Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [71]
“It is worth the risk. Tell me, would it cause trouble with Byzantium if its ambassador were to disappear?”
“I dreamed of Baikonur… and wolves…”
“Try to pay attention, Your Royal Highness. I spoke with Gospodin de Plus Precieux as you directed, telling him of the rumors that the lost library of Ivan the Terrible had been discovered. As you predicted, he showed no surprise. Then, when I proposed a conspiracy to defraud the state, he assented immediately, without requiring even an instant’s thought.”
“Then he is…nothing more than a confidence trickster who has somehow displaced the true ambassador. You may do with him as you wish.”
“He also brought a woman with him,” Chortenko reminded the duke. “One of the Byzantine sluts.”
“Only…one?”
“Yes.”
“Then she is a spy…and her, too, you may…do with as you wish.”
This pleasant news Chortenko received with just a touch of regret. More to himself than to his master, he murmured, “So it is nothing but a sad and shabby story all around. A pity. I would have liked to have found the Tsar’s lost library.”
“It is not…lost. I deduced the library’s…location…ten years ago.”
“What?”
“It lies below the Secret Tower, in a concealed chamber. There has been some subsidence there recently. Not enough to endanger…the tower… But perhaps it would be well to move the books to a more secure location.”
“You have known this for a decade and you never told anyone?” Chortenko said angrily.
“Nobody…asked.”
Chortenko drew in a long, exasperated breath. This was exactly why the time had come for the duke’s reign to come to an end. Yes, he could answer questions—but only if one knew which to ask. His strategies for expanding Muscovy’s influence were brilliant—but he had no aims or ambitions of his own. The goal of restoring the Russian empire had originated with Chortenko and a few others, such as the soon-to-be late Baron Lukoil-Gazprom. The duke was so lacking in intention that he even conspired in his own overthrow!
Worst of all, he could not appear in public. And a war—a true war, one involving millions—could not be fought with a leader who dared not show his face. The duke himself had confirmed this: Without a leader able to inspect troops, make speeches, and fire up the populace, the sacrifices required to raise an army of conquest simply would not be made.
No, the time had come for the duke to die. That had not been a part of Chortenko’s original plan. He had meant to let loose rumors that the duke had fallen ill, confirm those rumors, solicit the prayers of the Muscovian citizenry, declare a day of fast and penitence, orchestrate items in the newspapers: Doctors Fear Worst, followed later by Duke in Decline, a few variants of No Hope, Say Kremlin Insiders, a sudden and unexpected Miraculous Rally! and then at last Duke of Muscovy Dies, and Nation Mourns, and Succession Passes to Chortenko. After which, the still-sleeping former duke would have been quietly demoted to advisor.
However, his new friends were jealous allies, and viewed the Duke of Muscovy as a rival. The duke’s death was part of the price of their cooperation. Chortenko regretted that, for losing that brilliant mind would be a sacrifice equivalent to the slaughter of an entire battalion. But he was prepared to lose any number of battalions, if it meant gaining an empire.
“Just once, I would like… to see… my beloved city… of Moscow. I would be willing… to die… if that is what it cost.”
“Trust me, that will never happen.”
Chortenko descended from the dais with renewed confidence in the future. He rejoined his companions. Zoësophia’s expression was tense and distracted, as befit one who had just seen all her plans and future crumble before her face. Surplus looked unhappy and irresolute.
“This way,” Chortenko said, and led them down to the very bottom of the palace, to a door which none but he ever employed. “I told our driver not to bother waiting for us with the carriage. Instead, we will return through an underground