by Eric Flint
“I understand.” Lufti Pasha smiled at Colonel Shuvalov. Clearly a man who knew how to play the game. “We will not be meeting him, I take it?”
“I am afraid not,” Colonel Shuvalov said. “He is supervising an installation in Dedovsk.”
The installation in question was a prototype telephone system, about which Bernie said he knew almost nothing and was skeptical it would succeed. He was not even there. The project was being carried out entirely by Russians working for Director Sheremetev, who was hoping to be able to dispense eventually with the up-time advisers; both of whom, for different reasons, were obstreperous.
But there was no reason to get into that with the Ottomans. Politely, the colonel gestured toward a corridor leading off from the salon. “Now, if you will come this way, we will show you the chemistry labs, where we make dyes and medicines-and if we can get better access to your naphtha, we will be making fuels and plastic materials.”
Shuvalov took the visiting Turks off with him, discussing Russia selling them manufactured goods and buying oil and gold. The Turks seemed rather more willing to part with oil than with gold. Natasha thought that would change over time.
“We have very little choice, Papa,” Pavel said. “A thousand AK3’s to the Turks, due very soon, with more to follow. From what they’re saying, a lot more.”
Boris nodded. He thought selling the new weapons to the Ottoman empire was probably short-sighted, but…
It was hard to say. The war raging between the USE and Poland could produce any number of outcomes. In some of those outcomes, having a well-armed Turkish neighbor could be to Russia’s advantage.
Besides, it was probably all a moot point. The AK3 was a simple weapon to make, when all was said and done. Selling one to the Ottoman Empire or the Poles or anyone else was not much different from selling a million of them since there was no way that they could keep the Ottoman Empire or the Poles-or the Swedes, for that matter-from getting hold of an example rifle. So they might as well sell as many as they could. At least they weren’t selling the Ottomans the breech-loading cannon. Yet, anyway.
And, otherwise, things were getting better… mostly. Not so much for the bureau men as for Russia in general. Oil and silver were arriving from the Ottoman Empire, even some food from their Balkan provinces. Wheat was expensive in Moscow, but not yet too expensive. Steam engines, rifles and other things were going south in exchange.
“And so, certain boyars gain more silver and gold from the, ah, southern trade,” Boris said. “But at least they haven’t shorted the grain supply… much.”
“And our people are prepared.” Pavel smiled. Potatoes had become incredibly popular among the peasants. You could hide a plot of potatoes from the taxman, or at least hide how many there were. There was considerable upset among the bureau men about the amount of farming equipment that was going south. But it was quiet, underground resentment. “Three of our people have paid off their debt and gone to work for the railroad.”
“Signing loan from the railroad?” Boris asked and Pavel nodded. Even with the economy expanding and with inflation, enough rubles for a peasant to pay his way out of debt were hard to come by. So companies that had the money had started using signing loans to clear the peasant’s debt, or, more accurately, transfer it to the company. Since the railroad was owned by the Sheremetev family, it had plenty of money for signing loans.
Except for its habit of nicking other peoples’ serfs, the railroad from Moscow to Smolensk was a project that Boris strongly approved of. It used wooden rails, which would require constant maintenance. But Russia was well-supplied with wood, whereas iron and steel were far too expensive for such a massive project.
Boris wondered about the railroad. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was one of the leaders of the pro-Polish-it might be better to say, less-anti-Polish-faction in the Boyar Duma. The railroad could serve to facilitate trade with Poland, and through Poland with Austria-Hungary, but it could also be used as logistical support for an attack on Poland. Boris wondered which the director-general had in mind. Probably both.
Meanwhile the industrial base along the Volga was producing more and more goods. Mostly simple stuff. The stuff that didn’t need that much infrastructure. But it was surprising how much fell into that category, when it wasn’t competing with established products.
“And our factory?” Boris waited for his son to find the figures, then said, “Excellent. Absolutely excellent.”
Freeze drying is expensive and time consuming when compared to canning… if you already have the infrastructure for a canning industry. It’s much less so when it’s competing against small-scale canning and down-time preservation methods. Once you had the foods freeze-dried, they were lightweight and stayed good for a long time. Which made them highly prized, both by the military and the civilian population. Boris’ family and some partners from the Grantville Section had put together a small freeze-drying plant near the family’s lands and added a lot of gardening. Carrots, onions, peas, cabbage, beets, even berries, were all being diced up and freeze-dried, then sealed in waxed paper pouches and stored in crates. Quite a bit of it was sold to the army and more in Moscow. Aside from the extra income, it meant that they had fresh (or the next thing to it) fruits and vegetables even in late winter and early spring. Which did good things for the health of his family and his serfs.
The new farming equipment meant that he needed a lot less labor in the fields most of the time, which had given the serfs time for the gardening. Boris, with his connection to the Dacha and the information from Grantville and the Ring of Fire, was running a year or more ahead of his neighbors, which meant that his family was doing a lot better than others of the same rank. Which was a good thing because there was considerable inflation of paper money, and silver was increasingly hard to come by. A paper ruble was-by law-worth the same as a silver ruble, but-in fact-worth less. How much less? No one knew. Gresham’s Law was working at full force in Russia where the ruble was legally the same whether silver or paper, but not in Grantville where American dollars weren’t tied to silver. Boris was, of course, paid in paper rubles-so the farm income was especially important.
Boris went back to his paperwork, wondering how things were going at the Dacha.
Chapter 67
October 1635
Father Nikon walked down the hallway of the patriarch’s palace as though he had every right to be there. He didn’t. At least not officially. The person who occupied the patriarch’s seat would have said he didn’t, but he had God’s permission to be here, so he didn’t much care what Filaret thought. The monastery he was from wasn’t the one his papers said he was from, or he would have had guards escorting him everywhere. Father Nikon was here because Filaret feared the up-time wisdom and wanted to keep it all to himself. But God had provided that wisdom to the entire world and Filaret was serving the devil in attempting to restrict it.
Archbishop Joseph Kurtsevich and Father Nikon had discussed the matter several times and both the wealth and the new spiritual wisdom that God had sent from that other future had demonstrated that Filaret didn’t hold God’s favor. Control of the God-provided wealth of knowledge from the future didn’t belong in the hands of a man who was so stingy with its benefits.
Filaret was holding back the religious truth revealed by the up-timers. God had passed a great new miracle by bringing forth an entire new town from the future. Possessing new truths, practical as well as spiritual. But the false patriarch, Filaret, was suppressing the truth in order to maintain his personal power. He was rejecting the spiritual aspects of that new truth, considering only those dribbles that might seem useful to him at the moment.
So Father Nikon had been told. So Father Nikon believed.
He would remove the impediment and God’s Grace and the up-timer’s knowledge would flow into Holy Rus as a great flood of cleansing.
Here in the patriarch’s palace, priests’ robes were not the least bit uncommon. And three additional priests wouldn�
��t be noticed in any way, so long as they kept their six-shooters hidden. Father Nikon was proud of his. It would be the instrument of God’s will. There were privileges that went with devotion to God. Father Nikon was confident that he would receive them in this world or the next.
The door to the patriarch’s private quarters were guarded but that was expected. Father Nikon walked by them and then turned to face the guard as though just remembering something. The guard turned to look at him and Father Simon grabbed him by the throat and stuck a knife in his back. But the man didn’t die quietly. He jerked and tried to scream and banged a fist on the door to the patriarch’s rooms.
Filaret looked up when the pounding on the door began, annoyed. “What is that noise?” he grumbled. “Go out there and stop it.”
The guard, obeying his instructions, opened the door only to be flung back into the room as the door was slammed inward. Filaret stood, in shock, as the men rushed into the room.
Almost before Filaret consciously realized what was happening, he ducked behind his desk and started scrambling to get the drawer open. Filaret, too, had one of the Gun Shop’s six-shooters that had been introduced by Cass Lowry.
Filaret’s guardsman started to shout, then there was a loud bang. Filaret never reached his six-shooter. The men ran around his desk and three shots were fired.
The noise brought more guards, as Father Nikon had expected. What he hadn’t expected was the bullet that entered his heart. Because he’d been assured that, once the false patriarch was dead, he would be safe and protected.
Father Simon was killed next, then Father Petr joined him.
“What’s going on here?” Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev shouted. “Where is my cousin? We have an appointment.”
“The patriarch has been murdered.”
“How did you allow this to happen? Where are the assassins?”
“I don’t know, sir. The two guards that were here are dead. We had to kill the assassins. They were armed with up-time weapons. Could they have been sent by the Swede?”
“Oh, my God. My cousin! The patriarch and I disagreed on many things, but Russia is a poorer place without him. For now we must see to protecting the czar and the royal family. Come with me, Captain.”
Over the next few hours, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev went about protecting the realm from the unknown threat. Just as he’d intended. He spirited Czar Mikhail and his family out of Moscow, and then called an emergency meeting of the Boyar Duma.
The rumors started spreading before the meeting started, for Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev had seeded the ground.
The primary rumor was that the czar and the patriarch had had a major argument over Czar Mikhail’s plan to allow all serfs who could afford to buy out of their bondage to the land to do so. In the course of that argument, it was said, Filaret had suffered a heart attack.
A secondary rumor was that Czar Mikhail had shot his father.
Another was that he collapsed, weeping hysterically, when he heard the news.
But, consistent among them all, was that without Filaret’s influence, the czar would allow the serfs to run free.
Moscow was packed with service nobility, whose estates would be left worthless by such an act.
Chapter 68
“Back,” Boris said softly. “Get back.”
Pavel pulled his head away from the alley’s mouth. “We can’t go that way, Papa.”
“Then we’ll turn back and try another. We’ve got to get home to your mother and get her out of here.”
Boris and Pavel had rushed home, taking as many back ways as possible. There was danger on the major streets of Moscow, and it wasn’t just the burning buildings. Gunshots were frequent.
When they reached the house, Mariya had already packed. An old Moscow hand, she’d smelled the smoke and heard the shots. Fire was never a good thing in wooden Moscow, which had burned and arose from its own ashes numerous times.
“What started it this time?” Mariya asked.
“The patriarch is dead and there are crazy rumors making the rounds,” Boris said. “But they all seem to agree that the czar is planning to free the serfs.”
“He’d never do it,” Mariya said.
“I don’t know,” Boris said. “He’s been influenced a lot by the up-timers and the way they feel about serfdom is totally unreasonable.” Boris shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter now. Get the bags out to the carriage.”
“Where are we going, Papa?”
“You and your mother are going home to the village. On your way, stop by the Dacha and pick up Ivan.”
“You think it’s that bad?” Mariya asked.
“Yes. This isn’t just a riot. This is politics,” Boris said.
“I don’t understand,” Pavel said, somewhat apologetically.
“That’s because you don’t remember the Time of Troubles,” his mother explained. “ Dvoriane serve Russia and stay out of politics. Especially at times like these.”
“But surely not this time. This time the dvoriane are involved and the boyars’ sons as well. This is about the serfs and the limited year. Our friends and our neighbors are involved. Many of them could lose everything if their serfs run off looking for gold-”
Suddenly Pavel found himself against the wall with his father’s hand around his throat. Pavel was a fairly tall young man, taking more after his mother than his father. He was also fairly quick, but he had been looking right at Papa and hadn’t even seen him move.
“Yes,” Boris said. “And whoever wins, a lot of them are going to die in the next few days and weeks. The ones who have made too much noise. Someone is giving the dvoriane enough rope to hang ourselves. The bureaus are going to be purged. That includes friends of ours, people we have known for years. But it’s not going to include your mother or your brothers or you. Not if I can help it. We don’t stay out of politics because we don’t care, boy. We stay out of politics to stay alive. And I’ll tell you something else. Whoever wins, it won’t be the serfs and it won’t be the dvoriane, the boyars’ sons or the Streltzi. It will be a faction of the high families. And any dvoriane who gets involved will lose… even if they are on the winning side this time.”
Pavel looked at his mother but she was looking back at him just as hard-eyed as his father. “You don’t remember what it was like when we had three czars in as many weeks, Pavel. But I do and your papa does.”
“Now, are you going to do what I tell you to?” Boris asked and Pavel felt his father’s fingers tighten around his throat. Pavel nodded.
Then his father released him and went on as though nothing had happened. “On the way, you pick up Ivan. Thank God that two of your brothers are in Germany already. If Natasha asks what’s happening, tell her but don’t dally to do it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Dacha is targeted in the next few days.”
Boris’ estimate was off. When Pavel and Mariya passed the Dacha there were troops already there. In fact, there were troops at the Dacha before the riot was well started.
After seeing his wife and son off, Boris went back to the office. This was a time to be precisely where you were supposed to be and easy to find-so people wouldn’t think you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, doing something you shouldn’t.
By the time he got to the office, several of his more experienced people were already there. “Gregori, I need you to sanitize our records.”
“You think we’re going to get inspected?” Gregori asked, then blushed for such a silly question.
“Of course we will. Every bureau in Russia is going to get inspected after this. Oh… and Gregori… not too sanitized.”
Gregori smiled. It was still a rather nervous smile, but at least it was the smile of a man who knew what he had to do. The way these things went, the inspectors would keep looking until they found something. It was best to leave them something minor to find.
“I’m sorry,” Colonel Shuvalov said politely. “But I have my orders from the Boyar Duma.”
&nbs
p; From the Boyar Duma, Natasha noted. Not from the czar or from the Assembly of the Land. Just the Boyar Duma. The cabinet and the bureau heads had taken over the government. The troops, she was told, were there for the protection of the Dacha. Natasha also noted that the colonel was a member of the Sheremetev faction at court. Which wasn’t good news. The takeover of the Dacha was amazingly anticlimactic, certainly for most of the people living and working there. From the start, the majority of the workers and researchers had been from the dvoriane and the deti boyars. Including a couple of boyars’ sons. Oh, there were a few peasants who had, through talent and work, made a place for themselves among the researchers. Anya and a few others. And more Streltzi, especially where craftsmanship was needed. But the cultural outlook of the Dacha was that of the dvoriane: do your job and stay away from politics. At least court politics… the bureaus had their own.
Unfortunately, that option wasn’t really available to Natasha. What protected her was the value of the Dacha itself. That, and keeping her silence. Changes were happening all over. The winners were moving their family members into positions of greater influence.
Chapter 69
December 1635
“Where are you headed, Tim?” Ivan Maslov asked, looking over Lieutenant Boris “Tim” Timofeyevich Lebedev’s new uniform-complete with the new lieutenant’s insignia-with more than a touch of envy. Then he grinned. Tim was finally back in Moscow having-lucky fellow-missed Sheremetev’s takeover in his absence. Tim was still not as good as Ivan was at war games but was getting better. More importantly he was a friend, and Ivan was pragmatic enough to realize that Tim’s friendship was even more important now than it had been before the coup.
Tim shuddered. “My uncle… he requires my report.”