientists to Cass Lowry and Sheremetev. They had come here to work for Russia and all its people, to do good with their minds. Natasha knew that view was a bit simplistic, but it was true enough when it came down to it. So she stayed and worked and tried to protect the eggheads and the cooks. The philosophers and the gardeners. And died a bit as the dream she hadn’t even known she was dreaming died around her.

As punishments for idle comments, “wasting time on unprofitable hobbies,” or lack of progress on one of Cass or Sheremetev’s pet projects came down, she tried to act as a buffer between her people and their new masters. But it wasn’t working. Four years can be long enough to learn freedom, but it’s not always long enough for the lesson to stick. More and more the Dacha was reverting to the dog-eat-dog informer culture of the bureaus.

More and more Cass Lowry felt empowered and Natasha had to restrain Bernie and her armsmen several times. Even so, the only thing that kept Bernie alive was that Sheremetev wanted two up-timers at the Dacha. He had told Cass in no uncertain terms that Bernie was off limits. Cass had also been told that Natasha was off limits and that protection was effectively extended to Anya as long as she stayed with Natasha. The only way she had kept her armsmen alive was by ordering more and more of them out of the Dacha.

Chapter 74

June 1635

Cass Lowry was drunk again, Father Kiril noted with concern. So the Dacha, even the guards placed by Sheremetev, walked carefully. Lowry had poor control over his impulses even when sober. He had virtually none once he got drunk—and, unfortunately, he was a mean rather than cheerful drunk.

With someone else Father Kiril might have tried to restrain the drinking, but Cass Lowry had made his contempt for the Russian Orthodox Church quite plain. Lowry seemed to consider himself above any church. All of which meant that when the American went on a drunken rampage, all Father Kiril could do was watch. So he watched and became even more concerned as Cass headed for the apartments of Princess Natalia.

*     *     *

There was no warning at all. The door burst open and Cass came in, a bottle in one hand and a leer on his face. “Get out of here.” Natasha ordered. “You’re drunk.”

“I sure as hell am. I’m also the boss and you’ve been forgetting the new order. Interfering with my administration of the Moscow Institute of Technology. That’s a better name than just calling it the country house.”

Not a bad translation of the Dacha’s up-time usage,
skittered through the back of Natasha’s mind, while the part of her mind that was supposed to be figuring out how to head off the disaster that was Cass Lowry was blank as a new sheet of paper.

Her rooms were being guarded by Sheremetev’s troops tonight. She’d had to send too many of her own away from the Dacha to maintain a loyal guard all the time. They might restrain Cass if she called on them but the fact that he was here at all argued against it. She moved in front of Anya and Cass smiled. That was the moment she realized that Cass wasn’t here for Anya. He was here for her.

Her brain froze, not so much from fear as from simple confusion. He couldn’t possibly get away with it, valuable up-timer or not, touched by God or not. Not in Russia, not even in Germany. Raping Anya or any of the servant girls, even killing one of them, he could get away with. But a princess of Russia? Even Sheremetev, perhaps especially Sheremetev, would have him drawn and quartered for the offense against all the nobility of Russia.

Then he grabbed her arm and all doubt fled. “Stupid down-timer bitch. You think there’s any real difference between you and any of the other whores in Russia? You’re all down-timers, whatever silly-ass titles you give yourselves.” With his other hand he ripped open her dressing gown. “Time for you to learn your place,
Princess
, after what your guardsmen did to me when I first got here.”

Now he had a hand on her breast and she tried to shove him away. For just a split second it seemed like she had succeeded, at least in part. His hand left her breast and there was space between their bodies.

Then his fist hit the side of her face. She hadn’t seen it coming and it didn’t exactly hurt, not yet, though it would later. For now it simply stunned her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t react when that same hand reached down and grabbed her down there.

*     *     *

Anya had expected Cass to come after her too, but she had been ignored as he went after the princess. Anya was a small woman, but she grabbed Cass’ arm and got flung across the room for her trouble. Cass Lowry was a physically strong man, whatever else might be said about him. Anya had no more faith in the guards outside the door than Natasha did. Instead she went for the pistol in Natasha’s bed stand.

Even with a willingness to sacrifice some serfs to the project, Russia didn’t have nearly enough fulminate of mercury to supply an army and the newer, safer primer that had been developed later had only reached Russia after it had reached the USE. So production was still quite limited. Limited, that is, when you’re talking about providing percussion caps for an army. Not the least bit limited when it came to providing caps for a few hundred of the privileged of Russia. The Dacha had plenty of guns. Natasha’s had been made by the czar’s own gunsmith. It was a .36 caliber cap-and-ball revolver. By the time Anya had it in her hands, Cass Lowry had Natasha on her bed, completely exposed and was pulling his pants down.

Anya pointed and shot. And missed at less than six feet. She was a good shot and practiced twice a week at the Dacha’s firing range. But she was now learning how easy it was for even a marksman to miss a target in a real fight.

For a moment she just stared as Cass Lowry turned and looked at her, an expression of surprise on his face.

There were still five rounds left in the revolver. She aimed again, more carefully, taking that extra split-second to steady herself. At the chest, the best target.

She fired. Lowry staggered, as he tried to rise. Anya cocked the hammer, bringing another chamber in line. Fired. Lowry fell back on his buttocks, then leaned to one side, resting on his hip.

Blood was spreading across his chest. His eyes were open but no longer staring at her. They were staring at the nearby dresser. Or possibly at nothing at all, any longer.

Three shots left. Anya stepped forward two paces, brought the muzzle within six inches of Lowry’s skull, cocked, and fired again. Blood, bone and brains splattered the wall behind him.

Two shots left. Amazingly, the man was not down; still lying on his hip, propped up on an elbow. His eyes were still wide open. Yet he had to be dead!

She cocked and aimed again.

Then the guards came rushing in. Sheremetev’s men looked at Anya holding the gun, Cass on the floor, and began bringing up their own guns. Big and clumsy old-fashioned snaphaunce muskets, though. Their employer was something of a miser.

Anya turned and fired at the nearest of the two men. She was getting better at this. He went down with a bullet in his chest. She turned to the other guard and fired her last shot. He went down too, although she had missed her actual target. She’d been aiming for his chest also but the shot had been hurried and struck him in the throat instead.

No matter, he was dead or dying. She glanced back at Lowry. The American had finally collapsed on the floor and was now obviously dead—even though his eyes were still open.

Anya heard a little choking sound and turned to Natasha, who was looking around in shock. Anya didn’t blame her. It had all happened so fast.

*     *     *

Father Kiril jumped at the sound of the first shot, then rushed to Princess Natalia’s private wing. He was joined on the way by the princess’ aunt Sofia.

“I knew it would happen,” Sofia gasped. “That, that . . . cretin!”

Kiril knew who she was talking about. Although cretin might be a bit tame, in his opinion. “He was drunk earlier, but I didn’t expect him to actually come here.”

They stopped and looked around the princess’ room at the same time. Natasha was cramming jewelry and papers into a bag, urging Anya to hurry.

Sofia gasped. Natasha’s face was reddened, as though she’d been punched and her dressing gown was in tatters. “Natasha!”

“Cass tried to rape her. And I shot him.” Anya pointed at the limp form of Sheremetev’s prize up-timer. “Then they came in and tried to draw on me with a gun in my hand, and I shot them.” She pointed at the guards.

Sofia’s face paled and Kiril couldn’t quite tell if it was the news about Cass or that Anya, a peasant, had been shooting up members of the service nobility. That didn’t matter now. It was obvious that Princess Natalia was in shock. Anya seemed to be doing better but Anya had previous experience with violence.

“We have to get you out of here,” Kiril said. “And we have to do it now. There’s not much time. It’s only pure luck that none of the other guards were near the house.”

“We’ll need horses,” Princess Natasha said. “Anya and I can . . . can . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sofia said sharply. “You and Anya are leaving, yes. But not on horses.”

“But, but . . .”

“I’ve heard Bernie’s car roaring around this place for weeks,” Sofia said. “You’ll take it.”

“But, but . . .”

“Neither of us know how to drive,” Anya pointed out.

“So we wake up Bernie!”

“We can’t take Bernie!” Natasha insisted. “He’ll be safe, if we can get away. Sheremetev won’t hurt him. He needs an up-timer.” She pointed at Cass on the floor.

“Bernie would follow you anyway,” Sofia snapped. “So stop being silly.”

Kiril’s mind was racing. “And Filip. You’ll want Filip.”

“Why Filip?” Anya said, then almost dragging the words out. “He has a secure position here. It would be better if he stayed here where it’s safe.”

Father Kiril smiled. “For the same reason that we’re going to send Bernie. He would follow you anyway. Besides, who do you think has been writing the Flying Squirrel pamphlets? Filip isn’t safe here, not with the heat that will be coming down.”

Anya nodded, accepting Father Kiril’s logic “And Gregorii,” Anya said. “He’s been working on our papers, just in case.”

“And you, Father,” Sofia said. “All these children need an adult around.”

Chapter 75

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Bernie was never at his best when shaken out of sleep. “Wha . . . Who . . . ?”

“Bernie, wake up,” Natasha said. “We have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere away from here.”

That last comment woke Bernie up fully. “Natasha, what happened?”

“Quickly, Bernie. Quickly. I’ll tell you on the way.” He was half out of his room before his mind caught up with his body. “All right, everyone stop. What’s going on?”

“We don’t have time for this!” Natasha said exasperated.

“We don’t have time to skip this part,” Bernie said. After four years of the enthusiasms of geniuses he knew well how easy it was for them to get excited and forget minor details like, say, shoes in a snow storm. “What are we trying to accomplish? What can we do that will make it safer and more likely to work? What must we do that will prevent it from working?”

“We’re trying to escape!” We can move quic—”

Bernie held up a hand. “Escape to where? For how long? From who?”