Swiveling his head from side to side as more rustling came from all around him, he came to a grim decision.
So this is how it ends.
The gun shook as he raised it to his temple.
“Long live the revolution!” he shouted, then winced. Oh, to have not died with a cliche on my lips!
His finger tightened on the trigger, then stopped just short of firing as a dragon the size of a newborn lamb—and just as unsteady on its feet—pushed through the bushes and into view.
“Gevalt!”
The dragon emitted a sound somewhere between a mew and a hiss and wobbled directly up to Bronstein, who took an involuntary step back. Even as a hatchling, the creature was fearsome to look at, all leathery hide and oversized bat wings, and came up to his knees. Its eyes were the gold of a full-grown beast, though still cloudy from the albumin that coated its skin and made it glisten in the thin forest light. He wondered if they would stay that color, or change, as babies’ eyes do. He’d heard the Tsar’s dragons had eyes like shrouds. Of course, the man who told him that could have been exaggerating for effect. And though the pronounced teeth that gave the adult dragons their truly sinister appearance had yet to grow in, the egg tooth at the tip of the little dragonling’s beak looked sharp enough to kill if called upon. And the claws that scritch-scratched through the sticks and leaves looked even now as though they could easily gut a cow.
But Bronstein quickly remembered Lenin’s advice.
Dragons respect only power. And fresh-hatched, you must be the only power they know.
So he pocketed the pistol that he still held stupidly to his head and stepped forward, putting both hands on the dragon’s moist skin.
“Down, beast,” he said firmly, pressing down. The beast collapsed on its side, mewling piteously. Grabbing a handful of dead leaves from the trees, Bronstein began scraping and scrubbing, cleaning the egg slime from the dragon’s skin, talking the whole time. “Down, beast,” and, “Stay still, monster!”
More dragons wandered out of the brush, attracted, no doubt, by the sound of his voice.
Perhaps, Bronstein thought, they could hear me through their shells these last months. Whether that was true or not, he was glad that he’d spoken to them all that while.
“Down!” he bade the new dragons, and they, too, obeyed.
As he scraped and scrubbed, Bronstein could see the dragons’ color emerging. They were red, not black.
Red, like fire. Red, like blood.
Somehow that was comforting.
The mad monk had heard talk of dragons. Of course he’d often heard talk of dragons. But this time there was something different in the tenor of the conversations, and he was always alert to changes in gossip.
It had something to do with a red terror, which was odd, since the Tsar’s dragons were black. But when his sources were pressed further—a kitchen maid, a bootboy, the man-boy who exercised the Tsar’s dogs and slept with them as well—they couldn’t say more than that.
Red terror! He tried to imagine what they meant, his hands wrangling together. It could mean nothing or everything. It could have nothing to do with dragons at all and everything to do with assassination attempts. A palace was the perfect place for such plots. Like a dish of stew left on the stove too many days, there was a stink about it.
But if there was a plot, he would know about it. He would master it. He would use it for his own good.
“Find me more about this red terror,” he whispered to the kitchen maid, a skinny little thing with a crooked nose. “And we will talk of marriage.” That he was already married mattered not a bit. He would find her a mate, and she knew it.
“Find me more about this red terror,” he told the bootboy, “and I shall make sure you rise to footman.” It was his little joke, that. The boy was not smart enough for the job he already had. But there were always ways to make the boy think he’d tried.
He said nothing more to the dog’s keeper. As his old mother used to tell him: A spoken word is not a sparrow. Once it flies out, you can’t catch it. He knew that the dog boy spoke in his sleep, his hands and feet scrabbling on the rushes the way his hounds did when they dreamed. Everybody listened in.
The truth that peasants speak is not the same as the truth that the powerful know. Having been one and become the other, the mad monk knew this better than most. He wrung his hands once more. “Find me more about this red terror,” he muttered to no one in particular.
But even as he asked, he drew in upon himself, becoming moody, cautious, worried. Walking alone by the frozen River Neva, he tried to puzzle through all he’d heard. It was as if the world was sending him messages in code. He asked his secretary, Simanovich, for paper, and wrote a letter to the Tsar telling him of the signs and warning him, too. But he did not send it. It was too soon. Once he found out all about this red terror, he would personally hand the letter to the Tsar.
The red dragons were restless, snapping at their keepers and tugging at their leads. Bronstein tried to keep them in line—he was the only one they really listened to—but even he was having trouble with them tonight.
“Why do they act this way?”
“And why do you not stop them?”
The speakers were Koba and Kamo, two middlemen sent by Lenin to oversee the training of the beasts. Or the “Red Terror,” as Lenin had dubbed them. That was so like Lenin, trusting no one. Not even his own handpicked men. He’d told them nothing beside the fact that they would be underground. They’d assumed they were to be spies. And so they were, of a sort.
Bronstein couldn’t tell Koba and Kamo apart. And he didn’t like their manner: arrogance compounded by . . . by . . . He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“The dragons are bred to the sky,” he said archly, “and this stay underground irks them.” He fixed one of them—the one with the slightly thicker moustache, Koba, maybe—with a glare. “And you may try to stop them if you wish.”
Maybe-Koba looked at the dragons for a moment as if considering it. He didn’t look hopeful. But he didn’t look frightened either.
Bronstein snapped his fingers. That was it! Arrogance compounded by blind stupidity. They didn’t know enough to be afraid of the dragons. Or of Lenin. Or—he thought carefully—of me.
“My apologies, Comrade Bronstein.”
He didn’t sound sorry. The man is an entire library of negatives, Bronstein thought.
Maybe-Koba went on. “We shall let you return to your work. Comrade Lenin will be here within days. Then we shall release the Red Terror to cleanse this land. Lenin has said it, and now I understand what he means. Come, Kamo.”
Koba it is, then, Bronstein thought, adding aloud, “Cleanse it of what? Of Russians?”
Bronstein knew that Koba—or maybe Kamo. Did it matter?—had been a Georgian Social Democrat and nationalist, and, some whispered, a separatist before joining Lenin to free the entire working class. Some said that Koba—or maybe Kamo—still was. The fractures in the revolution made Bronstein’s head hurt. Without realizing it, he rubbed his cigarette-stained fingers against his temples.
Koba stared at Bronstein with no trace of emotion on his face. “Of the Tsar. And his followers. Are you feeling ill?” As if a headache dropped Bronstein even further in his estimation.
There was something hard about Koba, Bronstein decided, like his innards were made of stone or steel rather then flesh and blood. But the men followed him. Followed him without question. Not that the men who followed Koba asked a lot of questions. They might fight for the workers, but they looked like idlers and ne’er-do-wells to Bronstein. Actually, they looked like thieves and murderers, and most likely anti-Semites, but sometimes those were the kind of men you needed.
Revolution was a dirty business.
He grunted. So was tyranny.
“I will provide the dragons, Koba, and you provide the men. And together we will free this land.”
“Comrade Lenin will be here soon. He will say if there will be free
dom or not. Make sure his dragons are ready.”
With that, Koba turned and left, Kamo right behind.
Lenin’s dragons? Bronstein’s hand twitched. Who stayed up nights with the beasts? Who imprinted them? Who fed them by hand? How he would have loved to wring the necks of these interlopers. But that was not his way. Besides, one of the dragons chose that moment to bite the finger of a young man who was grooming him, and Bronstein had to run and help wrench the digit out of the dragon’s mouth before it was swallowed.
Lenin will be here soon, he thought, smacking the dragon on the top of its stone-hard head until it opened its mouth. The finger was still on the creature’s tongue, and Bronstein snatched it out before the jaws snapped shut. He tossed it to its bleeding and howling former owner before wiping his hands on his shirt. Perhaps the doctor could sew it back on. Perhaps not.
Fingers, dragons, revolutionaries, his thoughts cascaded. There’s no way we’ll be ready in time.
I had to admit, it was a masterful plan. Especially since my presence was necessary at its execution. I giggled at my play on words, and Ninotchka glanced at me coldly. Her face was as powdered as her hair, which made her look surprisingly old. And haggard.
“Did I say something to amuse you, my husband?” She’d grown distant over the last weeks, probably due to my spending long hours pulling the threads of my plot together into a web that Father Grigori could not hope to escape. He could neither refuse the invitation nor survive the meal I had planned for him.
And I would be there. Nothing on Earth could keep me from seeing the look on his arrogant face as he realized who the architect of his destruction was. Did he think he could cuckold me without a response? I had destroyed better men than he in the service of the Tsar. Occasionally I had even killed them on the Tsar’s orders. Not with my own hands, of course. But with a word in the right ear, with a bit of money passed carefully. Knowing the right men for such tasks is my job. And it seems that I am very good at what I do. If the monk’s mad eyes seemed to look through me whenever we met in the palace halls—well, I would soon see them close forever.
“No,” I said to Ninotchka. Having planned to dispose of Rasputin on her behalf, I now grew tired of her sniping. A man does what he must to protect his spouse, and if she is especially unappreciative of his efforts, he may very well find himself a new wife who is. “No, you say nothing that amuses me these days.”
Taking pleasure in the wide-eyed look of surprise she gave me, I spun smartly on my heel and quick-marched from the sitting room, my boots tip-tapping a message to her with every step.
After all, I had a group of high-level men to shore up. Just in case . . . just in case the borscht-cum-poison didn’t kill Rasputin on the first go-round.
A week later, in his apartment, Rasputin looked in the great mirror. He grimaced at his reflection, his teeth so white compared to the smiles of the peasants he had known. Brushing his fingers through his beard, he loosened a few scattered bits of bread stuck in the hairs. Always go to a dinner full, his mother had warned. The hungry man looks like a greedy man. He had no desire to look greedy to these men. Hard, yes. Powerful, definitely. But not greedy. A greedy man is considered prey.
“Prince Yusupov’s house in Petrograd at nine,” the invitation had read. He knew that Yusupov’s palace was a magnificent building on the Nevska, though he’d never before been invited to dine there. He and the prince had parted company some time ago. He’d heard it had a great hall with six equal sides, each guarded by a large wooden door. This morning, after receiving the invitation, he’d played the cards and saw that six would be a number of change for him. He was ready. But then, he was always ready. Didn’t he always carry a charm around his neck against death by a man’s hand? He never took it off, not in the bathhouse, not in bed. A man with so many enemies had to be prepared.
And really, Yusupov is but a boy in man’s clothing, Rasputin thought. He got his place at court through marriage. He needs me more than I need him. Still, going to the palace would give him the opportunity to meet the prince’s wife, the Tsar’s lovely niece, Irina of the piercing eyes. He had heard many things about her and all of them wonderful. Rasputin had not yet had the pleasure. Well, it would be her pleasure, too.
That dog, Vladimir Purishkevich, was picking him up in a state automobile. He supposed that he could abide the man for the time it took to drive to the prince’s palace. Then he would turn his back and mesmerize the princess right there, in front of her husband and his friends. They’d make a game of it. But it would not be a game. Not entirely.
Really, he felt, no one can stop me. He began to laugh. It began softly but soon rose to almost maniacal heights.
A knock on the door recalled him to himself.
“Father Grigori,” his man asked. “Are you choking?”
“I am laughing, imbecile,” he answered, but gently, because the man had been with him since the days of the flagellants, and a man of such fervid loyalty could not be found elsewhere.
The door opened and Father Grigori’s man shuffled in, hunched and slow. “My . . . apologies, Father,” he stuttered. “But I have news.” He hauled one of the dragon boys in with him. The boy had a nose clotted with snot, and he sniveled.
Rasputin waited, but the man said nothing more. He really is an imbecile, the mad monk thought. The boy said nothing, either. Waiting, Rasputin assumed, for a sign from his elders. And betters.
Raising an eyebrow, Rasputin finally cued the man. “And this news is . . . ”
It was the boy who spoke, trembling, the clot loosened, snot running down towards his mouth. “Your Holiness, I . . . I have found the red terror.”
Rasputin stood and waved them fully inside his chambers. “Quickly, quickly,” he said. “Come in where we will not be overheard. And tell me everything.”
“It is about dragons, Father, and there is a man called Lenin who will free them, but he will not be here until the month’s end. Three days from now. When the moon is full. Only when he comes . ..”
“Dragons . . .” Rasputin’s voice was calm, but underneath his heart seemed to skip a beat. Soon he would be able to tell the Tsar.
Shoring up my co-conspirators had been tougher work than I’d imagined it would be. Really, they have no stomach for this stuff. Aristocrats are ever prepared to pronounce sentence but rarely willing to carry that same sentence out themselves. Not that I liked to get my hands dirty, either—but if you really want something done, occasionally you have to be the one to do it. And these men wanted Father Grigori dead almost as much as I did. And now, a week later, they had knives in their boots and revolvers in their waistbands so they that could finish the job properly if needed. But I could not presume that they would actually use their weapons. Better to be prepared myself.
In just a few hours, the mad monk will be dead, I thought.
I practically skipped down the halls of the palace thinking about it. Though first I had a few administrative duties to deal with, afterwards I’d be there to watch Rasputin die.
Except instead of sitting down to drink a beet stew full of poison, that son of a Siberian peasant was marching quickly down the same hall as me dressed in his best embroidered blouse, black velvet trousers, and shiny new boots.
“Good evening, Father Grigori,” I said as calmly as I could. What is he doing here? He dare not insult the men I set him up with openly. Is he that arrogant? Or is he really that powerful? My hands began to tremble, and I willed them to stop, to freeze.
Subtly, I put myself into his path, so that he would have to either pull up or plow me down. For a moment, I thought he was going to march right over me, but, at the last second, he stopped, looming above me, uncomfortably close. He smelled of cheap soap. I barely kept myself from wrinkling my nose.
“Out of my way, lackey,” he said, eyes as cold as his mother’s breast milk must have been. “I have important news for the Tsar.”
I was close to panic. What news could he have to cause him to miss h
is dinner and insult me openly but that of my plans for him? I reached inside my jacket surreptitiously. Got my fingers on the hilt of a dagger I kept hidden there.
I may have to cut him down here in the hall, I thought. I wasn’t sure I could. He was far bigger than I and certainly stronger, and if I missed with my first stroke, he could probably snap me in two with his huge peasant’s hands.
“Why not give it to me to pass along then, Father,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as querulous and weak to him as it did to me. “I assume by your outfit that you have somewhere else you must be?”
I was really just trying to buy some time. I needed to be just a few steps back, so that I would have room to draw steel, but not so far away as to be unable to close and strike. I had no idea what I might tell His Majesty to explain my murder of his wife’s closest advisor in the halls outside his chambers. But tales could be fabricated, evidence planted. I was not terribly good with a knife, but I had skills in that other department.
But the knife will have to come out first.
With that in mind, I took a small step back and prepared to pull my blade.
But, surprisingly, the mad monk stood just a single moment in thought, then turned and spoke to me.
“You are right, my son. I have somewhere to be. Somewhere important. The Tsar, bless him, is probably already closeted with his beautiful wife. No man should be disturbed at such a time. I will speak to him in the morning after our prayers.” He managed to pack information and insult in five short sentences before turning on his heel and marching away from me.
I stood and watched him disappear around a corner, sweat from my knife hand drip-dripping into my jacket.
My car followed Rasputin’s, but not that closely. I did not want to frighten him off. As we were both going to Prince Yusupov’s palace, and I knew where it was—well, didn’t everybody?—I could take a slightly longer route.
People of the Book: A Decade of Jewish Science Fiction & Fantasy Page 18