CHAPTER 17

“My lord.” Kuzko and Irina went down on their knees on the dirt floor of the hut.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for the two of you. You saved my life. I’ll never forget that.” Andrei went to help Irina up.

“But you’re the Grand Duke now.” Kuzko kept his eyes averted, staring embarrassedly at the floor.

“As for that . . . isn’t my father Aleksei still alive?”

“Oh dear, dear,” whispered Irina, throwing her apron over her face. “And I said such things. About your family. Forgive me, my lord, forgive me.”

“If the Emperor Eugene believes me dead . . .” The implications were too immense for Andrei to take in all at once. He only knew that the Tielen tyrant who had usurped his father’s throne would not be pleased to see a rival claimant return from the grave.

He took Irina by the arms and gently eased her down into her chair by the fireside. “Listen to me. What you’ve learned from me tonight must stay our secret. As far as we’re all concerned, I’ll revert to being Tikhon, a shipwrecked sailor.”

Kuzko nodded, gnawing on the stem of his pipe.

“But I need to find out how the land lies in Mirom. Any chance of a trip up the Nieva to Mirom for supplies, Kuzko?”

“Won’t you be recognized?”

“Not with this beard,” Andrei said wryly, stroking the curly growth darkening his chin.

“I haven’t traveled that far since I was a young man. It’s a long journey, my lor—Tikhon.” Kuzko corrected himself. “And who’s going to look after my Rina while we’re gone?”

“There’ll be a generous reward for your kindness.” The magnanimous words were out of Andrei’s mouth before he had thought. If he was penniless Tikhon, how was he to gain access to the revenues from his estates?

“I can’t pretend that wouldn’t be appreciated,” Kuzko said gruffly. “But there’s also the question of your health. It’s hard work sailing a little boat like my Swallow. The spring tides can be treacherous out in the Straits—and she’s not built sturdy like a warship.”

 

Gavril lay immobile, staring at the sky through his high, barred window. Clouds drifted past. He could not even lift his damaged head from the pillow. Every time he blinked, the cell wavered and contracted before his eyes, leaving him as nauseous and dizzy as if he were on a storm-tossed ship.

From time to time, a terrible throbbing pain pulsed through his temples. He dreaded its return, for with the pain came hallucinations: grotesque and disorienting. He thought he saw Director Baltzar and his lean-faced assistant bend over him, wielding saws and scalpels.

“We slice the top of the skull off, like the shell of a boiled egg,” he heard Baltzar say as the saw blade began to grate into his head and his own warm blood began to drip down into his eyes, “and then we scoop out the diseased parts of the brain—”

And then the dripping blood became a crimson curtain, blinding him. They prized off the top of his skull and exposed his raw, pulsing brain to the cold air—

“Help me,” whispered Gavril. “I can’t go on like this.”

 

“Mirom,” murmured Andrei. The Swallow had just rounded a bend in the broad Nieva, weaving in between great merchantmen and warships, just another little fishing smack amid so many others bobbing on the swirling waters. And now the prospect of the city lay before them, half-hidden by the forests of masts and sails.

As the Swallow slowly drew closer to the city, the ravages of the citizens’ revolt and the Tielen invasion began to reveal themselves. The spires and star-spangled onion domes of the Cathedral of Saint Simeon still glittered, gold and azure and crimson, against the cloudy sky. But the great dome of the Senate House was blackened like a roasted eggshell, cracked and half-open to the sky.

And as the strong current of the Nieva propelled them onward, the ruined facade of the West Wing of the Winter Palace loomed up on the right bank. Fire had seared to the very heart of the building, leaving a roofless, charred shell.

The view of the fire-blackened ruin blurred. Andrei turned away, angrily dashing his hand across his eyes. Buildings could be restored and rebuilt. But the people who had died in the revolution, they could not be brought back. And his inheritance, his right to succeed his father as ruler of Muscobar, how could that ever be restored?

 

Andrei’s plan was to seek out an old, influential friend of his father’s and confide in him. First Minister Vassian seemed to be the most suitable choice; Vassian’s eldest son, Valery, had been in his year at the Military Academy and had, he suspected, been quite seriously smitten by Astasia’s charms.

And yet, as he made his way from the quayside toward the more affluent quarters of the city, he felt a growing sense of unease. Everywhere he looked he saw Tielen soldiers, the Tielen tongue was spoken on every street corner. Even if he was permitted an audience with Kyrill Vassian (which was far from certain, given the shabby state of his clothes and untrimmed beard), did the First Minister still wield any influence in Tielen-ruled Mirom?

Vassian’s town house was an imposing mansion, its stucco frontage painted in pale blue and white, the colors of a spring sky. As he approached, Andrei saw that all the blinds were drawn. He halted, confused. What did this mean? Was the family away? Had Eugene sent them into exile?

He decided to go around to the servants’ entrance. Even if the family was not at home, they would have left a housekeeper and a maid or two to care for the property.

After knocking and ringing the bell several times, all without reply, he had just decided to give up when he heard footsteps echoing hollowly within, and the door opened a crack.

“What is it?” demanded a surly voice.

He would have to bluff his way in. “I heard there was work in the gardens,” he said, improvising. “Spring planting—”

“Well, you’ve had a wasted journey. The house is shut. Good-day.” And the door slammed in his face.

Andrei stepped back. He was unaccustomed to such churlish treatment. His first instinct was to pound on the door again and demand to speak to someone in authority. And then he looked down at his shabby clothes and remembered. He was Tikhon, son of a poor fisherman. No one would let him near the First Minister.

Slowly he made his way back to the front of the house. In his mind’s eye he saw the blinds open, the sparkle of candles at every window, the First Minister and his wife Elizaveta in formal evening dress, standing at the open door to welcome their guests . . .

“Such a tragedy.” A bent old woman stopped beside him to gaze at the house, shaking her head as she spoke.

“A tragedy?”

“Didn’t you hear? It was a bad business. I used to do their washing, you know,” she said confidentially. “His wife found him in the stables. Dead.”

“Dead?” Andrei repeated, astonished. “I had no idea the Minister was ill.”

“It was suicide,” she said. “He blew out his brains.” She patted his arm and then shuffled on, still muttering to herself, “That poor woman . . .”

Andrei turned away. The blank windows behind him had hidden this horrible secret. What had caused Kyrill Vassian, a venerable and astute statesman, to fall into such black despair that suicide seemed the only honorable solution? Who else remained in Mirom from Vassian’s ministry whom he could approach for advice? How many Orlov supporters had died in the revolution?

At a loss as to what to do, he wandered the streets of the city like a vagrant, head down, the collar of dead Tikhon’s jacket pulled up to avoid the slightest risk of being recognized. He skulked in dingy alleys, drawing back into dark doorways whenever he saw anyone approaching too close.

Now a morbid desire gripped him. Here he was, little better than a ghost haunting the streets of his home city. He had to know how Mirom had commemorated the drowned heir to its ruling family. Had the city fathers erected a memorial to the lost crew of the Sirin? Had young women wept and left flowers and tearstained letters of farewell beneath it?

He searched the avenues of the fashionable Admiralty Quarter where prosperous merchants and naval officers lived.

The statues of his august forebears stood in tree-lined squares here, most prominent among them, the monument to his Great-Uncle Nikolai Orlov, who had died at sea in a skirmish against the Tielens. But where was the memorial to Andrei Orlov and his valiant sailors? He too had died at sea, sailing to confront the Tielens. But because they had perished in a storm, had he and his men been deprived of their heroes’ memorial?

The unjustness of it brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

Or were there to be no more monuments to the Orlovs now that Eugene was Emperor?

He began to ask passersby if they knew where the Sirin Memorial was to be found. Some looked at him blankly. One or two spat when he mentioned the name of Orlov. The owner of the newsstand outside the Nieva Exchange looked at him quizzically.

“The Emperor’s commissioned a bronze statue to stand in the Winter Palace Square. And can you guess who it will be?” The news-dealer gave him a wink from one rheumy eye. “Himself, of course!”

Andrei turned away. His heart felt cold as stone. The city where he was born, which he had been destined to rule as Grand Duke, had forgotten him.

He sat down on a bench beneath the trees opposite the ornate facade of the Grand Theatre and watched seagulls squabbling noisily over a crust of bread.

What did I do with my life here? Frittered it away on gambling, pretty actresses, and parties. Andrei the Good-Time Boy? No. Andrei the Wastrel; Andrei the Good-For-Nothing. Small wonder no one’s cared to erect a memorial to me; what was there worth commemorating?

A playbill, blown by the wind, landed at his feet. He picked it up and read:

Olga Giladkova, recently returned to Mirom from her triumphant winter season in Smarna as Leila in The Corsairs.

A memory of long-lashed eyes, smoky-grey, gazing into his, a husky voice murmuring, “Don’t forget me, Andrei. You know I will always be your friend. . . .”

“Olga,” Andrei said aloud. The need to see her again overrode every other thought in his mind. Olga could be trusted with his secret. Olga would never betray him. When they had become more than friends, she had shown him the secret entrance to her dressing room, used to avoid the crowds of admirers who pursued her after every performance.

“What a secretive lot you actors are!” he had whispered as she led him, his hand in hers, along the dark tunnel.

“Every actor needs a quick escape if his performance has not found favor with the public,” she had whispered back.

“And every actress needs a discreet way to smuggle in her admirers?”

Andrei slowly limped toward the alleyway that led around the back of the theater. Away from the sculpted statues of voluptuous muses and floral garlands that adorned the splendid facade, the rear of the great building was plain brick, shabby and neglected, with dead weeds poking from cracks in the mortar. If there were a matinee today, the little door might be unlocked.

He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He was alone. The rusty latch to Olga’s little door was stiff, but after a few tugs, the door opened inward.

Andrei fumbled his way along the damp, dark passageway, remembering to count the number of paces, as Olga had taught him. Thirty-one, turn to the left, nine, stop and feel for the handle.

Silently closing the door behind him, he sniffed the air, recognizing the familiar musky scent of Olga’s favorite tobacco. The secret passage brought him into a tiny, chilly room housing a water closet and rose-painted porcelain hand-basin. Through the velvet-curtained doorway lay her dressing room. His heart began to beat faster. He raised one hand to draw the curtain aside just enough to take a swift look inside. If Masha, her dresser, was there, he would have to wait till Olga was alone.

Inside he glimpsed the gilded mirror surrounded by the soft glow of candles, the cluttered dressing table strewn with pots of greasepaint, rouge, and powder. A woman was sitting at the mirror, humming to herself as she dabbed at her face with a powder puff. And what an unforgettable face: strong-featured, the mouth overlarge and generous, deep-set grey eyes, dark as a November evening. A slight haze of blue tobacco smoke perfumed the air from a slender cigar left burning on a saucer.

“Olga,” Andrei said, moving so that she could see his reflection in the mirror.

The powder puff dropped from her hand.

“Who are you? And how did you get in here?”

He saw her hand move toward the little silver bell, ready to summon help.

“Don’t you recognize me, Olga?” His voice trembled, in spite of himself. “It’s me. Andrei.”

“Andrei is dead,” she said to his reflection. But her hand stayed where it was—close to, yet not touching, the bell. “Are you his ghost?” She asked the question as if the idea in some way intrigued her.

“Do I look like a ghost?”

“You look like a man who needs the attentions of a good barber. If you are Andrei, ghost, then prove it to me. Tell me something only Andrei could know.”

Andrei swallowed hard. What shared secret lay buried in his faulty memory that might convince her? He saw her hand inch closer to the bell. If she rang for help, all was lost.

“For my last birthday you sent me a copy of The Forbidden Tryst, the first play I ever saw you in. I opened the little package in front of my family—and my mother was scandalized when a lace-trimmed scarlet garter fell out.”

There was a pause. Suddenly her grave expression transformed into an expansive, welcoming smile. She rose from her dressing table, arms wide, and hugged him close.

“My lost boy! Where have you been? Making us all so sad! You should be ashamed of yourself.” She held him at arm’s length. “And, my darling, you badly need a bath!”

“Sorry,” he said, grinning through the tears that had filled his eyes. “This wasn’t quite the reunion I had planned.” And then he remembered. “Olga—you mustn’t tell a soul. No one knows I’m still alive. This must be our secret.”

“You can trust me; you know that.” She went to the outer door and bolted it. “There. Now even Masha will have to knock to be let in.”

Suddenly the dressing room wavered before his eyes and Andrei was forced to grab at the dressing table to steady himself.

Olga poured him a little glass of spirit from a squat bottle. “Here, drink this. It’s karvi from Smarna. It’ll warm you up.”

Andrei swallowed the whole measure of karvi in one gulp and felt the strong spirit glow its way down his throat.

“Thanks. I’m still not quite recovered.”

“Sit down. And tell me where you’ve been all this time.”

He lowered himself stiffly onto a threadbare armchair draped with a flower-embroidered shawl. He had not wanted to reveal his weakness to her.

“The Sirin was blown onto rocks in the storm. I was pulled from the sea by an old fisherman and his wife. They nursed me back to health. But the sea took my memory. They called me Tikhon. By the time I remembered my real name—” He faltered. “Eugene was Emperor.”

Olga reached for another slender cigar and held it to the candleflame until the tobacco glowed.

“So what do you plan to do?” she said, taking in a deep breath of the musky smoke.

“To go see my family.”

“The shock could kill your father.”

“Why so?”

She blew an elegant little ring of smoke from her red lips. “He is a broken man, Andrei. It’s rumored that he’s had a stroke. He’s gone to Erinaskoe to recuperate.”

A stroke. His father Aleksei had always seemed so strong, so robust. He could not imagine him weakened by illness.

His distress must have shown in his face for she drew closer, her voice softer.

“You didn’t know? I should have realized. Forgive me, Andrei.”

“So I am to remain incognito all my life? Or invent a new identity? It sounds like the plot of one of those absurd melodramas you delight in appearing in.”

“You have a new identity already: Tikhon.” She let her fingertips touch his cheek, stroking his beard.

“Olga!” he said, angry that she would not take his predicament seriously.

“And now you’re cross with me,” she said, pouting.

“I’ve risked my life coming to you. Trusting you with my secret. No one else knows but you.”

“I’m flattered. The whole affair is deliciously dangerous. But I have some advice for you. If—and when—you must break the news to your family, do it gently, a little at a time. Lay a trail of clues . . . let them build up their hopes again day by day, week by week. And Andrei—” She laid her hand on his shoulder, all the earlier playfulness gone from her voice. “Be careful how you go about it. Your very existence could be seen to pose a threat to the new empire.”

“You think Eugene—”

“Put yourself in his place.”

“Even if I were to openly pledge my allegiance to him and the new empire?”

Olga was silent a moment, considering what he had said. “Is that what you really want, Andrei?”

“You were born to rule, Andrei. But it is still too soon.” The voice, dry and sinuous as Olga’s cigar smoke, drifted through Andrei’s mind. He started, glancing up, wondering if he had inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud.

“All’s far from well in this new empire,” Olga said, stubbing out the last of her cigar in a tobacco-stained saucer. “You know I’ve just come back from Smarna? The first night we played Solovei’s Blood Masquerade, remember it? The one where the corrupt king is assassinated by the rebels in the middle of a masked ball? Well, there was a riot! The whole theater went mad with excitement, cheering and screaming when the king is shot. We had to bring down the curtain. After that, the Tielen governor closed the theater for two days. And he forbade us to perform the play again. We had to content ourselves with harmless romantic nonsense like The Corsairs and Soraya’s Secret—”

Someone tested the door handle. Andrei leapt up.

“Madame Olga,” a woman’s voice cried, rattling the handle. “Time to get ready!”

“One minute.” Olga rose too. “You must go, Andrei. Much though I love my faithful Masha, she is utterly indiscreet and babbles my secrets to anyone and everyone without thinking.”

Andrei hurried into the chilly little washroom. His leg was less stiff now that he had rested it. Olga opened the door, letting in a dank breath of stale air. Andrei turned to go—and then turned back on impulse, kissing Olga hard on the mouth.

“Ugh—that beard tickles,” she said, grimacing. But she did not pull away.

It was so long since he had kissed a girl, any girl. Yet the feelings the kiss stirred were disturbingly powerful. He wanted the sweet, tobacco-scented warmth of her body. He did not want to let her go.

“Madame Olga!” shrilled Masha’s voice from beyond the dressing room door. “We’re running late!”

“Let them wait!” cried back Olga.

“And if anyone asks—” he whispered in her ear.

“Trust me.” She gave him a little push into the secret passageway and blew him a kiss as she latched the door, leaving him in darkness.

 

The pure, delicate voice soared higher, each little cascade of notes like clear water falling, or a lone thrush fluting in the still, close air before rain.

Celestine de Joyeuse, the celebrated Francian singer, stood with one hand lightly resting on the fortepiano. She was much younger than Astasia had imagined from her illustrious reputation—not more than twenty-four or twenty-five. She was dressed in a gown of rich mulberry silk, with a single orchid pinned in her golden hair, and looked to Astasia quite the epitome of fashionable Francian elegance.

The song came to an end and for a moment the last perfect notes hung in the air. Then the applause began. Astasia clapped and clapped, unable to restrain her enthusiasm. Celestine sank into a deep curtsy, one hand clasped to her breast, murmuring her thanks before rising and gesturing to her accompanist.

The fortepiano player rose, unsmiling, and bowed his head. A tall, gaunt young man with pale skin and long, straight dark hair, he had more the air of an ascetic or a monk than a musician. Astasia thought she caught a secret, subtle little glance that passed between singer and accompanist. Can they be lovers? she thought, thrilling at the idea.

“And now, we would like to perform for you the song ‘October Seas,’ set to the words of your celebrated poet, Solovei.”

More applause greeted this tribute to Mirom’s favorite author.

That Francian accent is charming, thought Astasia, sighing as she remembered how hard she had striven to learn to pronounce the Francian tongue. Celestine de Joyeuse must have a gift for languages as well as music. . . .

Astasia glanced at her husband as the recital continued. Eugene was staring beyond the illustrious Celestine with a distant, slightly frowning expression. She could sense he was not enjoying himself. She had hoped that the visit of one of the most celebrated musicians of the day might change his opinion of the art and might even give them something to discuss together. Eugene had already confessed to her that he had no ear for music. Give him a rousing military march to whistle and he was happy. This music was too subtle, too refined for his tastes. And then the artistry of Celestine’s singing overwhelmed all other thoughts, and the music—wild, soulful, and free—possessed her.

During the applause, she saw Gustave appear and make his way toward them. He whispered something to the Emperor she could not catch.

“Ah,” said Eugene. He nodded and leaned toward Astasia. “Forgive me. Some official business I must attend to.” He rose—and the rest of the audience rose too. Court etiquette. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, “you have enchanted us with your delightful voice. Please do not think me rude; state affairs intrude upon my pleasure and I must attend to them.”

“Your imperial highness honors me.” The singer sank into another deep curtsy as Eugene left the room with Gustave at his side.

The recital continued, but Astasia could no longer concentrate on the music or surrender to its spell. She knew it must be some matter of import to have drawn Eugene away from such a prestigious gathering.

 

Two senior officers were waiting for Eugene in his study, tricornes respectfully held at their sides.

“Trouble in Smarna, highness.” Eugene recognized the elder of the two as Henrik Tornberg, Commissar-General of the Southern Army. “A rebellion.”

“What kind of rebellion?”

“They’ve declared themselves a republic again. The rebels have attacked our men garrisoned in Vermeille. They have taken Governor Armfeld hostage.”

This was unacceptable. Though Armfeld was a damned fool to allow himself to be captured so easily.

“Maps, Gustave.”

Gustave unrolled a map of Smarna on the desk.

“This rebellion must be put down immediately,” Eugene said, pinpointing Vermeille with one finger. “Any hint of weakness on our part would be fatal for the empire at this early stage.”

“From what we can gauge, highness, the rebels’ stronghold, the Old Citadel of Colchise above Vermeille, is vulnerable to attack by sea.”

Eugene studied the coastline, pensively tracing the wide sweep of Vermeille Bay with one finger. Wasn’t Vermeille where Gavril Nagarian had grown up? Could there be some connection between the Smarnan rebellion and Gavril Nagarian that his agents had failed to identify?

He looked up at Gustave.

“Is this anything to do with Nagarian’s imprisonment, Gustave?”

Gustave gave a little shrug.

Eugene had no time for recriminations now. Swift action was essential.

“With a fair wind, Admiral Janssen could make Vermeille in three days with the Southern Fleet,” he mused. “Gustave, get me the admiral. How are our men in Vermeille holding up against the rebels, Tornberg?”

“Well enough, highness.”

“Tell them reinforcements are on their way.”

Tornberg saluted and hurried away, followed by his adjutant.

Eugene gathered up the map and went with Gustave to the communications room. His empire of New Rossiya was young and the bonds that forged it were all too fragile. He had anticipated resistance to his rule—but not in sleepy Smarna, the least politically active of the five princedoms.

“Admiral Janssen, highness,” Gustave said, pointing to the Vox Aethyria.

“Janssen?” Eugene cleared his throat. This was no time for any show of indecision. “Take the fleet to Vermeille Bay. There’s trouble in Smarna.”

“And how shall we respond to this trouble, highness?” came the crackling reply.

“Crush it. Show no mercy. Even if it means razing the whole citadel to the ground.”