Michael Swanwick - Dancing with Bears

“You know everything-and nothing. Why bring up this useless fact?”

“Because there is a rider on the road.” “Oh?”

“Traveling fast.”

Koschei stood and fixed his keen eyes on the woman leaning low over her steed. Her hair flew out behind her as if her head were on fire. The horse was gasping and overheated. “You should be happy, demon.”

The metal gargoyle did not look up. “How so?”

“That woman is killing the poor beast with overexertion. Another dumb animal dead, and a soul on its way to Hell for her wicked deed. Surely that elates you.”

“You know nothing of Hell. Is your klashny loaded?”

“It is. Why do you ask?”

“Because the rider is none other than General Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka. In the temporary web of alliances that we have woven, she is our common enemy. The only possible destination she can have is the pump house entrance to the Beklemshev Tower tunnel. The only possible reason for her to enter the Kremlin is to see the Duke of Muscovy.”

“So?”

“If she speaks to the duke, he will tell her of all our plans. Inevitably, she will demand to know how they can be thwarted. No one else could possibly answer such a question. Yet for the Duke of Muscovy, extraordinary feats of analysis are possible. I am instructing my brothers to hurry to his side and kill him first.”

“That is hardly necessary,” Koschei said, rising from his chair.

He raised his klashny and took careful aim.

The first shot sent up sparks by the horse’s front hooves. A little too forward and several feet too low, then. The second shot disappeared into the night. Probably too high. But the third shot took the horse right in the chest. It stumbled and fell, sending the general flying.

Koschei waited until she stopped rolling, and then placed eight shots in her unmoving body.

The Pearls Beyond Price were finally, completely ready. Their clothes and jewelry were perfect from tiaras to slippers, and their hair and makeup were works of art. They looked each other over minutely and were pleased with what they saw.

Then they had their escorts assemble before them.

Enkidu saluted. “We got the six carriages lined up outside. Decorated with swags of flowers, the way you said. Plus the horses’ manes are all plaited and their hooves gilded too.”

“It wasn’t easy painting them hooves either,” Atlas said. “They didn’t much care for it.”

Making a dismissive gesture, Russalka said, “We’ve changed our minds. We only need three coaches. That way there will be one of us at each window to wave to our adoring subjects-to-be, whichever side of the street they happen to be standing on. You may send the others away.”

“Are you planning on going out dressed like that?” Nymphodora asked.

Enkidu looked down at his navy blue uniform. Behind him, the other Neanderthals stood fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot like so many schoolboys. “Well, yeah, kinda.” His voice fell. “Ain’t we?”

Speaking one after the other, Eulogia, Euphrosyne, and Olympias said:

“No. You most definitely are not.” “You must change into the new livery we had made up for you.” “Those lovely mauve-and-chartreuse outfits.”

Gargantua looked stricken. “The poofty little hats, too?”

“They’re called berets,” Aetheria said. “Yes, of course you do. It would hardly be a proper ensemble without them. They’re in that chest over there. Now-chop-chop!-strip down and get dressed.”

Blushing, Magog said, “You mean… get naked… right in front of you ladies?”

“Of course. We have to make certain you put the clothes on correctly.”

“Don’t worry,” Nymphodora said, “you won’t be revealing anything we haven’t seen before. In our imaginations, anyway.”

None of the Pearls smiled, exactly. But their eyes all glittered.

The two underlords entered the Terem Palace by way of the long underground passage that led from Chortenko’s mansion. They had re-configured their bodies, reverting to four legs, as though they were still cyberwolves. When they slunk into the Duke of Muscovy’s chamber, the last remnants of the Royal Guard raised their halberds in alarm. “Nobody is allowed in the Terem Palace uninvited,” one of their number said, his fur standing on end. “You must leave immediately.”

“No,” one of the creatures said. “You leave.”

“Or die,” said the other.

This was not the first time the Royal Guards had met the underlords. Chortenko had arranged a series of vivid demonstrations in his basement, wherein one of their number had displayed its strength and speed upon selected political prisoners. Afterward, Chortenko had urged them to remember exactly how long it had taken those prisoners to die.

By common consent, the bear-guards left.

The underlords took up positions to either side of the duke, one by each ear. “Your guards have deserted their posts,” said one.

“Your government is as good as fallen.”

“Chortenko is in charge now. As soon as Tsar Lenin’s speech is finished, he will seize the Kremlin.”

“There will be no resistance.”

The duke’s noble face grimaced in agony. His great head turned from side to side. But of course he could not awaken, try though he might.

“General Magdalena Zvyozdny-Gorodoka attempted to reach the Terem Palace in order to rescue you.”

“You would have called her effort heroic.” “We had her killed.”

“With her died your last chance of stopping the revolution.”

“In gratitude for all we have done, Chortenko has given us permission to kill as many of your citizens as we wish tonight, in numbers up to half of the total population of your city.”

“It is not enough.”

“But it is a start.”

The sleeping duke lifted one arm so that the back of it covered those eyes which had never once in his life been open. “No,” he murmured. “Please… do not.” It was clear he was trying to awaken and, as ever, could not.

“Chortenko’s reign will begin with rioting and a fire that will destroy much of Moscow.”

“In the aftermath of this disaster, he will have to raise taxes steeply.” “This will cause rioting elsewhere in your land.” “The riots will be suppressed.” “But at such a cost that taxes will have to be raised again.” “Which will destabilize the economy.” “Requiring new sources of income.”

“Which can be acquired only by force.”

“Muscovy will be able to survive only through constant conquest and expansion.”

In greater and greater agitation, the duke thrashed about, flinging his arms wildly to one side and the other. Effortlessly, the underlords evaded his blind blows. Always they darted back to his ear again. “No,” he said. “I will stop… you. I know how.”

“And how will you do that, Majesty?” “You have no soldiers.” “You have no messengers.” “Your servants have betrayed you.”

“You have lost Moscow already.”

Weakly raising his arms upward, the duke said, “Lord God…hear my prayer. Aid me, I beg you.” His expression was one of mingled horror and yearning. “Send me…a miracle.”

“Fool! There is no God.” “There are no miracles.” “Soon there will be no Russia.” The Duke of Muscovy screamed. And then he awoke.

…18…

With a noise like thunder, the Duke of Muscovy smashed through the roof of the Terem Palace, scattering tiles and timbers into the night.

Only to discover that he had woken out of his dreams and into something even more phantasmagorical. Below him was his beloved city…and yet it was smaller and shabbier than he had imagined it. Smokes and stinks rose from its every part. There were buildings on the point of collapse that were still being lived in. A fine silt dust discolored all the streets and sidewalks. Much of Moscow was in bad need of a coat of paint. Nevertheless, it was his city and he loved it dearly.