Dancing with Bears (34 page)

He groaned aloud.

The bear-guards—those few who still remained on duty—covered their ears.

The Zamoskvorechye incident—for “skirmish” was, in context, too elevated a word for it—was over in what felt like only minutes. The procession came flowing down the boulevard like a river, and like a river it looked at first to be unstoppable and irresistible. But Baron LukoilGazprom’s wedge of soldiers marched steadily up the boulevard to meet them, bayonets extended. Since most of the marchers came from the City Above and, however drugged, were still capable of fear, the sight of the advancing bayonets did much to discomfort them. Their chants turned to cries of alarm. The front of the procession stopped and eddied in confusion.

Then, before the underlord commanding this arm of the invasion could put into action a counter-strategy, General Zvyozdny-Gorodoka’s harlots burst from the side street where they had been waiting in ambush. The marchers had flowed smoothly to either side of the bonfire at the center of the intersection, but its flames temporarily blinded them, so that their attackers seemed to come out of nowhere.

Five minutes’ training was not enough to turn a rabble of whores into a disciplined military force. Intoxicated by the unfamiliar taste of violence, the doxies swung their klashnys every which way, clubbing wildly at the marchers with the kind of abandon that Zoësophia very much doubted they displayed in their regular work. Nevertheless, their assault was effective. The procession lost any semblance of order as screaming citizens broke and ran, scattering like jackdaws into the surrounding darkness.

Baron Lukoil-Gazprom followed his wedge of soldiers closely on horseback. Zoësophia rode to his side and one step behind. “You should unsheathe your saber,” she said quietly. “Brandish it and shout encouragement at your men.”

“That is not necessary. These are disciplined soldiers. They know what to do.”

“Do it anyway. We must think of your political future.” Zoësophia’s tone and manner were so carefully modulated that even as the baron unsheathed his sword, he did not notice that she was giving him orders and he was obeying them.

“Keep going, men! Straight and steady!”

It had to be admitted that Baron Lukoil-Gazprom looked every inch the military hero. Unfortunately for Zoësophia’s plans, when his soldiers hit the procession, splitting it and sending the fragments fleeing into the side streets, they were so effective they did not have to kill anybody at all.

Which was disastrous. For at the exact same time, the redheaded general was right in the thick of the fray, dispatching Pale Folk (who stayed where the citizens fled) with her sword, and laughing as she did so. Her floozies, inexperienced though they were, fought an unarmed and unprepared foe and thus met with no resistance. Further, with their inhuman strength and total lack of restraint, they were crushing ribcages and exploding skulls in a manner which, though morally lamentable, was undeniably dramatic.

Worst of all, such extreme exertion could not fail to dishevel the clothing worn by the tarts, and since most of them wore low-cut dresses, several breasts had leaped into public view. There would be oil paintings of this clash, Zoësophia knew, based on the accounts of eyewitnesses, and they would not focus on the comparatively drab figure of the baron.

Then, from the shadowy heart of the mob, there flashed a metal beast.

It leaped over the panicking citizens, running on all fours and using their heads and shoulders for purchase. Straight at the baron it flew, firelight reflecting bright from its gleaming surfaces. For a brief, bright instant, Zoësophia felt hope. “Stand firm,” she told her companion, “and when it is almost upon you, thrust hard.” She leaned close, so that should the baron’s aim go awry she could seize his arm and correct it. One more second, she thought, and my little man will be a mighty figure in every account of this night.

But then two whores reached up simultaneously from the scrim and seized the underlord, hauling it forcibly down to the street. They lifted it up overhead, each one holding it by two legs. Then they pulled in opposite directions.

In a shower of sparks, the beast was torn in two.

The explosion shed light on the upturned faces of the gleeful sluts. One of the two was exceedingly comely. The other was naked from the waist up.

Zoësophia sighed inwardly.
Nothing
was going right tonight.

In minutes, the street was empty save for soldiers, prostitutes, and corpses. Baron Lukoil-Gazprom dismounted and General Zvyozdny-Gorodoka sheathed her sword. They slapped each other on the back, roaring congratulations.

Modestly, Zoësophia stood off to the side, hands clasped and head down, making it clear that she claimed no part, however small, in this victory.

Leaving a small number of soldiers to ensure that the marchers did not re-form, the general and the baron and their collective forces returned to their makeshift headquarters at the whorehouse, where the madam shooed her happily chattering employees upstairs and the soldiers were set to work securing the block. The parlor, with its chintz curtains and stained-glass oil-lamp shades, seemed deceptively homey. It smelled of hard soap, talcum powder, and hair oil. The map of Moscow still lay open on the great table where they had plotted out their strategy.

The baron threw himself heavily into an overstuffed easy chair and lit up a cigar. “That was not badly done,” he said. “Not badly done at all.”

It was then that messengers arrived from four other sectors of the city to report further invasions.

The four messengers arrived almost simultaneously, one on the spurs of another, carrying tidings of uprisings in Smolenskaya, Taganskaya, Krasniye Vorota, and Pushkinskaya. Tens of thousands of Muscovites had taken to the streets, and there were not the forces to contain a fraction of them. One artillery unit had set up its gun on the Astakhovsky bridge, just above where the Yauza flowed into the Moscow, determined to hold back and break up the Taganskaya mob, should it try to cross the river, as seemed inevitable.

Even as General Zvyozdny-Gorodoka stared at the last messenger in dumbfounded silence, the distant rumble of cannons sounded. The action at Astakhovsky bridge had begun. The baron clutched his head in both hands as if, lacking a convenient enemy to manually decapitate, he would do it to himself.

“Dear God,” Zoësophia said. “What are we to do? Obviously, when one visualizes a map of the city, all four forces—five, counting the one you just defeated—are roughly equidistant from the Kremlin and so must be converging upon it. But why? For what purpose?”

Prompted by the naiveté of her question, Baron Lukoil-Gazprom exclaimed, “They mean to overthrow the government! As they march through the city, they will multiply their numbers by drawing in drugged perverts and hedonists. What started out as an easily scattered force will quickly become a universal uprising of the populace.”

“Yes.” The general stared at Zoësophia. “I am surprised you couldn’t have thought that through yourself, dear. You seem like such a levelheaded young lady.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen military action of any kind, and I fear I let it rattle me. I’m not experienced the way the baron and you are.” Zoësophia squeezed the general’s forearm lightly for emphasis—to no result. Even unconsciously, it seemed, Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka was not interested in women. To some degree, Zoësophia regretted this, for the general provided better material to work with than did the baron. But she would also have been more difficult to control. So it all came to the same thing in the end.

Zoësophia took a deep breath, as if to remaster her runaway emotions. “However, all seven of the duke’s brides were given specialized educations, so that we might serve as advisors to him, and mine included military theory.” On a side table was a potpourri of dried rose petals. She seized a fistful, crushed them to powder, and dribbled the powder onto the map, letting every speck represent a human soul. Four thin lines, starting at the four squares where the newly reported invasions began, flowed inward to smash up against the Kremlin walls. Then the powder mounded up on Red Square, the area behind St. Basil’s, and the open spaces of the Alexander Garden before the Trinity Tower, creating an impenetrable crescent two-thirds of the way around the ancient stronghold.

“Here is what we face,” she said. “The government cannot hold out against such numbers. The Kremlin will inevitably fall. Now, as you see, it will soon be surrounded by enemies on all sides save one. To the south, the quay between the river and the Kremlin will be empty because there is not room enough to gather there and we have disrupted the one force that would have come up it. Now, there is an underground passage that leads to the Terem Palace from the basement of a pump house below the Beklemshev Tower—”

“How did you know that?” the general asked sharply.

“To maximize my utility to the duke, the Byzantine Secret Service told me everything they knew about the Kremlin and its defenses. How they obtained this information I do not know. But I see that it is reliable.”

There was the briefest of silences. “Go on,” the baron said.

“Theoretically, it would be possible to enter the Kremlin secretly and bring the Duke of Muscovy out by this same passage. The Royal Guard would have to be convinced of its necessity, of course. The duke would have to agree to be evacuated. Since the area under the south wall will not be
completely
empty, there would be witnesses, and it is possible the pump house entrance may be discovered. Which would lead to fighting, and that would be chancy. But it could be done.

“I advise against it, however. The advantages of a successful rescue are slight, and the risks are unacceptable. Instead, we should focus on calling in all the military units that Chortenko arranged to be pulled out of Moscow. Having created a plausible counterforce, we can then—”

“You would have us abandon the Duke of Muscovy?” the general broke in.

“The duke is but a figurehead. We owe him nothing.”

“We owe him our loyalty!”

“Yes, while he lives. An hour from now?” Zoësophia shrugged.

The general’s jaw clenched, and her lips grew thin and white. Without saying a word, she spun around and dashed out the door.

“Wait!” the baron cried. “This requires a plan.”

“No time!” The general mounted her horse and seized the reins.

“We can—” the baron began.

But Zoësophia’s fingers touched his sleeve. “Let her go.” Hooves rattled on the cobblestones, and the general was gone. “To die saving the life of the Duke of Muscovy would be a noble thing. But to die failing to do so is merely stupid.”

Even as she spoke, the cannon fire ceased. Whatever had happened at Astakhovsky bridge, it was over now.

Shocked, the baron said, “What are you saying?”

“Only that while bold actions can indeed change history, they require appropriate force, careful planning, and clear purpose. Zvyozdny-Gorodoka is but one woman. She has no plan. Nor has she any but the vaguest notion of what she hopes to accomplish. Further, she is naïve enough to think that the Royal Guard remains loyal to the duke. Inevitably, she will not return from this adventure alive.”

“I have seen her emerge unscathed from worse dangers than you can imagine.”

“While I have seen what you and she have not—the Duke of Muscovy in person. He cannot be rescued. Which is good, because Muscovy is about to need a new leader. A moment ago, there were only two possible choices. Now there is one.”

Heatedly, the baron said, “You dangled the possibility of a rescue before her. You pushed her into thoughtless action with your words. You as good as sent her to die.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Treacherous bitch!” Baron Lukoil-Gazprom struck Zoësophia with his fist.

He did not, however, hurt her. Zoësophia moved her head so that the blow was slight and glancing, while simultaneously lifting a hand in a seemingly futile attempt to ward him off. As his fist grazed her cheek, she slapped it hard with the flat of her hand, so that it sounded and felt like a solid contact. Then, in an absolutely convincing manner, she fell to the ground.

Summoning tears and sending blood to her cheek so that it flushed red, Zoësophia looked up at the baron, who was almost purple with rage. “You are a cruel and brutal man,” she said in a low, submissive voice. She laid her cheek against his boot. “No wonder I love you so helplessly.”

The baron was breathing heavily now. Not with anger.

It took five bottles of vodka for Sergeant Wojtek to learn all the verses to “The Bastard King of England.” However, Darger was so assiduous a teacher that his student had mastered the song and was halfway through learning “Three Drunken Maidens” before his head finally hit the table.

“Are you all right, Sergeant? Can you hear me?” Darger asked solicitously. “No? You cannot? Well, thank heavens for that.” To the bartender he said, “I don’t think we’ll be needing any more to drink.”

“I sure as shit hope not,” Kyril said.“It just about broke my fucking heart, watching you pour all that goddamn booze on the floor. I was pouring first-rate stuff, too. The best I had.”

“It was a necessary evil. I could never match such a behemoth drink for drink. I’d’ve been under the table in no time.”

“I tried to serve you the cheap shit, but you waved it away.”

“Have you smelled it? My dear young fellow, that was rubbing alcohol you were trying to foist off on us.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Gentlemen do not drink rubbing alcohol under any circumstances,” Darger said firmly. “Nor do they serve it to their guests. You should commit those principles to memory. Now be a good chap and undo these straps, will you? And while you’re at it, you might tell me how you managed to obtain your current position. You seem to have come up in the world since I saw you last.”

Kyril obliged. “Well, that’s a funny story. See, I figured the fastest way to the surface was to go along with the Pale Folk. So I grab one of those red kerchiefs they’re giving away and when they come out into Pushkin Square, I’m right there at the front of the parade. First thing I do when I hit the up-and-out is ditch the bird-mask and pop into this bar to buy a beer.” Seeing Darger’s disapproving expression, he added, “I was hungry! I wasn’t gonna drink it for the alcohol or nothing.”