02

Prologue

The action of this story takes place in a fictional time period in 18th century Russian history, after the reign of Peter the Great but before the reign of Catherine ends in 1796.

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Tsarevich Nikolai Danilavich sat at his desk in the drafty schoolroom, pretending to listen to the insectile drone of his history tutor while he daydreamed about what he would do when his lessons were finally over for the day. He was bored, had been bored ever since this academic vulture had started speaking. His father hardly even knew how to read, and he was Tsar of all Russia. Why should a Tsar's son have to spend hours and hours in a freezing little room trying to memorize names and dates that seemed as inconsequential to him as the countless white snowflakes skirling down outside the window?

"And in which year was Moscow burned by the Tatars, Tsarevich?" The tutor had suddenly focused his beady black eyes on Nikolai.

"What?"

"I asked, Tsarevich, if you could tell me the year in which our great city was sacked by the Tatars."

Nikolai sat silent for a few moments, struggling to recall the sequence of numbers which was the correct date among all the others floating in his head. Finally, he said, "Fourteen seventy-six?"

"Obviously, his Highness chose to neglect his studies last night." The Tutor's voice was brittle with suppressed annoyance, and Nikolai felt his face heating with embarrassment. So he hadn't spent the entire night poring over dusty old papers, what of it? He had better things to do then remember the dates for events that had happened hundreds of years ago. Then the hateful man spoke again, gesturing to a spot over Nikolai's shoulder. "Maxim, could you perhaps supply me with the correct answer?"

The Prince scowled and balled his hands into fists beneath his desk. He had been trying to forget about Maxim. Scrawny little Maxim with his girlish, soft voice and his blunt, peasant's hands. He had been the son of the British ambassador and one of the Tsarina's ladies in waiting, but his parents had both taken sick and died a few months previously of a fever. That was when the Tsar, Nikolai's father, had left to see to his holdings on the Southern border. He would be absent from court for the better part of three years and it was decided that in deference to the Tsar's only begotten son's disobedient temperament, a quaint English custom learned from the former ambassador would be instituted in during the his absence. Maxim Ivanovich was appointed to the position of whipping boy at the moment of the Tsar's departure, the designated target of any punishment the Tsarevich brought upon himself. The idea behind this was that while profane hands would be prevented from touching the heir to the throne, he would at the same time be chastised by witnessing the pain he had brought upon another.

This plan would have been more successful if Prince Nikolai were the kind of boy who could be persuaded to care for other human beings as much as he cared for himself. He was the treasured son and only heir of an aging monarch, destined in a few short years to be Tsar of all the Russias. He could not be persuaded to feel sorry for a runt of a boy like Maxim, someone who spent most of his time studying and reading books. It had become something of a game for him to misbehave just so that he could have the pleasure of watching his tutor or the gardener or the head chef beat the stupid little bookworm for doing nothing whatsoever. Everyone in the palace knew that having a whipping boy was completely useless and Nikolai knew that they all felt sorry for the boy. He was an orphan after all, he had nowhere else to go, no other way of feeding and clothing himself. In exchange for accepting punishments which he had not earned, Maxim was given a good life, a warm bed and plenty of food. There was also a promise by the Tsar that in the distant future, when the Prince had come of age, Maxim would be granted the title of Boyar. But none of this mattered to Nikolai now. What mattered to him was that his tutor thought more of Maxim than he did of him, he the heir to the throne of Russia.

"Moscow was burned in the year fifteen seventy-one, tutor," Maxim said, his high-pitched voice grating against Nikolai's nerves like breaking glass. One of the things that most infuriated Nikolai when it came to the whipping boy was his refusal to fight back or even cry out when he was beaten or teased. He took his punishments silently and seemingly without bitterness, and he was always unfailingly polite to the Prince. Just once, Nikolai would like to get Maxim to lose his composure, just once he wanted to see him cry, as he knew he himself would cry were he to be beaten so often and so thoroughly as Maxim.

"Correct, Maxim," the tutor said, shooting Nikolai a dark look. The Prince had yet to answer a single question correctly today. "Perhaps His Majesty should go to Maxim in the future for assistance with his studies."

Nikolai flinched as if he had been struck. He glared at the tutor, who glared right back and crossed his arms over his chest, daring the Prince to throw one of the tantrums for which he was known so well. Nikolai was happy to oblige him. He shot up from his desk and turned it over, relishing the loud thud and the crack of splintering wood. Then he picked up a bottle of ink from the desk across from him and uncorking it, began to run about the room, spattering all of the drapes and tapestries with black ink. He made sure to give an ample libation to his tutor, who had taken shelter behind his own desk. As the crowning gesture to his tantrum Nikolai ran to Maxim, who was still sitting calmly behind his desk, and upended the bottle over his head. Ink splashed down onto the top of the whipping boy's head in torrents, dying his hair jet and turning his face into a black mask. He sat perfectly still, letting the ink drip down onto his shirt collar, and Nikolai began to laugh. Maxim turned to him then and the look in his eyes was one that the Prince had never experienced before. It was plain, naked hatred. His giggles abruptly ceased, and as the tutor crawled out from behind his desk, Maxim rose and walked to the schoolroom door, his eyes now downcast.

"Punish him," Nikolai suddenly said, angry that he had allowed Maxim's hatred to shake him, "I deserve to be punished so you have to punish him. You can't let me get away with spraying ink all over the place, Tutor." The tutor narrowed his eyes and looked at Nikolai for a long moment, making no effort to conceal his dislike for the Prince. Nikolai stuck out his tongue at him and the tutor sighed, dropping his gaze. Maxim had stopped in the doorway with his back to them, waiting.

"Come here, Maxim," the man said, reaching to pick up a heavy wooden staff which had been leaning against the wall. "His majesty needs to be punished," And Maxim went, saying nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He bent over, presenting himself for the cane and grasping the edge of a desk to keep himself steady. "Watch well, Tsarevich," the tutor said as he brought the cane down for the first time on Maxim's waiting backside, "This is how a true Prince should behave." He delivered a volley of blows, hard and fast, each smack echoing through the silent room. But Maxim never cried out, never shed a tear. When the beating was over, he stood up, winced ever so slightly and then limped out of the room without saying a word, his face still covered with black ink.

Chapter One

Maxim Ivanovich entered the throne room for the first time in six years. It hadn't changed much since he had left, but his status within it certainly had. Gone were the days when he had been forced to submit to the whims of a spoiled princeling, and gone too were the pitying, condescending stares of the Boyars who populated the court. He was now among their number, elevated into the nobility by the grace of the Tsar upon the occasion of Tsarevich Nikolai's coming of age. He had spent eight years, eight miserable years, from the time of his parents' death until Nikolai's eighteenth birthday, serving as the plaything for a cruel and spoiled little brat whose greatest pleasure seemed to be watching Maxim suffer punishments for crimes which he had not committed. The very day after the Tsar had granted him the privileges of the Boyar, Maxim had left Moscow, traveling to England and installing himself in a townhouse in the most fashionable district in London. The Tsar's monetary recompense for Maxim's years of slavery had been quite substantial; the man had known what type of boy his son was and had not been unsympathetic when all was said and done. Maxim could have spent the rest of his life living quite comfortably without ever making any money of his own, but he soon discovered that the idle life did not suit him. He bought shares in an English shipping company, and accompanied his vessels to many of their destinations. He had sailed the Mediterranean and journeyed to the Far East. He had even been on expedition to Africa and his ship had come back loaded with enough merchandise to make every man in the crew rich. For six years he had lived the life of a sailor, had tasted so much of what the world had to offer, but it had all come to an end less than a month ago.

He had been in London when he had received a letter from the Tsar. His Majesty wrote to Maxim that he had been diagnosed with a wasting sickness and had not long to live. His son would soon become Tsar of Russia and his father was now, in his final extremity, wracked with doubts about Tsarevich Nikolai's ability to rule the country. The Prince had predictably grown from a thoughtless, selfish boy into a thoughtless, selfish man, caring more for sport and drink than for other people and the affairs of Mother Russia. The Tsar was certain that if Nikolai were to inherit the throne as he was now, Russia would crumble and fall into a state of irreparable neglect. Maxim, the Tsar explained, was the only man capable of bringing his son to heel. The prince was a man now and the Tsar had grown old; it was now far too late for the Tsar to curb his son's behavior with the rod. Nikolai's hold over court was unshakeable. He was feared for his temper and cruel sense of humor, and his sway had grown large since the old Tsar's confinement to his final sick bed. No, only Maxim, the Tsar was certain, only Maxim who had grown up alongside the prince, who had dealt so unflinchingly with Nikolai's cruelty, would be able to mold him into a man who was capable of running an empire. Maxim must return to court and re-establish ties to the Prince. He must, through hints, threats, reasoned argument and entreaty, mold the Tsarevich into a Tsar, and he had been granted full immunity to do so. As long as the old Tsar remained alive, Prince Nikolai would have no power over him.

Maxim had thought about refusing, about sailing away on another journey and pretending that he had never gotten the Tsar's letter, but something stopped him. It was more than just patriotism; he did not have much cause to love Russia after all. Russia had not been kind to him, but the Tsar had kept him fed and provided him with an education. It was perhaps this last thing which had made him answer the Tsar's letter. It was his love of books of adventure which had first driven him to the sea, and if it had not been for the tutors which he had shared with Nikolai, Maxim may never have had the wit or desire to discover them. Another thing which crossed his mind when he answered the letter was that he would quite like to see Nikolai again. He was no longer the whipping boy, the hated slave. He was Boyar, and he had been granted immunity by the Tsar. He had captained half a dozen voyages to the most savage corners of the world. Prince Nikolai could no longer command him. In fact, Maxim intended things to be quite the other way around. He had learned much in his travels about how to curb the behavior of men like Nikolai, and he intended to practice them upon the Prince as soon as the opportunity arose. The Tsarevich would not be swayed by reasoned argument or academic entreaties to his better judgment. The only thing which would cure Nikolai of his dangerous arrogance was for him to learn what it is like to be truly humble, and that was something at which Maxim was very, very accomplished.

He tried to spot Nikolai now among the crush of courtiers, but didn't see him. It had been six years since they had last laid eyes on each other. The Tsarevich had been eighteen, and Maxim twenty when he had been granted his title by the Tsar and had left Russia for England. Nikolai had perhaps changed a great deal since then. Maxim may not even recognize him. A flurry of mutters suddenly when through the crowd of Boyars and heads began to swivel towards the door. Maxim turned himself and saw, for the first time in six years, Tsarevich Nikolai Danilavich sweeping into the room clad in clothes of immaculate cut and costly style. He looked just as Maxim remembered him at their last meeting, tall and lean with high, prominent cheekbones, gray-blue eyes and long hair so blond that it was almost white. The perpetual expression of haughty superiority which he wore upon his face had also not changed since their schooldays and Maxim smiled slightly to himself, anticipating what it would be like to wipe that self-satisfied smirk from the Prince's lips.

Nikolai was almost level with him now, and Maxim stepped deliberately forward, placing himself in plain view of the Tsarevich and his retinue. He saw the Prince's face first freeze and then grow dark with anger when he caught sight of Maxim. His Majesty stumbled ever so slightly, and Maxim allowed his smile to widen. He cocked an eyebrow at Nikolai and then turned away, going to find a servant who could lead him to the Tsar's sick room.

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Nikolai had at first been unable to believe his eyes when he had seen Maxim standing among the throng of courtiers in the palace's antechamber. At first he had been unsure that it was him, the whipping boy, because Maxim was certainly a boy no longer. When they had parted six years ago, Maxim had been rail thin and pale with lank brown hair, a slumped posture and dark circles perpetually smudged beneath his eyes. Now he stood tall and haughty, no longer thin, but leanly muscular, with a thick mane of brown hair the color of mahogany. What in God's name was he doing here? He had expected never to see the little runt again, and now here he was, turning up right in the midst of Nikolai's transition from Prince to King. He would have Maxim thrown out of court immediately, he decided. There was no place here for a former whipping boy, even if he was now a Boyar through the misplaced generosity of the current Tsar. Nikolai glanced around the antechamber to see if he could catch sight of Maxim again, but the man had vanished. Good, he would have a word with one of the guards and they would escort Maxim out of the palace, preferably out of Moscow altogether. He wanted no reminders of his boyhood, and he especially did not want the company of a self-righteous teacher's pet who had always been so much cleverer than he had been with books.

He caught the eye of the captain of the palace guards and began to walk towards him, ignoring the flutters of the courtiers who stood around him, bowing and trying to capture his attention. One of the numerous ladies who had been trying for months to slink her way into his bed placed herself in Nikolai's path and he shoved her aside, ignoring her squawk of indignation as she stumbled and almost fell. He had almost reached the edge of the hall when a hand fell lightly upon his arm. Startled, he looked up, wondering who could have dared to touch him in such a familiar manner, and there was Maxim, standing by his side, one hand still resting lightly on Nikolai's arm. He wrenched his arm away. "How dare you touch me?" he spat, one hand creeping down to rest on the hilt of his sword. Maxim made no move to retreat; he only smiled at the Prince and bowed, withdrawing his arm.

"It's been quite a long time Your Majesty," He said, his smile now faintly mocking. "I did not think you would so resent the familiarity of a boyhood companion."

"You are no companion of mine, whipping boy," Nikolai said.

"Whipping boy no longer, Your Majesty. Now I am Boyar, and I am here by your Father's most particular wish."

"Get out of my way." Nikolai said, very aware of the fact that everyone in the room had stopped their conversations to listen.

"May I request the pleasure of a private audience with you at some point during the night, your majesty?" Maxim made no move to stand aside, and Nikolai saw that his hand too had crept to the hilt of his sword. The Prince hesitated. He would like nothing better than to teach the impudent man better manners at the tip of the sword, but he remembered that Maxim had once been the fencing master's pet. They had only fenced together twice, but on both of those occasions Nikolai had found himself kneeling at Maxim's feet, a sword to his throat. Of course there was no reason to believe that Maxim had anywhere near the skill with the sword to match his own now, not after six years of brawling and lessons from the finest soldiers in all of Russia. Still, the memory was enough to give him pause; a public loss in a sword fight could undo much of what he had been trying to accomplish at court. He loosened his grip on the hilt and a moment later, Maxim did the same.

Nikolai gave a curt nod. "Tonight then, at eight o' clock. I'll expect you at my apartment."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Maxim said, bowing, that smug, irritating smile still on his face. Then the man turned and without another word, walked away, disappearing among the sea of courtiers. Nikolai stood rigid for a moment, indignation raging within him. He knew that it had been wise to avoid a scene, but he was furious at himself for allowing his memories of Maxim's prowess with the sword in their schooldays to sway his mind. He should have taught the whipping boy better manners, demonstrating to everyone in court that he was not to be approached lightly, and that he would refuse to stand for such impudent treatment. Instead, he had bowed to Maxim's wishes. Why? He was Tsarevich for God's sake; people were supposed to toady to his wishes, not the other way around. And what in God's name could Maxim have to say to him? What was he doing here in the first place? Nikolai had made it quite clear that he never wished to see Maxim again after his eighteenth birthday. Why on Earth would his father have requested Maxim to come back to court?

Apprehension began to gnaw at Nikolai's insides, and he glared around him at the silent courtiers. Then he swept out of the antechamber, seeking the solitude of his private rooms. It was only noon, but he knew that he would now spend the rest of the day wondering about and worrying at the prospect of his private meeting with Maxim. His presence at court suddenly struck Nikolai as ominous. Maxim was, after all, the only denizen of court who Nikolai did not have completely under his thumb, excluding his father of course. The old man had a mind like iron. Could his father have summoned Maxim here to work some kind of mischief before Nikolai's coronation? He couldn't conceive of the idea that Maxim would be able to do him any real harm, but he did have the potential to tarnish Nikolai's image. If the man began to reminisce about the days of their youth, when Maxim had been nothing but a whipping boy, Nikolai could be made to look quite foolish, considering his academic performance and the number of times Maxim had been beaten in his stead. Maxim could perhaps turn the tide of court opinion against him. Yes, that sounded like something his father would do. Nikolai could see it now, the whole plan, and he almost laughed out. The old man had brought Maxim here to blackmail him; that had to be it. The Tsar was using Maxim as a way to enforce his control back over his son. Well, Nikolai was not going to allow that to happen. He was twenty-four now, a man, a man destined to be Tsar, and no longer subject to the whims of his doddering old father. He would not allow Maxim to jeopardize the success of his coronation which was looming ever nearer, awaiting only the death of the Tsar to usher it in.