At the same time, Pasha was walking through the center of the ballroom, where Vika’s Kazakh dome had been set up behind locked doors so the palace servants wouldn’t stumble upon the magical scene. He shook his head as he and his sister, Yuliana, wove in and out of the marketplace stalls for the umpteenth time this morning, listening to the conversations for any hint about a threatened rebellion against the Russians.
“There’s nothing in here about Qasim or his revolt,” Pasha said.
Yuliana crossed her arms and kicked the edge of the dome. “Vika didn’t do her job.”
“Actually, she did what we asked of her, only you’re frustrated it didn’t turn out as you’d hoped.” Pasha winked, a small dose of teasing to ease the truth. “Perhaps there’s no information because there’s nothing happening in that part of the empire right now. Have you considered that you might be looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist?”
“Looking for trouble where it supposedly doesn’t exist is precisely what a good tsar needs to do. If you see it only when it’s obvious, then it’s already too late.”
Pasha’s stomach plummeted, and he stopped midstride next to a vendor selling silver earrings. Here it was again, the truth that he was not ready or fit to be tsar, that his sister was the one really keeping the empire afloat. Pasha’s major accomplishments for the day only included shaving (finally) and turning up in this ballroom when he was supposed to.
Yuliana cut across the dome to his side. “Mon frère, I didn’t mean to imply—”
Pasha held up a hand. “It’s fine. You spoke the truth.”
“It’s a particular flaw of mine.”
“No, it’s a relief to know you’ll tell me what’s real rather than kowtowing at my feet like everyone else in this palace. It’s a relief someone capable will be by my side to care for the empire.”
“You’re more than capable,” Yuliana said. “You have remarkable instincts about people. I’m good with hard facts and figures. We simply have different strengths.” She stood on her toes and pecked Pasha on the cheek.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
“I know so.” She smiled, which she did so rarely that it made the gesture worth all the more. Pasha’s stomach settled. Mostly.
“On that note,” he said, “I actually have another meeting to attend.”
Yuliana quirked a brow. “With whom?”
“Major General Volkonsky. He requested an audience.”
“Do you—”
“No, I can handle it,” Pasha said, for he already knew what his sister was about to offer. “Besides, it will give you more time to go through this dome at your leisure.”
Yuliana looked around the Kazakh marketplace, which had restarted itself from the beginning of the scene Vika captured. The conversations were commencing again, like actors rehearsing from the top of a play.
There really was nothing here. But Yuliana won’t let it go until she’s been through it a dozen times more, Pasha thought. He knew his sister well.
Just as Yuliana knew him. She nodded, agreeing to let him see Volkonsky on his own, because she understood that this was something Pasha needed to do to prove his capability to himself.
He gave her a cursory smile—although he was sure she could see his anxiety, only thinly veiled—and hurried out of the ballroom.
“His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich, Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov,” the young guard Ilya announced as Pasha arrived in the throne room.
Volkonsky was already there, standing at attention. He was only thirty-seven, but his military experience and fame gave him the gravitas of someone much older. His brown hair was neatly combed, his sideburns fashionably long yet tidy, and his dark-blue uniform was perfectly pressed. Medals clinked against one another on his chest as he bowed.
Pasha ascended the dais and sat on the throne. The velvet cushion beneath him was plush, but the gold armrests—sculpted as screaming eagles—were cold, even through his gloves. He tried not to look too uncomfortable.
“Please rise, Major General,” Pasha said.
Volkonsky stood upright. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Imperial Highness.”
“It’s an honor to have you in my court,” Pasha said. The major general was one of the most admired noblemen in Russia, and the Volkonskys were a dynasty descended from fourteenth-century nobility. “What can I do for you?”
“My men and I are looking forward to your upcoming coronation. And it is because of the changing of the throne that I’ve come today. I would like to propose that you reconsider your father’s policies regarding serfdom.”
Pasha tilted his head to indicate that he was listening.
Volkonsky nodded and continued. “Serfdom is essentially indentured servitude. England stopped the backward practice centuries ago, but here we are in 1825, still forcing peasants to work with no prospect of freedom. I’ve fought side by side with noblemen and serfs alike, and we are, at our core, the same. Serfs are men, passionate Russians, and they are as much responsible for the defeat of Napoleon and the continued greatness of our empire as I am. So why, in times of peace, do we not accord them the same respect?”
Pasha clutched the screaming eagle armrests of the throne as he tried to get comfortable with being in charge. But then he reminded himself that his father had lectured him on the issue of serfdom; it was not a subject that Pasha knew nothing about.
“I sympathize with your compassion, Major General. But the solution cannot be as simple as abolishing serfdom. It’s an issue that my father studied, and it is incredibly complex. Where would the serfs live, and how would they provide for their families, were they given their freedom from the nobles they serve? They would not be able to afford to rent the land they work, and therefore would not be able to generate enough income to feed their families and pay for the roofs above their heads. And there are so many more complications.”
“So you mean to do nothing?” Volkonsky asked.
Pasha frowned. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t attempt to make changes. But he couldn’t commit to anything because he knew there was more to this conversation that was being left unsaid. The Imperial Council had warned the late tsar that some of the aristocracy returning from the Napoleonic wars had, despite fighting for Russia, been seduced by the democratic philosophies of the West. They didn’t like Russia’s autocracy, and abolishing serfdom was only one of their requests. They wanted to get rid of the monarchy entirely.
Pasha ran his hand through his hair. He couldn’t help it, as unroyal as it may have seemed. “How does this fit in with what men like Pavel Pestel have advocated, namely revolution and assassinating the tsar?”
Volkonsky bowed his head. “I swear on my honor that I do not subscribe to Pestel’s radical solutions, Your Imperial Highness. If anything, I am partial to the idea of a constitutional monarchy. We would work together with you as the tsar, not against.”
Pasha didn’t even need Yuliana here to know that was a lie. A constitutional monarchy would make the tsar all but a figurehead. Of course, that was preferable to Pestel’s desire to have Pasha dead.
“I will consider carefully every possible path for the future of our people and our empire,” Pasha said as he straightened on the throne, trying his best to respond the way his father would have. “But I ask that, as someone with long-standing ties to the imperial family, Major General, you convince those who share your views to be patient and give me time. Let me be clear, however, that there will be no constitution. The tsar is the tsar.”
Volkonsky stiffened. Then he dipped his head. “Of course, Your Imperial Highness. I am, as always, at your service.”
Pasha nodded and dismissed him. His guard, Ilya, showed Volkonsky out of the throne room.
When Ilya returned, Pasha beckoned him.
“You’re the best of my men at tracking people,” Pasha said, for Ilya was the only one of his Guard who had any sense of where Pasha was (approximately a quarter of the time) when he snuck out of the palace. The rest of the Guard were helpless in the face of Pasha’s knowledge of secret passageways and disguises. “Whenever you’re not on duty here with me, will you keep an eye on Volkonsky for me? Report to me anything he does that is contrary to the tsardom, and don’t let anyone else know I’ve asked this of you.” It was the best Pasha could think to do, strategically. Act like Yuliana. But he had to force himself not to squirm in his throne, for acting like his sister was uncomfortable to say the least.
Ilya hesitated for a second. Probably because it was no small task to spy on a man like Volkonsky. But then he saluted. “Yes, of course, Your Imperial Highness. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
When Ilya was gone, Pasha jammed his hands back into his hair. He hoped he’d done all right with this meeting, because for once, he’d wanted to attempt something like this on his own. Perhaps all the constitutionalists needed was the sense that the crown was listening and would work on improving things. There had been too much stubbornness and enmity between the tsardom and the constitutionalists in the past.
Pasha might never have been good at strategy and war, but he was, as Yuliana had pointed out, adept at understanding and charming people to his side. At persuasion and compromise.
I hope Yuliana is right, he thought. Because I’m not just training to be tsar anymore. I actually will be tsar soon. And I can’t muck this up.