The soldier on duty at the Imperial Army’s office was asleep at his desk. Pasha frowned. He had gone to all the trouble of disguising himself as an infantryman from a regiment out of town—complete with a story about why he needed to access his uncle’s records for an honor his fabricated city was bestowing upon said uncle—but it seemed all his preparations were unnecessary. It was also a bit disappointing that this was what a soldier in Pasha’s army did when no one was looking. Then again, this was a records office, not an outpost at the edges of the Ottoman Empire. Even Pasha had to admit that if his job were sitting at this desk, he’d nap to pass the time too.
He slipped into the back of the office, past the snoring soldier, and availed himself of the files in the drawers.
The records were tidy, and this was certainly something of which Pasha could be proud. The Imperial Army was one of the finest in Europe, from their fighting against Napoleon down to their polished boots, from the wisdom of their commanders to the documentation for every soldier, so precise it was as if Yuliana herself had made the notations for each one.
Pasha riffled through the yellowed papers, working backward in time until he found 1807.
Please, let there be a record here of Okhotnikov’s death.
He peeked through the door to the soldier out front, and upon hearing him still snoring, pulled a fat stack of papers from the drawer. Pasha sat with them on the floor, out of the soldier’s line of sight, in case he woke.
Records of new recruits. Of retirements. Of promotions and approvals for sick leave.
And then, a notice of death.
Alexis Okhotnikov, staff captain of the Guard.
Cause of death: stabbing, assailant unknown.
Pasha’s breath came fast and shallow. He clutched the paper to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned back against the wall.
Before he’d left Yuliana’s chambers, she’d shown him the rest of her notes. After the loss of “the candle that lit her nights,” there were no more mentions of other lovers, and the tsarina began to write her friends more of the tsar’s renewed attention to her. And then of her pregnancy.
With Okhotnikov’s death record still in his hand, Pasha covered his face and processed the information.
“I really am a Romanov,” he whispered. “I am the tsesarevich. The crown belongs to me.” His voice shook as he uttered the words.
No, not just words. The truth.
But then he suddenly pulled his hands from his face and sat upright. Just because he was the legitimate heir didn’t mean his ascension was guaranteed. Plenty of kingdoms had been wrenched from their rightful rulers. Nikolai had been relentless in pursuing the crown. He wouldn’t stop simply because Pasha had evidence that he was first in line.
Pasha pounded the floor with a fist and got to his feet. His job was not done. For now he knew for certain he was supposed to be tsar.
“And I’m going to prove it.”
Outside one of the larger barracks, a crowd several men deep was ringed around a pair of wrestlers, who circled each other, shirtless. The snow had been cleared half an hour ago, when the soldiers had grown listless and had too much to drink—they’d managed to “procure” three crates of vodka from an unattended cart on Sadovaya Street—and now they pummeled out their boredom with fists and wagers and, of course, more vodka.
Pasha, still in disguise as a soldier from another regiment, threw himself into their midst. If he was going to rule the empire, he had to do so in a way that worked for him—diving into the reality of his people.
Pasha had attended a recent Imperial Council meeting, though (much to the council members’ surprise), and he’d learned that the constitutionalists were leveraging Nikolai’s fete and the evils of magic to bring the army to their side. Until now, only a minority faction of the nobility had supported the idea of a constitutional monarchy, and even then, it had been an academic, almost theoretical discussion. But recruiting common soldiers was alarming, because it took a philosophical idea from fancy parlors and turned it into a real potential threat.
Ilya had turned out to be a lousy spy—he hadn’t overheard anything worthy to report—so now Pasha had to see for himself if it was true.
“Hey, you gonna make a wager? Bogdan or Grigory?” A soldier lurched toward the group of men beside Pasha.
“Nah,” one of them said. “Not stupid enough to bet on the bear with such pathetic odds, and not drunk enough to put money on the scrawny one.”
The soldier laughed and slapped him on the back. “Hear, hear.”
Bogdan was indeed a bear of a man, not only in size but also in the sheer amount of fur on his chest, and he’d beaten five straight soldiers in the last fifteen minutes. He took a swig from a bottle offered him from one of his friends and paced the snowless ground some more.
Grigory was smaller. He was slower, too, both in wit and actual speed. But he was far less drunk than Bogdan, which made him a contender. He bounced on the soles of his boots as Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
“I’ll wager Grigory wins this match,” Pasha said.
The soldier lifted a brow. Then he grinned. “Well, well, a patron for David in his battle against Goliath. How much?”
Pasha was tempted to toss in twice whatever the highest gamble had been. But right then, Bogdan slammed an elbow into Grigory’s nose and left his face a fountain of blood. Pasha heard Yuliana’s voice in his head, reprimanding him for being too impetuous, and so he reluctantly said, “The minimum.”
The soldier snorted. “Not actually much of a patron, are you?”
“Just not comfortable with too much risk,” Pasha said. Which wasn’t true at all. Yuliana was the rule follower. Pasha was the one always getting scolded for taking risks. But he passed a rumpled bill and a few coins to the soldier anyway.
As soon as the money exchanged hands, Bogdan smashed his fist into Grigory’s chest, and Grigory collapsed onto the cold ground. Bogdan hovered. The ring of soldiers went silent as they waited. Grigory didn’t move.
Bogdan dropped his defensive stance and stepped closer to Grigory. Someone shouted from the crowd, “You better not have killed him!”
Grigory groaned and rolled onto his back. The soldier who was acting as judge shouted, “Bogdan wins again!” Bogdan flexed his biceps and grunted.
The man next to Pasha slapped him on the back. He reeked of vodka, and he slurred as he asked, “Who are you, stranger? Anyone here would know that wagering against Bogdan is always a losing bet.”
Pasha gave the man beside him a practiced look of dismay. “I’m on leave from my company outside Saint Petersburg, just here visiting family. I ought to refrain from betting at all, for I enjoy it when the dark horse wins, and I bet on them more often than not. But they’re ‘dark horses’ for a reason.”
The soldier offered Pasha a half-drunk bottle of vodka. “Drown the loss?”
Pasha grabbed the bottle by its neck and took a long swig, wiping his mouth afterward with his sleeve (and being careful not to disturb his temporary mustache). He handed the bottle back to the soldier. “Thank you, er . . . ?”
“Name’s Yuri.”
“Just Yuri? No patronymic?” It was odd to introduce oneself without the middle name that honored one’s father. Then again, Yuri wasn’t exactly steady on his feet at the moment. It was perhaps a feat for him to remember any part of his name at all.
Yuri took another drink. “My mother was rather, shall we say, popular in her youth. You know, like the late tsarina.” Yuri laughed, spitting sloppily as he did so.
Pasha drew back a fist. “How dare you insult Her Imperial Majesty!”
“My apologies. Were you one of her lovers?” Yuri grinned.
Pasha was about to swing at Yuri when someone behind him caught his arm.
“Hey,” Bogdan growled, spinning Pasha around to face him. “No punching the drunkards. It’s not fair. I’ll fight you instead, Pretty Boy.”
Pasha looked up at Bogdan. The fur on his chest was matted with sweat. His muscles flexed. He was a real-life Goliath.
But Pasha seethed with indignation, and he wasn’t about to back down. Besides, it would be embarrassing and dishonorable to back down. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to pay for Yuri’s insult, I’ll fight you. But since you talk of fairness, let’s account for the obvious—size. I propose we use swords rather than fists to make it an even fight.” Pasha was the best fencer in Saint Petersburg. He stood a chance with swords.
“Whatever you want. Doesn’t matter, ’cause I don’t lose.” Bogdan cracked his knuckles.
The drunk soldiers around them looked from Bogdan to Pasha for a moment. Then a cheer swept the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The soldier who’d been serving as judge of the wrestling matches appeared with two swords. He gave Pasha first choice.
Pasha picked up both blades and weighed them in his hands. He chose the lighter one. Not as strong, but easier to maneuver. Agility was often underestimated in the face of strength.
Bogdan grabbed his sword with one hand, and his crotch with the other. The gesture that followed was the opposite of polite.
All right. This wouldn’t be anything like the gentlemanly fencing matches to which Pasha was accustomed. But he’d adjust. It couldn’t be that different, could it?
Bogdan swung his sword in a broad arc, viciously enough to sever Pasha’s head. Pasha yelped and leaped backward.
Never mind. It was very different.
“Pretty Boy is quick on his feet,” Bogdan said. The crowd jeered.
Pasha advanced and attacked.
Bogdan parried and lunged at Pasha.
Pasha deflected and attacked again. Their swords moved quickly, like flashes of violently choreographed silver. Once in the rhythm of the fight, it was not so different from the beat of fencing. Parry-riposte, parry-riposte, parry-riposte. Deflect-attack, deflect-attack, deflect-attack.
Bogdan lunged again, but Pasha suspected it was a feint. He didn’t parry. Bogdan quickly recovered and changed tactics.
Pasha dodged. But then he stumbled as a muscle in his abdomen cramped, exactly where Vika had extracted Nikolai’s poisoned gear.
Luckily, Bogdan was slow, at least in comparison to Pasha. Pasha inhaled sharply, forcing himself to ignore the cramp, and advanced to execute his own feint.
Bogdan moved to parry. Not fast enough, though. Pasha circled his sword under Bogdan’s and pressed the point of his blade against Bogdan’s hairy chest, right in the center above his heart.
Bogdan’s nostrils flared like those of an incensed bull. He scowled down at Pasha.
Pasha’s muscles ached, but his hand was steady. A bit more pressure from his sword, and Bogdan’s blood would spill.
Bogdan glared at Pasha for another long moment. Then he dropped his sword on the ground and raised both hands in defeat. Suddenly, he began to laugh, a deep, rumbling belly laugh. “Not bad, Pretty Boy. Not bad.”
Pasha held the cramp at his stomach. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re the best fighter here. Other than me, of course.”
Pasha didn’t point out that he had actually just defeated Bogdan.
“How long are you in town, Pretty Boy? And how strong is your allegiance to the imperial family? Do you really care about that bastard tsesarevich, or were you just defending the late tsarina’s honor out of respect, as any good man should?” Bogdan shot a glare at Yuri. Yuri shrugged and giggled.
Pasha carefully set his sword on the ground. As carefully as he could he answered, “I don’t think it’s fair to insult the dead. They cannot defend themselves.”
“And what about the living?” Bogdan asked.
“The living can fight.”
Bogdan grunted in agreement. “We could use more men like you. Especially since your company is stationed outside the city.”
Pasha borrowed a bottle from a nearby soldier and took a couple of drinks before he spoke again. “What do you mean, you could use more men like me?”
“Do you believe in Russia?”
Pasha nodded.
“And do you believe all men are worth the same in God’s eyes?”
The soldiers around them began to chuckle under their breaths.
“Watch out!” Yuri shouted, seeming to have forgotten that Pasha had been about to punch him not too long ago. “Bogdan will try to recruit you to fight the tsesarevich and kill his witch.”
Bogdan glared at him.
“It’s all right,” Pasha lied. “I already know. Word has reached my company, too.”
A crooked smile spread across Bogdan’s face then, revealing a bear’s worth of yellowed teeth. “Better than we’d hoped. We’ll see you then, when we march against the tsesarevich and block his path to Moscow?”
Pasha hesitated. The constitutionalists already had concrete plans? They were going to ambush him on the road next month so he couldn’t go to his coronation ceremony?
“Don’t look so worried,” Yuri said, pointing his near-empty bottle in their direction. “If you and your men don’t show, Bogdan will single-handedly block the road. He’ll just sit in the middle of it. And he’ll sit on the witch, too!”
The soldiers broke into rowdy guffaws and clinked bottles. Pasha pulled himself together and faked a hearty laugh along with them.
But Bogdan didn’t laugh. And inside, Pasha didn’t either.