Darker Jewels (40 page)

“I didn’t bring a jewel this time,” said Rakoczy, holding up a small leather chest. “You’ve made it clear that Czar Feodor’s taste runs to other things.” He looked over his shoulder at the German ambassador, noticing that the somber old man was trying to work the stiffness from his gnarled fingers. “As he is bringing a team of carved miniature horses with a miniature cart to hitch them to, I have also scaled my gift to the recipient.” He patted the chest.

Boris found it disheartening to look at the German ambassador and his offering of toys. Worst of all, he had to admit that the German had reason to bring such a gift: it would probably be well-received. “All right. Then you will come first.” He motioned to the Metropolitan. “Please let him, Most Worthy,” he said, for the Metropolitan was entitled to the first presentation of the formal audience. “It would be for the best. The Czar likes him. It will make it easier for all the rest of you.”

The Metropolitan stroked his beard and ran his hand down the pearl-studded front of his riza, his expression studied as he weighed his decision. “If it would quiet the Czar’s mind, then it might be the wiser course.”

“Thank you and God bless you; forever,” said Boris with feeling. He gave his attention to Rakoczy, trying to appear patiently resigned instead of anxiety-laden. “We haven’t actually finished the full presentation of all the nobles, but Feodor can’t remember all their names in any case.”

“And since his father did, it shows the son is not the equal of the father,” said the Overlord of the Tartars, his black hair braided and hanging down his back.

Boris nodded once. “But he is Czar, and we have all given our oaths to obey him.” He crossed himself, watching to be certain the Metropolitan had done the same. “Rakoczy, come.”

At the far end of the room, Sir Jerome Horsey waited, rigged out in the highest fashion of Elizabeth of England’s court. He stood beside Benedict Lovell, less resplendent in his academic robes. “Mark me,” he said softly as Boris led Rakoczy away. “There is trouble coming.”

“For Rakoczy?” asked Lovell in surprise.

“No; for Godunov. That poor dull-witted boy is turning Godunov into his creature; the Court will not accept it, having Godunov ruling them. It is the same for him as it is for us. We are all foreigners, and that is—” He made a gesture indicating calamity.

“Does he know?” Lovell wondered aloud, for he was the one who had warned Sir Jerome about this at the beginning. “Does Godunov realize what is happening?”

“How can he not?” Sir Jerome countered; he would have shaken his head but his high, wired ruff prevented it, so he swung his upper body as he did when dancing the galliard. “Let us be last today, in any case.”

Once they left the antechamber Rakoczy obediently fell in the required four steps behind Boris, his leather case carried in front of him so that the Guard could see it clearly. He said to Boris as they entered the cavernous room, “Will he be content to remain at Court through the morning, do you think?”

“No; he is already fidgeting.” This was only a whisper, but it was enough to prepare Rakoczy for his presentation to Feodor.

The young man on the throne was studying the turquoises in the Cap of Kazan, one of them caught between his forefinger and thumb as if he wanted to pull it out. He looked up as Boris approached, the Cap forgotten for the moment. “Boris Feodoro- vich, it is boring. No one is talking to me but you,” he complained as Boris reverenced him again.

Rakoczy went down on one knee, in the European fashion. “God give you happy days and pleasant nights, O Czar,” he said.

“You haven’t lowered your head,” said Czar Feodor.

Boris stepped between them. “Rakoczy is from the King of Poland, Feodor Ivanovich.” It was in these fits of mulish obstinacy that Boris recognized a distant echo of Ivan Grosny’s implacable determination. “This is how the men of Poland reverence their King. It is fitting that he should show the same distinction to you, Feodor Ivanovich, to avoid offense to you or King Istvan.”

A distant echo of his imperious father Ivan showed in Feodor’s mild features. “I want him to lower his head. I want him to make a reverence. He is not to defy me.”

“But Little Father—” Boris began.

“If the Czar asks it,” Rakoczy cut him short; he executed a perfect reverence from his knees and was rewarded with a delighted grin. “It is true that Russia is the Czar’s country, and the people are his people. I am a foreigner in Russia,” he said, speaking directly to Feodor. “If you tell me to learn new ways, I must perforce do so.”

Boris watched as Rakoczy prostrated himself in proper form, shaking his head. He could not imagine what would happen if Czar Feodor made the same demands of the British ambassador, or the German.

Czar Feodor clapped his hands in delight. “You do that very prettily. I like the way you bend over.” He regarded his brother- in-law. “Boris Feodorovich, you forget how much I like seeing the foreigners in their strange clothes. Black and silver.” He gestured to Rakoczy. “Russia is a country red and gold. We do not see black and silver.”

“The Czar is gracious to mention this,” said Rakoczy with commendable seriousness, with an understanding glance in Boris’ direction. “Oftentimes we foreigners feel our foreignness the more because we are required not to wear Russian dress. It makes the law less troubling if we foreigners know that our clothes are welcome in your eyes.”

“How prettily you speak. Better than Uncle Nikita.” Czar Ivan motioned to Rakoczy, who finally got up from his knees, his leather case beside him. “You bring me a gift, don’t you? People are always bringing me gifts. I like them.”

“Gifts are pleasant things,” said Rakoczy. He picked up the leather case.

“I hope it isn’t another jewel,” said Czar Feodor suddenly. “You gave my father many jewels, and I have seen them. But they are just stones.”

“Very true, O Czar,” said Rakoczy. “And very wise.”

Of all the compliments Rakoczy had given him, being called wise was by far the best. Czar Feodor giggled. “The courtiers have to say that, not you.”

“All the more reason to believe me, then, O Czar,” said Rakoczy with such candor that Boris was shocked. “This is not a gift for your father, however. It is a gift for you.”

The young man’s wide, bland face blossomed into smiles. “What would you bring for me? What do you want to give me.”

Rakoczy picked up the leather case. “If you will permit me, O Czar, I will open this.” He looked at the four Guard officers who stood at the comers of the dais. “If any of you want to watch me open this box, to assure yourselves it contains nothing to harm Czar Feodor?”

“I am here,” said Boris, forestalling any activity on the part of the Guard. “I will vouch for whatever you have there.” He moved a little nearer to Rakoczy, saying in an undervoice in Greek, “I trust it is safe.”

“Eminently,” said Rakoczy, folding back two hinged panels to reveal a set of miniature bells, fifteen in all, shining gold and topped by little jewels. “For the pitch; the amethysts are the same note, so are the diamonds and the emeralds and the topazes, the aquamarines, the sapphires, the tourmalines. The top, middle, and bottom notes have pearls to distinguish them from the rest,” Rakoczy explained as he held up the bells in their metal frame. “They are bronze, carefully tuned—Europeans would call their tones the Dorian mode—and their bronze is plated in gold, to honor the Church as well as the Czar.”

Feodor had got down from the throne, setting the Cap of Kazan on the empty ivory chair as he came to stare at the gift. “This is wonderful,” he whispered, his voice so soft that hardly any of the courtiers heard it. “You say their tone is true?”

“Try it for yourself, O Czar,” Rakoczy recommended.

His hands shaking a little, Czar Feodor reached out for the frame with the bells. He tugged one of the silken cords—all matched in color to the jewel atop the bells—which served in place of the rough hemp ropes that controlled the larger versions. The sound of the bell was perfect, so masterfully made that the note pulsed as if the metal possessed a beating heart. He cocked his head and rang the next; another flawless tone.

“It is an honor to please you, O Czar,” said Rakoczy, stepping back from the young man with the wispy, fine beard of a thir- teen-year-old. “I will convey your gracious remarks to King Ist- van.”

“May King Istvan reward your service,” said Boris very deliberately with a single, pointed look. “What do you think, Little Father?” he went on, to keep Czar Feodor from abandoning his Court at once for the pleasure of ringing these golden bells. “Is this not a splendid gift?”

“Splendid,” said Czar Feodor, entranced by what he saw and heard. “Splendid. Splendid,” as he proceeded to ring every one of the sixteen bells, listening with an intensity that was remarkable in so childlike a man.

“I am gratified you are pleased, O Czar,” said Rakoczy when Feodor had satisfied himself that each and every bell was true. “It is ever my wish to do those things that will be welcome to you.”

“This is welcome. It is very fitting. Tell
him
it is fitting, Boris Feodorovich.” He rang the first morning cadence, beaming happily. “How the Metropolitan will envy me, for I do not have to climb into a cold and windy bell tower if I have these beside me.” He looked sharply at Rakoczy. “I want you to make more, many more, much bigger.”

Rakoczy opened his hands in resignation. “Alas, O Czar, that is not possible. I do not operate a foundry, and I have no means to make bells much larger than these. Foreigners are not permitted to have so much bronze.” While it was honest enough, he was relieved that he could offer such an excuse to Feodor, for he sensed the Czar’s demands might suddenly escalate beyond his abilities to fulfill them. He did not like considering that possibility although he could not escape it entirely. “O Czar, you have fine bell-makers here in Moscovy, far better than I am at making those bells with deep, strong voices.”

“These bells are more true,” said Czar Feodor suspiciously.

“Because they are very small,” said Rakoczy, bowing to Czar Feodor. “It is easier to make perfect bronze for something the size of a cup than something the size of a horse. The bronze can be made very uniform, more than in a huge bell.” He did not add that in order to get sixteen perfect bells he had cast more than eighty of them and selected the best of the lot.

“I am proud of our Russian bells,” said Boris, taking up Ra- koczy’s stance. “This Transylvanian is right, Feodor Ivanovich. There are no bell-makers in the world to compare with Russian bell-makers.”

“That is the truth, O Czar,” Rakoczy said at once.

“None in the world,” agreed Czar Feodor with pride.

“Therefore Rakoczy is to be thanked, for showing respect to you and to those men who make our bells. He is a foreigner who knows that Moscovy is the bastion of Russia.” Boris crossed himself. “The air of Moscovy trembles with the song of bells.”

The Czar’s smile was so fixed that it appeared to be carved into his face. “I want you to thank the foreigner. Let him have whatever he wants for these wonderful gifts, if it is in accord with the Metropolitan,” said Czar Feodor, waving both men away from him. “I want to ring these. Tell the Court we will resume later, after Mass.”

“After Mass,” Boris echoed, for that instant hating Feodor for being such a benign simpleton. “You called Court, Little Father. You were the one who commanded these nobles, these boyars to appear and listen.”

“Well, now I command them to go away until after Mass,” said Czar Feodor, picking up the metal frame of bells when he had scrambled to his feet. “After Mass I will see the other foreigners, and I will listen to everything the nobles have to tell me. Everything.”

Boris put one hand to his beard, the only outward sign of his agitation. “But it would be better, Little Father, if you would tend to the Court now. That way you will not have to interrupt your enjoyment later; Court will be behind you and you may ring these bells for as late as you wish.”

“That is so: I cannot— Tomorrow I will have Court again,” said Czar Feodor, settling the matter. “Tell everyone they are to leave the Palace. I don’t want to see anyone remaining behind, for men who do that are plotters: my father told me that before he died.”

“Many of them will be insulted, Little Father.” Boris’ protest was desperate and useless. “They do not want to be deprived of your attention and—”

“Tomorrow they will have it, after morning Mass. We will all assemble here, as we did today,” said Czar Feodor, pointing to one of his Guard. “Come with me. I will use the Beautiful Staircase, so that everyone will be able to see these bells.” He shook the metal frame and all sixteen bells jangled in gorgeous dissonance. “This is better than jewels, Rakoczy. You have found a sublime gift for me: you will discover my gratitude.”

“You are gracious beyond my worth, O Czar,” said Rakoczy at once, then dropped to his knee as Czar Feodor, his treasure clasped in his arms, swept out of the Reception Hall, his Guard in pursuit.

“This could become difficult,” said Boris when Feodor was gone.

“It has already,” Rakoczy told him as he got to his feet. He made a quick, sweeping glance around the huge golden room, watching the dismay and anger in the faces of the assembled nobles and boyars. “They were discontented before this. And if

Feodor intends to delay Court for every gift, it will be the worse for everyone. Look at them. They know Feodor Ivanovich cannot hold the reins of Russia. With the Mongols only recently pushed back in the east and the Poles and Swedes prepared for war in the west, their gains could be losses in a matter of months. It was not so long ago that the Mongols sacked Moscovy, and could still do it again if Romanov forbids Feodor to resist, as the rumor suggests he will.”

“How do you come to know these rumors, Rakoczy?” Boris marveled. “I have spies and I do not discover as much.”

“Because the boyars know you are important. I am only an exile, so they say things when I am about they would never reveal to you. They are more worried than they are affronted. They are worried that their Czar will fall prey to dangerous foolishness. They would rather have tyranny than weakness.”