Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(71)

“The favor of the tsar,” Nikolas muttered. “As far as I can see, that's worth a pail of horse droppings.”

“Your Highness,” Sidarov protested, his chocolate-colored eyes filled with alarm. “You shouldn't say such a thing aloud. The walls have ears! You will endanger yourself and the princess.”

“We're already in danger,” Nikolas said softly, lifting a hand to his jaw and touching the outline of a shadowy bruise. It had been inflicted the day before, at the culmination of a meeting among Peter and the eight men whom he intended to appoint as governors of newly created provinces of Russia. Menshikov was to be in charge of St. Petersburg, Prince Dmitry Golitsyn was to have Kiev, Kazan was to go to Boyar Apraxin, and so forth.

Nikolas had infuriated Peter by refusing the appointment as governor of the Archangel region. He had declined to explain his reason, which was primarily that he had no interest in producing more revenue for the government. All Peter really wanted from his governors was for them to prod a virtual army of tax collectors into squeezing more money from the suffering populace. Nikolas had the unpleasant certainty that his refusal of the position would probably have far-reaching consequences, but still, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Peter's disapproval had fallen on him with full force, and he had pinned Nikolas with an accusing glare that had made some of the men at the long table wince, while a few wriggled in poorly hidden satisfaction. “That's fine—I'll appoint someone else!” Peter had sneered. “But if you feel so comfortable in denying the tsar a request, then perhaps you can tell me what you have done, if anything, for my benefit! Tell me why you haven't yet convinced the Moscow merchants to form trading companies.” He stood and walked over to Nikolas, leaning down to shout directly into his face. “I want more industry, more development! Why are my people so slow to change? Why won't they give me the revenue I need to make war against the Swedes? I want answers from you now!”

Nikolas was expressionless. He hadn't flinched in the face of the tsar's ear-splitting roar, not even when tiny flecks of spittle flew from Peter's gigantic mouth. Somehow he had managed to reply calmly. “You've found every possible source of revenue and squeezed it dry, Batushka. Your tax collectors have drained every kopeck from the people. There are taxes on everything from birth and marriage to drinking water. There is even a tax on mustaches, ludicrous as that may seem.”

Nikolas paused, realizing that there was a deadly hush in the room. Peter's eyes had turned into chips of flint. No one could believe that Nikolas would dare to tell the tsar the truth. “On top of that,” he continued evenly, “the state monopolies you've created serve to multiply the price of goods at five times their original cost. People can't afford to bury their dead properly because coffins cost too much. Peasants can't even afford salt for their tables. Alcohol, fur, even playing cards are too expensive. The merchants can't make a decent profit under these conditions. They are outraged, and they see no reason to work harder merely to finance your war.”

“Your honesty is appreciated.” Without warning, Peter had struck him. The blow had landed on Nikolas's jaw with blinding force. Nikolas was nearly knocked to the floor. “But that is for your insolence.”

The tsar's desire for progress was perfectly in accordance with his Western ideals, but his methods of getting it were not. Blinking hard to clear the bright spots before his eyes, Nikolas had fought to stay upright. There had been a strange ringing in his ears. Rage began to pump through him, and he was consumed with the urge to attack, to defend himself. But lifting a finger against the tsar would be the same as signing his own death warrant.

Slowly Nikolas rose to his feet. “Thank you for the lesson,” he said. “Now I know the reward for telling the truth.” There were audible gasps at his effrontery, and then they all watched in silence, Peter included, as he strode from the room.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Nikolas touched the sore spot on his jaw once more and smiled grimly as Sidarov spoke anxiously.

“But, Your Highness, the tsar strikes everyone. It is just his way. Why, he struck Prince Menshikov once in this very house, so hard that Menshikov began to bleed all over the supper table! The tsar doesn't mean anything by it. The people who are close to him must bear the effects of his frustration—you've always known that.”

“His frustration has a hell of a right hook,” Nikolas muttered.

“The bruise will fade soon.” Sidarov's young face twisted with a frown. “Please, Prince Nikolai, you must try to forget this.”

For Emelia's sake, as well as for his own, Nikolas was willing to try.

Later that night, when he went to the room they now shared, he found Emelia sitting at a small table with an odd collection of little mirrors, all positioned to reflect off one another. A candle burned in the center of the mirrors. The soft, wavering light extended to the shadowy wall behind her, making the icon of Elijah and its ruby-colored cloud glow as if lit from behind.

Perplexed, Nikolas stood in the doorway and watched his wife. She was dressed in a pale blue velvet gown, closed up the front with tiny buttons carved from mother-of-pearl. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Emelia jumped a little, and then smiled at him. “You came in so quietly that I didn't hear you!” She returned her attention to the mirrors. “I'm trying to read our fortune. I will stare into the mirrors until one of them reveals our fate. If I can't see anything after a while, then I thought I would melt a candle into a bowl of water, and the drippings will form a figure that will give a clue.”