from foot to foot like so many schoolboys. “Well, yeah, kinda.” His voice fell. “Ain’t we?”
Speaking one after the other, Eulogia, Euphrosyne, and Olympias said:
“No. You most definitely are not.” “You must change into the new livery we had made up for you.” “Those lovely mauve-and-chartreuse outfits.”
Gargantua looked stricken. “The poofty little hats, too?”
“They’re called berets,” Aetheria said. “Yes, of course you do. It would hardly be a proper ensemble without them. They’re in that chest over there. Now-chop-chop!-strip down and get dressed.”
Blushing, Magog said, “You mean… get naked… right in front of you ladies?”
“Of course. We have to make certain you put the clothes on correctly.”
“Don’t worry,” Nymphodora said, “you won’t be revealing anything we haven’t seen before. In our imaginations, anyway.”
None of the Pearls smiled, exactly. But their eyes all glittered.
The two underlords entered the Terem Palace by way of the long underground passage that led from Chortenko’s mansion. They had re-configured their bodies, reverting to four legs, as though they were still cyberwolves. When they slunk into the Duke of Muscovy’s chamber, the last remnants of the Royal Guard raised their halberds in alarm. “Nobody is allowed in the Terem Palace uninvited,” one of their number said, his fur standing on end. “You must leave immediately.”
“No,” one of the creatures said. “You leave.”
“Or die,” said the other.
This was not the first time the Royal Guards had met the underlords. Chortenko had arranged a series of vivid demonstrations in his basement, wherein one of their number had displayed its strength and speed upon selected political prisoners. Afterward, Chortenko had urged them to remember exactly how long it had taken those prisoners to die.
By common consent, the bear-guards left.
The underlords took up positions to either side of the duke, one by each ear. “Your guards have deserted their posts,” said one.
“Your government is as good as fallen.”
“Chortenko is in charge now. As soon as Tsar Lenin’s speech is finished, he will seize the Kremlin.”
“There will be no resistance.”
The duke’s noble face grimaced in agony. His great head turned from side to side. But of course he could not awaken, try though he might.
“General Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka attempted to reach the Terem Palace in order to rescue you.”
“You would have called her effort heroic.” “We had her killed.”
“With her died your last chance of stopping the revolution.”
“In gratitude for all we have done, Chortenko has given us permission to kill as many of your citizens as we wish tonight, in numbers up to half of the total population of your city.”
“It is not enough.”
“But it is a start.”
The sleeping duke lifted one arm so that the back of it covered those eyes which had never once in his life been open. “No,” he murmured. “Please… do not.” It was clear he was trying to awaken and, as ever, could not.
“Chortenko’s reign will begin with rioting and a fire that will destroy much of Moscow.”
“In the aftermath of this disaster, he will have to raise taxes steeply.” “This will cause rioting elsewhere in your land.” “The riots will be suppressed.” “But at such a cost that taxes will have to be raised again.” “Which will destabilize the economy.” “Requiring new sources of income.”
“Which can be acquired only by force.”
“Muscovy will be able to survive only through constant conquest and expansion.”
In greater and greater agitation, the duke thrashed about, flinging his arms wildly to one side and the other. Effortlessly, the underlords evaded his blind blows. Always they darted back to his ear again. “No,” he said. “I will stop… you. I know how.”
“And how will you do that, Majesty?” “You have no soldiers.” “You have no messengers.” “Your servants have betrayed you.”
“You have lost Moscow already.”
Weakly raising his arms upward, the duke said, “Lord God…hear my prayer. Aid me, I beg you.” His expression was one of mingled horror and yearning. “Send me…a miracle.”
“Fool! There is no God.” “There are no miracles.” “Soon there will be no Russia.” The Duke of Muscovy screamed. And then he awoke.
…18…
With a noise like thunder, the Duke of Muscovy smashed through the roof of the Terem Palace, scattering tiles and timbers into the night.
Only to discover that he had woken out of his dreams and into something even more phantasmagorical. Below him was his beloved city…and yet it was smaller and shabbier than he had imagined it. Smokes and stinks rose from its every part. There were buildings on the point of collapse that were still being lived in. A fine silt dust discolored all the streets and sidewalks. Much of Moscow was in bad need of a coat of paint. Nevertheless, it was his city and he loved it dearly.
So overcome was he by the cunning way that every street and building in his mental map had a physical counterpart and all of them precisely detailed in every particular, that the duke forgot entirely the purpose which had driven him into full consciousness. For he had, of course, immediately seen that the False Tsar was the weak point in Chortenko’s plans; if he were killed, the revolution would collapse in an instant. Then, without their figurehead and justification, all those forces allied in the duke’s overthrow would turn upon each other. And there were many ways that Lenin could be killed. The Duke of Muscovy had thought of them all.
But the thrilling discovery that the world was real acted upon the duke like a drug. All thoughts of Chortenko, of the underlords, of the revolution, and of those plans to counter it which a moment before had seemed so important to him, flew away like jackdaws.
Grinning with wonder, the Duke of Muscovy clambered clumsily over and through his palaces, collapsing walls and crushing floors beneath his feet. Down on the pavement, tiny horses reared in the air and toy soldiers threw down their guns and fled. The sky was flecked with stars and a big orange harvest moon hung low over Moscow.
Oh, what a night!
There was something wriggling in each of his hands. Without even sparing them the most cursory of glances, the Duke of Muscovy tossed away the underlords he had scooped up before standing, one to either side. He heard each of them smash against distant pavement and knew that they had been destroyed. But he did not care. Such petty considerations were swept away in the magic of the moment.
Naked, the duke strode down the causeway of the Trinity Gate. He crushed a wagon and a soldier or two beneath his feet, but that hardly mattered. There was a scattering of klashny fire from a bold trio of soldiers, followed by a stinging sensation across his chest, as if he had lightly brushed against a thistle. But the sensation faded quickly, and the men ceased firing when he bent down and crushed them with the flat of his hand.
Joyfully, the Duke of Muscovy made his way through the Alexander Garden, ignoring the screaming thousands who fled before him.
He waded into the city, a colossus, spreading destruction in his wake.
A carriage rattled up the cobbled street behind Arkady. He did not at first look up, but simply kept plodding doggedly along. Then, as the carriage came alongside him, the coachman reined in the horses.
“Arkady Ivanovich? Is that you?”
Arkady turned. He did not recognize the blue-and-white vehicle as belonging to Chortenko, as any Muscovite of substance would have, and thus his heart leapt up at this unexpected bit of luck. The passenger compartment was empty, so he looked up at the driver and was confronted by the last person in the world he would have expected to see.
It was the Byzantine ambassador, the dog-man whom his father had found wandering in the wilderness and brought home with him, thus setting in action every hideous thing that had happened to Arkady since. Surplus. That
