Chapter 11

Gennady Suslikov stalked down the corridor from his workshop to the estate’s central power plant. Damn his loose tongue! He hadn’t meant to tell his brother’s Alash apprentice about their experiments with orikhalko, but it had just slipped out. He should know better than to be so loose-lipped with someone of uncertain loyalties! Yes, the girl seemed devoted to his older brother, but how long would that continue? Yevgeny was forward-thinking and shared Gennady’s own determination to make Mother Orousska into one of the world’s great industrial powers. But his stupidity in being outmanoeuvred by Kisaliev in the business of his steam engine was going to bankrupt the family unless they gained themselves allies. And where could those allies come from? Other weak lesser boyars? They were just that – weak. The Csar? Csar Alexei II was weak, too: a puppet of the greater boyars and Vadim Kisaliev most of all. The Church? Patriarch Semyon was undoubtedly pious, but he was the most reactionary head of the Church of the Tree in Mother Orousska for generations. No help would come from that quarter, despite Yevgeny’s hopes.

The fault wasn’t even really in Vadim Kisaliev, hated enemy though he was. The elder Kisaliev had only done what any astute survivor of the machinations and manoeuvrings of the snake pit known as the Boyar Duma would have done. The problem was in Yevgeny Suslikov’s criminally blind trusting nature. How was he to manage to strike against that bloated Kisaliev spider with such a naïve simpleton for a bother?

Well, Gennady was not so naïve.

“Vitaly!” he called, clanking into the power room. The little serf was one of his most extensively-modified zhizniks and no longer able to leave the steam power plant, but as a foreman over the other serfs he was second to none.

The diminutive samovarlike body wheeled out from behind a boiler and the head bowed.

Da, master?”

“Are the primary coils wound yet?”

Nyet, master,” Vitaly’s bass replied uncertainly. “The coal for the main plant has been running low with both Suslikov brothers drawing steam for their works.”

“Then get more coal, you stupid automaton!” Gennady hissed. Really, who would want to deal with serfs? Wilfully stupid and obstructive to a man, they were trouble waiting for a place to happen. How Yevgeny got the results he did out of his girl-serf assistant was beyond his ken.

“I will need to send Misha or Zhenya out to the Orengrad garrison, master,” Vitaly said sulkily. Gennady sighed. “Do it,” he ordered. What did it matter if those two zhiznik oafs scared a few of the idiots in town or got vegetables thrown at them? That was what serfs were for. He wasn’t ready to have his brother asking awkward questions like “why do I suddenly have no steam pressure?”, but they both needed that steam. Kasimir would be back tonight, and he wanted to be ready for the bastard.

“The bastard” was late as usual, arriving well after sundown in a slate-grey steam carriage that was almost invisible in the lingering twilight, a noise in the half-light and nothing more. As usual, a pair of black-uniformed guards came with him, the blood-red dog’s head insignia the only colour in their appearance. Even their skin was cadaverously pale, contrasting with dark hair and smoked goggles in blackened steel.

Kasimir Vlychanin, on the other hand, wore a rich burgundy waistcoat underneath his black Imperial Army-issue coat, trimmed with sable and ermine and brocaded in gold and silver thread in a way that would have been tastelessly excessive in any company but a group of greater boyars. Great boyars didn’t do understated.

Under the relic sumptuary laws of Mother Orousska, Vlychanin wasn’t technically entitled to wear two different kinds of fur in the same garment, nor to demonstrate quite such supremely-tailored excess in his couture, but the rules had never really applied to Kasimir Vlychanin. Acknowledged or not, scandal or not, he was his father’s son.

“What do you have for me?” he asked without preamble, the guards taking up station at either side of the door to Gennady’s workshop.

“Lord Kasimir, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Gennady lied smoothly. It would be a pleasure to see you under the lash like the serf you ought to be, he thought in the privacy of his own head. “Your father is well, I trust?”

That was twisting the knife a little. The scandal surrounding Kasimir Vlychanin’s birth was still enough to meet with a stony, disapproving silence from the great boyar families of Orousski society. The rumour that Vadim Kisaliev had fathered a child on the wife of Colonel-General Arkady Vlychanin, hero of the Wars of the Vengrian Succession, was one thing. The fact that the elder Kisaliev had all but acknowledged his adulterous bastard was something else entirely.

Kasimir had been supposedly shipped off to the care of a distant relative of the Vlychanin clan far away from Muskograd, but in actuality he had been taken into the Kisaliev household. Dwelling in the centre of Mother Orousska but unable to show his face in its society, he had come to hate both it and the father who had sired him to such an existence.

“Let us hope not,” Kasimir snorted. “May the old goat’s gout pain him continually and may his idiot son Dmitri die before his time!”

Gennady nodded. Arrogant and an ass, with all the faults of his hated father Kasimir might be, but the two of them were united in that common hatred. And Gennady found it poetic justice to use the bastard son of the Boyar Duma’s first minister to wreak vengeance on the man and cleanse the snake pit.

“How progresses the mechanik?” Kasimir asked impatiently.

“It is almost ready,” Gennady said. “The Lord Kasimir brought the final worked-orikhalko plates for the armour?”

Vlychanin needed careful handling, but if you flattered him and called him “lord” enough, he was manageable. And much as it had been pleasurable to twist his chain by asking about his father, Gennady still needed him to provide the orikhalko.

“Ah,” Vlychanin said, more hesitantly. It was just like the man to bluster and bully his ally to fulfil his end of the bargain, then neglect his own responsibilities under the agreement. “There has been an unfortunate development.”

“What?” Gennady asked, feeling his irritation with the man growing rapidly. “Did the seam run out up at Fort Prem? You told me there was enough to build a score of mechaniks, all powered by orikhalko springs and armoured with orikhalko-faced protective plates!”

“It’s, uh,” Kasimir began. “A group of artillerists went to General Chebelev with a proposal to construct an orikhalko howitzer capable of throwing a shell several score of versts. I countered that the precious ore could be better employed building a squadron of mechaniks able to meet the cursed Alash indriks on equal terms, but you know the General’s always been a fan of cannons. I’m sorry, Gennady.”

Actually, Gennady hadn’t known the general was such a lover of gunnery. He filed it away in his mind under “miscellaneous information, probably useless”.

“You know this mechanik battlesuit design is the key to our plans to destroy House Kisaliev?” he asked rhetorically. Kasimir nodded.

“That and the Second Oprichnina,” he said, gesturing at the guards. They made no response, stoic and apparently unconcerned with larger matters of policy. “I will do what I can to get the General to reconsider, but…”

Gennady nodded glumly. “Is there any other source of orikhalko?”

No, there wasn’t, he thought. That was the whole point. If it was everywhere, someone would have discovered it long before Kasimir Vlychanin.

“Actually,” Kasimir said, brightening up a little, “there might just be…”

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Chapter 10

“That’s… interesting,” Yevgeny said to her later, when they finally had an opportunity to talk privately. “You said this metal, this Orikhalko, looks golden, like brass?”

“Yes,” Jildiz replied, pushing away the surge of guilt as she reneged on her promise to Gennady, “but it’s supposed to be stronger than steel.”

“Well, he’s got the right name for it, anyway,” Yevgeny said wryly. At Jildiz’ puzzled look, he explained. “Orichalcum, the fabled golden metal on which the lost civilisation of Atlantis was built.”

“Atlantis?” Jildiz queried. The Alash were quite a long way from the Atlantine Ocean and didn’t have that tale. To most of them the body of water was merely “Muhit”, the Ocean, without much distinction between Arctic, Atlantine, Pacifc, Sindian.

“Ancient Helladic legend of a lost ‘mother civilisation’ from the dawn of time. The story says their arrogance displeased the gods, who sank Atlantis beneath the waves. Orichalcum was their metal, described as golden in colour and more valuable than gold. And if it can do what you said he’s claiming, I think the Atlantines were right. This is potentially revolutionary not just for clockwork springs but for high-pressure steam boilers, high-strength construction materials, you name it!”

“Armour,” Jildiz put in. “Protective shielding. Anything requiring huge amounts of strength.”

“What I wonder is where he’s getting it,” Yevgeny continued. “Is it something you make by special processes or something you mine?”

“I don’t know. He almost said more about it, but all he said was ‘discovered by V’ before he broke off,” Jildiz replied. “‘Discovered by Vitaly’? Were the two of them working together before they had some kind of falling-out?”

“Unlikely but possible,” Yevgeny replied on consideration. “Of the two of us, Gennady’s always been the one with more of a sense of station. Hmm, I suppose that might explain why he’s so edgy and hostile; cripples don’t exactly have a lot of status.”

“He’s not exactly crippled,” Jildiz pointed out. “A bit creepy, yes, but not crippled.”

“Not to you or I, perhaps,” Yevgeny said, “but tell me any other boyar – like Aleksandr Lyukin or Dmitri Kisaliev – isn’t going to look at him and see ‘just a cripple’.”

He made a face. Jildiz nodded. It was true, more traditional boyars tended to look on themselves as exemplars of all that was strong and manly. Weakness, such as having crippled legs or an iron lung, was to be despised.

“Anyway, this Vitaly’s a serf, and I don’t think Gennady would partner well with someone he considered his inferior.”

“I’m not sure,” Jildiz said.

“That he wouldn’t partner with a serf?”

“No, nor that Vitaly is one. I’m a serf – technically – and your brother was all charm the other day. Would he bother for someone he thought was ‘just a serf’? And something about Vitaly didn’t strike me as entirely serflike either.”

“You met him? You met the secretive and elusive gospodin Vitaly?”

“Yes,” she said. “Your brother and his mysterious clockwork super-spring put it out of my mind, but I did meet Vitaly, yes.”

She related the encounter to him as best she could remember. Since she’d been basically illiterate until a year ago, her aural memory was quite developed, and she didn’t miss much.

When she got to Vitaly’s words about the black-uniformed soldiers and their dog’s head insignia, Yevgeny gave a gasp.

“He said that? Really a dog’s head?” he asked sharply. “He wasn’t mistaking, say, a wolf’s head, or a hyena or some other animal?”

“I don’t know about that,” Jildiz said, as puzzled by Yevgeny’s sharp tone as by the unknown symbol. “He definitely said “a dog’s head, not “the head of an animal like a dog or wolf” or something like that. ‘Dog’s head badge’ were his words. Why? Obviously from the way he said it and the way you’re reacting there’s some significance, but I don’t know it! It could be the head of a wolf or a mammoth or a tiger, for all the difference it made to me!”

“I forget, you’re Alash,” he said. “No Orousski, neither serf nor boyar, would miss the significance of a dog’s head.”

He gave a grim shake of his head. “What do you know of Ivan the Dread out on the Alash Steppe?”

Jildiz made a warding gesture like an abbreviated, backwards Sign of the Tree.

“Oibai-ai!” she exclaimed. “My mother used to tell me that if I wasn’t a good girl and learned to ride well and care for my animals and tend the yurt, Ivan the Dread would carry me off and I would never be seen again! He was scary!”

Yevgeny gave a dark nod. “Csar Ivan the Dread,” he confirmed. “He wasn’t much better to us Orousski.”

“You mean he was a real ruler?” Jildiz asked nervously. To her it was as if someone had said that Satan once ruled the nation in his own person.

“Oh yes,” Yevgeny replied. “About two hundred years ago. A strong ruler, yes, mighty in battle, especially against the Alash, whose territory extended much further west than it does now. I expect that’s where his Alash reputation came from. But he was a despot of the highest order even in Holy Orousska, ruling without reference either to the Boyar Duma or the Patriarchs of the Church. His secret police were called the Oprichnina, and even today that name is seldom spoken without fear. They were brutal, deliberately barbaric and fanatically loyal to the Csar. And their symbol of authority and terror was that they carried a severed dog’s head.”

There was silence as Jildiz digested the information. “Vitaly said they had the badge of a dog’s head, not a dog’s head itself,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Yevgeny said. “There isn’t a regular military unit that would ever take that symbol for their badge. It’s only ever been used by Csar Ivan’s secret police; no-one else would dare. This is some deep trouble, and it goes far deeper than Gennady and our serfs.”

He sighed. “Brother mine, what have you got yourself into?”