Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [104]
The underlord cut the connection. Blasphemous though the very idea was, it/they were beginning to think that the entities they/it had so many years ago diverged from were somewhat stupid.
The War Room of Chortenko’s mansion was clean, spare, and shadowlesss; it held a conference table and little more. In his time, he had convened many a powerful assembly there. None had ever been so important as tonight’s would be. Looking up and down the empty table with its twenty white name cards, Chortenko mused, as he customarily did in social situations, on how much of a difference it would make if the lot of them were to be suddenly killed. Often enough, the answer was: Very little. But this assembly was different, for from it he would craft the core of the State of Muscovy’s new government.
“Is everybody I sent for here yet?” he asked.
Vilperivich nodded. “They are not happy, of course. But they all hold exaggerated notions of their own importance, they all have ambitions beyond their current status, and they are all, ultimately, weak. Show them that the momentum of events is with you and they will bow to the prevailing wind.”
“Excellent.” Chortenko turned away. “I will be in the library. Summon me when they have been seated.”
When Chortenko returned, an angry mutter rose up at his appearance. But as one of his agents stood behind each guest, as stiff and attentive as a waiter at a formal dinner, nobody dared speak their minds. They had all heard stories. Plus, many, if not all, of the men and women present had been plucked from mid-debauchery and given disintoxicants to undo the lingering effects of the rasputin in their systems. Their quite natural outrage at being forcibly taken away was surely tempered by the awareness that elsewhere in the building Maxim and Igorek were effortlessly memorizing the written accounts of who had been discovered doing what with whom, where, and in what numbers. Muscovy Intelligence was infamous for using such information for political purposes, which was one reason why a man with as many enemies as Chortenko had was so secure in his office.
Chortenko struck a pose at the head of the table and announced, “There is a plot to assassinate the Duke of Muscovy and overthrow his government.”
In an instant, the glares turned to looks of alarm. The gasps and cries of astonishment were most gratifying.
The Overseer of Military Orphan-Academies shot to his feet. “Give me names, and I will requisition forces to take them into custody!” It was well known that Prokazov coveted a position of authority over the adult military, so this was only to be expected.
Chortenko made a curt gesture. “Be seated, my dear sir, and you will hear all.” He spread a map of Moscow across the table. “Militant forces are at this moment assembling here, here, here, here, and here.” His finger tapped the five squares where the armies of Pale Folk would emerge from the City Below. “They possess an irresistible weapon—one that will make the citizens of Moscow rise up and follow them.”
“There can be no such weapon,” the Minister of Genetic Oversight said. “Otherwise, I would surely have known.”
“Again, madam, patience. All will be revealed.” Picking up a stick of charcoal, Chortenko returned their attention to the map. “The forces will come along these boulevards”—he drew thick lines along Bolshaya Yakimanka, Tverskaya, and Maroseika—“as well as up along the river from Taganskaya and through the Arbat, gathering in strength all the while. There is little the military can do to stop them, for most of their forces have been withdrawn to locations outside the city, and by the time they can be summoned, the rebellion will be a fait accompli.”
The lines met and merged. “Finally, the insurgents will converge upon the Kremlin. By this time, their