by Eric Flint
Filip Pavlovich flinched a bit. Boris felt he'd gotten his point across. "I brought Berna because he was who I could get. He has graduated their high school. He is a qualified auto mechanic with tools. I should know. I had to arrange for their transport. He speaks, reads and writes their up-timer English. English which is not so similar to the English we know as Polish is to Russian. You can get by with practice but the words have changed their meaning and pronunciation as often as not. Believe me, Filip Pavlovich, there are people I could have recruited that you would have liked less."
* * *
Bernie sighed. "Dude, when is this sh . . . ah . . . stuff going to be done with. Let me get to work, will you?"
"Soon, Bernie, soon." Boris waved at the stairs. "We have the audience today. Natasha will be down soon and we will leave."
"The makeup again?" Bernie giggled.
Boris glared at Bernie, remembering the silly business about Boris and Natasha. "I trust you will be able to control your sense of humor."
"Wish she'd hurry up." Bernie's complaint brought Boris back to the present. Then Natasha arrived, walked to Boris and said in a deep sultry voice—not her own—but which Bernie claimed was a fairly good imitation of the cartoon Natasha, "Welcome, my little Borisky. This time we will capture that naughty moose, yes?"
Bernie cracked up and Boris turned red.
* * *
Bernie tried to suppress his occasional giggles as Boris and Natasha coached him very carefully for his meeting with Mr. Big. Mr. Big, otherwise known as the Czar of all the Russias. Armed with Vladimir's gifts, as well as his own, Bernie followed their instructions carefully.
Boris whispered names and positions while they stood in the line of people waiting to be presented. "Patriarch Filaret, the czar's father, there to the left of Czar Mikhail. On the right, Fedor Ivanovich Shermentev, he is in charge of the bureau of records. It is an especially powerful post, because he can cause so much trouble for the other bureaus." The list of names went on an on and Bernie quit paying that much attention. Natasha had left them, and gone off to see the czar's wife. When they got a bit closer, Bernie started looking around a bit. Good thing he was farsighted, since the room seemed to be about eighty-feet long.
Mr. Big—no, that really didn't seem to fit—was a pretty ordinary guy when you got a look at him. The czar looked to be in his mid thirties. He also looked like he didn't want to be there. Sort of bored and sad. He seemed like the kind of guy who got stuffed in his locker in gym class. The patriarch guy, his father, was really old, but looked to be a tough old bird. And all these . . . boyars, they were called. There was some serious money tied up in their clothes. "Dimitry Mamstriukovich Cherakasky." Boris nodded toward another man. "Not a man to cross, that one." Well, Bernie wasn't going to cross anyone if he could help it.
Finally, they got up to the front of the line. Boris did all the talking, which was just as well. Bernie hadn't had much luck figuring out the lingo, not yet. Boris gave the agreed upon signal and Bernie bowed. "Your Majesty."
* * *
Mikhail Romanov smiled at the obvious awkwardness of the outlander's attempt to bow. He knew from Vladimir Yaroslavich's letters that the people brought back in time by God's hand had no custom of bowing.
"Welcome to Moscow." Mikhail had picked up a bit of English over the years. There were several English merchants and diplomats in Muscovy. He wanted to make the outlander feel at home. To have been touched by God in such a material way. It must be a blessing.
The outlander bowed again and Boris Petrovich made a gesture. The outlander presented his gifts. Not the usual gold or silver dishes and artwork. Jewelry, perhaps? Mikhail looked at the thing.
"It is an up-time 'watch.'" Boris Petrovich spoke softly. "If you will press that button there, it will light up."
Mikhail, with some trepidation, pressed the button. This had been made, would be made, almost four hundred years in the future. More, God had seen fit to send it back in time to him. "Very interesting," was all he managed to say. He watched the numbers on the end change. They were a bit blurry, but that wasn't the numbers fault. Mikhail couldn't see very well, close up. The interesting thing was that they changed. Changed at regular intervals. It was a clock in a piece of jewelry worn about the wrist. He wondered for just a moment if it might be some sort of magic. Probably not, he decided. Probably the electric craft that Vladimir had written about. He had said that it often looked like magic at first acquaintance. He looked forward to showing it to Evdokia.
* * *
Evdokia gathered her ladies and signaled Natasha to walk with her. As usual, it was the younger of her ladies who accompanied her. They left the Palace of Facets to return to the Terem Palace. The Terem was the czar's private residence. She, he, the children and some cousins and servants all lived there. It was also often occupied by the wives and daughters of the great families of Muscovy.
"The outlander." Evdokia paused. "I wonder what the future was like to live in."
"I do, too," Natasha agreed. "Not the history so much. But what it was like to live in a world where they had so much . . . magic. In the future, Boris says, they had carriages that traveled without horses and others that would fly. Plays and music put in boxes and new clothes made in hours. And cartoons. Which sound like fun."
Evodkia refrained from running back to the terem section of the palace with some difficulty. She felt like a girl again, even if she was twenty-four with three living children. Evdokia hadn't been raised in Muscovy. She wasn't that fond of it, either. It was more restrictive than her home and required more subtlety. The cats in the capital could be nasty and had been when Mikhail had chosen her over them and their daughters. This new land of the future offered excitement. It offered new things to contemplate, which was essential. Moscow was not the den of iniquity that her mother had painted it as. At least not the parts of it that she got to see. As the mother of the next czar, her life was somewhat circumscribed. There were parties but they were formal affairs. There were the children and Mikhail, but truth be told, she was often bored. The palace was run by the palace staff, who rarely asked her opinion of anything.
One saving grace existed in all of this. Mikhail was a gentle man. He loved his family and treated them well. He spent more time with them than the cabinet would prefer. No. That wasn't true. The cabinet liked things just the way they were. In all honesty, Evdokia had to admit that the cabinet probably listened to Mikhail less than the palace staff listened to her.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Evodkia found her husband pouring over papers. Mikhail looked depressed, even from the rear. She put her hands on his temples and rubbed them. Mikhail often had headaches and said that helped. He began to relax.
"It's getting more dangerous now." He almost whispered. "The safe course is denied us by the histories from the future." That sent a chill down Evdokia's back. She had been aware that the basic policy of the patriarch had been one of social conservatism, while at the same time trying to upgrade the army and bring in advances of the west. She had also been aware that the reason for that policy was the instability of the situation.
"The cabinet will use any change." Evdokia worried. "As will the church." A pretender to the throne could be tonsured like Mikhail's father. For Mikhail—and for her and the children—a more drastic solution would be needed. Politics in Muscovy were very personal at times.
"God has told us. Given us a miracle. " Mikhail looked at her. "A miracle . . . but what does it mean?"
* * *
"How much longer?" It was the next afternoon and they were on their way to the dacha. Bernie's voice was plaintive.
Natasha looked out the open windows of the carriage she rode in and grinned. "We have been moving for only a few moments since the last time you asked that question, Berna. A bit longer, still."
Bernie sighed. "God, I wish I had my car. I wish I had some gas. I wish . . ." His voice trailed off and he stared into the distance.
Natasha h
ad Vladimir's request that she keep Bernie as happy as she could, within certain limitations. "You wish you could go back? But we have only begun to become acquainted."
Bernie shook his head. "No, not back to Grantville. I wish I could go home, back to the world I came from. This place, all these places, just aren't home. Even Grantville isn't home. I used to do all right, you know. I had enough money to do what I wanted, for the most part. I dated, I worked my hours. I got by. Now, though, well, it's just not the same, not even in Grantville."
Natasha murmured a sympathetic sound and Bernie kept talking. Natasha could tell Bernie was lonely and feeling lost. Not much of a wonder, judging from Bernie's appearance. He had worn what he called his "best suit" to the audience, but now he was wearing something called "jeans." They were blue but faded, clearly inappropriate for a person of Bernie's station in life. Peasants wore faded clothing.
I shall have to help him with his wardrobe, Natasha thought. He needs to grow a beard, as well. Else no one will take him seriously.
* * *
Bernie looked at the girl. She seemed nice enough and she hadn't gotten pissed at the Boris and Natasha bit. On the other hand, she was Vladimir's sister and Bernie had finally picked up on just how rich and powerful Vlad was after he had gotten to Moscow. This girl was the daughter of a great house. She was pretty, dark haired and slim. Slimmer than a lot of the Russian women, with black hair that hung down to her b . . . past her waist. She spoke some English. Funny sounding English, but English. Mostly, though, she was someone to talk to.
"So," he said, "tell me about you."
Natasha was a bit surprised. It was a fairly forward question, it seemed to her. She had little experience with men not part of her family or sworn to it. Members of her family would already know such things. Retainers would never have the gall to ask such a question if not invited. Her aunt, Sofia, tittered a bit. Natasha cast a glance her way and the sixty-year-old Sofia pretended innocence, staring out the windows on the other side of the carriage.
"Ah . . ." Natasha stopped. What about her? "What do you wish to know?"
"Oh. . ." Bernie hesitated a moment. "Like, what do you figure on doing with your life? Do you have any plans to become a doctor or lawyer? What's it like in the winter here? Do you like parties?" He snorted. "What's your sign?" Natasha had no idea what that meant.
Bernie stopped suddenly. He even blushed a bit. "That's probably too many questions, isn't it?"
"Perhaps," Natasha acknowledged. "In any case, I didn't understand what all of them meant. I don't know what my sign is. Unless you mean the family crest."
"Never mind." Bernie said hastily. Then he scratched his chin. "Why do all the men wear beards?"
Natasha found herself suppressing a giggle. Didn't this outlander know anything? "Men wear beards because the church says that it is a mortal sin to shave them. God did not create men beardless, only cats and dogs."
"Not to mention rats and mice," Bernie said. "Cattle. Sheep. Well, sheep are sort of bearded all over. Goats, though. Goats have beards."
Aunt Sofia was suppressing laughter, Natasha thought. Her shoulders were shaking, at any rate. And her black eyes sparkled a bit.
"Perhaps so." Natasha felt a grin trying to break out. "But I'm not sure the church would like hearing that . . ." She searched for the word. "Ah . . . compare?"
"Comparison," Bernie said. "Yeah. Churches up-time didn't like it when you pointed out that sort of thing, either. Whatever. So, anyway, what do you do?"
The question threw Natasha into a bit of confusion. What did she do? Did he mean how she spent her time? "I take care of the family properties while Vladimir is away. Someone must."
Bernie shook his head and shifted his weight on the saddle. Natasha envied that he was riding a horse. It had to be more comfortable than the jolting carriage. The carriage hit a rut and she bounced a bit, grabbing onto the edge of the seat. "Uff."
"That's one of the things we gotta do." Bernie made a tsking sound, staring ahead at the road. "These roads are the pits."
Yet another word she wasn't sure of, Natasha thought. Pit for hunting? Pit of Hell? Thinking about it, she wasn't sure that the latter wasn't accurate. "Pits?"
"Really bad. But that's one thing I know how to fix. Some ditches, some drainage and some gravel. Easy."
The carriage jolted again and Natasha suppressed a groan. Fix the roads. What a good idea.
* * *
Berna was moved in and settled. It had been a busy three days, but Natasha was at her desk, at last. There were several letters to write. She, as was her nature, started with the hardest.
To the Up-timer Citizen of Grantville, United States of America, Miss Brandy Bates,
I make free to write to you at the suggestion of your fellow up-timer, Bernard Zeppi. I hope that this missive finds you in the best of good health.
Natasha hated this part. She was a regular correspondent with several women of Muscovy and even a few men. But writing to someone new was always a challenge, especially someone from a foreign country. Worse, in this case, because the up-timers probably thought of everyone from this century as barbarians. But she really did need an answer to this question.
Let me apologize if I have failed to include the titles appropriate to your station. It is not with the intent of insult but from simple ignorance. Goodman Zeppi informs me that you are a woman of great accomplishment and considerable status among the up-timers, being a professional researcher at the research center. Also that you are of good family and possessed of a Ged.
I gather that the Ged is a title? But I confess my ignorance in how it is to be applied to a salutation. Mr Zeppi professes ignorance of your other titles, not being a student of heraldry.
The talk Bernie and Natasha had on the road to the dacha and the talk Natasha had with Sofia led to other talks with Bernie. He had made a very strange comment. When Natasha had asked about it his face had gone red and he had refused to answer. He suggested that she write Brandy Bates. When she had asked why, he had said that Brandy was a better person to ask and insisted that she was an expert and a person of high status. Natasha suspected that he might have overstated the woman's importance and wasn't at all sure she liked the way Berna had waxed effusive on Brandy Bates' accomplishments. Still, if she wanted to know this was the only way to find out.
I fear this may be a delicate matter to broach on first acquaintance, but what is a bra and why should one burn it in the grand market square?
Princess Natalia Petrovna Yaroslavicha
Natasha knew she should be saying more, introducing herself more clearly, but she was uncertain of what degree of formality she should use in writing to an unknown up-timer. She set the letter aside and started working on the next. It would go to Vladimir and discuss the Grantville Section of the Embassy Bureau and the agreements reached between the family and the government.
Fall, 1633
The Grantville Section was, so far, not doing all that well. Boris was having organizational problems. Pavel Borisovich, his eldest son, shook his head at him. "They won't authorize it, Father."
"Why not?" Boris felt he was asking the question with considerable restraint.
His son shrugged. "The official reason or the real reason?"
"The official one, I know the real one." The real reason was resentment. The patriarch had gotten Boris the Grantville section and a reasonable budget. That only fueled the resentment. There were other people who were in line for the promotion; people with better family connections. That would normally mean that if a new section was established they might reasonably expect to be tapped to head it up. Assistant section chiefs—in and out of the embassy bureau—were pissed that Boris had been jumped a rank.
"Priorities." Pavel squinted and hunched over as though he expected a strong wind.
"I was given to understand that we had a rather high priority?" Boris tried to keep his voice calm. Perhaps too calm.
"I'm just passing on what I was told." Pav
el waved the report, then began to read. "Because of the requirements of the grain shipments to Sweden, Yuri Petrovich Gorbochov is desperately needed to expedite the harvest in the Gdansk region."
"They picked one that has a higher priority than we do." Boris had to give that section chief credit. It was cleverly done anyway. There might even be some truth to it.
"Father, I'm not sure you do know the real reason. At least not all of them. I was talking to Petr Somovich. He said that a lot of people are starting to be afraid that this is a nowhere job. Not that much has come out of the dacha yet and we have all these books that mostly don't make sense, not even to people who do speak English. Who cares that Audubon painted birds? Russia has real issues to deal with."