Dancing with Bears (43 page)

Irina sat down beside her friend and took her hands in her own. “Well, who could blame you if you did? Still, I doubt your husband would approve.”

“Nikodim Gregorovich? He would be elated. I have never told anybody this, precious one, but the baron wanted me to do…certain things. And when I did, he…Well. Our marriage must be counted a failure.”

Irina did her best to look surprised by news which all of Moscow society had known for years. Luckily, the baronessa was too lost in her own unhappiness to notice the sardonic twist to Irina’s mouth when she said, “I am shocked. But never mind that. Come home with me, Dunyasha, and I will have my servants bathe you. Then I will dry you with my own two hands and lead you to bed, and pleasure you with my mouth. I will sing you a lullaby and watch over you until you fall asleep.”

“Dear, sweet Irinushka,” the baroness said. “Whatever have I done to deserve such loving kindness from you?”

“You honestly don’t know?”

“No.”

“Years ago, I was affianced to the baron at the time, and you stole him away from me. Surely you remember that.”

“Oh, Irina Varbarova, I’m so sorry! That was such a strange and romantic summer, with all those parties and flirtations, and somehow I convinced myself that you did not mind.”

“Nor did I,” Irina said. “It was to be a marriage of convenience. The baron had money and I had none. So my feelings toward him hardly mattered. But I was quite afraid of him. I believe that’s what attracted him to me in the first place. Really, I am indebted to you for saving me from a marriage I dreaded. Even if it did mean I lacked financial security as a result.”

“Oh, Irina, you will never want for anything so long as I live. Anything I have, whatever you want, is yours.”

“I know. That’s why I’m your friend.”

Irina could say things like that to Avdotya, because she knew the baronessa did not understand how true they were.

Anya Pepsicolova walked the streets of the burning city genuinely delighted with everything she saw. She was experiencing quite the most giddy joy imaginable. The gray, choking smoke that drifted through the streets—marvelous! The sound of cannon fire and of burning buildings collapsing—quite wonderful! The black snowflakes of soot that floated down through the air—a delight! She swung her arms up and down, like a little girl making imaginary angel wings in the air. She was free to go in whatever direction she cared. East, west, up, down, it didn’t matter. All ways were good when there was nobody to tell you no.

She came upon a fire engine being pumped by three of the biggest, hairiest men she had ever seen in her life. They were putting out the last smoldering embers of what had once been somebody’s house. Atop the engine stood a woman of such tremendous beauty as to make Anya disbelieve her own eyes. She stopped to gawk.

One of the apelike men squatted down and gently extended a grotesquely large and lumpish hand. “Heyyy, what a nice little fella. Is it yours?”

“Yes, but be careful. Vera’s a rescue dog. She has a temper.”

Vera bristled and showed her teeth but the big man held himself still, not flinching away, and clucked his tongue reassuringly. After a bit, she relented and let him rub her head. “Who’s a good girl?” he said. “You are. You are. Yes, you are.”

“I shared my meal with her and we bonded,” Pepsicolova explained. Then, to the beautiful woman, “You look awfully happy.” It was particularly delightful to encounter somebody as joyful as herself. Everyone else in the city she had run across was strangely glum.

“I am! Today is my wedding day and I’m celebrating it by helping to save my new city.” The beautiful woman hopped down and stuck out her hand. “My name’s Nymphodora. Dora for short. What’s yours?”

“Anya Alexandreyovna Pepsicolova. Who’s the lucky man?”

Dora gestured toward the three Neanderthals. “They are—Enkidu, Gilgamesh, and Rabelais. My sisters and I wrote their names down on slips of paper and drew three each. Except for Zoësophia. She sent a messenger and said she was going into politics so she didn’t need a husband quite yet. Which is good, because then we all got the same number.”

Pepsicolova was sure she hadn’t understood half of what she’d just heard. “Three husbands?” she said wonderingly. “Can you actually satisfy all of them?”

“Trust me, sister,” the nearest giant said with a shy grin, “she can.”

Dora happily ruffled his hair. “Oh, you big galoot.” Then a sudden gout of flame made her shout, “Over there!” and off she and her mighty consorts sped.

Pepsicolova and her dog wandered off into the wondrous if somewhat reduced city of Moscow.

Because the Terem Palace was in ruins and elements of the Kremlin remained on fire, the Ad Hoc Committee for the Defense of Muscovy was reduced to meeting in the brothel in Zamoskvorechye from which Baron Lukoil-Gazprom was already directing rescue and firefighting operations. The ranking members of both the old and new regimes who were neither dead nor incapacitated by sexual exhaustion, crowded into the parlor. So diminished were the numbers of the ruling class and so great was the need to reestablish a functioning government that nobody wasted time in political infighting. That could wait for next week.

“Firstly, thank you all for coming,” Zoësophia said. “Baron Lukoil-Gazprom has asked me to serve as the recording secretary for this meeting.” No one could have suspected the degree to which the Committee had been chosen by this striking but deferential young woman. Nor how deftly she had countered its most ambitious members by appointing their political rivals to positions of equal authority. “He himself will serve as chair until a new leader is chosen. Baron?”

The baron glanced down at the agenda laid before him as though he had had no hand in drafting it. Which he most definitely had. “There is much we must do. However, the first and most pressing order of business is to name an acting chief of government to replace our own beloved and tragically deceased Duke of Muscovy.”

A rustle of wordless surprise passed around the table. This was the first that most of them had heard of the duke’s demise. But before anyone could demand details of this startling news, the baron said, “Nominations?”

Several of those present straightened with sudden resolve. State Inspector of Infrastructure Zdrajca bulled his way to the front and said, “I would like to—”

“Jaragniew Bogdanovich Zdrajca.” Baron Lukoil-Gazprom referred to a list of names that Zoësophia slid before him. “You are known to belong to an organization including elements of the government created by the False Tsar Lenin.” There was just enough of a pause for everyone to realize that most of the members of that organization referred to were present in this very room. Then he continued, “And to having ambitions of establishing yourself as absolute ruler of Muscovy. This makes you a clear and present danger to the welfare of the state.” Lifting his head, the baron said, “Take him out and shoot him.”

Two soldiers whom nobody had previously paid any serious attention to seized the unfortunate state inspector by the arms and dragged him from the building. There was a long silence and then a volley of klashny fire.

A flurry of motions and points of order later, Muscovy had a new duke-to-be.

There was a tense moment when the question was raised of punishments for those involved in the abortive coup. However, since Chortenko was dead and his puppet government had been assembled under duress, it was quickly established that the only rebel of any note was the Baronessa Lukoil-Gazproma. Who, out of deference to her husband, could not possibly be either executed or imprisoned.

But neither could she be allowed to stay in Moscow.

The baronessa was given a generous pension and the Novodevichy Convent to do with as she liked. Those present had some shrewd guesses as to what sorts of activities she would engage in there, in the fields and woods outside of town. But they also knew that the secret police would immediately clamp down on anyone commenting too loudly on them. So that was all right.

It was an open secret that for years hers had been a marriage in name only anyway.

“The next item on the agenda,” the baron said when the business of his wife had been taken care of, “is the beginning of preparations to expand the borders of Muscovy and restore the Russian Empire to its lost glory.”

In short order, forces were mobilized and expanded, conscriptions declared, a host of new commissions created and put up for sale, and authority granted the baron to raise taxes as needed to pay for whatever he required.

It was, everybody agreed afterward, an auspicious beginning to what would surely be a golden new era in Russian history.

Yevgeny had become the hero of the day when, seeing the inexplicable naked giant come crashing toward him, he had redirected his cannon to counter this uncanny new threat. Where others had fled, he had without hesitation rallied his fearless gun crew. Under his direction, the team had with one single shot taken down the monster.

After which, his sergeant had said, “Sir? Hadn’t you better be going now?”

“Eh?” Yevgeny said, startled by the deference in the man’s voice.

“If you want to get the regiment’s name in the history books, sir, you should report this action immediately.” The sergeant gave his superior a meaningful look.

So, not being a total dunce, Yevgeny had wheeled his steed and raced like the wind to army headquarters to report the feat before others could take credit for it.

On delivering his report, Yevgeny was immediately arrested for being drunk on duty, of course. It would take some time for headquarters to accept the giant’s reality. But his claim had been documented, and was thus official. The story would quickly get around, and he could expect to be released before too long. Being of the proper class and breeding for such a deed, he could be confident that a promotion would soon follow. Meanwhile, he was given prison quarters suitable for a gentleman.

It was in his prison cell that Yevgeny met an inmate not much younger than himself who had been arrested for looting. “My own fault,” Anatoli admitted cheerily. “I should have stopped before the city forces pulled themselves together. But I got greedy, so I’ll be living off the duke’s largesse for the next few months.” Word had not yet gotten out that the Duke of Muscovy had been killed by the treachery of his own guards. Though, already, Baron Lukoil-Gazprom was making plans for a solemn funeral procession (with an empty but human-sized coffin, the true nature of the late duke being a state secret) which would pass between the rows of gibbets on which the bodies of the bear-men of the Royal Guard were still fresh. “The only embarrassing thing is that it was my uncle’s mansion I was caught ransacking, so I’m going to catch hell from my mother when I get out.”

“And what do you normally do?” Yevgeny asked. “When you’re not looting and ransacking?”

“Oh, I’m a wastrel, and a scapegrace and a scoundrel and a horrible libertine,” Anatoli said, staring straight into Yevgeny’s eyes. His own were green and filled with mischief, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow there as well, a leavening of pain that made the laughter all that much sweeter. “Depending on my mood, of course.”

Yevgeny felt his heart melt within him.

Meanwhile, the mysterious giant’s corpse had, even in the midst of a citywide holocaust, become something of an attraction. A string quartet was playing at its feet, with a bucket set out for donations. Enterprising artists from the Arbat sold sketches of citizens posing before the body part of his or her choice. Because the flesh was rapidly becoming high, a vendor sold oranges for the clients to hold to their noses while they posed. Several women in modest clothing stood before the noble head, crossing themselves and bowing in prayer—though whether they were praying to the giant or thanking God for its demise, nobody cared to ask. Children raced from the shoulder to the knee and back again, shrieking with joy.

“How do you like it so far?” an artist asked his patron.

The pudgy man examined the picture—in which he stood, casually heroic, with one foot on the giant’s hand, as if he had slain the behemoth himself—and blew out his cheeks. “It’s good, but I look a little… a little too…Well, is it possible to make me look a bit more…muscular?”

“I can do that, sir. All included in the price of purchase.”

It was, after all, Moscow. And in Moscow you could get anything you wanted, so long as you could afford the price.

Kyril had set up business helping people find their homes. He stood in Mayakovsky Square, looking sharply about until he saw a gentleman dressed posh, if somewhat rumpled, and looking confused and distracted. Then he darted up and began his patter: “Good morning, citizen! You look like you’ve had an evening of it, that’s for sure. Well, so have we all, sir, so have we all. Are you having trouble finding your way home? Do you know where your home is? I’d be glad to help.”

“I, uh…” The man looked dazedly down at Kyril. “I, um, I
think
I know where my home is,” he said tentatively. His glasses were askew.

“Well, let me just check for you, eh? Where do you keep your billfold? Oh, it’s right here in your inside jacket pocket. Very wise, sir. Makes it much harder for a pickpocket to get at it, dunnit? Oh, you know it does! Place it in your hip pocket, it’s as good as gone. I’ve seen it happen, sir, and much worse!”

Kyril opened the wallet. “Well, look here. This says that you’re V. I. Dyrakovsky—is that you, sir? Yes of course it is—and you live close by Patriarch’s Ponds. Very nice neighborhood, if you don’t mind my saying so, and the fires are nowhere near it yet. You can go home, catch a little nap, bury your valuables, and still make it out of town in perfect safety before your house burns down. Just keep on going along the Garden Ring until you come to Spiridonovka ulitsa, go down it two blocks and then turn left. Can’t miss it! I’m sure you’ll recognize your own house.” He tucked the billfold back in the man’s jacket, spun him around, and gave him a little push. “No need to thank me, sir. I’m just doing what any citizen would.”

Kyril stood waving goodbye until the man was lost in the crowd. Then he turned away to surreptitiously examine the banknotes he had slid out of the man’s wallet in the course of examining his ID. Three hundred rubles. Not bad. And the morning was yet young!