Prologue
Imperial House
(nee Governor’s House, nee Freedom House) Tobolsk, Russia
The place was warm for a change; absent the Bolsheviks’ studied cruelty, the people of the town, who had always, by and large, supported the Romanovs and the monarchy, had brought wood from their own stockpiles, had gone into the woods to cut more, and had ransacked the ruins of the burnt-out Kornilov house to get wood to keep their young empress warm.
It hadn’t hurt any, either, that the coronation of Tatiana I, Empress of all the Russias, had taken place in their little town, in one of their cathedrals, with their clerics overseeing what the townsfolk took to be the marriage of their God and their empress, hence their empire.
Currently that empress sat at her late father’s desk, reading and signing a stack of paper made up of awards, promotions, transfers, letters patent, regimental recreations, and this, that, and whatnot.
At least they’re not death warrants, thought the newly minted empress, with an audible sigh of vast relief. I don’t think I could take any more of those for now.
The frequent fusillades of the firing squads had been so regular for the last couple of days that Tatiana had found herself flinching in anticipation, approximately every four minutes and ten seconds, awaiting the rattle of musketry that would signal that another Red had gone to meet his maker. Those were done, though; the last of the known Reds in Tobolsk were finished now, even as her newly formed Okhrana, or secret police, sought out the few who might remain in hiding.
The air was so cold and dense, the sound carried so well, that I felt every shot. I—
Tatiana’s thoughts were interrupted by her youngest sister, seventeen-year-old Anastasia, now serving as an occasional secretary, sticking her head in through the doorway that led to the former tsar’s study.
“Yes, Nastenka?” Tatiana asked, looking up from her paperwork. Her sister had a number of nicknames, ranging from that to shvibzik, or “imp.”
“Guards Captain Kostyshakov is here with his officers and sergeants major,” Anastasia announced. “Prince Dolgorukov is standing by, as well.”
“Oh, send the prince up first, then give me five minutes and send in the rest,” Tatiana said. There is one good thing about being empress, rather than a mostly useless grand duchess; I can reward my friends and saviors.
The library, normally rather spacious, was filled to capacity with uniformed men, wearing field uniforms rather than full dress.
Daniil Kostyshakov, chief among the saviors of the remnants of the royal family, made to apologize before the empress cut him off with, “We’re at war, Daniil; what uniform could be more appropriate?”
“Attention to orders,” announced Prince Dolgorukov. The assembled officers and senior noncoms automatically stiffened to attention.
“The following promotions are announced. To the rank of major general, Daniil Edvardovich Kostyshakov. To the rank of colonel of the guard, Ivan Dratvin, Pyotr Cherimisov, Mikhail Basinets . . .”
As the names were announced, Tatiana walked down the ranks, shaking each man’s hand and saying at approximately every third handshake, “The insignia will follow as soon as we can have some made.”
More lists for promotion were pressed into the hands of the senior officers, to take care of those masses of men whom the library could not fit and for whom there was no time to have them promoted personally by Tatiana.
When the senior promotions were done, no man, living or dead, but for two, from the rescue force, had failed to rise at least two ranks. The posthumous promotions would have little importance to the dead, but the higher pensions and honoring of fallen comrades would matter to the living.
The two who were not promoted were the two sergeants-major, Blagov and Nenonen, both of whom considered it a demotion to be commissioned.
Dolgorukov then began with the awards, ranging from Orders of Saint George, at the high end, to Crosses of Saint George, at the lower. Both the sergeants-major were awarded Orders of Saint George.
Tatiana found herself blinking rapidly when the name was announced, “Sergei Chekov.” Though Chekov had not been an official member of the rescue force, he had been her friend and, more importantly, had saved her life at the cost of his own.
The crowd had cleared out, leaving Tatiana and Kostyshakov alone in the study.
“How go the preparations to save my aunt Ella?” she asked.
He was loath to admit it, but, “I don’t know how to, Tatiana. I’ve kicked the strategic recon section forward to Yekaterinburg to confirm she’s there and directed that the telegraph line be repaired but remain silent. But as a logistic matter, I don’t know how to move the battalion, or even half of it, so far across the snow and ice to get to her. I was counting on the airship to carry us. We are still trying to think of a way but . . . sorry; it looks impossible. It’s a logistic problem, and those are the most intractable. With all the horses and sleighs we can muster, the men would still be starved, hence dead and frozen stiff, before they can reach her.”
“Dan, I must have my Aunt Ella. I need her to counsel and advise me.”
“I understand,” he said. “But I still can’t do what I can’t do.”
“Impossible or not,” she insisted, “I must have her at my side.”
“Tatiana Nicholaevna—”
“Must!”
“It may not be—”
“Must!”
“Then I’ll think of a way . . . Your Majesty.”
“You must,” she said. “Because I need my aunt.”
Dan sighed. “We still have to worry about the eventual—inevitable, really—attempt of the Reds to take us here and finish the job they intended for you.”
“Then you must take care of both. And there’s something else . . .”
“You’ve finally decided to leave this place, I hope,” Kostyshakov said.
“No, of course not. And don’t tell me about how silly my parents were in preferring death to escape. They were helpless prisoners, and not in the best shape mentally. But I am free and, thanks to you, have a nice little army—and getting nicer by the day—to fight with. So, no, I’m not going anywhere except forward, forward to Moscow and Saint Petersburg.
“But my sisters; I want them out of here and to safety. And the sooner the better.”
“Safety would be a fine thing,” Daniil agreed, “but it would be better still if they could go somewhere where they could drum up some help for us. Because, Tatiana Nicholaevna, the operative description for our ‘army’ is less ‘nice’ than it is ‘little.’ Your Aunt Ella would tell you the same, were she here.”
Later, still in her father’s old study, but alone now, Tatiana had cause to reflect on the future.
Can I win? Sure, I was able to sound full of confidence in front of Daniil and the others. But can I . . . can we . . . actually win?
Moreover, what does winning mean here? What end state am I actually looking for?
Ultimately, I want Russia at peace. I want her prosperous. I want our people educated, our industry built up, our agriculture able to feed ourselves and a good part of the rest of the world. There’s probably no better defense against invasion than that the people who might want to invade you would quickly starve if they tried. Science? I don’t know much about it, but whatever it is, I want us to have it.
I don’t know much about government. I do know that ours, our old one, ultimately failed, though it took three centuries. I do know that Kerensky’s attempt at one likewise failed. I know that Great Britain has had a stable government, barring a civil war or two, two, if we count the Americans, for about as long as we had an autocracy.
So I think I want a constitutional monarchy, like the British have, almost. Maybe somewhat more actual power to the crown, because we are not British but Russian, and only respect a strong hand. Yes, we are Russians and need a crown that is more than a figurehead.
I also want to make us less of an Empire and more of a federation, if that’s possible. I don’t know that it is, but Finland, at least, had a pretty good relationship. Why can’t Poland and some of the other possessions? I’m going to try.
But equally, some places cannot simply be let go because they think they’ll do better without us. Poland, again, is the invasion route from the west and must be held, with or without their permission. Hmmm . . . maybe a perpetual alliance, rather than simply ruling over them. This requires thought. Also some insights I know I lack.
But for the time being, we have to fight just to live. The future is going to have to wait to see if we survive.