Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII

  All that flashed through her mind in seconds and she came back to herself. "The new EMCM will have additional capabilities. An expanded command set. But the real key is less the machine than the input and output devices . . ." She finished a more complete description of what the new EMCM could do that the Dacha staff didn't really want known outside the Dacha. Then she started identifying the other spies that worked in the Dacha.

  "Yuri the smith is selling drawings of parts to a man in the Bureau of Mines. Efim is actually employed by Prince Kaminsky, though he doesn't know it. . . " The list went on. Anya had been working at the Dacha for years and knew, for the most part, who the other spies were. Most of it wasn't new information. She discussed the way information and other things were flowing in and out of the Dacha. She didn't mention Great Aunt Georgia's Special Apple Onion Pecan Cakes. The cakes that had recently started arriving from Princess Brandy's Great Aunt Georgia in Grantville—by way of Brandy. And she didn't mention the little packets hidden within them. She went into the interpersonal relationships of the staff.

  Anya wasn't altogether sure why she didn't tell the colonel about Natasha's cakes. It certainly wasn't out of any great love for Natasha. Natasha was what Bernie would call a "California Liberal." Self-righteous in her condescension, the noble Lady Bountiful, stooping to lift up the poor, downtrodden serfs. She was also one of those jealous-but-not-interested women. The ones who don't want a guy for themselves, but don't want anyone else to have him either. Not mentioning the cakes was a risky move, even though Anya thought she was the only one who knew about the little packages.

  * * *

  For several weeks things went along pretty much as they had before. The Dacha's contacts with the outside world were a bit more limited than they had been. They had always been limited; now they were the next best thing to nonexistent. Even contact with associated projects like the Czarina Evdokia, the large dirigible being built in Bor just across the Volga from Novgorod, or the foundry and gun shop located in Podol just a few miles away from the Dacha, were difficult and sporadic.

  * * *

  "I'd kind of like to know what Cass is up to," Bernie said. "He's not a great friend or anything, but I'd still like to know. And do we know anything about that nurse and her family who came to Moscow?"

  "Nothing, Bernie. Not yet, anyway."

  Bernie thought Natasha was pale enough that she wouldn't need that god-awful makeup women wore in Russia. "That Shuvalov dude seems like a pretty good guy. Do you think he'd let me send a message?"

  He hadn't thought it was possible, but Natasha went even whiter.

  "Don't try it right now, Bernie," she said. "Just leave it for a bit."

  "You gonna tell me what's wrong, Natasha? I know there's something I'm missing here. Besides the armed soldiers, of course. And not seeing Boris for weeks. And the fact that everyone is tiptoeing around like ghosts."

  Bernie was not going to understand this. Natasha knew that down to her toes. "Colonel Shuvalov is a deti boyar, a retainer of the Sheremetev family, Bernie. Rather like Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky is to my family."

  "Yeah. He's pretty polite. Nice guy," Bernie said. Not getting what she was saying at all.

  "He goes out of his way to be cordial," Natasha admitted. "But stop and think, Bernie. Colonel Shuvalov doesn't push it, as you would say. But . . . he's here for more than one purpose. My family, the Yaroslav family, were once independent princes. We retain the titles and are very wealthy. We're just not as politically well-connected as some of the other great families. At least we hadn't been. With the Dacha we were starting to become so. So Colonel Shuvalov has been selected . . ."

  "He's after you?"

  "Shh, shh. Not so loud, you idiot!"

  "That's fucking slavery . . . or something. Like something out of a goddamn book! One of my sister's stupid romance novels."

  Natasha laughed bitterly. "Romance has very little to do with it. Through me, my family and its fortune will serve Shuvalov's ambitions. Our . . . sons . . . will be boyars, great family boyars."

  "That stinks!"

  "Keep quiet, Bernie. Stop shouting," Natasha hissed. "As long as we're quiet and don't make a fuss, Colonel Shuvalov will remain polite. He would much prefer to have a . . . mutually supportive relationship. But the relationship itself is in no way optional."

  Not on her part and not really on his. The basic motivation behind the match was to move Natasha's family's wealth into the Sheremetev family's control. They weren't going to take the wealth away—just control of it. This was necessary, since while the Yaroslav's weren't really one of the great families—they were one of the twenty but not one of the fourteen—they had acquired a degree of wealth and a set of connections that made the family potentially disruptive if not brought to heel. Reined in, as it were.

  "It could be a lot worse, Bernie," Natasha pointed out. "Colonel Shuvalov is bright, charming, and a decent sort. He's not . . . one of the worst. Not old. Not gross. More modern than some."

  Bernie thought for a while. Shuvalov was also, unfortunately, as Bernie already knew, completely loyal to his patron. He was aware of Sheremetev's ambitions but didn't feel that those ambitions absolved him of his duty. "He's like . . . I dunno . . . some kind of fucking samurai about duty and honor," Bernie said. "And I kind of like him. And I don't see how we could get out of this mess. We don't have enough men to do anything, and not enough weapons, either."

  "So we keep our mouths shut," Natasha said. "We wait and we don't cause trouble. For now, Sheremetev is busy making sure his position is consolidated. Shuvalov isn't the worst. Let's hope he's left in charge here."

  * * *

  The worst, as Anya well knew, certainly wasn't Colonel Shuvalov. In her opinion, the worst was Sheremetev. Shuvalov had the code phrase, so she now knew that the man who had her family—and the man she'd been reporting to for these last few years—was Sheremetev.

  And what would Sheremetev do, once he was fully in power? What would he do to Anya?

  Worse, what would Bernie and Natasha do once they found out she'd been spying?

  As coldhearted as Anya had been when she started spying on the Dacha, as much as she had tried to remain coldhearted . . . it hadn't worked. She loved Bernie. Truly, from the bottom of her heart. He was so different, so gentle. And he loved her, had since almost the beginning.

  Anya tossed and turned through another night.

  * * *

  "He's not the worst," Aunt Sofia pointed out.

  "He's not the worst, he's not the worst, he's not the worst," Natasha chanted and threw her hands in the air. "I know perfect well that he's not the worst, dammit."

  "You've been around Bernie too long," Sofia said. "Stop using that word, even in English."

  Natasha turned a stone face to her. "He's not the worst. But he's not what I want."

  "What do you want, child?"

  "I don't know yet. I haven't had a chance to learn what I want." She paused a moment. "I want Vlad. I wish I could talk to my brother."

  * * *

  "Damn their eyes!"

  For a moment, Brandy thought Vlad was quoting another book. Then she realized that he was angrier than she'd ever seen him.

  They were in the salon. She was reading a book and Vlad was trying to catch up on the endless paperwork. He'd just opened the latest dispatch bag from Moscow. "What's wrong?"

  "You know that delayed mica shipment?" Vlad leaped out of his chair and began pacing. "It wasn't delayed because of weather or bandits. Well, not real bandits. The Duma delayed it. On purpose. They've also taken Czar Mikhail and his family hostage, along with that nurse and her family." He thrust the letter toward her. "Look at this! Just look at it!"

  Brandy was forced to push the papers away from her face. "Calm down, Vlad. And talk sensibly. What else has happened?"

  He pulled the papers back, then read from them. "Because of it's vital importance to the state, the Dacha has been placed under guard." Vlad threw the paper across the r
oom. "That means they've got Natasha. And Bernie."

  * * *

  Over the next few days, after Vlad had calmed down a bit more, Brandy was able to read a translation of the offending papers.

  Czar Mikhail and his family were safe, if being held hostage was safe. Not that they were officially being held hostage they had "been moved out of Moscow to ensure the Czar's safety". The up-time nurse and her family were being held in the same place as the czar, so, again, they were safe. The manager at the mica mine, while nothing had yet been done to him, was being held under suspicion of "involvement in the recent unpleasantness." Accusations of corruption had been laid against the manager . . . and against Vlad himself.

  No shipments of anything would be sent from Moscow or from Vlad's own lands. He was, effectively, broke.

  Bernie and Natasha along with the rest of the Dacha staff were in "protective custody."

  Somehow, Brandy just didn't like that term.

  The Dacha

  Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev rode his horse up to the gates of the Dacha compound at the head of a troop of personal cavalry. He had still not made up his mind what to do about the Dacha. His cousin, Ivan Petrovich, wanted it. Wanted it badly. And Ivan Petrovich, corrupt as he was, had support within the family and the Duma. Also, Fedor could rely on Ivan to crack down on the Dacha staff.

  Which was, in a way, the problem. Ivan Petrovich would squeeze the golden goose all right—but he just might choke it to death. And the Dacha had been laying right well over the last couple of years Among other things, it had laid the logistics for the dust up with Poland. Which had put Russia in a better position than it had been in for twenty years.

  A lot depended on how well Leontii Shuvalov's suit was progressing. If the Yaroslav girl, Natasha, was proving difficult, Fedor might have to go with Ivan Petrovich because he could not afford to have the Dacha or the Gun Shop running loose. He got down from his horse with difficulty and shook Leontii's hand. "How goes your suit?"

  "Reasonably well, My Prince," Leontii said. "Natasha understands the situation. I won't say she is thrilled, but I doubt she will fight it."

  "And how do. . ." Fedor paused as the lady in question arrived. "We'll talk later."

  Later, in the main office

  "The letters have gone out to Poland, what's left of the Holy Roman Empire and the Turks," Sheremetev said. "I'm not sure of the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth, mostly because Władysław can't seem to get over the notion that he should be czar of Russia, but who knows? I expect to have better luck with Murad. He's a pragmatic mad man. Who will be happy enough to get up-timer tech as long as the up-timers aren't mentioned. I don't know which way Ferdinand will jump."

  "And the riots?" Leontii asked.

  "Worked quite well at distracting Mikhail's adherents and added enough between him and the bureau men to cut off most of his information flow. They have also provided more than ample justification for cracking down on the bureaus. I think we have them put in their place for now." Sheremetev snorted "Button clerks, the lot of them. Self-important button clerks who have been getting above themselves since the Time of Troubles. They needed to be shown the stick. We'll wait a few more weeks before we show them the carrot." Sheremetev was talking about a plan to put enforcement of the ties to the land in the hands of the government.

  "Anyway, you will have heard the reports by now. So what do you think of Anya?"

  "Ah. She is, ah . . . very informed on the workings of the Dacha, My Prince," Shuvalov said.

  "But you don't think I ought to be depending on a peasant whore for information?" Sheremetev laughed at the colonel. "Leontii, my boy, the up-timers would call you a boy scout. The up-timers aren't entirely wrong about peasants. You can sometimes find a good tool even at the bottom of a dung heap."

  "Perhaps so. But it's not that, or not entirely. Perhaps not directly."

  "Oh? Something real then?"

  "She is no longer a kitchen maid. At Bernie's instigation she was promoted and promoted again. Then promoted a third time, apparently on her own merits."

  "I know that. She reported each promotion."

  "Yes . . . but it had to have an affect on her loyalty."

  "I have means of keeping her loyal." Sheremetev paused. "Was she holding something back?"

  "Not that I could tell. I think she may care for Bernie—at least a little. Though she denies it. She truly doesn't like Natasha. That's clear enough. She offered me her condolences about the possibility of a union and I believe she was sincere. What bothers me is why she doesn't like Natasha."

  "So why doesn't she like Natasha?"

  "She says it's because Natasha is a phony liberal. But I think it's about Bernie."

  "Is Natasha interested in the up-timer?" Sheremetev gave Leontii a sharp look.

  "No." Leontii laughed. "Even Anya doesn't think that. But Natasha thinks of Bernie as sort of a younger brother, though I believe he is actually older than she is. And she is protective of him." He paused thinking. "I suspect that Anya is probably right in her assessment of Natasha's character. What Natasha thinks with her head is dangerously liberal. But what she feels in her gut much less so. She disapproves of Anya's relationship with Bernie because Anya is a peasant and she sees Bernie as a deti boyar. My point is that I don't think Anya would be nearly as upset with Natasha if she didn't actually care about Bernie."

  "And that could be dangerous." Shermetev nodded. "I'll look into it."

  * * *

  Prince Sheremetev did indeed look into it. He interviewed Anya and came away from that interview uncertain. She really was too valuable an asset to dispose of casually. She hadn't been at first, but by now she understood what was being built in the Dacha better than anyone else he had. That very knowledge made her more dangerous, should she betray him. And her temptation to betray him was rooted in her attachment, if there really was one, to Bernie, and to a lesser extent to the staff of the Dacha. Shermetev began to smile.

  That night at dinner Natasha asked the question that they had all been wondering about. "What is the situation in Moscow?"

  Sheremetev looked at her then turned to Bernie. "Are you familiar with the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan?"

  Anya knew that before Bernie had come to the Dacha he would have been, at best, vaguely familiar with the history of Japan or the rule of the shoguns. However, while most of his education as a consultant at the Dacha was technical, some of it was historical, especially for what was now current history. And Bernie had ended up translating or helping to translate quite a bit of history.

  "Yes, a bit, Prince Sheremetev. Tokugawa Iemitsu is the current shogun. His younger brother Tadanaga has gone missing in this timeline. In the original he was ordered to commit suicide in 1633 or 1634. Whether he got word of his older brother's orders and escaped this time around or he was executed, I have no idea."

  "I was speaking more generally," Sheremetev said. "In Japan the emperor reigns but the shogun rules. Russia needs a strong hand at the reins, but doesn't need—can't afford—the sort of, ah, disruption that a dynastic squabble would produce. To provide the first while avoiding the second, I have taken on a role similar to that of shogun. Mikhail never really wanted the power of the throne anyway. This way Mikhail will remain safe, comfortable and secure as long as there is no trouble." He smiled.

  It was, Anya thought, an extremely cold smile. The sort of smile a shark might smile.

  Then he continued. "Mikhail's limited year was a good plan poorly executed. We do need more gold and silver to augment the paper money and to use in foreign trade. However, the way he did it without properly preparing the ground almost led to a revolution."

  Anya didn't snort, not even under her breath, but she wanted to. Yes, the dvoriane were upset but they never would have rioted not without believing that they had support in the Duma.

  "He had no means in place to ensure the loyalty of the service nobility," Sheremetev continued. "That is why I have created the post of political officer. Russ
ia had them up-time under Stalin's rule. They watched the service nobility, even if they called it something else in the twentieth century. Political officers will be, ah, ideologically sound individuals. Mostly, but not entirely, deti boyar whose job is to make sure that their charges don't do anything stupid. I thought of using the church, but people get really upset about things like that."

  Suddenly everyone was looking at Colonel Leontii Shuvalov.

  Prince Sheremetev noticed and laughed. "Oh, not at all. Leontii is a fine man, but not nearly subtle enough for this. The new political officer for the Dacha is . . . Anya."

  * * *

  Will Anya and Bernie's survive the betrayal of trust?

  Is Cass in prison, dead, or partying with a serving girl in the Gun Shop?

  Will Natasha fall for the suave Colonel Leontii Shuvalov?

  And what's in the Apple Onion Pecan Cakes?

  For answers to these and other questions tune in next time to "Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part Eight, How the Bear Turns."

  Stretching Out,

  Part Five: Riding the Tiger

  Written by Iver P. Cooper

  Marshall's Creek, Suriname River

  Long Dry Season, 1634 (July-November 1634)

  Maria Vorst sniffed the wound, and grimaced. "It's infected." Her patient shrugged stoically.

  "How did it happen?"

  Captain Marshall answered for her charge. "Not sure, but probably just a cut from razorgrass, or a spiny vine."