The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(34)

Was that what the city’s residents were calling their moves? Nikolai’s scar flared at the reminder of the Game.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it,” Pasha said. “Have you even left your room in the past week? Or are you keeping something from me?”

Nikolai poked at his bread. “Yes. And no. I mean to say, yes, I have left my room and even the house, and no, I’m not keeping anything from you.”

“Hmm.” Pasha scrutinized him. Nikolai charmed his own face so that Pasha wouldn’t be able to see the falsehood on him.

“All right,” Pasha said. “If you have, indeed, left the Zakrevsky prison, then you know what I’m talking about, yes?”

“The preparations for your birthday. Yes, I’ve seen them. The mechanics are impressive.”

“Chyort.”

Nikolai arched a brow. Pasha rarely cursed, especially not in Russian. (Nikolai was also unconvinced that Pasha was saying it correctly, but what did they know? They spoke mainly French.)

Pasha was unapologetic for the profanity. “Mechanics? That’s an utter lie, and you know it. This is enchantment, Nikolai. No one else recognizes it because they don’t know it exists. Russia used to be full of magic, but then it faded away because people either started fearing it or stopped believing in it. For example, did you know that the forests and lakes used to be rife with faeries and nymphs? But they’ve died out from neglect and disbelief.

“And yet,” he continued, “you saw that girl in the forest on Ovchinin Island, whether you’ll admit it or not. Tell me you believe me, that magic is real. Tell me I’m not losing my mind.”

Nikolai poured another shot of vodka for himself as he pondered whether to confirm or deny it.

He had actually considered confiding in Pasha many times before—both about his magical abilities and the related indignities heaped upon him by Galina—but he had always stopped short of confessing. For one, Nikolai knew Pasha looked up to him, as backward as it might be for the tsesarevich to admire a nobody from the steppe, and Nikolai was loath to have yet another thing that set him apart, for he wished to fit in with his friend, not stand out. On the flip side of that, Nikolai might work for Pasha someday, and he wanted to enjoy their friendship as it was for as long as possible, before that dynamic in their relationship shifted. And third, Nikolai did not want to tell Pasha about his abilities, when his magic was eventually going to be used to kill someone. Not that it wouldn’t be revealed at some point, should Nikolai survive the Game. But he didn’t want to think about that. That was a problem for the future, if that future existed.

Honesty, sometimes, was the worst policy.

Nikolai poured vodka for Pasha, too, but his friend shook his head. So Nikolai raised his own glass and muttered, “Myevo zdarovye.” To my health, and knocked back the shot. He washed it down with more than a sip of beer.

“Tell me I’m not losing my mind,” Pasha said again.

Nikolai squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. Pasha appeared to be tilting. Nikolai smacked himself on the cheek, and Pasha was righted. If anyone at the table was losing his mind, it was Nikolai. Especially now, since the alcohol had gone straight to his head. He hadn’t eaten a thing since the afternoon.

“Fine. Magic is real,” he said, before he could stop the declaration from trickling out. Zut alors! Why had he said that? What was this vodka made of?

Pasha sat up, his smile returned. “I knew it! But how do you know?”

“Uh . . .” Nikolai scrambled for a scrap of truth without revealing himself. “My mother was a faith healer.”

“You had a mother?”

Nikolai crossed his arms. “Has a single shot of vodka completely shuttered your brain? Of course I had a mother. Everyone has a mother, at some point.”

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend. I simply meant, I didn’t know you knew your mother.”

“I don’t. She died during childbirth.”

Pasha looked down at the table, roundly chastened. Nikolai sighed. He hadn’t intended to squelch his friend’s enthusiasm. But alcohol made his words clumsy, like lumbering giants attempting to construct a glass dollhouse. There were bound to be accidents.

“I don’t know anything about my mother, only that she was a faith healer, and the people in my tribe believed her abilities to be real.”

Pasha glanced up. “Are you a faith healer?”

“No.” At least Nikolai could say that without lying.

A few tables away, a chair fell over. Or rather, it had been knocked over, as a man stood and thumped his fist on the tabletop. “We have rights!” he yelled. “The tsar must know he cannot continue to treat the people like vermin! We need a revolution!”

“Shut your trap or we’ll all be tossed into prison!” one of his companions shouted.

Nikolai and Pasha watched as several men pinned down their friend, the mutineer.

“Should we report him?” Nikolai asked Pasha.

Pasha hesitated. He squinted to look at the man, and Nikolai wondered for a second if Pasha knew him. But then Pasha shook his head and sank back into the shadow of their booth. “He’ll sleep it off and come to his senses. I don’t want Nursultan in trouble for harboring traitors when he’s only guilty of harboring fools.”

“Present company excluded, of course.”