Darker Jewels (34 page)

“My left hand?” asked Vasilli, surprised that Yuri would offer to be his assassin. “A dangerous offer to make, young man, if you are not prepared to do the deed.”

“I am prepared,” said Yuri, so readily that Vasilli was mildly taken aback. “I do not limit my loyalty once I swear it.”

“But you swore it to your father, didn’t you?” Vasilli inquired. “Surely a son must honor the wishes of his father.”

“If his father grants his son a name and proper station, then he may expect his son to share his cause. But I remain unrecognized in law, and the bonds of family do not hold me.” Yuri was sitting very straight, watching Vasilli’s hands instead of his eyes.

“Yet you swore an oath to him,” Vasilli pointed out.

“Upon conditions that have not been honored.” Yuri’s whole body tightened with hidden rage. “And so I abjure my oath to him, for his to me was not honored. He never intended that I should be free of him, or obligations to the family that will never grant me legitimization. For them, I am only a bastard and a serf, to be given shelter and food while I am working for their benefit, and turned away when no longer useful. My father can expect nothing from me now.”

A group of carters came into the taproom, all of them dusty from their work, and ready to lose the rest of the day in drink. They jostled their way to two tables, calling out to the landlord to bring kvas and bread, holding up silver coins to prove they could pay.

“You might abjure your oath to me,” Vasilli persisted.

“That is the risk you take if you do not honor what you promise to me,” said Yuri, his confidence suddenly increasing as he watched Vasilli hesitate. “An oath broken on one side is broken on both.”

“Strange, that you of all people should say this to me,” Vasilli mused, his eyes cold. “I could leave here and denounce you. I could have you arrested at once and the Poles could do nothing. You would be imprisoned, at best.” He waited to hear what Yuri would say in answer.

“I would say that you wanted to enlist my services against the Nagoys. I may be nothing more than a servant, but Grigori Dmitrovich might well come to assist me, and he would be believed. If he said that I was gathering information for him, there are many who would not be astonished to leam that you had attempted to suborn me.” Yuri smiled now, proud of how well he had anticipated this meeting. He had been prepared for such a response and he had answered quickly, letting Vasilli know he was no naive youth from the country.

“And if Grigori Dmitrovich does not vouch for you, what then?” Vasilli’s manner was pleasant, almost jovial. “You will be twice a criminal, for speaking against me without cause, and for implicating Grigori.”

This was not part of Yuri’s plan, and he hesitated, seeking the most practical response. “My father is a Naboy, and—”

“And you are his bastard with many reasons to seek vengeance on the family.” Vasilli shook his head in false sympathy.

“You will have to manage better than that, my boy, if you are to prevail.” He put his hands flat on the table, fingers spread and thumbs touching. “I have heard what you expect of me. Now you will hear what I expect of you.” His voice was low and even; he might have been discussing the quality of flour in the markets. “You will give me reports, honest reports, of the activities of the Polish embassy, including all you can learn of Rakoczy. You will do this as long as I require it. You will provide your Nagoy relatives with information I will approve, and no other. You will give me information on all the correspondence coming into and going out of the Polish embassy—all of it, no matter how trivial it may appear. You will keep a record of all those who visit the embassy, from boyar to servant, Rus to foreigner, and you will provide it to me fortnightly. If there is any contact between the priests and Rakoczy you are to let me know of it at once. Do all this, and do it well, and follow all other orders I give you and in five years, I will consider placing you elsewhere. Fail to do my bidding and I will accuse you.” He leaned back, watching Yuri’s consternation with increasing satisfaction.

One of the carters had started to sing, his voice steady and strong as he launched into
The City in the Lake,
encouraging his comrades to join him in the chorus:
Kitezh! Kitezh! Heroic sunken city! Shining, shining, shining on Midsummer eve!

“If I discover you have served me false, Yuri Piotrovich, you may be certain that you will regret bitterly that ever you were bom.” Vasilli gave Yuri a little time to consider what he said. “I will take your promise of faithful service, and if you are truly a faithful servant, you will be rewarded in time. Consider what I tell you. In time I will provide whatever you have earned for yourself.”

This was no longer the bargain Yuri had assumed he could make; he looked at Vasilli suspiciously. “What is to keep you from accepting my service and then condemning me?”

“Why, nothing at all,” said Vasilli. “You must rely on my word as Prince of Moscovy.” He had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the energetic singing which had successfully drowned out the bells and the shouts from outside. “You came to me because you wanted to gain a better position for yourself than your family have given you. Very well, I accept your desire. But if you want my favor, you will earn it twice over or suffer the consequences.”

Yuri stared at him. “I am prepared to help your cause now and—”

“You had better be prepared to do more than that.” Vasilli leaned forward so that he could lower his voice and still be heard. “You had better be ready to carry out my orders prompdy in all things. If I discover any laxity in you, that will end our bargain and I will denounce you, first to your Nagoy relatives so that they will not come to your aid. Do you understand me?”

Yuri nodded slowly, and began to wonder if he had made a poor bargain after all. “Yes,” he said as he realized Vasilli was waiting for an answer. “Yes, I understand you.”

“You will take your orders from me, and from me alone. You are
my
servant, mine; not the servant of Shuisky. You are to do
my
bidding. You will answer to none of the rest of my family: not to Grigori or Dmitri or Igor or Anastasi. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” Yuri ducked his head, loathing himself for such subordination.

“Again,” ordered Vasilli.

This time Yuri rose and made a full reverence to Vasilli. “Yes, I understand your orders and I accept them.”

Vasilli smiled. “Excellent.”

The carters had reached the sixth verse describing the ferocity of the Mongols as they surrounded the city of Kitezh. The main singer was starting his second cup of kvas and was singing louder than before.

“And you, do you honor your bargain with me?” Yuri demanded, his eyes hot with emotion.

Vasilli did not answer the question. “How many languages do you know?”

Baffled and vexed, Yuri answered resentfully. “Russian, Polish, Latin, Greek, a little German.”

Gratified, Vasilli rose to his feet and held out his hand for Yuri to press to his brow. “Then yes, I will honor our bargain, if you do your tasks to my satisfaction, and serve none but me.” At last, he thought, at last he would not have to rely on Anastasi for the translations of those tongues. He regarded Yuri with gloating condescension. “Remember that: you serve none but me.”

Yuri reverenced him a second time, then pressed the back of Vasilli’s right hand to his forehead. “I serve none but you, Vasilli Andreivich.”

The carters sang heartily, describing how the great city of

Kitezh sank miraculously into the depths of the lake, thwarting the pillaging Mongols.

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens to Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, written in Latin; delivered on October 9th, 1584.

To my dearest, oldestfriend, greetings from the harried shores of England;

But no more harried than matters are in Russia from what I have learnedfrom Lovell. Elizabeth Rex may have had Sommer - ville and Throgmorton to contend with, yet they are small fare compared to what little I hear ofMoscovy. For every noble family there would appear to be three plots laid, all to claim the power Czar Ivan wielded. Whatever will become of that poor innocent Feodor?

And while you consider that puzzle, consider this one as well: how does it happen that you are married? If I had heard itfrom Lovell alone, I would not have believed him. But now I have read your letter sent in early April—it made very good time, incidentally, arriving here in futy—and you tell me the same thing. Who is this Xenya Evgeneivna Koshkin or Koshkinya? For what reason was she selected as your bride? You say that Czar Ivan ordered you to marry, and that he had in the past ordered other members of his Court to marry in just such a manner, at his whim. How does it happen you permitted this to occur? Surety you, of all men, would have it within your power to refuse such an order. I understand you had some influence with Czar Ivan, that he showed you favor. And I will not accept your assertion that the wedding was a show of favor: where is the benefit to you, if that is the case? Why did you not protest the marriage, or have the Polish embassy protest?

Sanct’ Germain, think of the risk you are taking. You have warned me so many times about univiUing lovers. What can this woman be, if not your unwilling lover. Is she not an unwilling wife? It may be the custom in Russia to marry by arrangement, but you are not Russian. Those of our blood have hazard enough in our lives without increasing it through marriage of that sort, or any sort. You tell me you do not even visit her in sleep, but take your sustenance elsewhere from sleeping women who know of nothing but lovely dreams and a little lethargy. How long do you plan to continue this arrangement? And how long before this bride of yours begins to ask questions you will not want to answer?

You say this Xenya does not know your true nature. By all the gods of Rome, what does she think of your marriage? To say that she has been the pawn of her relatives is all very well as far as it goes, but it does not alter her dealings with you. She must be aware that your conduct is not what most brides receive from their husbands. In time she must come to question your behavior. Lovell tells me that those with what the English call the French vice are walled up in monastery cells. Is there not a chance she will decide you are one of those who take fleshly pleasure with men? If she makes such an accusation, how are you to refute it ivithout damning yourself more completely. I know what it is to be waited up; I died walled up in my tomb. You yourself saved me from it, all those centuries ago in Rome. But how am I to rescue you if they immure you in Russia?

I am writing to Lovell as soon as I am finished with this letter. I am going to ask him to look after you, since you do not seem willing to tend to that yourself. Ever since the troubles in Florence, you have been careless of your safely, claiming that the world is grown contemptuous of its treasures. You have told me that there has been too much lost ground, that where there was hope there is now despondency. Perhaps so. But it does not follow that we must join with the rest in contempt, or misery. You taught me that, more than a thousand years ago, and I have been willing to be guided by it, little though I have garnered from it. In the past you have not let me give way to despair, and now, my dearfriend, you see your old arguments come back to haunt you. If you will not protect yourself for yourself, then do it for me.

And so this letter will not be one long harangue, letmeteUyou of the New World plant I have recently started growing at Greengages: it is called the patata, a root crop, very filling and useful. I have been told by my cooks—now that they are willing to deal with it at all—that it is a fine addition to the rest of our crops. I am told that it stores well in the winter, which will be useful. I have offered patata plants to some of the landholders around me and a few have accepted, most out of curiosity. On the other hand, I have tried to grow maize ivithout great success; the plants do not thrive and the grains do notripen. If I can discover the cause of this, I may be able to correct the fault. I have given myself three years to bring in a crop of maize, and if this is not possible, then I will turn the acres over to growing more patatas.

I have sent Niklos Aulirios back to Rome for the next year. Senza Pari is not being property run and I wish some order restored there. I have also asked him to inspect Villa Ragoczy, to see what your administrators there have done, or have not done. I also want him to bring a few of my Italian horses here, to breed them to my English ones. When he returns, he will have the best of the lot with him, or so he has promised me. It is my hope that there will be time to establish good breeding stock before I leave here.

Already lam contemplating leaving, and I have not been here long. It always comes to that, does it not? Those of our blood cannot remain anywhere for very long, or there are unpleasant questions. That is another thing that must have occurred to you: how long you may remain in Moscovy before it becomes apparent to someone there that you do not age. You cannot excuse it as alchemical skills forever. And do not remind me that in the strictest sense it is alchemical, for the blood is the elixir of life. Such assertions would serve only to increase apprehension in those around you. How will you explain to your ivife that you change too slowly for her to see it? Give me your word that you will not remain there more than a decade. I plead with you, my friend, do not stay there too long. Whenever you leave, know that I will always welcome you, wherever I am, should you decide to come to me. There is no place on this earth, no matter how vast Drake tells me it is, that I would not be willing to meet you. I would cross hundreds of leagues of open sea if you asked it of me—and very likely curse you when I arrived for making me endure such travel.

Incidentally, Drake has been knighted, and is now Sir Francis. Officially they say it is because he went around the world, but it is rumored that the real reason has been his privateering against Spanish ships. I am inclined to believe the whispers instead of the public reason.

Let me hear from you again before the onset of winter, so that the letter may be delivered in this year. It is absurd, the length of time it takes messages to get from place to place. When I was young, Caesar moved dispatches eighty miles per day. Now we are fortunate if they can cover so much distance in three. No, I will not fall to lamenting what is past. As you have warned me often enough, if it is gone it cannot be had again.