Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  She raised an eyebrow. “You came to see me?”

  “Yes.” He chuckled. “Your friends let me know plainly that I wasn't welcome.”

  “Oh.” Inga leaned over a long, thin table to straighten an embroidered runner underneath a colorful vase. “I’m sorry, Taras. If I’d known, I'd have sent word. I thought you would be busy, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “It would have been no bother. The last I saw of you, I didn't know if you would survive.”

  She put her duster down to straighten a tapestry that didn’t look askew. Then she turned to him. “I don’t think I was ever in much danger," she said with soft reassurance.

  “You weren’t?”

  She shrugged. “You got me back to Yehvah in plenty of time. I suppose I ought to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “If you hadn’t come with me to market, I would have fallen into the river. I certainly wouldn't have made it back to the palace, and no one would have known to look for me. Twice you saved my life that day.” She gazed up at him through her eyelashes. “Thank you.”

  He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he nodded. They stared at one another for a few seconds, then she turned back to her dusting.

  “Inga,” He took her wrist and gently turned her to face him. Stepping closer so he stood over her, he tried to look into her face, but she stared straight ahead, at his chest. With his forefinger, he lifted her chin. “What you did in the Square was amazing.”

  She barked a laugh, looking away again. “It wasn’t amazing, Taras. That child won’t survive. He’s probably gone, even now.”

  “Yes, but Inga, that’s my point.”

  She frowned.

  “You must have known he wouldn’t survive. Yet, you held onto him and nearly got yourself killed. If you knew what his fate would be, why did you try to save him?”

  She swept her gaze around, only throwing a glance his way every so often, and then looking away again. Shrugging uncomfortably, she gave a soft, shaky laugh. “I don’t know.” She searched the air for an answer. “I know what it’s like to be cold and alone and parentless.”

  Her mouth settled into a firm line. Taras remembered her saying something about her father abandoning her as a child. He wondered now if the set of her mouth came from sadness or bitterness.

  “If he only had a few days or hours left,” she said, “he ought to have spent them in a warm place. Not in the depths of a dark, icy river.” She looked down at her feet. “I don’t know why I held on, except if I hadn’t, I couldn't have lived with myself.”

  “Perhaps it’s the things we hold onto the hardest that make us the most human,” Taras said quietly.

  She gave him a forced, cheery smile. “You see, it was not heroism, but rather selfishness. It doesn’t make any sense at all, I suppose.”

  “Inga.” He waited until she met his gaze again. “You make more sense to me than anyone I’ve met here. I don’t think you know your own strength.”

  She stared into his eyes now. He trailed the back of his fingers along her cheek, letting them slide down her jaw. His thumb and forefinger took hold of her chin, lifting it toward him. The heaving of her chest became more pronounced. He leaned in toward her. She watched his face come nearer before closing her eyes. He closed his as he reached her.

  “Inga!”

  The angry voice startled Inga so much, her entire body jerked. She jumped far enough back to be completely out of his grasp. Taras let his breath out slowly, clinging to the sensation of her lips brushing against his, though they'd barely touched.

  Inga turned slowly toward the steely voice. “Yes, Yehvah?”

  Yehvah stood ten feet behind Inga. Taras had not heard her approach. She glared at Taras, her eyes threatening to scorch him where he stood. She shifted her gaze to Inga, her chest heaving. Her calm voice belied her crimson looks.

  “Bogdan needs your help in the kitchens.”

  Inga turned back toward Taras, giving him a half-apologetic, half-mortified look. She walked around Yehvah and disappeared around the corner.

  Yehvah glared at Taras as Inga’s steps retreated. Taras gazed back at her levelly. She meant to intimidate him with her anger, but he had no reason to be intimidated. She was, after all, only a maid.

  “My Lord Taras,” she said in a carefully controlled voice when Inga’s footfalls faded, “Inga is still not well.”

  Taras nodded. “I can see that.”

  Her eyebrows jumped. “And yet still you are here . . .” She studied the wall, emotions running across her face faster than Taras could register them.

  He sighed, trying to understand. “You think I’ve acted inappropriately?”

  Yehvah let out a bitter laugh. “My lord can do whatever he wishes.”

  “Yehvah.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so sharply. It startled her, and he quickly moderated it. “You know me. You know you can speak without fear. If you have something to say to me, say it.”

  She stared at him, flat-eyed, for several seconds. When she spoke, her voice sounded stern, but quiet. “I don’t want Inga hurt.”

  “Why do you assume I’ll hurt her?”

  Yehvah frowned, undecided. “My lord will forgive me?”

  “I told you I would.”

  She nodded. “Inga is the closest thing I have to a daughter. I look out for her.”

  He nodded. “I know that, too.”

  “You are a boyar. You are . . . different from us. I’m not saying you don’t have a good heart. I’m saying it doesn’t matter at all.” The words came faster and angrier as she went on. “You courtiers play your games and your intrigues. You take mistresses and throw them away at a moment’s notice. It doesn’t matter what you feel for her. That’s simply the way it is. You will end up hurting her.”

  Taras stared at her for a long time, fighting down the anger her words ignited in his chest. He walked toward her, seething. He would be well within his rights to hit her if he wanted, but he'd never struck a woman before, even a servant. He did not want to start now.

  He did not stop until he stood directly over her. Yehvah was taller than Inga, but Taras still towered head and shoulders over her.

  “Yehvah, look at me.”

  She trembled, but relaxed her shoulders and lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. Only then did her gaze rise to meet his.

  “I am not a courtier.” He glared his meaning into her eyes for another second, then walked away.

  BOGDAN LOOKED SURPRISED when Inga entered the kitchen. He hadn’t asked for her. It had simply been Yehvah’s excuse to get her away from Taras. Frowning, Bogdan set her to peeling potatoes.

  Not long after she began, Inga became aware of another presence in the kitchen. Several of Bogdan’s apprentices were there, as well as the usual complement of servants passing through, but this felt different. This presence was a strong, intimidating. Putting down her paring knife, Inga turned slowly toward the door.

  Yehvah stood there glaring at her. Bogdan’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two women.

  “Bogdan, I need to borrow Inga for a while.”

  “Of course, Yehvah, whatever you want. We can do without her for . . . however long you need her.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Inga walked toward Yehvah, who turned and led the way out. The farther they walked, the more Inga dreaded the stopping point. Yehvah obviously did not want to be overheard. The distance would be directly proportional to how loudly Yehvah planned to shout.

  They reached a vacant room. She held the door open, letting Inga enter first, then slammed it.

  “Inga, what is going through your head?”

  Inga turned, shrugging helplessly.

  “You told me this . . . arrangement wasn’t physical.”

  “It’s not. It hasn’t been—”

  “You can’t let it be.”

  Inga averted her eyes in frustration. She had no idea how to say what she wanted Yehvah to understand.

&nbs
p; Yehvah took a few steps toward her. “Is he going back on his word? Is he forcing this on you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good. He told you before he wouldn’t force you. Do you think he still stands by that now?”

  “I have no reason to believe he won’t—”

  “Then you must discourage him. Tell him you don’t want him. And let that be the end of it.” She spun toward the door.

  “Yehvah, wait.”

  Yehvah turned back, a dangerous look in her eyes.

  “I’m not sure I want to . . . discourage him.”

  “Inga—”

  “No. Listen. Is it such a bad thing to want?”

  Yehvah’s eyes softened. A little. “Of course not. It is human to want companionship. That does not give you license to become involved with this man.”

  “Why not?” The question sounded childish, but Inga refused drop this without a fight.

  “He’s a boyar, Inga.”

  “I know.”

  “He will hurt you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Eyes wide with awe, Yehvah threw her hands up. “Inga! I would think after all these years of spying and gossiping, you would understand by now how the court works. What exactly are you expecting to happen?”

  Inga shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he’ll fall in love with you? Want to marry you?”

  Inga sat on the edge of the vacant bed and kept her gaze on the floor. She didn’t want to admit to Yehvah she'd not thought that far ahead. She liked Taras, and it was nice to have a man’s attentions. She was an invisible maid, but he saw her.

  Yehvah came forward to kneel in front of Inga, taking her hands. “I love you, and you know this is not meant as a statement against you. We are maids. He is a boyar. Men like him . . . they may take us as mistresses, but they don’t marry us. He’ll be required to form an alliance. He’ll have to produce an heir to increase wealth and power for his wife’s family. When that happens, you’ll be the one with the lonely heart, not him.”

  Inga studied her hands, thinking. After a time, she raised her gaze again.

  “I’m sure you are right. Perhaps that will happen. No one can tell the future, Yehvah. There is something about him—about Taras. I feel . . . right when I’m with him. You can’t know for sure what he’ll do. He might truly come to feel for me—”

  “I don’t doubt he will. I’m telling you it won’t matter. Love does not figure in the politics of the Russian court. He will end up hurting you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes,” Yehvah shouted, straightening up, “I do! Trust me, Inga, it is not a heartache you want to feel.”

  Inga stared at Yehvah for a long time. She’d thought she knew everything about Yehvah. Perhaps she did not.

  “This happened to you.”

  Yehvah turned away, rubbing her forehead. “Yes.” She turned back.

  “When?”

  “When I was your age. He was a boyar. I went to him. We were . . . together. I fell in love with him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life happened, Inga, as I said before. His family forced him to marry a rich Ukrainian woman. He could have kept me as a mistress, but his father saw our strong attachment and thought it dangerous and forced his son to let me go. He abandoned me like a sack of moldy grain.”

  “Then what happened?” Inga’s voice sounded small. She could not make it stronger.

  “Nothing. For a long time, I existed with my loneliness.” Suddenly Yehvah smiled. She crossed the room to cup Inga’s face in her hand. “Then one night I found you, half-alive in a dark alley. You became my all, Inga. You were what I lived for. You filled so much of the emptiness when he was gone.” A tear escaped and raced down Yehvah’s cheek, and Inga found she had no more arguments.

  Yehvah wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. “Inga, I cannot begin to describe the heartache. I don’t know how I survived it. Surviving is not living. I don’t want that for you. Promise me you will end this.”

  Inga blinked away tears of her own. When Yehvah touched her, Inga felt the other woman’s pain coming through her fingertips. She nodded.

  “All right.”

  Chapter 24

  ON THE DAY APPOINTED for Taras and Nikolai to visit the old woman again, Taras dressed in a hurry, wanting to speak to the woman before reporting for duty. That he might have a solid lead about his mother's death put a spring in his step.

  As he finished dressing, a soft knock came at the door. Anatoly answered it as Taras donned his coat. Voices murmured on the other side. Then Anatoly shut the door.

  “A messenger from Lord Nikolai. He asks that you meet him as quickly as possible. He says you’ll know where.”

  “I’m on my way to meet him now. Nikolai knows I’m com—” Taras looked at his servant, his heart beating faster. “Why would Nikolai ask me to meet him when he must know I’m already on my way?”

  “As I said, my lord, he simply asks that you hurry.”

  Without another word, Taras gathered up his sword and strode from the room, not bothering with the final buttons on his coat. Something was wrong. Nikolai wouldn’t send such a message otherwise.

  Jogging through the corridors, dodging servants, clerks, and boyars alike, Taras made his way to the door leading to the servants’ quarters. Throwing open the large outer door, he hurried down the long, narrow corridor. Up ahead, Nikolai leaned out of the door to the old woman’s room. When he recognized Taras, he motioned with his arm for Taras to come faster.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Nikolai put a hand on Taras’s chest to stop him. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “What?”

  Nikolai sighed, looking tired. “The priest is here. We’ve sent for an undertaker.”

  Taras followed Nikolai into the room. He first thought someone had spilled water. Liquid covered the floor, reflecting the dancing fire with perfect clarity. It wasn’t water. No wonder the fire’s reflection looked so clear: a pool blood, not yet congealed. The old woman lay face-up in a large, oblong pool of it, legs stretched out and hands folded peacefully on her belly. The left side of her head showed a bloody mass of hair, gore, even a few small flecks of bone.

  A priest administered the Last Rites. He droned on in Latin as Taras swept his eyes around the room, trying to gather details.

  The bed had been stripped bare. The basket, which had held the woman’s knitting supplies, lay empty. The stool she’d sat on was missing.

  When the undertaker came, Nikolai and Taras left the room. The room simply was not large enough for four men.

  “Nikolai—”

  “Wait. Not here.”

  They walked in silence back to Nikolai’s rooms, where his manservant stoked the fire. Nikolai dismissed him.

  “She was murdered,” Taras said as soon as the man left.

  “What did you see?”

  “Everything was gone, as if she’d been robbed.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  “I think horse manure is clearer. Why would anyone steal threadbare sheets and a stool when richer booty is not far away?”

  Nikolai nodded his approval. “Precisely. Someone wants to make it look like a theft. An explainable, random act of violence.”

  “You’re saying it’s not.”

  “Taras, this woman was about to give us the first real information we’ve found about your mother’s death. On the very morning she is to speak to us, she ends up dead?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Someone doesn’t want you finding answers.”

  Taras ran a hand through his hair, feeling light-headed. He walked to the open window. “I got this woman killed.”

  “We’ve not been left empty handed, Taras. She said her daughter worked at an estate nearby. I’ll wager Yehvah knows the name of the daughter. We can talk to her. I’ll see Yehvah this afternoon.”

  “I’m not sure
we should do that.”

  Nikolai arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Didn’t you hear me, Nikolai? I got this woman killed. She’s dead because she wanted to help me.” He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling.

  Nikolai stayed quiet a long time. “It isn’t your fault, Taras.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You didn’t kill her. She helped us of her own free will. No one forced her.” He put a hand on Taras’s shoulder. “She claimed more winters than the two of us combined, Taras. We must simply take greater precautions when speaking with her daughter. If you give up now, she will have died in vain.”

  Taras turned to look at Nikolai in surprise.

  “I wasn’t considering giving up.” He sighed. “I didn’t realize before how much this would cost.”

  “And now that you do?”

  Taras swallowed, pushing the sadness away. He had soldiering to do. He would deal with his grief later.

  “You’ll speak to Yehvah?”

  “Of course.”

  THE ENGLISHMAN LEFT Nikolai Petrov’s rooms minutes after going in.

  The man watching him from around the corner had servants who could spy for him, but this intrigue he need to give personal attention to. He’d donned the cloak of a stable hand, pulling up the cowl to hide his face. It smelled of manure, and the burlap itched against his perfumed skin. It was an unfortunate necessity. No one would notice a dirty, stinking servant skulking in one of the palace’s many passages.

  They’d found the old woman’s body. The man frowned. Nikolai and the Englishman conferred for far too short a time. It hadn’t taken them long to come to whatever conclusion they did. They would have to be watched.

  After the Englishman asked the tsar in open court whether he could investigate, the man made several well-placed threats and thought the matter would be closed. He didn’t think anyone who knew what happened back then would admit to it, but that didn’t mean the Englishman couldn’t stir up trouble.

  He didn't worry about Nikolai Petrov. Non-confrontational, and more concerned with his own safety than anything else, Nikolai could be bullied. This Taras was another matter. That was the problem with foreigners: they weren’t Russian. It made them unpredictable. The English, in particular, were known to be independent, strong-willed, and stubborn as mules.