"Grantville Gazette Volume XI" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)
Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part Four Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett
Yaroslavich Dacha, outside of Moscow
A Dissertation on the Value of Freedom and Security
"Those that give up their freedom for a little temporary security deserve neither freedom or security and ultimately will lose both." So goes an up-time quote. This humble writer doesn't know if that' s true or not. It is demonstrably true that the nation it comes from – founded on principles of freedom – grew to be one of the richest and most powerful in the world.
That nation had no greater resources than the Russia of its time. But it had a great deal more wealth. Why is that, I wonder? The question troubles my sleep at night.
The 'Time of Troubles' is a weak name for what Muscovy went though at the beginning of this century. It has perhaps made us a bit timid, afraid of freedom. It's so much easier when everyone knows their place and no one is allowed to argue or try something new. So much safer it seems. But I wonder, safe for how long?
The bandits are mostly gone from our roads and villages now. Surely that is a good thing. It seems worth a bit of freedom. What use, after all, is freedom to a man murdered by bandits? Is it worth, perhaps, the right of a serf to leave the lands of his lord? Some of those serfs might become bandits and make our roads unsafe yet again. Yet, why was this America, with its freedom, so rich? Where did its great wealth come from?
Much of it came from people leaving their work and striking out on their own. From people who left their homes and tried to do something that they had never done before. A man named Bell tried to find a way to make the deaf hear. Instead he found a way to send his voice and thousands of other voices thousands of miles along a wire. Another man, named Edison, hated transcribing the messages he received to send on. So he made a machine that did the job. This type of event happened again and again and made the land that the up-timers came from the richest in their world. Was it the freedom that did it? I think it may have been. For the same rule that prevents a serf from becoming a bandit also prevents him from becoming an inventor, or a merchant.
As I think of these things I can't help but wonder if we are beggaring our children to buy a bit of security for ourselves. The history of Holy Mother Russia that was written in that other time saw the fading away of the Zemskiy Sobor. It is barely even mentioned in their records. How did we allow that to happen? Are we, perhaps, afraid of the responsibilities of voting for representatives we trust? How will Mother Russia compete with nations that have spent a bit of their security to buy a little freedom for themselves and their posterity?
The Flying Squirrel
What Russia was, Natasha decided, as she set the pamphlet aside, depended a lot on how you looked at it. She had looked at it one way all her life now she was looking again. "Aunt Sofia, what do you think of democracy?"
The woman chuckled. She was tiny, four foot ten and weighed all of eighty pounds. Yet, when needed, she could put on such an expression of fierceness that boyars and bureau chiefs blanched. Fortunately at the moment she didn't have her game face on. Her eyes twinkled. "Bernie again or the one of the pamphlets? I don't know enough about it to have much of an opinion. From what I've heard, I cannot imagine it working, but obviously in some way it did. It must be different from what the Poles have that leaves their government so paralyzed."
"Well, according to Bernie, women vote as well as men, peasants as well as princes."
"I approve of the first and disapprove of the second. Peasants lack the knowledge of the wider world to understand the issues if a great nation. They lack the intellect for matters of state. Instead, they have low cunning." The eyes laughed. "Of course, I am a woman of the nobility. Were I a man – and a peasant – I might have a different opinion."
Natasha looked up at her smiling aunt with some irritation, then back down at the piles of papers on her worktable. The pamphlet on the cost of freedom and security was in one corner. In another were letters from Grantville. She picked up one of them. "Vladimir's friend Brandy wrote an answer to my question." Natasha felt her face flush a bit. She'd been wondering what life in Grantville must be like for weeks now. The Victoria's Secret book, along with translations of Brandy's letters, was in her bag for this visit to Evdokia. The czarina had been asking a lot of questions about up-timers lately.
"And what does she say?"
Natasha felt her face heat, with a blush. "So much and so… different. Brandy, she says I'm to call her Brandy, says that every person gets the same opportunities and it is up to them what they make of them. And that many, many up-time women choose not to marry and not to have children and not to live with parents and not… "
Aunt Sofia lifted her arms and patted the air. "Calm, child, calm. Stop and think a moment. Women do the same in Muscovy. Not all calls to holy orders are calls to God. Quite a few are calls away from the restriction of the outside world."
"But they don't… " Aunt Sofia was holding up her hand.
"I understood what you meant," Sofia said. "My point was that there was already an acceptable way to avoid the responsibilities of family. And how do these women live? They get jobs, I assume."
Natasha nodded cautiously.
"What jobs? Something like what your friend Brandy does in Grantville?
"Well, yes."
"And, Natasha, what do you do in the Dacha?"
Natasha stopped dead. What she did in the Dacha was run it. She used Vladimir's authority as head of the family, but she ran the Dacha. Her authority there was pretty much unquestioned. "I wasn't just thinking of me. Though I would like to see Grantville. Perhaps even live there for a time. I was thinking of all the other women of Muscovy."
"Of course you were." Aunt Sofia sounded doubtful. Then she laughed at Natasha's expression. "I know you were, dear." Aunt Sofia's voice was much more understanding now. "But all the women of Muscovy can't move to Grantville. What would the men do? Nor can we make Muscovy into a copy of Grantville, not without losing Russia and ourselves in the process. Quietly, calmly. Think each step through. Plan. You are a knyazhna, not a peasant. Consider the church, also. Think about what the church will have to say. If that doesn't calm you down, consider how most of the women of Muscovy will react."
Sofia held up her hand. "Consider," she insisted again. "If a woman can be a soldier then a woman can be made to be a soldier. Yes? Would you have women of the boyar class working in the fields like peasant women? Would Madame Cherkaski agree to have her status based on her position in the bureaucracy? She can't read, you know. And she heartily disapproves of those who can. It wasn't the men of Muscovy who poisoned Mikhail's first choice for a bride. Think about that. For now at least, leave politics aside and concentrate on the Dacha."
The sound of the toilet flushing woke Filip Pavlovich from a light sleep. That was the disadvantage – well, the largest disadvantage – of the toilets Bernie had insisted on. The noise. The sound of running water had the usual effect. He got up, threw on a heavy robe and headed to the bathroom to answer the call of nature. When he opened his bedroom door, he saw Bernie, carrying a candle and a book, heading toward the back of the house.
After taking care of business, Filip decided that he would investigate Bernie's whereabouts. Probably the kitchen, he thought. Bernie seemed to have a strange attachment to kitchens.
Not the kitchen after all, he was surprised to see. Another room close to it. Filip walked in just as the cook's assistant was lighting a few more candles. Bernie was opening a book, preparing to study for a while. "Another night owl?" Bernie grinned. "Feel free to join me. Anna Stefanovna will get us a beer and a snack if you want."
"Why aren't you asleep?" Filip yawned. "It's the middle of the night."
"Not really." Bernie looked at his watch. "It's only about 10:30. You know, that's one of the hardest things to adjust to, this living in what might as well be dark. I never used to go to sleep until about two in the morning, back home. Even after the Ring of Fire, I could still watch a movie on my VCR if I wanted to. I hate going to bed early, always did. Even when I was a kid it felt like sleeping was a waste of time. There was always something else I wanted to do."
The servant was placing a plate of Bernie's sandwiches in front of him along with a mug of beer. "You want a beer?" Bernie asked. "You're up anyway. Have a seat."
Filip nodded. "Why not? The older I get the less I sleep, anyway. Tell me about up-time. Did no one sleep the night through in your up-time?"
Bernie took a sip of his beer as the girl placed another mug in front of Filip. He shook his head. "Hardly anyone. Kids, maybe, and people who had to get up real early for work. Back there, all you had to do was flip a switch and you had lights. You could read all night if you wanted to and it would be just like daytime." Bernie grinned a bit. "There was a story they told. All about a man who became president way back when. The story said that he stayed up, reading by firelight, and educated himself that way. He was a really great president, too. And I've got a lot more respect for him, now that I know just how hard it is to read by candlelight. Not that I ever did that much reading."
Filip Pavlovich was gradually reconsidering things. Filip was a very smart man. He was also of reasonably good family and had an excellent education for his time. He was familiar with much of the work of the great minds of his era. He had worked quietly in the Embassy Bureau most for of his adult life, coordinating the reports of the agents around Europe on matters of natural philosophy, what the up-timers called science. His position and the nature of his work made it unlikely that he would ever be recorded in a history book. This didn't mean Filip wasn't as bright and capable as the more famous western scholars. It just meant that his work rarely bore his name.
Bernie had been sort of an insult. It was amazingly unfair that this up-timer should, by no other virtue than the accident of his birth in the future, know so much that Filip Pavlovich didn't. That was bad enough. Worse, though, Bernie Janovich couldn't explain it to him in a coherent way. At first he had occasionally wondered if Bernie was pretending ignorance just to frustrate him. Or, perhaps, Bernie didn't want the czar and people of Muscovy to have the benefit of the knowledge that he was being paid to provide. By now Filip knew that was not the case. He had seen Bernie's frustration and knew it was real.
Filip knew Bernie wanted to help. Bernie had seen little of the grinding poverty of the Muscovy peasants and the town poor, but even that little bit was apparently too much for him. It was the kind of poverty that made taking out someone's chamber pot a position to be sought after. Filip had seen this poverty anew, through Bernie's eyes. He didn't like seeing it, not at all, and he knew Bernie hated it. Filip was beginning to wonder if being smart was the best thing a man could be.
Bernie was good. Good in a way that almost no one outside of a saint was good in the here and now. Not that Bernie was a saint, exactly. He liked girls and beer too much for that. And, Filip was saddened to note, Bernie didn't really care for church.
Somehow, over the time that Bernie had been here, Filip had come to like the young man. He liked that Bernie was willing to admit when he didn't know something and try to learn it. And, Bernie had made it clear that he respected Filip for his knowledge and ability to understand Bernie's bits and pieces of information. He even liked that Bernie some how saw people as equal and felt that all of them were deserving of respect.
Without even realizing it, Filip had decided he would teach this man from the future to understand the knowledge he carried in his head. Enough, at least, so that Bernie would not be discarded as a used up receptacle in a few years. The fact that Bernie would probably look at the prospect of such an education with dread didn't bother him in the least. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. There was a touch of sadism in Filip's soul. Not a lot, but enough so that the prospect of making Bernie's life miserable for a while – in a good cause, of course – was kind of pleasant.
"So." Filip grinned. "What do you study tonight, Bernie? And what noisy, smelly experiment will it lead to this time?"
It was nice of Filip to help him out, Bernie thought, but it would be okay if he went to bed soon, too. He'd been teaching Anya stuff for a little while most nights. And Anya was too shy to sit down at the table with Filip there.
Finally, after about an hour, Filip gave it up for the night.
"Yeah." Bernie stretched a bit and yawned. "I'll be crashing pretty quick. One more chapter, though."
Filip's eyes were getting bleary. "Without me, I think." He yawned. "I don't have the stamina of youth." He stood and yawned again. "In the morning, then."
Bernie watched him leave, then grinned at Anya. "Finally," he whispered. "Alone at last."
Her blue eyes were merry. "Oh, yes, my dahlink. Fearless Leader has left the building and now we may play." She retrieved the papers of their latest project and sat down beside him. "Now, check my homework, please."
"It would be a lot quicker if I'd thought to bring a calculator," Bernie grumbled. He added up the columns of figures and checked that she'd posted the imaginary expenses to their correct imaginary accounts. "You got it, babe. Everything is in the right spot."
Anya clapped her hands, quietly. "Good." She checked the accounting textbook. "Trial balances and closing entries are next."
Bernie groaned and reached out to grab her by the shoulders. "Come, my little babuska." He used his Boris voice. "We will attend to the moose later. Right now, I merely wish to enjoy myself. No more studying tonight."
"Alexei?" Bernie had begun to wonder about this. "What about taxes? Do you deduct it from my income or what? Like the man says, there's two things certain in this world, death and taxes."
Alexei Alexandrovich stared at Bernie. "You want to pay taxes, Bernie? Why?"
"No, I don't want to pay taxes. No one wants to pay taxes. But, I don't want to go to jail for not paying my income tax, either."
"What's income tax? Is this yet another moose?"
Bernie grinned. Moose had come to mean a lot of things at the Dacha. Anytime anyone was hunting for an answer they were "looking for the silly moose."
"Kinda sorta. Income tax is how you support the government. You have a job, you get paid every month and your employer takes out a part and gives it to the government to pay for roads and the army and stuff like that. And, there's also property tax but you don't pay that unless you own property. It usually supports local government and schools and stuff."
Alexei, as Alexei often did, doodled with his pen. "What if you are not paid a salary? What if you're a craftsman?"
"I'm no expert." Bernie thought it must have been the thousandth time he'd said that since he had gotten to Moscow. "I think you pay income tax anyway, but it's a percentage of your net income."
"And what is net income?"
"Well, you figure all the money you took in that year. That's your gross income. Then you subtract the deductible stuff. What's left after that is your net income."
"And what… " God, it's like pulling teeth, thought Alexei… "is the deductible stuff?"
"Uh, well… your kids, for one thing. The more you have, the bigger the deduction. And, I guess if you're a smith and renting your shop, that would be a deductible expense and the iron you use to make the horseshoes or whatever. Stuff like that." It was dawning on Bernie that they did it differently here. "How do you do taxes here?"
That was a dangerous question. There were a number of subjects that they had all been informed they were not to discuss with Bernie. Both Boris Ivanovich and Natasha Petrovna had been very, even painfully, clear on that. "Well, Bernie, as far as you're concerned, the best way to figure it is your taxes are taken out of your monthly pay. That's not exactly how it works but close enough."
"And it wasn't just the income tax." Bernie had long since realized that there were certain things the bosses didn't want him to know. Which was okay with him. He didn't want to get involved with Russian politics if he could help it. And besides, he probably didn't want to know. So he explained a bit more about taxes.
Alexei's head was about to burst, but he had to ask.
"Not just the income tax?"
"Nah," Bernie said. "We paid the Fica, too."
"Ahh… Fica?"
"Yeah. I don't remember what it meant, but it was Social Security."
"You paid to be socially secure?" Alexei's head was going to explode, he just knew it. Any moment now.
"Yeah. In a way. Sort of." Bernie shrugged. "It was for the old folks. You paid the Fica for every day you worked. Then, when you got too old to work, the Fica paid you back. It wasn't as much as you paid in, maybe, but it was almost enough to live on, if you were careful. Anyway, guys, you could have just told me that they were paid in the first place." Bernie headed back to the shop.
Petr Grigoryevich, their "math whiz" began doodling on a sheet of paper. "I wonder," he muttered, "how much a ten percent income tax leveled on everyone… the great families… and, well, everyone, would produce. I wonder if it wouldn't produce even more money than the peasant farms and communes that the czar owns, the taxes on the serfs and the poor city folk and the special taxes. There might be even more money for the czar and the church, if everyone in Muscovy paid a certain percentage of what they earned."
"It would never happen. The great families would never allow it to happen." Alexei shook his head. "Still, it's an interesting speculation." The group fell into calculations.
Guba Ivashka Kalachnikov was very interested in the knowledge from the future. "Mercury," he whispered, "is a poison?" He wasn't that concerned about the lead that the ladies used in their makeup. There were other things that would work as well for that. He was busily trying to integrate the things that were coming from the Ring of Fire with his experience. He had a lot of the latter; he had been a healer for over forty years.
He listened to the rest of the list. It was something called a cheat sheet and was being read to him by a clerk from the Grantville section of the Embassy Bureau. The clerk was a lad of fifteen and, even though he was Guba's social superior, worked for him doing reading and writing. He paid the boy and thanked him for the service. Guba had never bothered to learn reading and writing. At least not what most people would think of as reading and writing. He used a set of symbols that was part inherited from his teacher and part made up by him to keep track of what drug,prepared in what way, was in each container.
He worked with potions to relieve pain and balance the humors. He had mixed potions for Czar Ivan when he was an apprentice. Potions that included mercury. The knowledge that his potions might have been what drove Ivan mad didn't sit well. "Mercury causes delusions?" he repeated. "I made drugs that drove Ivan Grotzny mad. Drugs without which he would not have killed his son and the Time of Troubles would not have happened?
No!he thought. It's lies. It must be. And yet. He could think of no reason for them to lie. At least none that made sense given the circumstances.
The shop was in Moscow and up-scale. Guba knew about drugs and acupuncture and a number of other treatments. He had a large number of very wealthy customers, and he wasn't sure what to do. In more than one way. First, the potion for relieving the pain of swollen joints worked. He knew that; he had seen it. Mercury potions were also the only effective treatment for syphilis that he knew of. The dementia, if it was caused by the drug and not the pain, was a side effect that took multiple doses over a period of time to manifest.
Nor did he have a replacement for the drug. Not one that was nearly as effective. He understood from some of the things the boy from the Grantville section had said that Grantville did have drugs that were effective. The little blue pills of happiness that were supposed to relive pain and restore manhood. Another called Mary Jane. It didn't matter; he didn't have them and had no practical way to get them or make them.
Grantville
"So what else is on the list of impossible demands this week?" Brandy asked.
"Bernie, or rather 'one of the brain cases,' wants a computer. The patriarch wants proof of the dangers of lead poisoning and an alternative makeup, because certain women in Moscow are having fits. Also, tons of antibiotics. I'm sending him cheat sheets on how to make chloramphenicol. I have one here from the Polish section demanding a generator 'if such things really exist.' We sent one to Bernie a while back; that must be where they heard about it. So, make unreasonable demands of me, Brandy. I'm getting used to it."
"Hmmm." Brandy considered. "Hmmm. No one has ever suggested that before, I don't think. How about a reasonable demand? How about we take off early? I want you to tell me about Moscow."
"Why not?" Vladimir shrugged. "Why not? The demands will still be here tomorrow."
It was three nights after the car had left for Russia that the prince from Muscovy made up his mind he would ask for permission to marry the girl from the future. He pulled out a pen and began the two letters. One to Natasha informing her that he would be seeking Brandy's hand and asking for her help in persuading the czar. One to the czar asking his permission to marry a foreigner. The fact that his older sister had married a foreigner would not make it easier. He would wait to ask Brandy until he had permission because he didn't know what he would do if the permission were not forthcoming.
Yaroslavich Dacha
"Oh, man." Bernie sounded worried. "Why him?"
Natasha looked up from her latest letter from Brandy Bates and watched Bernie for a moment. His beard had grown in rather nicely, she thought. His clothing, though. She shook her head. Just when she had thought the jeans were worn completely out, the unforeseen consequences of the sewing machine had resulted in Vladimir's gift of something called "torberts."
The jeans had been bad enough, in Natasha's opinion. The torberts were worse and they were catching on. That's how Bernie put it, anyway. They lacked the proper drape of Russian clothes and what was the fetish men seemed to have with pockets everywhere? The torberts were, according to Bernie, just farmer's overalls made down-time to up time design. He insisted they made good work clothes.
If that had been all they were used for Natasha wouldn't have objected. Well, not as much. But some of the other men at the Dacha were using them for social wear now, as a sort of a proclamation that they worked there. Even Bernie didn't think them appropriate for "parties and such," but he insisted he "wasn't the fashion police." Whatever that meant. He refused to explain the inappropriateness of wearing torberts into Muscovy. Bernie was Bernie. Too stubborn by half. "Why who?"
"Cass Lowry." Bernie waved the letter at her. "He used to be a friend of mine when we played football together. I thought he was so cool. He was smarter me and was always coming up with stunts to pull. The thing is, Cass never could take anyone's advice on anything. He was going to go to college on a football scholarship. Studying was a waste of time." Bernie laughed. "I was the same way. Everything that happened to us was someone else's fault. I was right with him all through high school. It was the nerds screwing up the bell curve. It was the teachers that had it in for us jocks." Natasha wondered why teachers would have it in for jocks but didn't bother asking. Bernie was still talking.
"Then, after the football scholarship fell through, Cass blamed me for keeping him from studying." Bernie looked over at Natasha and gave a shrug. "There may have been some truth to it but other guys on the team did study and went on to college. Somewhere in there, I got over myself and started to grow up. But from the letter, it doesn't sound like Cass ever did. Now he's blaming everything on the down-timers and Mike Stearns." Bernie waved the letter. "That's what this letter comes down to. I hope no one ever reads this, Natasha. Because it's pretty rude."
Natasha knew that quite well. It took some effort to control her expression. Cass Lowry's comments about "krauts," "russkies" and "I guess you're living in the armpit of the universe" had not gone unnoticed. Not in the least. "Brandy says it is because he was the only person who knew cars well enough who was willing to make the trip. Vladimir wanted, very much, to have someone who knew cars travel with your 'Precious.'"
"My what?"
"See." Natasha waved Brandy's letter. "Brandy says 'tell Bernie that Cass is traveling with Precious because Cass is the only guy we could find who wasn't doing something else.'"
Bernie's face was a study. Part outrage, part pout. "The car is not named Precious. Are you sure she didn't say 'your precious car' or something?"
Natasha perused the letter again and shook her head. "No. It even has the capital P. I assumed it was the name for it. At any rate, your Cass will be arriving in a month or so. We should probably arrange for you to meet him. He, according to Brandy, wants to visit us for a while. And you never know, he might help."
Bernie slumped into a chair. "I doubt it. Don't get me wrong. Cass is smart smarter than me. It's just… I don't know… he has a knack for screwing things up. You're probably not going to care for him one little bit. Neither will Boris or Filip." Bernie shook his head in disgust. "Why did Brandy have to send him?"
Brandy had not sent him, Vladimir had. He had been fully aware of Cass' drawbacks and had stressed the need to put up with them while he was milked for information, especially on weapons and tactics used by the up-timers. "Mr. Lowry," Vladimir had written, "is not a person we would want in our home. But he does have knowledge that could be useful to Muscovy. Try to keep anyone from killing him for the insults he will surely give." Natasha had wondered if Bernie's view would agree with Vladimir's. While there were subtle differences, for the most part it did.
Bernie shivered. Theatrically, Natasha thought. "Well, at least it's not a horse. It may be colder than a witches… ah, never mind. It may be really cold, but at least we aren't riding horses."
"Indeed, we aren't." Natasha smiled. "And you must admit that it's a very nice coach, Bernie, very nice."
And it was, in fact, a very nice coach. It had special springs for the skis. Outside it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey and the snow was still pretty deep. But the streamlined coach-on-skis had double-walled construction and a lacquer polish job that acted as sealant, as well as making the whole thing shiny as all get out. It was relatively warm inside, even if it did look kind of weird. It needed high road clearance because even the improved roads weren't exactly highways in the up-timer sense of the word. They were reasonably well-graded dirt roads with a bit of crushed rock spread over them. Plus, at the moment, a layer of snow. There remained rough bits here and there. The coach was not as high as the old west stage coaches, but was higher than a modern car. Most of the time the coach could travel ten to fifteen miles per hour. There were places, though, where they had to slow way down and work their way between ruts.
Only a relatively small part of the design for the coach was from up-timer information. More of it had to do with a down-timer coach maker who had joined the team after the czar had seen some up-time car magazines. Czar Mikhail had liked the idea of cars and smooth rides. He'd decided that if he couldn't have an engine, he at least wanted a streamlined design and shock absorbers.
The coach maker, Ivan Egorovich Shirshov, had taken note of that desire. The czar had seen to that. Ivan Egorovich had arrived at the dacha with a medium-sized chip on his shoulder over the whole mess. Then he talked to Bernie and found that Bernie agreed with him. But it was no more up to Bernie than it was to him. They had gone over Bernie's car magazines, then over sleigh designs and coach designs, trying to figure out what they could do. Ivan Egorovich now had a permanent dent in his forehead from pounding it against the wall in frustration. And Czar Mikhail had a new coach. So did Bernie.
Bernie grabbed the edge of the seat. "Hang on. We're about to hit another rutted bit. And I still can't figure out why you wanted to come on this trip, ladies. You're probably going to get frostbite on your noses."
"The 'advance team' as you call it has made arrangements, Bernie. We will be comfortable. And I like traveling. Vladimir and I did quite a bit of it, you know, back when our father was alive."
Aunt Sofia grinned widely. "The weather, it is not so bad."
Bernie shuddered. If it hadn't been for the long johns, he'd have had frozen b… ah… parts by now.
The trip to the Swedish border had several purposes. One was to investigate the road work. Road work had been continuing apace since only a month or so after Bernie's arrival. Since he had worked on the road gangs around Grantville and had a mechanical turn of mind, he had a good knowledge of the horse-drawn grader and other horse-drawn road improvement equipment. The equipment he had helped design for Muscovy had been used extensively for almost a year now and was showing real effect. The czar's highways mostly went south and east, roughly toward China. One, however, went north and west toward the coast of the Baltic Sea.
That was the highway they were traveling. It was a fairly slow trip. They stopped occasionally to examine the road work. Most important to Bernie, though, was that the trip's second purpose was to pick up his car. It had been shipped from Grantville by way of the Baltic Sea to the Swedish-owned coast.
Muscovy had lost this particular bit of land to Sweden a couple of decades before. Thankfully, relations between the two nations had greatly improved in the ensuing years. This was mostly because both Sweden and Muscovy disliked Poland more than they disliked each other. But, also, Czar Mikhail Fedorovich Romanov was honestly impressed with the charismatic Swedish monarch.
Natasha had decided to join the party at the last minute, well, the last day. The amount of advanced planning needed to travel just a couple of days was mind boggling to Bernie. And this trip would take at least a month, new coach or not.
"I can't believe it." Bernie's voice was harsh and his nose bright red from chapping. "I can't believe it took five freaking weeks to get here and the ship still hasn't made it." Bernie stomped around the room for a bit, working off some excess energy.
"Now, Bernie." Vladislav Vasl'yevich Vinnikov, Natasha's captain of guards tried to soothe him. "It was a long way, a hard trip at this time of year. I would imagine that it was even worse on the sea. Your friend will be here. You must just be patient."
"Why the heck can't we just go to the coast to meet him?" Bernie threw his hands in the air. "I'm worried. Why stay here, so far from the coast?"
Vladislav Vasl'yevich wasn't about to answer that question directly. It wouldn't be the correct thing to do. Bernie just didn't, as he himself often remarked, "need to know."
"The villages in the area, Bernie. We should look at the villages. The soil is a bit different, perhaps. You could take notes, it would help with the development of the plows and reapers, I'm sure."
Bernie brightened a bit, not much. "Well it's, something to do anyway. Sure, we'll go take a look."
Natasha, who had been quiet for a few moments, added, "As well, Pavel Andreyevich would like you to design your plumbing for his home. He is most interested in it. And you are invited to utilize his banya, if you wish."
Bernie grinned. Banya's were certainly a way to get warm. Overly warm, if the truth were known. Bernie hadn't quite been able to make it to the third level of the banya back at the dacha, not yet. Nor had he quite had the guts to roll around in the snow afterwards, although he had progressed to dumping buckets of not-quite-cold water on himself. Banya's were sort of a sauna, but not quite; sort of a steam room, but also not quite. And the first time Filip had shown him the use of the venek, well… that had been sort of a revelation.
"Sounds like a plan." Bernie sniffed. Cold always made his nose run. "After four hundred miles in this kind of freaking cold, a banya sounds really good."
Natasha smiled as Bernie left the room "That might have been more difficult."
"True." Vladislav Vasl'yevich nodded. "I wonder what delayed the ship."
They had planned not to reach the border till after the car was already there, but didn't want it waiting too long. Natasha had spent a worried week thinking up things to keep Bernie occupied. As yet, Muscovy had been able to recruit a total of one up-timer. That up-timer was Bernie Zeppi. Cass Lowry was a temporary hire.
Czar Mikhail and Patriarch Filaret were quite insistent that Bernie not leave Muscovy territory. At the same time, Mikhail Romanov expressed a personal desire that Bernie not be made to feel abused or trapped. Natasha was stuck with the job of keeping Bernie from leaving Muscovy while keeping him from realizing that he couldn't.
It was important that Bernie remain willing to stay in Muscovy. Bernie was in regular correspondence with Brandy Bates and his own family in Grantville. A sudden end to those letters would be reported to the government of the USE, most likely. Muscovy, decidedly, didn't want to annoy the USE at the moment.
"What did you do, Cass, beat the damn thing with the tire iron?" Bernie felt like he just might cry, manly or not. The car! The poor car. "What the hell happened?"
Cass Lowry glared at him from beneath the hood of his camouflage-fabric parka. "Everything you can think of, dude. Everything. Hail. Freezing rain. A goddamn storm at sea. Not to mention that we had to make the trip in the middle of a frigging war. The Dutch were occupying a fair chunk of the coast and blockading part of the rest. So don't bitch at me. I got the damn thing here, didn't I? Not to mention the drums. And let me tell you, those were a ring-tailed son of a bitch, they really were. And expensive! You'd never believe what Yaroslavich had to pay for those fifty-five gallon drums, not to mention what's in them."
Bernie decided yelling at Cass wouldn't help. But, the car! What had happened to the car? "Look at those dents, man. It looks like someone took a baseball bat to it."
"More like baseballs." Cass demonstrated with his hands, making a circle of his fingers. "Big freaking hunks of ice the size of your fist. Nothing I could do, either, Bernie boy, not a damn thing. I tried. Even brought some blankets, but I only had enough to protect the glass. Figured that would be hard to replace. Besides, you can beat out the dents. You know that. Remember what the car looked like back when you bought it?"
"It sort of was a mess, wasn't it." Bernie grinned. "What the hell, you're right. We can fix it, probably. And I'm happier than you know to have fifty-five gallons of gas, I promise you. And motor oil. That's a bonus I didn't expect."
Cass smirked. "I told Brandy. I told her and that Vlad the same thing. 'It's not going to do any good if you just send the car,' I said. 'You've got to send some gas and oil.' It cost Vlad a bundle, Bernie. But he did it. And there's a whole pile of boxes in the wagons, too. Everything anybody could think of to send you is in a box or wrapped up in the trunk of the car. Brandy hit every garage sale and junk sale she could to find stuff to send you. And books – you'll never believe the books. Piles of them."
Bernie grinned. "Great. We need every one we can find. Come on. Let's go get the introductions over with. Things are kind of formal around here, Cass. You need to watch your step. Just follow my lead and things will probably be okay."
"Natalia Petrovna Yaroslavicha, may I introduce, Cass Lowry. Cass, this is Vlad's sister, Natalia Petrovna. And this is her aunt, Madame Sofia Yaroslavich."
Bernie thought he'd done a credible job on the introduction until Cass opened his big mouth.
"If you're Vlad's sister, why isn't your name Natasha? That's what Brandy said, Natasha."
Bernie sort of kicked Cass in the ankle and made a face at him. "I'll explain later." It came out as a hiss. "Just say hello, would you? And be polite, damn it."
Cass glared a bit, but nodded. "Ma'am, I'm pleased to meet you. I did bring a load of letters for you. They're from your brother and Brandy. And there are some presents, too. They're in one of the boxes."
Natasha nodded graciously. "My thanks. We appreciate your trouble and invite you to share our hospitality at the Dacha for a while. Vladimir Petrovich was pleased that you accepted his commission."
"Yeah, well, I stung him pretty good on the fee." Cass snickered. Bernie knew there was going to be trouble sooner or latter. Cass was acting like he was still up-time and still a football star.
"Natalia Petrovna, we will take our leave of you for the moment," Bernie said. "My friend and I need to have a talk. If you will excuse us?"
Natasha inclined her head. "Certainly, Bernie. Perhaps we shall see you and Cass at dinner?" Bernie suppressed a groan. Cass, Natasha, dinner… what was wrong with that combination? Bernie didn't want to think about it.
Dinner, to say the most he could about it, was strained. Cass seemed to be playing the part of "the ugly American" to the hilt. Bernie was seriously considering knocking him out. Soon. Maybe twice.
"Yeah," Cass was saying, "winding up back here before the world got civilized was sort of hard. Wars all over the damn place, the food sucks, and there's all this religious bullshit, too." The religious bullshit, in the form of Father Pter Stephanovich, was having dinner with them. Pete was a nice guy. "Every time you turn around someone is in your face about religion. Who freaking cares, I ask you? Who freaking cares?" Pete cared. Bernie knew that.
Natasha's face was cold as she regarded Cass. "Indeed. And are you Americans godless? I have had one of those 'hamburgers' you speak of. Bernie built a 'charcoal grill' and cooked them for us. Quite frankly, I do not find that they are particularly appetizing."
Cass leered a bit, and Bernie was more and more sure he was going to have to hit him. Then Cass laughed raucously and snorted beer up his nose.
When all the spewing and coughing was finally over, Bernie looked at Cass. He was pretty drunk. "I think I've had enough, Cass. I'm going to crash. You ready?"
Cass was a little bleary from the vodka he had consumed, but wasn't ready for sleep, apparently. "No, dude. I don't think so. You go on. I'll just keep the lady company."
Natasha's already cold face froze. Bernie could see it happening. "I, myself, am quite tired. You gentlemen feel free to enjoy… whatever it is that you enjoy. Until the morning, then." Natasha rose and swept from the room, casting a telling glance over her shoulder. Aunt Sofia's glance was even more telling.
Bernie got the message. Cass had to learn to behave properly.
"That one will get himself killed," Vladislav Vasl'yevich murmured. "Soon, I expect."
"Not by us, though, and preferably not in Russia. Let some other nation do the world the service." Natasha agreed with his assessment. Cass Lowry was a barbarian. "I know he's already said things that would be reason for a duel. Certainly most would already have been punished for those remarks. But the czar will want to meet him, just as he met Bernie and Russia needs what he knows. Vladislav Vasl'yevich, we need to avoid any incident. You'll have to restrain yourself and your men."
"At least Bernie did not intentionally insult. This one, though." Vladislav shook his head ruefully. "He is a different type of man. He thinks himself a boyar's son, protected by his father's position. He seems to think that everyone in Muscovy is a peasant."
Cass was a bit drunk. Not much, just enough to take the edge off. He was wondering what the fuck was Bernie's problem. Had the little shit gone native? Could have happened, he figured. Bernie had been all alone with a bunch of down-time barbs for over a frigging year. "What is your problem, man? They're just down-timers. They need us, we don't need them. Ain't you figured that out yet? Hell, even up-time kids are getting rich."
"So what are you doing here, Cass? Since you're so rich, I mean?" Bernie shot him a look.
Cass flushed. "Cheap shot, man. The breaks haven't been going my way. It's Stearns' fault. Treating the down-timers like they're real Americans and selling us out to the Swedes like he done." Cass knew if it weren't for Stearns, all the up-timers would be rich and powerful with dozens of girls and solid gold crappers. But Stearns was giving it all away.
"Cass, we're not in high school anymore. There's not a cop you can call." Bernie stared at him intently. "Some breaks are coming your way, sure enough. Broken arms, broken legs and a busted head. The lady you were hitting on is a frigging knyazhna, Cass. That's Russian for princess. Don't think for a minute that her guards won't cut off your dick and feed it and the rest of you to the pigs."
"What the hell is your problem, Bernie boy? Afraid of the competition?" Cass pulled his new Peace Maker and pointed it casually in Bernie's direction. Just to make a point. Besides he liked the gun and how it made him feel strong and dangerous. It was modeled loosely on the Colt Peacemaker but made in a down-time gun shop. "Anyone wants to cut me, they had better bring a whole lot more fire power than these candy-asses have." Bernie froze. At first Cass thought he had made his point, but Bernie wasn't really looking scared. Mostly he was looking pissed. What the fuck was Bernie's problem anyway?
Slowly, it occurred to Cass that pointing a loaded gun at Bernie might be pushing it a bit more than he'd meant to, at least right off the bat. He really hadn't meant to piss Bernie off, not till he got the lay of the land, anyway. Especially, he hadn't meant to let Bernie boy know that he was competition. "Hey man, it's no big deal. If you got dibs on her, I'll back off." Cass put away his gun and left the brown-nosing asshole. He need to walk off the booze a bit, anyway.
Cass knew he was smarter than Bernie. He hadn't done well in school, but didn't mean he was stupid. School just bored the shit out of him. Besides, he was a football star. He didn't need to bust his hump in English class. He knew he could pick up what Bernie was doing pretty quick. He could probably push Bernie out, if he wanted to. But he wasn't going to put up with much crap from the dumb-ass down-timers. Not him. Not ever.
Cass winced at the bright sunshine when he walked out the door three mornings later. "Oh, man, that hurts."
"Think you might want to be a little more careful with the booze?" Bernie's smirk was insulting. "Sun shining off snow can really dazzle you, but the biggest part of your problem is your hangover. Three days and three hangovers. No wonder it hurts."
"Maybe," Cass muttered. Drinking was about the only thing he was enjoying. Well, that and the girls. Every place they stayed had servant girls. Even staying away from the bitch princess wasn't hard, not when you had all those girls around.
Bernie put on his heavy coat. "You ready? Let's get a move on. This trip is taking forever. I wish the car was running, I really do. Steering and braking with no power while being towed behind a team of horses is a real pain."
"What did you expect? The thing sat on blocks for fucking years, man." Cass snorted. "Let's go. Get to this dacha place and see if you can get it running."
Hours in the carriage with only a couple of troops who didn't speak English was a real bore. But Cass didn't want to ride on one of the carts out in the open and especially didn't want to be on horseback. Too cold for that, by half. It was the usual order today. Out ahead of everyone, a double column of ten guards on horseback spread out. Then came the rolling stock. First came the fancy-ass sleigh that Bernie's girl was in. Cass hated to admit it, but it was actually kind of neat. Boxy, but still sort of streamlined and buffed to a high gloss. Then Bernie was freezing his ass off in that damned old junker of his. Cass was behind Bernie's car in his carriage. Then all the carts with all the stuff the Yaroslavich dude had sent. At the end of the line there were six more guards. Plus guards in some of the rolling stock.
Bernie patted the dash. "Oh, yeah. Once I get it running it will be able to do thirty miles an hour at least. Even on these roads and pulling a bunch of stuff."
Vladislav Vasl'yevich was riding beside Bernie's car just then. Partly because he was actually interested in how it worked and could see lots of military applications for these motorized vehicles. Mostly, though, over the course of a day's travel, he would spend time all along the column. He checked everything, several times a day, to make sure everything was working and looked for trouble before it happened.
Vladislav had seen and reported on hundreds of military applications in the time that Bernie had been at the dacha. He hadn't exactly been ignored. The czar now had a 30-06. It was hand-made with gold engraving, but there was a very limited supply of bullets. There were people making new guns, flintlocks, but only in small numbers, as experiments. There were the war games in the Kremlin, but darn little in the field. The military had been, in Vladislav's opinion, slow to consider the potential usefulness of the up-timer's innovations in weapons and tactics.
"I wouldn't mind seeing that… " Vladislav stopped at the shout from the front of the column and shots ringing out. "Bandits. To the knyazhna." He looked around to assess the situation.
The road here curved from southeast to east. The bandits had either been spotted by the guards out in front or had jumped the gun. Probably spotted, that shout had been Petr Kadian. It was a large party, it must be. This many trained solders wouldn't be easy to overcome. From the noise, there were probably around thirty or forty bandits. Most were hitting the front of the column, and the outriders on the north side, which was the inside of the curve. That meant that Vladislav's men were more spread than the bandits were and the bandits could react a little faster. Vladislav noted in passing that Bernie was trying to get his 30-06 out of the back seat of the car. That could help, depending on how Bernie held up in combat.
Surprisingly, the other outlander, Cass, was out of his carriage and running toward Bernie's car. "Get down, you idiot." Vladislav shouted. "Get down before you get shot."
What was the idiot doing, Vladislav wondered. He was playing with the back of Bernie's car. The back of the car opened like a great mouth, hiding Cass from Vladislav's view.
There hadn't been bandits in this area for years. It was too well patrolled. Not out of fear of bandits, but to provide warning of an attack by Poland. Vladislav waved to the Embassy Bureau troops who were bringing up the rear. "To the knyazhna. Don't worry about the carts, protect Natalia Petrovna and Bernie." They could probably replace the stuff in the carts if they had to, but they had to protect Natasha Petrovna and Bernie. Vladislav shot one of the bandits and dropped the pistol. He drew the second. He always carried one in each boot and two in his belt.
" Yeeeehaaaw!"
Vladislav looked around, startled by the scream. Cass had reappeared from the back of Bernie's car and was carrying a long gun of some sort. He was running at the woods on the north side of the road, screaming like a banshee. Clickety boom, came the noise. And again. Clicktey boom. Clicktey boom. Two bandits were down, one with most of his head blown away. Vladislav watched as Cass cut to the right. Clickety boom. Cut left. Clickety boom. Cass ran in some sort of wild pattern that the attackers couldn't follow. Neither could Vladislav.
Crack. A different noise sounded. One of the bandits fell from a horse. Since most of the bandits had been on foot, Vladislav figured he was probably their leader. They should have been paying attention to Bernie, who knelt behind his car taking well-aimed shots at the attackers. Vladislav could see his head and shoulders. The bandits would be lucky to see his head, or the 30-06 that was killing them. It would take a special miracle to actually hit a target that small.
Vladislav looked around again. The situation wasn't as bad as it had at first appeared. The attackers had been spotted before most of the column was in the trap. Bernie had apparently gotten their leader who was trying to shift his troops. And Cass, the madman, was spreading panic in their ranks. Vladislav's men were pushing against their northwestern flank and pinning most of them away from the body of the column. Vladislav wanted to charge the bandits; to use the loss of their leader and the panic. A charge now, even with the few men he had, would break them and send them running. If these were all there were. But, what if there was another group? His job was to protect the knyazhna and Bernie, not to leave them unprotected while he went on a boar hunt.
Clickety… click. The madman was out of ammunition and out of position, as well. Cass was well into the trees. Vladislav knew he was going to lose men he couldn't afford if he rescued the maniac. Yet keeping the up-timers alive was vital. While he was considering his options, there was another new sound.
Blam. Blam. Apparently, the madman had another gun. Vladislav's guards were now in control of the fight. Cass' mad dash toward them, added to Bernie's cool, continuous fire had thrown the attackers into confusion and depleted their numbers. They were falling back. "Hold," Vladislav shouted. "Don't chase them. Hold your positions." Vladislav hated to do it, but their job was to protect, not chase. "Back," he shouted. "Back."
Cass let the adrenalin leak away from his system. He'd been an avid hunter since he was ten and a halfback all though high school. Since the Ring of Fire, he had hunted wild boar a lot. Moving fast, moving through woods, and shooting things were all things he did quite well. The being shot at was a lot less fun. He was scared shitless every damned time. When he had agreed to bring the car from Grantville, he'd put the guns in the trunk because he figured that the down-timers wouldn't know to look there. He'd used quite a bit of Vladimir's advance to buy guns. He reloaded the shotgun and the Peace Maker, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else. His hands were shaking a bit.
Bernie had done a bit too good a job on the commander, or boss bandit. The rest were run-of-the-mill bandits, collected for this. They knew very little. Just that they had been hired and paid unusually well to attack this particular group. They were to kill everyone, take as much as they could carry and burn the rest. His equipage and clothing suggested that the commander might be Polish, but anyone could have hired him. The troops were spending quite a bit of time talking about Cass' "broken field running," as Bernie called it. It made up some for the things he had been saying since he arrived. If he could learn manners, he could be an asset.
"Vas'ka Kadnitsa will probably recover." Bernie washed his hands. "But I wish we had a real doctor." He didn't specify what he meant by a real doctor. Another example of Bernie learning manners. By now, even the doctors at the dacha acknowledged that they needed to go study with the up-timer doctors in Grantville. Bernie knew it, Natasha knew it, Vladislav knew it. There was no reason to harp on it.
"I have sent a man to the nearest village to report and bring more troops," Vladislav reported. "About all we know is that it wasn't a random attack. It could have been the Poles trying to deny us access to up-timer knowledge. That will be what most people will assume. On the other hand, it could well have been a faction in the court, Perhaps someone who opposes the income tax or the constitution."
Vladislav paused a moment, then his curiosity overcame him. "Bernie, what was that long gun Cass used?"
"A pump-action shotgun." Bernie grinned, albeit mirthlessly. As though he knew that more information would be requested, he continued. "It's a smooth bore weapon that can fire a solid shot or a bunch of smaller pellets every time it's fired. Cass was apparently using buckshot. It spreads, so you don't need to be all that accurate and is heavy enough to take a man down at close range."
A scout rode up. He and Vladislav conferred for a moment. "We will camp a mile or so up the road. There is a good spot that can be made quite defensible. I don't want to do any more traveling than we have to, not before we are reinforced."
Bernie and Natasha nodded. He was the captain and knew what he was doing.
Dinner had been served outside and Natasha had gone to her tent. Cass had watched Natasha move around all afternoon. She was a stone fox, that was for sure. A rich one, judging by her clothes. They must have cost a bundle. She must have a lot; look at what her brother was paying him. Cass took another drink of the vodka. He'd been drinking all afternoon. First to stop the shakes and calm down. Then to have something to think about besides how scared he had been while the fight was going on. By now he had decided he hadn't been scared, just excited.
There went old Bernie boy. What a suck-up he'd turned out to be. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir. Putting up with crap Cass wouldn't put up with, that's for sure. The girl was in her tent. What a prick tease. She's been asking for it. Probably taking off her clothes. Cass imagined that for a while, imagined it really well. I bet she's a lulu, he thought, once you get her going. And I bet I could get her going.
Vladislav kept a close eye on Cass. A dangerous man in a fight, that one was, and a drunkard. It was a volatile combination. The camp was defensible, at any rate. Which left only the uncultured outlander to worry about. He hadn't let loose of the shotgun all day. And had been passing out insults ever since the battle. After-combat jitters, perhaps. Trying to convince everyone, especially himself, that he wasn't scared. Vladislav had seen the reaction before. Then Cass had gotten quiet. Vladislav expected trouble. Soon.
The madman stood up and began to walk toward Natasha's tent. Bernie stepped in front of him. "Hey, man. What's going on?"
Cass shoved Bernie away. "Get away from me. I'm going to have me a real nice time. She's itching for it. And I'm gonna give it to her."
Bernie had been trying to calm the situation and not ready for an attack. The uncultured outlander's shove had pushed him back and his foot slipped on some rocks. Vladislav stepped in. The shot gun had to go. He grabbed it from Cass and tossed it to one of his men, keeping the barrel pointed to the sky. Fighting man or not, valuable outlander or not, this one needed a lesson in manners. He hit Cass in the gut. Hard. Then in the face.
Vladislav had been restraining both himself and his men with some difficulty. He had orders to treat the new American with kid gloves. He actually did respect the courage of the man in combat, though no more than he respected Bernie's cool headed shooting or his own men's courage and discipline. But now that Cass had threatened to assault the knyazhna, it was too much. Cass had gone down at the second blow but he was getting back up. He went for the Peace Maker, and Vladislav kicked it out of his hand. Cass went down again. "I've been protecting Knyazhna Natasha since she was a child, little man." The outlander might not have been little physically, but he had a little soul. "I can live with your uncultured ways if I have to… "
As Vladislav pulled Cass up from the ground – Grunt, not little physically – he heard Bernie talking to the guards. "Hey, guys, I can wait my turn, but at least let me watch." Some of the guards had thought Bernie was coming to the outlander's defense.
Holding Cass by his collar, Vladislav said, "I can put up with your 'I'm better than anyone else' attitude, but you won't lay a hand on her. Not if you want to keep that hand." Vladislav hit him again.
Cass flew into the table and made quite a racket going down this time. As Vladislav was picking him up again, Natasha appeared.
"What are you doing, Vladislav?" The noise had brought her from the tent. She was shouting. "And why are your men holding Bernie? Neither of these men is to be harmed. You know that. Let them go."
Vladislav let go of the outlander, who promptly fell on the ground, holding his guts, trying not to heave. The other guards let Bernie pass.
Bernie took a few steps and reached Cass. "Good. Is it my turn now?" He bowed graciously to Vladislav. "I didn't really mind waiting, Vladislav Vasl'yevich, but you might have left a bit more for me. Don't worry about it, Natasha. Every man here has wanted to give Cass a lesson in manners from the moment he arrived. He's earned this, in more ways than you know."
Bernie picked Cass up and leaned him against the handy cart, propping him carefully. Cass' knees buckled and he went down again. "I do think you could have left me some, Vladislav. Considering it was me he pushed."
"I apologize, Bernie Janovich." Vladislav bowed precisely. "But there was very little to it. I thought there would be more. Perhaps tomorrow." Cass groaned.
Natasha sniffed loudly and retreated to her tent. "Men!" She stopped at the entrance. "It has been a busy time and I do not read well in a coach. I have not had time to read any but the most essential messages from Grantville. We finally have an evening not filled with politics and you children decide to throw a brawl. Keep the noise down. I don't wish to be disturbed again tonight."
Fifteen minutes later Bernie and Vladislav had arranged the semiconscious Cass on one of the carts. They were about to walk back to the fire when Natasha came storming out of the tent again. "You fool!" she shouted at Cass. "Why didn't you tell me that my brother wishes to marry Brandy Bates?" Then she hit him.
"Darn it!" Bernie complained, laughing. "I never get a turn."
Of that charge, at least, Cass was innocent. He hadn't known. He had left Grantville before Vladimir had sent the letter and it had caught up en route.
Yaroslavich Dacha
"What are we going to do about Cass?" Natasha asked Boris two days after they had gotten back. "He managed, just barely, to be polite to the czar. Other than that, he has offended everyone who has met him."
Boris grinned. "I am giving him to the military. Specifically to the Streltzi bureau." The Muscovy military was a weird mix of feudal duty and bureaucratic confusion. The bureaucratic nobility were also the officers in time of war. Each, depending on the amount of lands he held, was required provide so many soldiers. They were the officer corps and the cavalry. The Streltzi, who didn't receive land for their service but the right to do business, were the infantry. Added to the mix over the last few years were mercenary companies hired from the west, who had a different way of fighting.
Natasha was nodding. Bernie had been urgently called to various military bureaus over the last few months. Especially the Streltzi bureaus. The Streltzi preferred to fight behind walls, city walls, because they were mostly city guards. When they could not fight defensively behind the walls of a city they wanted to fight behind walking walls. The "stand and take it" philosophy of the western mercenary infantry was not in their traditions. They had no objection to dishing it out and did not lack courage, but standing in the open and taking it just seemed stupid. "Do you think it will work?"
"Perhaps. But in any case, it gets him out of our hair and gets the military bureaus off my back."
Natasha laughed out loud. "So the gun shop, as Bernie calls it, will have their own up-timer."