The Crown's Fate
Page 58
He’d let them go back to whom they belonged. For now.
The shadows closest to him returned to a table near the wall, where a boy his age and three men in their midthirties huddled. Nikolai furrowed his brow as he studied them, for he could tell they weren’t the sort who normally met in the Magpie and the Fox. They had attempted to dress below their station, but unbeknownst to them, their mannerisms gave them away—they ignored everyone around them, customers and servers alike, in the manner of the highborn, who were accustomed to not seeing those beneath them. Nikolai simultaneously hated them and wanted to be them.
“I have no problem with the tsesarevich,” one of the men said. “The tsesarevich has a reputation for generosity. It’s the grand princess I take issue with.”
Blazes, that’s Major General Sergei Volkonsky. Nikolai recognized him, of course. Everyone in Saint Petersburg knew him. But what was a man like Volkonsky doing in a hole like the Magpie and the Fox?
“It is substantiated fact,” said a man with a pinched face, as he gesticulated with a pickle in his hand, “that the grand princess was always at the tsar’s right hand. She attended every meeting of the Imperial Council, whereas the tsesarevich did not.”
A third man, this one long-faced, cleared his throat. It was Colonel Sergei Trubetskoy, another prominent member of the nobility whom Nikolai recognized. “The grand princess would see a continuation of their father’s policies,” Trubetskoy said. “But Russia cannot continue like this. We need a constitution. We need accountability.”
Nikolai listened intently from his dark corner. Perhaps he had misjudged these men earlier. Perhaps they ignored all those around them not because they thought themselves superior, but because they were so engrossed in their patriotism that they saw nothing else.
And he was empathetic to their ideals. If anyone understood the inequality of Russian society, it was Nikolai.
“We should kill the grand princess when we revolt,” the pinched-face man said.
“Pavel Ivanovich Pestel,” Trubetskoy whispered urgently. “Keep your voice down. We will not condone murder.”
But I would. The wheels in Nikolai’s head began to turn. What were these men up to? And could they be of use to him?
Pestel leaned back in his chair. “What we discuss is all treason. It is just the degree of severity that matters.”
“There must be another way,” Trubetskoy said.
“There is,” Volkonsky said. “That’s why Ilya is here tonight. He has an interesting proposal.”
Nikolai squinted in the dim light. Yes, it was Ilya Koshkin, whom he knew because Ilya was the only member of the Guard who ever had a clue where to find Pasha when he snuck out. Ilya was also, in a way, like Nikolai. Both were ignored at home—Ilya, because he was the fourth son, and Nikolai, because he’d never really had parents to begin with—but both boys were still ambitious enough to make something of themselves outside of that.
Nikolai shifted a little closer to the table, at the same time the other men turned their attention to Ilya.
Ilya fidgeted in his seat, but then cleared his throat and said, “I suggest that, instead of waiting until next summer to revolt, as we’d originally planned when the tsar was still alive, we ought to act sooner. The tsesarevich is scrambling to fix the mess that’s been made with magic, and I’ve been working to recruit more soldiers to our side as a result of it. They’re afraid of his witch, edict or not.”
Trubetskoy sipped on his beer. “This is interesting.”
“The timing is perfect for a coup,” Ilya said. “The tsesarevich has not been officially crowned. And there are rumors that the tsar wasn’t his father. Politically speaking, this is optimal for us. We wouldn’t be usurping a tsar; we’d be taking the throne from an illegitimate son.”
Volkonsky nodded, a smile on his face like a proud father watching his child come into his own.
“But who would we install in the tsesarevich’s place?” Trubetskoy asked.
“No one,” Pestel said. “We create a democracy.”
Trubetskoy frowned. “We’ve been over this before. Russia isn’t ready for that. Look at the disaster that ensued in France when they demolished the monarchy too swiftly.”
“But the United States—” Pestel began.
“Is much different from Russia,” Volkonsky said. “They are a very young country. We are much more like France than America.”
Trubetskoy nodded. “We must take the long view and shift first to something in between, hence my preference for a constitutional monarchy. I know you disagree, Pestel; you always have. But the majority of us believe this is the right course for the country.”
“Fine then.” Pestel crossed his arms. “Who would you propose to lead your so-called constitutional monarchy?”
I could do it, Nikolai thought, and he began to smile. In fact, this was precisely what he needed—a path to the crown with political legitimacy. It would also be easier for the Russian people to accept him as tsar if he didn’t murder Pasha outright. Better if he let a bunch of revolutionaries do it for him. As a bonus, they would be making a better Russia. Yes! A better empire for those like Nikolai, who were not born privileged or free. He was so gleeful at having a new plan, he almost laughed out loud.
Nikolai cast a shroud to make himself appear more himself, then pulled up a chair and inserted himself at the table between Pestel and Trubetskoy. The men startled and jerked away.
“I suggest you install me on the throne,” Nikolai said.
“Grand Prince Karimov,” Ilya whispered, gawking. He pushed back from his seat and began to rise so he could bow.
Nikolai smiled but put his index finger to his mouth. “Let’s keep my identity among the five of us for tonight, shall we? Otherwise, how will we surprise the tsesarevich if it’s public knowledge that I’ve joined you?”
Ilya nodded furiously and sat back down.
But as a precaution, Nikolai conjured a shield around them to muffle their conversation.
“How do we know it’s you and not some magical trickery ordered by the tsesarevich?” Trubetskoy asked, carefully treading the sword-thin line between skepticism and respect in case Nikolai really was Nikolai.
“You don’t, but believe Ilya when he tells you who I am. In fact, you and I were acquainted in society before my paternity was known. I was Countess Zakrevskaya’s ward. You may ask me anything you like to verify my identity. Once you have been satisfied, I should like to speak with you about helping with your plans, and you with mine.”
The shadows closest to him returned to a table near the wall, where a boy his age and three men in their midthirties huddled. Nikolai furrowed his brow as he studied them, for he could tell they weren’t the sort who normally met in the Magpie and the Fox. They had attempted to dress below their station, but unbeknownst to them, their mannerisms gave them away—they ignored everyone around them, customers and servers alike, in the manner of the highborn, who were accustomed to not seeing those beneath them. Nikolai simultaneously hated them and wanted to be them.
“I have no problem with the tsesarevich,” one of the men said. “The tsesarevich has a reputation for generosity. It’s the grand princess I take issue with.”
Blazes, that’s Major General Sergei Volkonsky. Nikolai recognized him, of course. Everyone in Saint Petersburg knew him. But what was a man like Volkonsky doing in a hole like the Magpie and the Fox?
“It is substantiated fact,” said a man with a pinched face, as he gesticulated with a pickle in his hand, “that the grand princess was always at the tsar’s right hand. She attended every meeting of the Imperial Council, whereas the tsesarevich did not.”
A third man, this one long-faced, cleared his throat. It was Colonel Sergei Trubetskoy, another prominent member of the nobility whom Nikolai recognized. “The grand princess would see a continuation of their father’s policies,” Trubetskoy said. “But Russia cannot continue like this. We need a constitution. We need accountability.”
Nikolai listened intently from his dark corner. Perhaps he had misjudged these men earlier. Perhaps they ignored all those around them not because they thought themselves superior, but because they were so engrossed in their patriotism that they saw nothing else.
And he was empathetic to their ideals. If anyone understood the inequality of Russian society, it was Nikolai.
“We should kill the grand princess when we revolt,” the pinched-face man said.
“Pavel Ivanovich Pestel,” Trubetskoy whispered urgently. “Keep your voice down. We will not condone murder.”
But I would. The wheels in Nikolai’s head began to turn. What were these men up to? And could they be of use to him?
Pestel leaned back in his chair. “What we discuss is all treason. It is just the degree of severity that matters.”
“There must be another way,” Trubetskoy said.
“There is,” Volkonsky said. “That’s why Ilya is here tonight. He has an interesting proposal.”
Nikolai squinted in the dim light. Yes, it was Ilya Koshkin, whom he knew because Ilya was the only member of the Guard who ever had a clue where to find Pasha when he snuck out. Ilya was also, in a way, like Nikolai. Both were ignored at home—Ilya, because he was the fourth son, and Nikolai, because he’d never really had parents to begin with—but both boys were still ambitious enough to make something of themselves outside of that.
Nikolai shifted a little closer to the table, at the same time the other men turned their attention to Ilya.
Ilya fidgeted in his seat, but then cleared his throat and said, “I suggest that, instead of waiting until next summer to revolt, as we’d originally planned when the tsar was still alive, we ought to act sooner. The tsesarevich is scrambling to fix the mess that’s been made with magic, and I’ve been working to recruit more soldiers to our side as a result of it. They’re afraid of his witch, edict or not.”
Trubetskoy sipped on his beer. “This is interesting.”
“The timing is perfect for a coup,” Ilya said. “The tsesarevich has not been officially crowned. And there are rumors that the tsar wasn’t his father. Politically speaking, this is optimal for us. We wouldn’t be usurping a tsar; we’d be taking the throne from an illegitimate son.”
Volkonsky nodded, a smile on his face like a proud father watching his child come into his own.
“But who would we install in the tsesarevich’s place?” Trubetskoy asked.
“No one,” Pestel said. “We create a democracy.”
Trubetskoy frowned. “We’ve been over this before. Russia isn’t ready for that. Look at the disaster that ensued in France when they demolished the monarchy too swiftly.”
“But the United States—” Pestel began.
“Is much different from Russia,” Volkonsky said. “They are a very young country. We are much more like France than America.”
Trubetskoy nodded. “We must take the long view and shift first to something in between, hence my preference for a constitutional monarchy. I know you disagree, Pestel; you always have. But the majority of us believe this is the right course for the country.”
“Fine then.” Pestel crossed his arms. “Who would you propose to lead your so-called constitutional monarchy?”
I could do it, Nikolai thought, and he began to smile. In fact, this was precisely what he needed—a path to the crown with political legitimacy. It would also be easier for the Russian people to accept him as tsar if he didn’t murder Pasha outright. Better if he let a bunch of revolutionaries do it for him. As a bonus, they would be making a better Russia. Yes! A better empire for those like Nikolai, who were not born privileged or free. He was so gleeful at having a new plan, he almost laughed out loud.
Nikolai cast a shroud to make himself appear more himself, then pulled up a chair and inserted himself at the table between Pestel and Trubetskoy. The men startled and jerked away.
“I suggest you install me on the throne,” Nikolai said.
“Grand Prince Karimov,” Ilya whispered, gawking. He pushed back from his seat and began to rise so he could bow.
Nikolai smiled but put his index finger to his mouth. “Let’s keep my identity among the five of us for tonight, shall we? Otherwise, how will we surprise the tsesarevich if it’s public knowledge that I’ve joined you?”
Ilya nodded furiously and sat back down.
But as a precaution, Nikolai conjured a shield around them to muffle their conversation.
“How do we know it’s you and not some magical trickery ordered by the tsesarevich?” Trubetskoy asked, carefully treading the sword-thin line between skepticism and respect in case Nikolai really was Nikolai.
“You don’t, but believe Ilya when he tells you who I am. In fact, you and I were acquainted in society before my paternity was known. I was Countess Zakrevskaya’s ward. You may ask me anything you like to verify my identity. Once you have been satisfied, I should like to speak with you about helping with your plans, and you with mine.”
