“Although I abolished their khanate,” the tsar said, “the Kazakhs still look to Qasim as their leader. I sent you to dine with him for a reason, Pasha. I needed you to gather information for me, especially after the Kazakhs attacked our Cossack detachments earlier this year.”
Pasha leaned against one of their father’s bookcases, his elbows behind him as support. “But I learned what we needed to know, even without meeting with Qasim.”
“How?” the tsar said.
“I have my ways.” Pasha smiled.
The tsar rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I don’t think I want to know your methods,” he said.
“No, Father, trust me, you do not.” Yuliana tried not to smile—in general, she did not believe in smiles—but she couldn’t help it, because her brother brought them out of her. And Pasha had already told Yuliana the how of his espionage.
Pasha was notorious for slipping out of the palace in plain clothes, masquerading as one of the common people so he could waste his time playing cards with fishermen on the dock or frequenting taverns with his friend Nikolai Karimov. It was no different on the Kazakh steppe, where Pasha had left his officer’s uniform at the army’s camp and sneaked out in a plain tunic and trousers. Then he’d wandered through the main trading post, posing as an innocent traveler.
He passed stalls full of brightly colored caps, flat on top and intricately embroidered on the sides. There was a table that specialized in dried apricots. And another with sacks full of grain.
It was around the corner from the butcher’s stall, however, that Pasha stopped and loitered. A cluster of men gathered around the butcher, who held a cleaver over a side of lamb. The butcher was the youngest among them—twenty-five at the most—but he seemed to hold court over the others. Perhaps it was his hatchet of a knife that did it.
“The Russians are a pestilence,” one man said.
“Yes, a pestilence, a plague,” another added. “They think they can draw arbitrary borders and forbid us from migrating across them. We will not stand for it.”
“Patience,” the butcher said. “The plans for revolt are underway. Qasim’s men are prepared.”
“I hope so,” the first man said.
“Without a doubt,” the butcher said. He raised the cleaver over his head. The blade fell swiftly onto the lamb with an earsplitting thwack. “We will crush the Russian plague.”
“I heard the tsar sent his son here bearing gifts and empty promises,” one of the men said.
The butcher swung his cleaver, and it again hit the meat with a resounding smack. “Bring the tsesarevich to me, and I’ll show the tsar what we think of their gifts. I’ll skin his son like a lamb and send his carcass back with a bow tied on top.”
The men had whooped and roared. Then they had discovered Pasha, and he’d tried to convince them he wasn’t a Russian spy. When they didn’t believe him, fisticuffs ensued (Yuliana had stopped listening as carefully when Pasha got into the gory and glorious details of his fight), followed by a mad dash through the trading post, and Pasha successfully evading the last of his pursuers to return safely to camp.
The Imperial Army had left the Kazakh steppe soon after that.
Now Pasha winked at Yuliana, then wiped the roguishness from his face and cleared his throat to address their father. “The Kazakhs are incredibly unhappy with our reforms. They do not like our officials or our attempts to give them land for farming; they’re nomads and believe we are forcing our culture down their throats. No amount of promising that we wish to strengthen the empire with them as our partners will work, in my opinion. Qasim’s men are preparing for revolt.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes, Father. I heard it with my own ears, and my men, in their reconnaissance, confirmed.”
“Well, then.”
“You see?” Yuliana said. “I told you it was of the utmost importance—”
“Am I done here?” Pasha asked, looking to the door.
“No,” Yuliana said, at the same time the tsar said, “Yes.”
“Wonderful,” Pasha said. “Then I’m off.” He pushed away from the bookcase and opened the door.
“Don’t forget the Imperial Council meeting this afternoon,” the tsar said.
Pasha paused.
“You will be there, Pasha.”
He turned back to face the tsar. The brightness that usually danced in Pasha’s eyes went out. “Right. Of course I will, Father.”
Yuliana very much doubted Pasha would make an appearance. He’d been on the Kazakh steppe for over a month, which far exceeded her brother’s capacity for official duty. Not that he wasn’t responsible; he was. It was just that Pasha did not like doing things a tsesarevich was supposed to do. Especially in uniform. And under the tsar’s command.
Pasha slipped out of the study to his freedom. The guards again shut the door.
Yuliana scooted to the edge of her chair and picked up the map of the Kazakh territories she’d brought with her. She began to unfurl it on the tsar’s desk.
The tsar raised his hand. “That will be unnecessary.”
Yuliana scrunched her nose. “All right.” She rerolled the map. “Then what are you going to do?”