Darker Jewels (55 page)

There was a rap on the door and one of the two Guards stepped inside. “He ordered me to tell you that you have no right to detain him. He would like to have parchment and ink so that he may write to the King and the Roman Pope. He demands that he be allowed a courier to deliver the complaint, as well.”

“A complaint’ Well, it is his privilege.” Boris waved his hand to dismiss the matter. “Tomorrow. We will deal with that tomorrow. Let Father Pogner have a night to consider his situation.” He left the window and went back to his table, sitting down once more and stacking the papers in a single neat pile. “It is in here.”

“What is in there?” asked the Guard, who regarded the written word with a combination of hatred and awe because he could not read.

“Whoever it is who has been maneuvering me, and the Court.” He leaned back against the high, hard chair. “I feel as if I had the snout and tail-tip of an animal in the dark of night, but only enough to know it is large and has long teeth. Wolf or bear or tiger?” He set his elbows on either side of the pile of paper. “Who is being hunted? Is it me? Is it Nikita Romanovich? Is it Czar Feodor? Who?”

The Guard began to retreat toward the door. “Shall I stand inside or out, Boris Feodorovich?”

Boris glanced up at him. “Outside, I think, would be better.” He started with the top page and read through, searching for some information he had not noticed before. When he was done, he put the paper down and placed his next one directly beneath it, simplifying the process of comparison. He made himself think clearly, doing his best to shut away his own wrenching emotions for the cool-running clarity of reason. “I will want tea, very sweet and strong,” he called after the Guard as the door began to close.

“I will inform your servants,” said the Guard, thinking he had made a fortunate escape.

Four cups of tea and two hours later, Boris at last found what he had been looking for. There were two reports—and neither on its own was particularly damning—that when read together revealed nefarious intent. It was a puzzle, made up of many disparate parts, but there was enough to piece the whole together. At last he had the answer. He rose to his feet, the sheets gathered in his hands, and shouted his victory.

The Guard stuck his head around the door, apprehensive of Boris’ wrath. “Is something the matter?”

"Shuiskyf”
thundered Boris, a world of condemnation in that name.

“Boris Feodorovich—” the Guard began cautiously, seeing the rage in Boris’ black eyes.

“Bring them to me. Every one. The Shuiskys—Vasilli, Dmitri, Ivan, their uncle Mikhail, their cousins Anastasi and Igor. All of them. Now.” He swung around, his arm extended. “Do you hear me? I said bring them.”

“Shuisky?” the Guard asked, not an
xi
ous to move against so powerful a family. “All of them? But only Vasilli, Dmitri, and Anastasi are in Moscovy,” the Guard reminded him, hoping that this would alter Boris’ purpose. “Mikhail is in Novgorod and Ivan is in the country. Who knows where Igor is; you know what he is like with his whoring and drinking.”

“Bring all you can find. Start with Vasilli Andreivich—his palace is within Kremlin walls. Do it quickly, before they are warned. Go.
Go!"
He thudded his fists into the table.

The Guard retreated with alacrity, and called to his fellows as he left Boris’ reception room. He was going to need more than two officers to accompany him if he had to bring the Shuiskys. It would not be easy to find men who would carry out Boris’ orders against the great Shuiskys; he would have to be careful in his choice of companions. If he selected the wrong soldiers, he might as well hand his weapons over to the Shuiskys at once and spare himself the farce of pursuing them. He crossed himself hurriedly before the ikons, then rushed out the door toward the Guard barracks.

Boris was pacing now, taking long strides that carried him the length of the room in less than a dozen steps. He was holding the two reports in his hands, reading from one to the other. “I should have seen it,” he told himself indignantly, offended with himself for what was now an obvious oversight. “God forgive me, I ought to have seen it.” Over the tolling bells of mid-afternoon Mass he cursed Shuisky, and consigned the whole family to everlasting darkness, Hell seeming much too lenient a sentence for them.

A Guard Captain rapped on the door, asking to be admitted. “Come in,” said Boris, anticipating the arrival of Vasilli.

The Captain was alone. “We have been to the palace of Vasilli Andreivich,” he said, apology in his demeanor. “Four Guards are posted there, awaiting his return. We are told that he and his escort are at the horse market.”

“Outside the south gate?” Boris did not trust the information, for he feared that Vasilli might well choose to run from him. “He is not inside Moscovy’s walls?”

“He is with Nikita Romanovich and Czar Feodor, and a dozen Guards. They are under close escort, for the honor of the Czar: four soldiers for each of them.” The Captain coughed once. “It would not be wise to try to take him there, with the Czar, and—” Boris nodded his agreement, knowing better than to press for advantage when there was none to be had. “Of course. You are wise. When he returns it is time enough to bring him to me. But see that it is done, for the safety of the Czar and yourself, Captain.” He looked toward the far window. “Bring me the others, then. Bring me Dmitri Andreivich and Anastasi Sergeivich.” The Captain bowed and hastened away, leaving Boris to read over the reports he had gathered again. Now that he was aware of what he sought, every phrase in the reports accused Shuisky.

From direct descriptions of what Anastasi Sergeivich had done to the implication and innuendo about Vasilli Andreivich, there was a catalog of wrongdoing and a host of reasons once the stakes were recognized. As he read, Boris grew impatient with waiting, and to keep from fuming he paced his reception room as if it were a cage. The time went by slowly except when Boris worried that Romanov and Shuisky might act against him before he could protect himself; then the time rushed on the wind.

At last the door slammed open and four Guards brought Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky into the room, not quite dragging him, but all of them holding his arms forcefully with both hands.

Anastasi shook himself, his features indignant as an owl’s, as if he found his predicament both ludicrous and absurd. He tugged the wide sleeves of his loose summer kaftan away from the Guards, smoothed his blond beard, and bore down on Boris, his face flushed with effort and choler. Blocky and massive, he seemed intent on smashing Boris into the floor. “By what right do you send Guards to my house, Boris Feodorovich?”

“By the right of the guardian of Czar Feodor Ivanovich,” said Boris, determined not to be dragged into an argument with Anastasi. He kept his writing table between them. “I speak to you now on the Little Father’s behalf. There are very important questions you must answer, Anastasi Sergeivich, as you would answer to the Czar himself. I thought you would prefer to do it here than in the secret rooms of the Terem Palace, or prison.” He pulled out his chair and sat down, his hands folded on top of the reports. “These reports on your endeavors have provided some peculiar information about you, Duke Shuisky. You have been very busy, have you not?”

“Of course I have been busy. Every noble at Court is busy,” snapped Anastasi, flicking imaginary dust from the wide collar of his kaftan. “Where is the error in that? A man with my responsibilities is always busy.”

“And what are those responsibilities?” asked Boris with interest.

“I have property and estates and my family in the country, and my position requires my presence here at Court.” He said it as if Boris were as slow-witted as Czar Feodor. “Or did you mean something else?”

Boris would not be goaded into an unwise rejoinder. “If these reports are to be believed, you have devoted your time and your fortune to removing Czar Feodor from the throne in your cousin’s favor.” He tapped the papers. “It appears that you have taken on the task of deposing the Little Father, among your other tasks. That is treason, Duke Shuisky.”

The smile froze on Anastasi’s cupid-bow mouth. “I am no traitor,” he said.

“No?” Boris lifted his brows. “Strange, how one may be misled by reports and vows; don’t you think so? If it were not for the information gathered here I might never have come to suspect that you had anything to answer for but the pride of your family. Yet now that I have seen these reports, I realize that there has been much more to gain than I assumed. How do you explain your activities of the last four years, then?” He held up a report that ran for two pages. “I am most curious about the messengers you have used, sending them into Poland and to Kursk, to the upstart priest Yuri Kostroma. He is a connection of yours, isn’t he? Illegitimate, but a cousin, nonetheless.”

“A second cousin,” said Anastasi.

“Yes,” said Boris. “And you have used him, when it has suited your purpose, and required him to serve you.” He held up another report. “A servant at the Polish embassy says that you twice visited Father Wojciech Kovnovski, to request that he assist you in your misdeeds. You sent dispatches with his messages, this servant—”

“Spy,” corrected Anastasi.

“—servant claims; you convinced the priest that it would further his career to be on good terms with the great Shuisky family. According to what the servant has said, you spoke with Father Kovnovski for several hours when you visited him, and afterward you sent dispatches to those I assume are your associates.” Boris peered up from the pages. “Is that a lie, Anastasi Ser- geivich?”

“It is not the truth,” said Anastasi without inflection.

“Isn’t it?” Boris pulled out another paper and shook his head with assumed sadness. “I wish I could think so, Anastasi Ser- geivich. But you see, there are others who report the same thing.”

“They are nothing,” said Anastasi, now far more composed than when he arrived. “Discontented mutterings and gossip.”

“To your disadvantage because of your title and high position: it would appear so,” said Boris in false commiseration. “Taken singly, you have nothing against you but ill-feeling and rumors, hardly worthy more than the most cursory attention. But taken all together, something else emerges. The reports reveal the scope of your schemes, and from them it becomes apparent that you have been engaged in the quest for advancement, a very dangerous quest for you, but glorious for your family if you succeed. You are a diligent and ruthless opponent to the Czar, and you seek to bring down Czar Feodor in order to raise your family and yourself.”

“Oh, not I,” said Anastasi, his smile reviving and his eyes fixed on the ikon of Saint Barlaam of Antioch. “I am the lesser branch of the family, and nothing I could do would advance me or my sons to the throne. It is my cousin Vasilli Andreivich who is bom well enough to aspire to the throne. He has reason to hope for advancement, not I. Had you forgot that, Boris Feodorovich?” “No more than you have,” Boris replied with his own ugly smile. “Which is why I have given orders to bring all your family here, not just you.” He was pleased to see that Anastasi was startled, and then something more than that, much closer to fear, flared in his blue eyes, and Boris decided to press his advantage. “He made you do his bidding, didn’t he?”

Anastasi recovered himself in an instant. “Who?”

“Vasilli Andreivich,” said Boris impatiently. “You have been working for him, doing what he has needed you to do. you have accepted Vasilli’s ambitions as your own. Haven’t you?”

“There is no reason why I should,” said Anastasi darkly, and then his manner changed suddenly, becoming slippery and expansive. “What a terrible thing to ask of you, Boris Feodorovich, that you spend your time looking for enemies who do not exist for the Czar. It is the only way to control Romanov, is that it?” “But there is reason for you to be led by your cousin at this time,” Boris said, ignoring Anastasi’s mercurial shift of mood, and rubbed his mustache. “There are excellent reasons for you to help your cousin rise in the world. You seek to place Vasilli on the throne by bringing about the fall of Czar Feodor and all his Court. And while it is true that you would not be able to claim the throne for yourself, not while Vasilli and Dmitri and Ivan all live, you are willing to gamble on the years to come, knowing that the nobles of the Court of high blood will war for position.

You long for that war. Not for yourself, of course, nor even for your cousin. But you have how many sons?” He let the question hang between them, all but visible in the warm, still air.

“God has given my wife and me six sons, and five of them are living,” he said, annoyed and proud at once. “There are also four daughters, for I visit my wife one month of every year, and I seek to guard them, my wife and children. They do not live in Mos- covy.”

“Very wise,” said Boris with a feeling that was almost approval. “It keeps them safe and most of the Court forgets about them. I am familiar with the ploy myself.” He met Anastasi’s eyes directly. “So your cousin becomes Czar, and you his close adviser, the one serving the Czar and the Court. In time this will bring you honor and the recognition you have sought so diligently, and one day your sons rule. In order to achieve such a goal the sacrifice of your own advancement is of little importance.” He regarded Anastasi with an amiable smile. “Isn’t that your vision, Anastasi Sergeivich? the vision of your sons ruling Russia in a way you never can achieve? You can bear to see Vasilli Andreivich reign if it brings your sons to the throne as well, in years to come. It is not impossible, once Vasilli mounts the throne. After all, Vasilli’s only surviving children are girls, and direct blood is better than marriage. And if one of your sons marries one of Vasilli’s daughters, so much the better.”

“You are ridiculous,” said Anastasi, but there was a wildness in this denial that was more eloquent than his words. The sweat on his face was not entirely due to the heat of the afternoon.

Boris regarded him. “How much is your dream, and how much is Vasilli’s tyranny, I wonder?”

“What is that intended to mean?” asked Anastasi bluntly.