[u][b]Volgograd[/b][/u] The oars knocked against the side of the boat, and the Volga thrust thirstily at the gunwale. They crossed the river on a seasoned old row-boat. Uliana, still dressed in fatigues and a military jacket, packed the bottom of the boat with bags of what Sahle figured were guns and equipment for gun care - things he knew next to nothing about. At first, both of them rowed, but when it became clear to them that Sahle's rowing was counterproductive, Uliana threatened him with a shave if he didn't stop and leave it to her. Watching her work and with nothing to do himself, Sahle felt fidgety. He looked this way and that, trying to keep himself momentarily entertained. The water was calm. Sahle stared across it, at the scrappy city behind them, and the long wooded island they were rowing toward. The entry of Sorokin's party into Volgograd hadn't been a royal procession. Sahle thought theirs would be the only armed convoy, but he found the city filled with mercenaries and soldiers. It was an unremarkable town, and from the river it appeared to be stretched out thin on the east bank of the Volga like a dusting of flour clinging to the edge of a board. Pitifully aged buildings lined the decayed streets, and some structures wore the signs of battle. There were walls riddled with bullet wounds, and places where the corners of buildings had been blasted to look like blocks of swiss cheese. Uliana had found him waiting at his room, staring out at the soldiers and cossacks loitering in the square, when she invited him across the river to practice his shooting. Now they bobbed in the middle of the great river, so wide it was like a lake, and Sahle tried to think of something to say to the intimidating woman. "Colonel Sorokin told me the secret." he broke the silence. She raised an eyebrow. "He told me you know. But don't go telling everybody you meet." "Of course not. But he said her majesty's personal guard were aware." "Her majesty even?" she said in a teasing draw, "You are an Emperor too, are you not?" "Used to be." he noticed how the process of rowing a boat had made her thick shoulders seem manly and unappealing. He liked her, but what for? In the past, attraction had always been a physical thing - see a beautiful body and imagine the things you could do with it. But this was different. "Shouldn't two monarchs be on a first name basis, since you are both equals? And Regina has become comfortable with people calling her by her first name. It would be strange if everyone called Sorokin's daughter [i]your majesty[/i]." "I'll call her Regi then. Would that be casual enough?" She chuckled. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. She wouldn't mind, but if the Colonel heard, he might think twice about his monarch collection." "You sound so disinterested." Sahle smirked. "I would have thought serving a savior Queen would inspire a warrior woman like yourself. Seems like something from a fairy tale." "I've never seen a fairy tale come true." she retorted. He leaned forward. The plank that served as his seat moaned as he moved. "There is no romance in this at all for you? I've only been here a few days, and I already see the romance in this country." "Are you flirting with me?" she gave him an incredulous smile. It was a common look for women. She was trying to look surprised, and only mildly amused, but in the liveliness of the expression he could see that she was enjoying his company. "What? I'm just talking about romance." he said. She eyed him for a moment with a smiling suspicion. "Okay." she said. "I remain uncertain about what Sorokin is doing, but that is my own business. I'm here because it's the best job I've found in my line of work; that's why I follow Regina. But do I believe in happy endings and the goodness of the righteous cause? Well... my grandmother told be a story about romance that maybe you should hear." Uliana cleared her throat and started her tale. It was a big river, and Sahle was glad she found a way to fill the time, so he did not interrupt. "My grandmother said there was once an important elder in her village that had two daughters. They were both at the age when marriage becomes important to a girl. Their father had been a busy man when they were growing up, so they spent their childhoods competing for his attention. After their brother made himself a drunken disgrace to the family name, a gallant war hero from another family began to earn the respect of the village. He lamented to the priests the loss of virtue in the country, and confided with old men how he wanted to see honor restored to their people. He was not only gallant, but he was a handsome man. The girls, both unwed, competed with each other for his glances. After some time he started to reciprocate their interest. He would send separate letters to each of them, filled with all the romances of a clever suitor, and more so because the man was naturally charming. The letters would be scented with flowers, and they would ask the girls to complete tasks to prove their love. A letter would ask one girl to wear a certain dress at church on Sunday, or to carve hearts into one of the big trees outside the village. And each letter would be filled with beautiful love poetry, with a request to memorize the letter and burn it so the words would remain between them. The girls did as the letters asked, swallowed up by the romance of the thing. Both girls knew it was a competition, and they would try to outdo each other in the perfection of their tasks, because each one secretly knew that they were the one girl this gallant man truly loved. They would wear increasingly expensive and beautiful dresses on Sunday, or carve increasingly elegant and artful images into the trees. As the months went by, he would task them with more. He would ask them to shape their hair into complicated braids in styles unusual to Russia, or for one girl to dance alone in the town square at midnight. And the girls kept at it, each one knowing that they would defeat the other and win the love of the gallant man." Her story paused a moment when they reached the island. Wet sand slid beneath their feet as they pushed the boat up onto the shore and into the bushes and tall grass. They walked into the forest and Uliana continued. "So the girls, after doing all of that, got their final letters. Each girl was certain they were the lone recipient because this was their last task; to them, it seemed like he had already chosen. They were to collect flowers at dusk until they had a big bouquet. Then, when the sun began to set, they would meet their gallant suitor in a secret grove. But before they met him, he requested they disrobe so that he could see them like Adam first saw Eve. Now, both girls thought themselves the only one to have received the letter. They went to different meadows, and picked their flowers. And at sunset, when nobody could see them from the river, they took off their dresses and undergarments and went to meet the man of their dreams. At some point along the way, the girls crossed paths. That should have been the end of it. But the competition had peaked, and neither were willing to give up. They reasoned it a sort of Judgement of Paris, and each one held themselves as the natural choice. They imagined the excellent suffering of their sister, naked in some forest, cold, rejected and humiliated, and the spirit of the competition drove them to this end. So the sisters bickered as they walked, and stole flowers from each other. They kicked off their shoes and tossed off their jewelry and let down their hair in an effort to more correctly look the part. This had been going on for months, and now was time for the reward. One of them would be swept off their feet." There was a silence. She looked knowingly at Sahle. "Well." she said. "This is the part where you ask me what happened to the sisters." "What happened to the sisters?" he asked blankly. "Well, the young man met them in the woods, and he clapped them in handcuffs. He dragged them naked to the magistrate and had them booked for prostitution. When they were questioned, they told a silly story about true love and letters they could not produce because they had been burned. The people had watched the sisters dressing and acting immodestly for months now, so the girls and their family had no recourse. Their father was shamed, and the gallant man was welcomed as a village elder in his place." Sahle frowned. "What a horrible story." he said. What did this mean? He had been trying to flirt with her, and she replied with this? "Yes. But it is a real story, and those are more important than the romances." "Well, I'm depressed now." Sahle pretended to pout. "Then it will be fair when we start shooting, because I have a feeling your shooting skills will make me depressed too." she smirked. "We'll go to the center of the island to practice." The island was low and damp. Most parts rose high enough for the ground to be dry, but there were in some places swampy forests pocketed with stagnant ponds. They went into one of those forests until they were deep enough that trees surrounded them thick on either side. It was a calm place. Birds tittered in the trees, and the rays of the setting sun blushed behind the leaves. In the shade, the damp air felt chilly on his skin. The scent of soaked plant-life was strong. It seemed late to practice at firearms, but he was no expert. He watched, uncertain if he should be doing something, as she pulled two pistols from a case. She grabbed one, slammed a magazine into it, and held it up to him. "You know how this works?" she asked. He nodded. "Good." she handed it to him and pointed to a nearby tree. "Hit that loose branch, over there. Take your time, you don't need to impress me." He straightened his arms like Vasily had showed him. His arms shook anyway. He was self-conscious of everything going on beyond his shoulders - the stiffness in his muscles, the uncomfortable weight of the gun. He tried his best to aim. Inhale deep. His sweat made the trigger slick. He squeezed, and the weapon fired. The woods echoed with the sound. It is always easy to forget how painfully loud a gun is if you haven't pulled the trigger for a long time. He looked, but couldn't tell if he had hit the target. "You missed." Uliana said. "How do you know?" "That little branch? You aren't tossing pebbles, my lord. If you had hit it, it wouldn't still be dangling from the tree. Here, watch this." She pulled up a second pistol and aimed quickly. He watched the branch. Her first shot caused it to fall from the tree. Once it hit the ground, she shot it again and it popped into two pieces. "Why did you shoot it on the ground?" he asked. "It was the only target I could think of." she said. They continued, though it never much of a contest. When they ran out of naturally occurring targets, she carved a bulls-eye into the tree and they used that. It was splintered by the time it was too dark to see. After dark, Sahle assumed they would boat back across the Volga, but she surprised him when she pulled a massive wad of canvas from her bag and pitched a tent. "Are we camping?" he looked at it. He had lived like this off and on between Cairo and Sevan, and it had left him with a strange opinion of camping. A mix of uncomfortable and happy memories made up his idea of the thing. "You need to learn this life in its entirety. There will not be many hotels in your immediate future." "So we're going to sleep together then?" he grinned back. She chuckled. "You try so much. No, not tonight. You are in training." They did exactly what she said - nothing. He was following her vibe, which said there would be no sex tonight. She slept in her fatigues, and went to sleep quickly, leaving Sahle to himself and feeling alone. He listened to the birds, and the wind in the trees. When he was younger, nature had only depressed him. Everything outside of civilization seemed inconvenient. It was something about the dirt, and how the climate was never quite comfortable, or how annoying it was to walk on uneven terrain. But he couldn't help but notice a subtle appreciation for it burgeoning in his mind. It made him feel soft, like floating on the surface of a cold pool. His nerves were releasing their burdens, one by one. He kept his eyes open and watched the branches of trees play their shadows in a cloud-filtered moonlight. When he felt ready to sleep, he closed the flap of the tent. He was awoken at sunrise by the discharge of gunfire. The tent-flap was open, letting in the salmon light of dawn. In the confusion that followed such a sudden awakening, the gunshots terrified him, but when he remembered where he was, he calmed down. He cleaned the sleep out of his eyes and crawled out into the morning. The air was cold with river-mist. Uliana had managed to procure green paint from somewhere, and she made a much better target. The smell of meat frying in its own juice dominated their little patch of the woods, and mixed deliciously with the vague earthy scents of the forest. "Eat." Uliana said simply. She had taken her pistol apart in the short time it took him to crawl out of the tent. He supposed she might be cleaning it, but the inner workings of the firearm were beyond Sahle's understanding. "What did you cook?" he asked. "Kolbasa." She said. Her hands moved quickly as she put the weapon back together. He took her up on the offer and ate a sausage straight from the pan. His hands covered in grease quicker than he expected, and he wiped his hands against his pants. "Why the target?" he spit the words through his food. "We should get some shooting done." she said dispassionately. "Now? What time is it?" "You'll get to your meeting. Finish eating." "I think." he started to say, pausing to finish his food. "I can think of a few other things we could do with that time." She chuckled. "You try." "Somebody once told me that Russian women aren't scared of a little fun." he was in his element now. She looked up and smiled at him. "That might be true, but you're no ordinary person. The way I see it, if I wait long enough, I might be a Queen." "You'd look good in a tiara." "I'll take that as a promise." she teased. He stood up and walked to where she was. "Ready?" she asked. He nodded, took the gun, and weighed it in her hand. "I think I might be getting used to this thing." he said. "We should make this a game then." she looked him with an ornery smirk. "If you are so interested in what is beneath my clothes, I'll give you a chance to find out. You shoot, I shoot, and when someone misses the target, they strip an article of clothing." "What? That's not fair." Sahle complained. "It's incentive." she replied. "But, if it makes you feel better, I'll take first shot." she took the gun back from him, aimed it, and fired. The target splintered in the center. He grabbed the gun and took a shot. He missed. "Take off your shoes." she teased. He complied. Perhaps it was nerves, or performance anxiety, but he completely failed all of his shots. It took no time before he found himself sitting in some cold swamp naked, with all of his clothes in a pile behind the meaty Amazon who had bested him. It wasn't until the last few shots that she pitied him and failed a few times on purpose, making herself barefoot. He felt like an idiot. "The Emperor has no clothes." she joked. "Can I have them back?" he had underestimated how cool and damp the air was, and how damp everything was, until he lost his clothes. Everywhere his naked skin touched the ground felt slimy and rotten. His scrotum retreated so quick his testicles seemed to be sharing real estate with his intestines. She looked him over very quick, but it didn't take her too long to seemingly loose interest. "In a moment. I have another thing to teach you." she dug into her bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars. "Here" she said, handing them to him. He had to resist the urge to look at himself with them, since all of himself was on display now. Next she pulled out a long-barreled rifle with some kind of scope on top. When he pressed the binoculars against his face and looked at some anonymous trees, he caught her taking another peak at his nudity through the corner of his eyes. He pretended not to notice. "More shooting? I don't have anything else to lose." "You are a bad shot." she replied. "But I want to teach you spotting." "What does that mean?" "Adjust the binoculars to that tree over there." she commanded. Sahle was surprised when he saw the one she was talking about. It was twice the distance as the target they had been shooting at up to this point. But she had a scope, he supposed. And she was skilled with guns, as his balls soaking in the mud attested to. He focused on the tree and she prepared her gun. The shot made him jump. It wasn't the sound of it, but how the bullet carved a massive hole into the tree. Splinters flew. "Did you see that?" she asked. "You killed that tree." "Not that. What you are looking for is the trail the bullet leaves behind. It will look like the bullet has stirred the air behind it. Think of the haze you see on the road during a hot day. It will be like that, but real quick and in a line. I'll do it again. Watch." She shot. "I think I saw it that time." Sahle said. "Watch again." she said. They kept this up for a while. He became confident in seeing the trails. But this was a more boring practice, and the seeping ground beneath his bare ass was making him feel cold and slimy. "I think we're done." he said. "I need to get ready for that meeting." "I suppose you should." she said. She shoved his clothes into his lap and, after wriggling her feet in the mud for a moment, went to put her shoes on and pack up. He got dressed quickly, taking care to avoid getting his clothing dirty. The day just started to get warm when they left. -- Sahle was not late for his meeting. He was made to wait in front of Volgograd's Duma building. It was like so many of the world's capitol buildings - a wide, multi-storied structure with roman columns and a stately appearance. Like the rest of the city, the Duma building was scarred by the warfare that had came here after the collapse of Russia. The flag of the old Russian Empire flew from a pole on the roof - a black eagle, crowned, with wings spread across a golden background. The entrance to the building was guarded by the weathered statues of two lions. The lion on the right had lost its head, leaving remnants of its mane hanging slightly over the cracked stone. In the broken space of its neck somebody had carved a crude smiling face. Behind the lions, soldiers stood guard with rifles in hand. Sahle was leaning against the lion when a tired Sorokin came out of the door of the Duma. "Samel." he said. "The General has approved your audience." "Good." Sahle replied. "I thought you were just asking to let me into the waiting room." He walked through the door, and followed Sorokin into the building. The Duma building was decorated sparsely. There were few paintings, and no rugs or plants. In an empty corner some distance from the door, a shredded Ottoman flag hung in a glass case, beneath which were framed photographs of soldiers posing among smoking rubble. "I told Rykov who you are." Sorokin explained. "Don't be surprised in how he greets you." They passed by an office before Sahle could answer. He knew not to speak of himself in front of strangers and give himself away. Instead, he watched them from the corner of his eye. They were all uniformed soldiers - sitting around typewriters and filing cabinets, and doing not much of anything. He passed out of their sight, but the oddness of the thing stuck with him. "How many monarchs has Rykov met now? Three?" "More than that." Sorokin replied. "Nice." Sahle said, impressed. "I don't think I've met that many." They went up a flight of stairs, and then through several halls. The offices they passed were all staffed with men, and each man was in the uniform of a ground soldier. Some were armed. The number of door and hall guards increased as they went. One at this hallway, and then the next door. When they finally reached the doorway into Rykov's office, they found it guarded by four men. At the sight of Sorokin they were let in. General Rykov was sitting at a plain desk, carefully studying several maps draped over the surface. He was much older than Sahle had anticipated. His hair was ivory white, and a pair of bifocles rested on his nose. His face was that of an old soldier. His jaw was wide, and his cheeks sharp, but his skin hung like a deflated balloon from those strong bones. "Your Imperial Majesty." he looked up at Sahle and rose smoothly from his chair. His voice was calm and mild, but his eyes were different. They were the lone powerful thing about the man. Pale blue eyes, scrutinizing him as if he could see Sahle's entire life written on his shirt. "General Rykov, I presume?" Sahle said as casually as he could. "What of me that is still on this earth." The General said, imparting a polite bow. "I want to start by extending you a kindness. Have you been told what is happening in your country?" "Do you know?" he said. His heart skipped a beat. News. No matter where he was, his old world trickled back to him in the form of horrible news. Rykov softly chuckled. "You might be surprised to find that Russia still has newspapers and radio. There are a few things you might want to know, and I would be remiss to not tell you." Sahle nodded assent and swallowed his nerves. "The Spanish are assaulting a city called Dire Dawa." "Dire Dawa. Yes." Sahle repeated dry-mouthed. It wasn't a town he liked - a dusty railroad depot full of manufacturies and merchants, but there was little else to do there. Still, he knew how close it was to Addis Ababa and his home. "I believe there have been skirmishes, but that is all I know regarding the war. There is another thing." "Say it." Sahle asked. The old man eyed him for a moment. His face was calm and somber, but his eyes were telling. "It's your sister. I could not pretend to pronounce her name..." "Taytu." he said. "She is being held by the government of Tanganyika. I don't quite understand the circumstances. They are claiming that agents of your country tried to slay their Prime Minister during talks?" "What?" Sahle was baffled. He didn't really know what Yaqob had done as Emperor, but the scenario he was being told made no sense to him. "It's an odd claim I know. There is certainly more under the surface, I can tell. But I thought you should know where things stand at the moment." Sahle felt something, but he did not show it. He did not want to seem weak among these men. What he felt wasn't fear, but rather guilt. He couldn't help but feel guilty. Had he really wasted his shot at the throne, just to flee and party in Sevan while his homeland and family suffered? "Colonel Sorokin." Rykov motioned. "I want a word alone with the Emperor. Do you mind?" Sahle did not see the Colonel leave, but he heard the door shut. It was only him and the General now. "Sit, if you wish." Rykov offered. He walked over to a window behind his desk and looked outside. Sahle found a seat in a polished wood swivel chair in the corner of the office. "I can't help but say, your majesty, that your presence here feels something like an omen." Rykov said. "Of what?" Sahle asked. "I think that the world has been on the precipice of war for some time. A true war mind you, one that will touch everyone on this earth. My country has been at war for a long time now, and your country has become the stage for this international drama between China and the west to play out. And now you are here of all places." Sahle cleared his throat. "Don't blame me." "Oh don't worry about that." Rykov said in a kind voice. "My country and your country are too busy for you to complicate our... eh, lack of a relationship. The only people in this land who would want you are the Chinese, and I am not interested in doing them any favors." "I appreciate that." Sahle replied. "I suppose I'm rattling now." Rykov smiled. "Do you have any concerns?" "One I suppose." Sahle said. "Regina. How do you know she is who Sorokin says?" "Well, think of it this way; has Sorokin done anything that suggests he is ambitious?" Rykov asked. "He comes off as nervous." Sahle replied. "I guess not. But he does claim his daughter is the Queen of Russia." "Him and his colleague explained that to me six years ago, and he has done nothing to further her claim since. I have urged him to go public with his claim and start the process of putting her on the throne, but he has only acted for the safety of the child." "Wouldn't that make sense if she is his daughter? Maybe he was ambitious and regrets it now." "I might have came to the same conclusion had it not been for Dr. Pukirev. The Doctor came to me with Sorokin and confirmed the story of Regina's sad birth. I knew Pukirev when he was the Tsar's family physician, and he was always an honest man. Well respected in the court. He saved the child himself, and lost the mother in the process. Before he disappeared, he was Regina's most fervent champion, though he had no place to gain power through her." "What happened to him?" "I think it was Sorokin's caution that drove him to run away. If he is still alive, I suspect he is living in an alley somewhere drunk out of his wits." there was a moment of benign silence where the General said nothing. "Someday I would like to see that man again. He was a good one. Did his work well." "So you believe it then." Sahle sunk. "It's true." He didn't say the rest of his thoughts. What happened to him? How did he trip into a circumstance like this? "You will be a witness to many things if you choose to stay with us. Tonight, there will be a meeting. Sorokin and I agree you should witness this meeting as a foreign adviser; we feel you might have some insights. You won't want to speak up while the meeting is in session, because for now you will be a random nigger to the Cossacks. We will not be telling them who you are. Not yet." Sahle nodded. "Good." Rykov said. "I have one more question for you, and it is important enough that it is the larger reason I decided to meet with you in person. Why, Emperor Sahle, are you here?" The air went stale for a moment as Sahle tried to think of an answer. "I don't know." Rykov frowned. "That is a non answer." he said. "It's the only one I have." Sahle answered. "I haven't been in control of where I am for many years. I don't know if I was ever in control of where I was, actually. I just find myself in places, making the most of my time until I end up somewhere else." "You seem exasperated." Rykov replied. "But that is a difficult answer for me to swallow. It's not like the other Kings I have known." "I can't speak for the others." Sahle replied. "But that's the only answer I have." Rykov nodded. "If you have nothing else to say, then neither do I. You are dismissed, your Majesty, if you wish to be." -- With the meeting over, Sahle walked speedily from the building and appreciated the fresh air once he was out. His identity was safe here, but he did not feel comfortable alone in a strange land, so he returned to the hotel. On his way, he passed a stand where a few homely commoners sold some sort of beer. He did not understand the word - Kvass - they used to describe it. The lobby of the hotel was plain. The reception desk sat in the opening to a much smaller room, where a hapless employee watched bored soldiers drink Kvass and loiter about doing nothing. He squeezed by them into the halls, and climbed the stairs to the second story where Sorokin stored his inner circle. As he passed the guards, he passed by the Tsarina's gap-toothed teacher. "Radmila." he said. A name and a smile, that was a habit he had learned when he was young. "How are you..." she started to say, but she squinted and paused. "Samel." he saved her. "Yes!" she bubbled. "You coming back from your meeting?" "Just looking for something to eat. Do you know if they are serving lunch here?" "Rykov is providing dinner to all soldiers and government in the capitol, but only dinner." she explained. "You could go out and buy something though." "I don't have money." he said. "Oh! I was going out to find lunch. Want to come?" She sounded genuinely excited, and he knew the decision was already made for him. "You don't need to be paying for me." "It's no matter. The money is Sorokin's anyway, and it's not like I pay rent." she laughed. "Come on. It will pass the time." "I can't argue with that." he replied. She lead him back the way he had came, through the lingering men, and back outdoors. "What did you think of General Rykov?" she asked. "He's friendly. Never met a friendly general before. It's difficult to imagine him at the head of an army." "I wouldn't have thought that." she sounded surprised. "I've never met him." They walked the wide street. No cars went by, so they stayed in the center. That was something he noticed about this town - the car traffic was sparse. There were a few cars, and just a few more motorbikes, but most traffic seemed to be on foot. Those walking the town were a martial-looking people. Even the unarmed civilians were stoic, dressed in dark and haggard clothing, going about their lives with a quiet urgency. The city around them was brutal and scarred. "How long ago was the battle fought?" he asked. "Ah, how long ago did the Armenian war start?" she replied. "That's when the Turks were forced out of the city." "By Rykov?" he knew the answer. She nodded. "They fought over the city for six years, starting after Rykov left the Ukraine. I think it would have been a nice war to read about, if I hadn't been forced to live in it. Gleb Apostol and his Cossacks capturing brigades of Turks, and then turning around and taking as many Poles in the North. Semem Hertsyk laying siege to Astrakhan. Rykov never had enough supplies or men, but he kept the Turks from getting comfortable." "I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in a warzone." he said, trying to sound thoughtful. "Weren't you in Armenia? And you were King during a civil war." "I never saw the fighting." he said. They entered into a big, empty square. There were a few silent market booths along the edges, and an ugly two-story apartment building jutting out into the middle of it all. At the center of the empty space was a damaged equestrian statue. "I didn't see any of Rykov's battles." she said. "The war for me was just hunger. That is what I remember, the hunger and how it touches every part of life. When everybody is hungry, nothing much else gets done. Everything starts to fall apart." Sahle said nothing. Radmila looked at him and giggled nervously. "I'm sorry about that, I invited you to lunch and now here I am telling you sad stories." "You must still be hungry then." he replied, half smiling. She led him to where an old man was selling flat-bread out of the back of a cart. The bread looked to him exactly like the injera they made in his homeland. It was a poignant little detail that took him back, and for a moment his entire being felt as if he was a child again, and only a hallway away from his mother. He tried to shake the feeling and focus on the present, but it clung to him and only melted away slow and unwilling. She bought two and they found a curb to sit on. "What do you think of Russia so far?" she asked after a swallow of bread. "Fine place." Sahle grinned. "I should find an apartment and settle down." "Where are you thinking?" He shrugged. "I don't know this town. Between here and the hotel... well, I guess I know that place over there, sticking out into the plaza." "Oh no." she said, playing horrified. "That place is haunted. You can't go there." "You really mean that?" his eyes stretched wide and he looked down at her, astonished. He didn't know what the superstitions of this land were, and he felt the sting of culture shock that was so common for him now. "I've seen a lot of strange things in my life" she replied timidly, and the gap between her teeth seemed cute. There was an uncomfortable pause. "You keep talking about me. But I want to know about..." she looked around, suddenly aware of the few people nearby them. Her voice went to a whisper. "You. The life you were born to. That had to be amazing!" "I don't think I can tell you those stories after what you have told me." Sahle replied. "That would be cruel." "I want to know." she nudged him. He sighed. There were only two kinds of memories from his original life; those that were uncomfortable, and those that were simply too tedious to repeat. "I had everything a person could want, I think. Really, I don't think I knew what I wanted. It was just life. I guess you want me to describe the cakes and the royal dances?" he looked at her. "Yes. Things like those are what I was thinking of." "Cakes were good." he said. "There was this party, three weeks after I was crowned, where somebody had made a cake that looked like me. They had built this sculpture out of marzipan and dye. Life sized. It tasted like plaster, but it was neat to look at." "Cakes." she looked dreamy-eyed into the distance. "That is the sort of thing I imagined." -- In the evening, Sahle and Vasily went with Sorokin to the conference the city was so abuzz about. Sahle sat with Sorokin in General Rykov's office, posing as an assistant. Vasily sat between Sorokin and Sahle, while General Rykov occupied his own desk. There was no conversation. All geniality in this meeting had died the moment that the first of the invited leaders arrived. He was a skeleton-thin man with grey hair and deep-set eyes, and he greeted Rykov with a stiff handshake and no words. Vasily, who was pretending to take notes for the Sorokin party, passed his paper to Sahle. '[i]Andrei Yaroslav. Was President of Ukraine. Surrendered to Rykov before chaos. Now Poland controls Kiev.[/i]' The wire-tight tension strung between Yaroslav and Rykov now had a context for Sahle, and he had nothing else to do but watch it play out. Rykov pretended not to see the Ukrainian, while Yaroslav read a book. When there was a knock on the door, the bad air seemed to leave the room. One of Rykov's guards entered. "Announcing Oleg Yushchenko, Hetman of the Sochi Host." he said. A thick man followed in. He was middle aged, clean cut, with a comfortable paunch and a ridiculous wardrobe. He wore a black velvet coat, embroidered in gold, that went down to his toes. There were loops sewn into the breast of the suit that held what looked like golden bullets intricately inlaid with silver. He also wore a tall fur hat with the Russian crest sewn into the front. "Mr. Yushchenko." Rykov greeted politely. "General Rykov." Yushchenko bowed. "Colonel Sorokin. It is good too see the world treat my friends so fairly." "How is it in Sochi?" Rykov made conversation. "Fair." the fancy man replied. "The piracy problem on the black sea is starting to affect business. The Pontic Greeks are the worst offenders there. They are like Barbary pirates. If I had the material, I would go down and burn all of Pontus." Sorokin passed another note to Sahle. '[i]Owns tea plantations. Never fought battle.[/i]' Sahle passed it back. He didn't think he needed a note for that. This man carried himself like a self-important businessman. There was nothing soldierly about him at all. "If we had a navy, perhaps we could handle the pirates." Rykov said. Yushchenko nodded, and then turned around to greet the Ukrainian. "President! I am happy to see you on our side." "Poland is your enemy and my enemy too." President Yaroslav said. He folded his book over his left hand and stood up to shake with his right. "Our peoples were friends once. We shall be friends again." Yushchenko's prosaic politicking was cut short by another knock, followed by the soldier from before making an entrance. "Announcing Ihor Iosifovich, Hetman of the Kuban Cossacks." the soldier spoke, and then withdrew. A short, wiry man entered. He had the body of a horse jockey and a haggard face masked behind a bushy black mustache. His fatigues were threadbare, and the only mark of his rank were the red sash around his waist and a couple of medals hanging from his chest. "Ihor, my friend." Rykov smiled. The small intense man nodded and found a seat. "I have brought three quarters of my host." Ihor explained. "The others are hunting Turks. They should stay down there." "Three quarters of the Kuban host is fine by me." Rykov replied. Sahle watched another note slide from Vasily's side of the table. '[i]Son of Koba from Georgia. Killed more men than anyone in room except me.[/i]' Sahle looked over at Vasily, but his eyes caught Sorokin instead. The Colonel had that uncomfortable look on his face that men sometimes get when their mistress and their wife meet at a party. It was cold sweat and a constipated countenance. Sahle lost track of the conversations in the room as they divided into two separate parties. He didn't pay attention to the gathering Cossacks until the guard entered again. "Announcing Semen Hertsyk, Hetman of the Don Host." The man that walked in looked the most up to the job of any Sahle had seen. He carried himself like a King; chin up, back straight, with a gait that never slouched or showed any hint of laziness. He had a great pepper-grey beard and the military dress uniform of a Russian Imperial officer. His eyes, which were deep-seated in his face, were small in an almost Asiatic sense. "Hetman Hertsyk." Rykov greeted. Before Sahle could catch the rest of what was being said, Vasily thrust another note across the table. '[i]This one love himself. Largest host.[/i]' "...thank you, General Rykov." Hertsyk was saying when Sahle turned back to them. "I have seen Zaporozhians wandering about the city, but Apostol isn't here. I was hoping to talk with that man and get his opinions about the movement of the Ukrainian Poles." "He is on his way I am sure." Rykov replied. The Cossacks began to talk among themselves. Sahle looked back to his side at Sorokin. He still had that constipated look. Was there something wrong with him, or was something going on that Sahle didn't understand? It was ten minutes before another knock came to the door. Everybody looked up this time, all at once as if they were a herd of skittish deer. The door opened and the familiar soldier entered. "Announcing Hetman Gleb Apostol of the Zaporozhian Host." The announced man hadn't yet entered when Vasily shoved a note at Sahle. '[i]Brilliant.[/i]' The man that entered did not look like the brilliant type. He was thick and soft-fleshed, with eyes deep set in his chubby face. His eyebrows were thick and twisted, and he sported a needle-thin waxed mustache and a sparse scraggle of fat hairs on his chin. He did not look military or dour either, but rather he entered the place like a big smiling gorilla. "General Rykov." he saluted. He whirled around and started shaking hands. "Semen! Oleg! Ihor! Well bless my balls, it's Mr Ukraine! It's beautiful to see your face." As they shook hands, the overwhelmed Yaroslav cracked his first smile of the day. Rykov gently closed the door and locked it just as Apostol turned on his heals and faced Sorokin. "Lazar." the big man greeted. "You look like there are dwarfs mining your sphincter for gold. Why the face?" Sorokin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His bald spot shone with pearls of sweat. "I am not used to the climate inland. I will be fine." "I hope you will. This is no time for a man to run a fever. Where is your daughter, the lovely girl we have come here to discuss? I would think she should attend a meeting like this." "We are talking about China in general." Rykov reminded. "China, China, China." Apostol muttered. "I can tell you how that will happen. If the Chinese were brilliant, they would break the Republicans in the mountains and drive hard to Nizhny Novgorod. From there they could take Yaroslav and become one with the Communes before entering a war with the Poles. But the Chinese are not brilliant, they are bureaucrats, so here is what they will do; they will fight for every town piecemeal. Every time they get the chance to crush the Republic, they will turn it down so they can fight slow." "So you don't think the war is almost over?" Sorokin looked up. "It was over a year ago. The Chinese just don't understand that quite yet." "It might be inappropriate to act now." Sorokin said. "That's what I think that means. If we play our hand so soon..." "The Chinese don't realize it yet." Apostol interrupted. "But when will Makulov realize it? Or any of those Generals on the front? There is a flopsweat drenched, President sized hole in Russia now, waiting for somebody to slip in and fill it." "Then we fill it." Hetman Iosivich slammed his fist into his chest. Apostol grinned and wrapped his arm around the small mustachioed Hetman. "We are of one mind, Ihor. I want all of you by my side when we rise into Moscow!" Ihor Iosivich looked supremely uncomfortable, and when the opportunity came to slip out of Apostol's grip, the small Hetman took it. "Moscow." Sorokin swallowed the word. "We are getting ahead of ourselves." General Rykov had been standing in the corner with his chin in his hands. His eyes were downcast like he was inspecting the floor for secrets. When Sorokin finished speaking, the General looked up. "I agree with Hetman Apostol." he said calmly. "You have asked us to wait for a golden opportunity. This, I think, is to be our last opportunity. Certainly the last one that happens in my lifetime." "My life's work is the protection of Regina. What I am seeing in this plan is desperation. Would any of you act so quickly if it wasn't for the Asiatics coming across the Urals?" Sorokin was passionate. More passionate than Sahle had ever seen the man. "Crowning her and putting her safely on the throne is the safest thing for her." Rykov countered. The Hetman Semen Hertsyk had been nodding his agreement to what Rykov and Apostol were saying, but now he thrust himself forward to join the discussion. "Friends, General, I solidly concur with the plan to action. No great victory can be won through a love of safety. If you look at the lives of the greats; Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Belisarius, Alexander Nevsky, Dmitry Donskoy, Alexander Suvorov, you find that they did not meet their success through safety. Russia waits for us, Colonel. We must take it." "It is easy for you or me to say this, but we are talking about the life of a ten year old girl. A march on Moscow is patently unreasonable and irresponsible." Sorokin was turning red. Sahle felt like a soldier under fire, and his chair was his trench. Apostol grumbled nothing intelligible. He pointed at Vasily. "You, and your nigger, talk sense into your boss." "I think that would be inappropriate to do." Vasily shrugged. "Since he pays us." General Rykov spoke next. "What I think is inappropriate is that Colonel Sorokin presumes to own the monarchy." Sorokin looked hurt. "I thought it was agreed I was to be her advocate and regent?" he said. "I agreed out of respect for what you have done in saving her and keeping her." Rykov answered. "But what you are doing now is an abuse of my kindness. You are still my subordinate, and the armed forces of this nation are commanded from this office. This is the last chance we will have to put the young Tsarina on her throne. I want to see the grand daughter of Peter seated in the Kremlin before I am dead. I want to die in the same Russia I was born." Sorokin sunk. "This is it." he muttered. All at once, the tensity in the room fled out through the pours in the wall. Sorokin seemed to melt into his chair, but the meeting continued. "War it is." Andrei Yaroslav broke the air. The Ukrainian President's voice had a nasal twang to it, not so much that it was annoying, but enough to be distinct. "My people will fight if we get a promise that all our territory will be respected. The Ukraine is my price." "Some of that property belongs to my host." Gleb Apostol said. Yaroslav bristled at that. "This meeting will be a waste of my time if I do not get all of the Ukraine." he replied. "My host has done more against the Poles than your meager partisans." Apostol puffed up as he spoke. "You want to be a sovereign nation then? Sovereign Cossacks, like it is the sixteenth century again? This is not the era for what you propose." "I want to serve my Tsarina." Apostol said proudly, slamming his clenched fist against his chest. Yaroslav looked almost horrified. "So you want some of my nation for Russia then? How much do you plan to steal?" There it was, Sahle thought. All the tension Sorokin had released now had a new host in this blustering Ukrainian. "I have a plan." General Rykov pulled a map from his desk and intervened in the verbal melee. "I propose the Zaporozhian Cossacks shall be given the Ukrainian land east of a line drawn at the east bank of the eastern-most line of the Dnieper. This line shall break from the river going north from Novomoskovs'k, and going south from Vasylivka, so that the Ukraine will still hold the Crimea and..." "You steal half of my country and call it friendship?" Yaroslav was fighting mad. His face was beat read and he spoke his words as if they were knifes he was twisting into Rykov's gut. "That is not what will happen. All of the Ukraine or I walk away tonight." "That is unreasonable..." Rykov complained. "It is my decision." Yaroslav stamped Rykov kept calm and collected. "I cannot concede to you in this temper." Yaroslav did not concede. He stomped out the door and slammed it shut, leaving a room full of Hetmans uncertain about their plans. "We go forward." Rykov said. "I will try to convince the President if he is still in town tonight, but until then we go forward. I want us to execute this war as quick as we can." "There is a thousand miles between here and Moscow. The Chinese are nearly as close as we are." the Hetman Oleg Yushchenko noted. "The Polish defenses are limited to the Ukraine and the area surrounding Moscow." Rykov retorted. "There are Republican defenses along the Volga, but most of the Russian fighting forces are in Perm. What stands between us and Moscow is those militias. They might not be able to stand up against Cossacks, but they can slow us down until Poland or the Republic finds the resources to cut us off." "Which we cannot afford." Sorokin muttered. "There is a way you could neutralize most threats by the Republic." Apostol spoke now. He dropped his blustering tone for a calmer one and twisted his waxed mustache as he spoke. "We send a small number up to occupy the Samara Bend. There would only be the isthmus to the bend and the bridge at Tolyatti to defend. If the Republic were to feel safe of their control of the Volga, they would have to lay siege to this force on their island." "Surely the enemy would choose to face us in Moscow and end the rebellion at once." Yushchenko balked. "If we move quick and sporadically up the road, they won't know how large of a force we command. Send flying detachments of riders well beyond our flanks. Close enough we can close our ranks if we must, but covering a wide enough area to create the impression of a mass invasion." Rykov was inspecting closely the map on his wall, and he nodded slowly as the Hetmans spoke. Before Rykov started to speak, Sorokin interrupted and stood up. "I need to retire." "From the military?" Rykov inspected the Colonel. "For the night." Sorokin said. "Excuse me." Vasily and Sahle stood up. It was an awkward retreat, and Sahle avoided eye contact until they were outside. Following Sorokin, they jogged through the halls. Nobody said a word. What had happened? They rushed out of the building, and Sahle found himself thinking how ridiculous it was that he missed waking up in the woods in the morning, in a foreign land, and a circumstance he understood only a smidgen more than what was happening now.