"Sins of the Fathers"--a Maxim fic
Title: Sins Of The Fathers
Author: lilith_queen
Characters: Maxim
Rating: T
Summary: In which we learn more of Maxim's life before he became a Jäger, starting with his first steps down the path of a mercenary. Will probably make more sense if you've read "August, 1771".
“this”-Russian
<>--German
September, 1761
In the western part of the Empire of all the Russias, several miles north from the town of Smolensk, there was a large estate belonging to a cadet branch of the Imperial Family, the Romanovs. Their house sat squarely in the middle of 500 acres of land, an area which also encompassed two vast stables.
In one of the rooms of this vast house, a teenage boy sat working on a list of complicated sentence constructions. After a while, he stopped and turned to his tutor, a lean man in spectacles. <>
The man leaned over the boy’s shoulder, squinting through his glasses to read what he had written. <>
Maxim beamed.>
Meanwhile, a younger girl-his sister-had been sitting behind him, scribbling furiously away in pencil. Now she exclaimed triumphantly, “All done! <>
He sighed and took the book from her. <> The clock in the corner chimed the hour, and he bowed to his students. <>
The two left, the girl with some difficulty due to her long, ornate dress and its many flounces and ribbons. As the door closed behind them, she grabbed her brother’s arm. “When are you leaving for Moscow?”
Maxim sighed. “Zofiya, I’ve told you a dozen times. Father is taking me with Mikhail when our dear…brother’s break is over. I really don’t want to go, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Zofiya shuddered so violently that her black curls bounced. “I…I don’t want to be here without you, brother! I’m scared…you know what Father’s like. And I’ll be all alone here…” She pulled him closer and dropped her voice to a whisper in his ear. “You know that our mother’s death all these years ago was no illness. His first wife’s death was no accident. With you and Mikhail away at school, what will happen to me?”
Now it was Maxim’s turn to shudder, but he tried to reassure her by placing a hand on her shoulder. “He won’t harm you, Zofiya. I’ll protect you, okay?”
She nodded and stepped back. “Okay. I have a gift for you-I guess you could call it a going-away present.” There was a main trudging down the marble hallway; Zofiya called to her, “Anya, go up to my rooms and bring me the big box on the chair in the front hallway.”
The maid-whose name was actually Maria-curtseyed silently and went on her way. Maxim narrowed his eyes at his sister. “Would this have anything to do with the fact that I haven’t been able to find my best rapier, especially now that Mr. Petrov is finally letting me use a real blade?”
Zofiya grinned sheepishly. “Well, it is your best one, and it is the one you’re taking to Moscow, so…”
The maid returned bearing a long and narrow box, which Zofiya took from her and opened with a flourish. Inside laid a beautiful rapier with its hilt plated in shiny brass. “Ta-da!”
He took it out of the box and drew it a few inches out of its scabbard. Its shape-a long blade just wide enough to cut as well as thrust-was unchanged, but it now bore Cyrillic letters etched into the flat of the blade near the hilt. Maxim read them and looked back at his sister with a frown. “This is your name.”
She turned red and nodded rapidly. “So you won’t forget me. You remember what happened to Mikhail-he was pretty nice before he went away to school. Now he’s so cold and mean… I’m scared, Maxim. I just get the feeling that once you leave, I’ll never see you again. That you’ll turn cold and cruel, just like Father and Mikhail.”
Maxim clipped his sword to his belt, shaking his head. “I will never be like them. And how could I forget you? You’re my beloved little sister, Zofi.”
The tears gathering in the corners of Zofiya’s dark blue eyes spilled over, and she sobbed as she wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist. He stiffened in shock before hugging her back until the arrival of a manservant caused them to pull apart. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.
The servant bowed to them both, but it was Maxim he addressed. “Young master Maxim, Mr. Petrov wishes to see you in the north ballroom.”
He nodded stiffly and bowed to his sister. “I have to go for my fencing lessons now. Thank you.”
When he reached the ballroom, he was greeted with an unwelcome surprise. Instead of his fencing master, a tall young man with blond hair and cold blue eyes lounged in the only chair, smoking a cigarette. Maxim bowed deeply, letting his pose conceal his expression of distaste. “What brings you here, Mikhail? As our father’s heir, surely you have more important things to do then watch your brother fence.”
Mikhail was his half-brother, and at 18 was three years older and half a head taller than Maxim. He fixed the younger boy with a look of pure disdain. “Since Petrov saw fit to start you on real blades while I was away at school, I decided to take time out from my busy home schedule to see how you performed.”
Maxim snorted. “’Busy schedule’? Oh, how kind of you to take time out from seducing dairymaids for me. I’ll be sure to say hello to Natasha for you. Wait-is it Natasha? Or have you moved on to Olga now? Or Tanya? Or-what was her name, that young one-Masha, right?”
Mikhail had gone nearly purple with rage. Before he could rise from his seat and throttle his brother, however, the large double doors at the far end of the room flew open. He composed himself, straightened his cravat, and bowed as the fencing master entered the room. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Petrov.”
“Hrmmph.” Mr. Petrov was a tall man with graying hair; he nearly shoved Mikhail out of the chair in order to occupy it himself. He nodded to Maxim. “This is my last day with you. I’m retiring tomorrow.” He grinned, showing far too many teeth for comfort. “Congratulations, young master. You’ve learned all the techniques I could teach you, and your skill with that rapier has increased by leaps and bounds in the past few months. If you keep at it, you’ll be a terror on the battlefield one day.”
Maxim bowed. “Thank you, sir. It’s all due to your teachings.”
The man heaved himself out of his seat with a sigh and drew his own rapier from the scabbard at his hip. “What are you waiting for? I want to test your skills for myself one last time before I retire.”
As Maxim drew his sword and moved out to the center of the room, Mikhail settled himself in the vacated chair to watch. Strangely, he found himself yearning for a bag of something salty and covered in butter.
The match was over in minutes. Maxim had never been able to best his teacher, and today was no different. Except in one respect. Today, whether by luck or by skill, Maxim fought his fencing master to a draw.
Maxim beamed triumphantly as his blade came to rest against Mr. Petrov’s throat, ignoring the sword leveled at his chest. “Well, sir?”
“Hmmph. You have improved. Well done,” he grumbled as he sheathed his sword.
Somewhere at the other end of the mansion, a bell chimed insistently. Mikhail and Maxim looked at each other and back at Mr. Petrov, chorusing, “Dinner bell, got to run.”
The Romanov dining hall was immense. Full-length mirrors reflected the images of those who entered, while the marble floor gave each footfall the ring of importance. The mahogany table and chairs were inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl forming the family crest of a crowned skull. The tablecloth was woven of Parisian lace. The room could seat nearly a hundred guests, yet the grand total of people using it tonight? Four.
Ivan Alexandrovich Romanov, lord of Smolensk and cousin to the czar, swigged vodka straight from the bottle and belched loudly. His plate of chicken and roasted vegetables sat untouched in front of him. Seated on either side of him, his two sons shared long-suffering looks. Zofiya stared down at her plate and pushed a green bean around with her fork listlessly.
The man coughed and cleared his throat, taking a brief respite from drinking in order to address his children. “Mikhail. What do you think of your fiancée, the viscount of Belgorod’s daughter?”
Mikhail carved a piece of chicken and chewed it carefully, giving himself time to consider his response. “Her teeth are…unfortunate…but she has a pleasing figure. She sings poorly, but dances and embroiders well, and one of her brothers is a Spark. Hopefully, she will bear me many sons to carry on our family line.”
Ivan smiled and took another swig of vodka before turning to his younger children. “I have yet to find a suitable candidate for you, Maxim. There are not many families willing to marry their daughters off to a younger son, even a Romanov.” While Maxim inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, Ivan continued on to his daughter. “Zofiya, you will be pleased to learn that I have found a match for you. In two years’ time, you will wed the Marquis of Tobolsk.” Maxim and Mikhail’s eyes widened.
Zofiya’s porcelain complexion turned even paler. “The Marquis is old enough to be my grandfather!”
Ivan chuckled drunkenly. “So? That just means he’ll die sooner, and your sons with him will inherit all his lands and goods.”
She stood up from her seat. Her voice was firm, although she trembled like a tree caught in a storm. “He was married before. You’ve heard what they all say-how his wives all died less than a year after he married them. How they were all found under strange circumstances, and how he tried to blame it on the Black-Fanged Chickens his nephew made. He’s a murderer, Father, and I refuse to be his next victim.”
Ivan rose from his seat shakily, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. “What are you saying, girl?”
She shivered, but held firm. Mikhail, seated between his father and his sister, very sensibly left the room as she replied, “I’m saying, Father, that with all due respect, I will not marry the Marquis of Tobolsk.”
There was no warning, just an inarticulate snarl of rage as he swung a punch straight from the shoulder, grazing her temple as she stumbled back. Maxim jumped to his feet, unsure of whether to stand back or risk injury by attempting to help his sister. She cried out in pain as her father seized her by the hair.
“Defy me, will you? I’ll show you who the master of this house is, you little bitch!” He raised a hand to strike her, and Maxim reached for his sword before realizing he had left it in a corner. He ran, scooping up his sword and clipping in on just in time to hear a sickening crunch and a shriek of pain from behind him.
He whirled around to see his sister huddled on the floor. There was blood on her dress, and he realized with a sense of nausea that he could almost see one of the bones of her left forearm through the skin.
Ivan pulled his fist back to punch her, but froze as the tip of his son’s sword dug into his back.
Maxim finally understood the phrase, “seeing red”. A crimson haze seemed to have descended in front of his eyes. The world had narrowed down to three people--his sister, clutching her arm and sobbing in pain on the floor; his father, who had turned around to face him; and himself, holding a sword to his father’s chest.
Zofiya’s arm felt like it was on fire with agony, and she knew it had to be broken. She watched in shock as her brother’s face split into a mirthless smile. “Maxim…?”
He didn’t hear her. He didn’t hear anything, except for his own heartbeat thudding in his chest. Instead, he faced Ivan. “You, sir, are a pig, a drunkard, and murderer. And I challenge you to a duel.”
Ivan sneered down at him. Maxim was tall for his age, but his father was taller, stronger, and built like a brick wall. However, he was also drunk, and his hand shook as he drew his sword. “You think you can best your father, boy?”
Maxim’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll find out.”
They circled each other like wolves, swords at the ready, searching for a moment’s weakness. Ivan lurched forwards with his rapier, a move which Maxim sidestepped easily. “Stand still so I can run you through, you ungrateful brat!”
He lunged again. This time, Maxim parried it, sliding his sword along his father’s blade. “I don’t really want to kill my own father…” -there was a metallic ringing sound of steel on steel as they disengaged- “…but now that I think about it, you don’t really deserve the title.”
They began to circle one another again. As he passed, Ivan knocked his vodka bottle over; Maxim, circling him, didn’t see the clear liquid on the floor until it was too late. He stumbled against the table, and Ivan thrust forward. Maxim meant to parry him, but, half fallen against the table, couldn’t get his sword into position. His rapier slid between his father’s ribs with a horrible squelch.
Ivan gasped. Blood sprayed out of the wound, covering Maxim’s rapier and dripping his hand. He pulled the sword out automatically, and the spray of blood became a veritable fountain, splattering his shirt and waistcoat. Behind him, his sister began to scream. Oh, God. What have I done? The door was partially open, and he ran.
Mikhail stormed back into the room, leading a band of menservants, villagers, and farmers-everyone he had been able to find. He stared at the scene in shock. His father was bleeding profusely from a stab to the chest, and his sister was holding her arm and sobbing pitifully on the floor. She looked up at him, whimpering. “Maxim…he killed our father. He did it to save me…” Mikhail shook his head in dismay, going to his father’s side.
The man wheezed-one last, final gasp, and died. Mikhail straightened up and turned to the assembled men. “My father, the lord of Smolensk, is dead.” He began to smile and raised his voice over the chatter which broke out. “I, Mikhail Ivanovich Romanov, am your new lord. My first act is this: I hereby declare that Maxim Ivanovich Romanov is a traitor and a murderer. Any of you who bring me his head on a stake shall be rewarded with a sum of two hundred thousand rubles!”
Zofiya gasped in horror. “Mikhail, he’s our own brother! How could you?”
Mikhail adopted a sanctimonious air. “As the lord of Smolensk, it is my duty to punish evildoers and administer justice. He may be our brother, but by your own admission, he has committed the sin of patricide and must be punished. Even our own family cannot be above the law.”
Zofiya started to wail.
Luckily for Maxim, the dining hall was on the ground floor, and so it was easy for him to slip out of a window. By keeping close to the walls and staying in the long shadows thrown off by the setting sun, he made his way to the western stable. The stable hand on duty gawked at the sight of his master’s son covered in blood.
“Master Maxim, what happened?”
Maxim looked down his nose at the man-no easy task, as he was taller than him. “That’s none of your business. Now help me ready my horse, and without any of your impertinent questions this time.”
The man was fairly bursting with curiosity, but Maxim’s father paid his salary, and so he kept quiet as he led a black gelding out of his stall and helped Maxim saddle him up. He held the reins while the boy swung himself into the saddle. Finally, he dared a question. “Young master, where are you going?”
“It’s better for you if you don’t know.”
The sounds of a large, angry crowd approaching from the mansion reached them, and Maxim spurred his horse into a canter. “Don’t tell anyone I was here.”
He had passed the border of his family’s estate by the time he relaxed, slowing his horse to a walk. Where am I going to go now? All he knew was that he was heading west, towards the border; the setting sun shone directly into his eyes. I can’t stay in Russia. My cousin Paul is insane; I can’t throw myself on his mercy. Maybe I should go to Prussia or Transylvania and see if any of the local Sparks are looking to hire.
There was a group of ragged-looking men in the road ahead of him. As he approached, they spread out to block his way. One, cleaner and better-fed than the others, spoke to him. “You look like someone who’s used to money. Mind sharing some for a good cause?”
Maxim raised an eyebrow. “What kind of good cause?”
The man chuckled and motioned to his friends. They spread out around Maxim, blocking him in. “The best cause! We’re going to war against the Marquis of Tobolsk for his nephew, and we could use a few more…resources.” He eyed Maxim’s horse blatantly.
Maxim began to smile. “You men are mercenaries?”
The man puffed his chest out, preening. “The very best! I am Sergey Pavlovich Kuznetsov, the leader of this fine band. My best men are here; the rest are busy drinking Smolensk dry.” He was taken aback when Maxim bowed from his saddle.
“If you are mercenaries fighting against the Marquis, then I, Maxim, will gladly pledge my sword, my horse, and myself to your service.”
Sergey looked him over. He was tall enough, and in good enough shape. The sword at his side had clearly seen recent use, from look of the fresh blood on his clothes. If nothing else, he could be put to use as a meatshield. “Welcome to the fold, kid.”
Author: lilith_queen
Characters: Maxim
Rating: T
Summary: In which we learn more of Maxim's life before he became a Jäger, starting with his first steps down the path of a mercenary. Will probably make more sense if you've read "August, 1771".
“this”-Russian
<>--German
September, 1761
In the western part of the Empire of all the Russias, several miles north from the town of Smolensk, there was a large estate belonging to a cadet branch of the Imperial Family, the Romanovs. Their house sat squarely in the middle of 500 acres of land, an area which also encompassed two vast stables.
In one of the rooms of this vast house, a teenage boy sat working on a list of complicated sentence constructions. After a while, he stopped and turned to his tutor, a lean man in spectacles. <>
The man leaned over the boy’s shoulder, squinting through his glasses to read what he had written. <>
Maxim beamed.
Meanwhile, a younger girl-his sister-had been sitting behind him, scribbling furiously away in pencil. Now she exclaimed triumphantly, “All done! <>
He sighed and took the book from her. <> The clock in the corner chimed the hour, and he bowed to his students. <>
The two left, the girl with some difficulty due to her long, ornate dress and its many flounces and ribbons. As the door closed behind them, she grabbed her brother’s arm. “When are you leaving for Moscow?”
Maxim sighed. “Zofiya, I’ve told you a dozen times. Father is taking me with Mikhail when our dear…brother’s break is over. I really don’t want to go, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Zofiya shuddered so violently that her black curls bounced. “I…I don’t want to be here without you, brother! I’m scared…you know what Father’s like. And I’ll be all alone here…” She pulled him closer and dropped her voice to a whisper in his ear. “You know that our mother’s death all these years ago was no illness. His first wife’s death was no accident. With you and Mikhail away at school, what will happen to me?”
Now it was Maxim’s turn to shudder, but he tried to reassure her by placing a hand on her shoulder. “He won’t harm you, Zofiya. I’ll protect you, okay?”
She nodded and stepped back. “Okay. I have a gift for you-I guess you could call it a going-away present.” There was a main trudging down the marble hallway; Zofiya called to her, “Anya, go up to my rooms and bring me the big box on the chair in the front hallway.”
The maid-whose name was actually Maria-curtseyed silently and went on her way. Maxim narrowed his eyes at his sister. “Would this have anything to do with the fact that I haven’t been able to find my best rapier, especially now that Mr. Petrov is finally letting me use a real blade?”
Zofiya grinned sheepishly. “Well, it is your best one, and it is the one you’re taking to Moscow, so…”
The maid returned bearing a long and narrow box, which Zofiya took from her and opened with a flourish. Inside laid a beautiful rapier with its hilt plated in shiny brass. “Ta-da!”
He took it out of the box and drew it a few inches out of its scabbard. Its shape-a long blade just wide enough to cut as well as thrust-was unchanged, but it now bore Cyrillic letters etched into the flat of the blade near the hilt. Maxim read them and looked back at his sister with a frown. “This is your name.”
She turned red and nodded rapidly. “So you won’t forget me. You remember what happened to Mikhail-he was pretty nice before he went away to school. Now he’s so cold and mean… I’m scared, Maxim. I just get the feeling that once you leave, I’ll never see you again. That you’ll turn cold and cruel, just like Father and Mikhail.”
Maxim clipped his sword to his belt, shaking his head. “I will never be like them. And how could I forget you? You’re my beloved little sister, Zofi.”
The tears gathering in the corners of Zofiya’s dark blue eyes spilled over, and she sobbed as she wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist. He stiffened in shock before hugging her back until the arrival of a manservant caused them to pull apart. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.
The servant bowed to them both, but it was Maxim he addressed. “Young master Maxim, Mr. Petrov wishes to see you in the north ballroom.”
He nodded stiffly and bowed to his sister. “I have to go for my fencing lessons now. Thank you.”
When he reached the ballroom, he was greeted with an unwelcome surprise. Instead of his fencing master, a tall young man with blond hair and cold blue eyes lounged in the only chair, smoking a cigarette. Maxim bowed deeply, letting his pose conceal his expression of distaste. “What brings you here, Mikhail? As our father’s heir, surely you have more important things to do then watch your brother fence.”
Mikhail was his half-brother, and at 18 was three years older and half a head taller than Maxim. He fixed the younger boy with a look of pure disdain. “Since Petrov saw fit to start you on real blades while I was away at school, I decided to take time out from my busy home schedule to see how you performed.”
Maxim snorted. “’Busy schedule’? Oh, how kind of you to take time out from seducing dairymaids for me. I’ll be sure to say hello to Natasha for you. Wait-is it Natasha? Or have you moved on to Olga now? Or Tanya? Or-what was her name, that young one-Masha, right?”
Mikhail had gone nearly purple with rage. Before he could rise from his seat and throttle his brother, however, the large double doors at the far end of the room flew open. He composed himself, straightened his cravat, and bowed as the fencing master entered the room. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Petrov.”
“Hrmmph.” Mr. Petrov was a tall man with graying hair; he nearly shoved Mikhail out of the chair in order to occupy it himself. He nodded to Maxim. “This is my last day with you. I’m retiring tomorrow.” He grinned, showing far too many teeth for comfort. “Congratulations, young master. You’ve learned all the techniques I could teach you, and your skill with that rapier has increased by leaps and bounds in the past few months. If you keep at it, you’ll be a terror on the battlefield one day.”
Maxim bowed. “Thank you, sir. It’s all due to your teachings.”
The man heaved himself out of his seat with a sigh and drew his own rapier from the scabbard at his hip. “What are you waiting for? I want to test your skills for myself one last time before I retire.”
As Maxim drew his sword and moved out to the center of the room, Mikhail settled himself in the vacated chair to watch. Strangely, he found himself yearning for a bag of something salty and covered in butter.
The match was over in minutes. Maxim had never been able to best his teacher, and today was no different. Except in one respect. Today, whether by luck or by skill, Maxim fought his fencing master to a draw.
Maxim beamed triumphantly as his blade came to rest against Mr. Petrov’s throat, ignoring the sword leveled at his chest. “Well, sir?”
“Hmmph. You have improved. Well done,” he grumbled as he sheathed his sword.
Somewhere at the other end of the mansion, a bell chimed insistently. Mikhail and Maxim looked at each other and back at Mr. Petrov, chorusing, “Dinner bell, got to run.”
The Romanov dining hall was immense. Full-length mirrors reflected the images of those who entered, while the marble floor gave each footfall the ring of importance. The mahogany table and chairs were inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl forming the family crest of a crowned skull. The tablecloth was woven of Parisian lace. The room could seat nearly a hundred guests, yet the grand total of people using it tonight? Four.
Ivan Alexandrovich Romanov, lord of Smolensk and cousin to the czar, swigged vodka straight from the bottle and belched loudly. His plate of chicken and roasted vegetables sat untouched in front of him. Seated on either side of him, his two sons shared long-suffering looks. Zofiya stared down at her plate and pushed a green bean around with her fork listlessly.
The man coughed and cleared his throat, taking a brief respite from drinking in order to address his children. “Mikhail. What do you think of your fiancée, the viscount of Belgorod’s daughter?”
Mikhail carved a piece of chicken and chewed it carefully, giving himself time to consider his response. “Her teeth are…unfortunate…but she has a pleasing figure. She sings poorly, but dances and embroiders well, and one of her brothers is a Spark. Hopefully, she will bear me many sons to carry on our family line.”
Ivan smiled and took another swig of vodka before turning to his younger children. “I have yet to find a suitable candidate for you, Maxim. There are not many families willing to marry their daughters off to a younger son, even a Romanov.” While Maxim inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, Ivan continued on to his daughter. “Zofiya, you will be pleased to learn that I have found a match for you. In two years’ time, you will wed the Marquis of Tobolsk.” Maxim and Mikhail’s eyes widened.
Zofiya’s porcelain complexion turned even paler. “The Marquis is old enough to be my grandfather!”
Ivan chuckled drunkenly. “So? That just means he’ll die sooner, and your sons with him will inherit all his lands and goods.”
She stood up from her seat. Her voice was firm, although she trembled like a tree caught in a storm. “He was married before. You’ve heard what they all say-how his wives all died less than a year after he married them. How they were all found under strange circumstances, and how he tried to blame it on the Black-Fanged Chickens his nephew made. He’s a murderer, Father, and I refuse to be his next victim.”
Ivan rose from his seat shakily, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. “What are you saying, girl?”
She shivered, but held firm. Mikhail, seated between his father and his sister, very sensibly left the room as she replied, “I’m saying, Father, that with all due respect, I will not marry the Marquis of Tobolsk.”
There was no warning, just an inarticulate snarl of rage as he swung a punch straight from the shoulder, grazing her temple as she stumbled back. Maxim jumped to his feet, unsure of whether to stand back or risk injury by attempting to help his sister. She cried out in pain as her father seized her by the hair.
“Defy me, will you? I’ll show you who the master of this house is, you little bitch!” He raised a hand to strike her, and Maxim reached for his sword before realizing he had left it in a corner. He ran, scooping up his sword and clipping in on just in time to hear a sickening crunch and a shriek of pain from behind him.
He whirled around to see his sister huddled on the floor. There was blood on her dress, and he realized with a sense of nausea that he could almost see one of the bones of her left forearm through the skin.
Ivan pulled his fist back to punch her, but froze as the tip of his son’s sword dug into his back.
Maxim finally understood the phrase, “seeing red”. A crimson haze seemed to have descended in front of his eyes. The world had narrowed down to three people--his sister, clutching her arm and sobbing in pain on the floor; his father, who had turned around to face him; and himself, holding a sword to his father’s chest.
Zofiya’s arm felt like it was on fire with agony, and she knew it had to be broken. She watched in shock as her brother’s face split into a mirthless smile. “Maxim…?”
He didn’t hear her. He didn’t hear anything, except for his own heartbeat thudding in his chest. Instead, he faced Ivan. “You, sir, are a pig, a drunkard, and murderer. And I challenge you to a duel.”
Ivan sneered down at him. Maxim was tall for his age, but his father was taller, stronger, and built like a brick wall. However, he was also drunk, and his hand shook as he drew his sword. “You think you can best your father, boy?”
Maxim’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll find out.”
They circled each other like wolves, swords at the ready, searching for a moment’s weakness. Ivan lurched forwards with his rapier, a move which Maxim sidestepped easily. “Stand still so I can run you through, you ungrateful brat!”
He lunged again. This time, Maxim parried it, sliding his sword along his father’s blade. “I don’t really want to kill my own father…” -there was a metallic ringing sound of steel on steel as they disengaged- “…but now that I think about it, you don’t really deserve the title.”
They began to circle one another again. As he passed, Ivan knocked his vodka bottle over; Maxim, circling him, didn’t see the clear liquid on the floor until it was too late. He stumbled against the table, and Ivan thrust forward. Maxim meant to parry him, but, half fallen against the table, couldn’t get his sword into position. His rapier slid between his father’s ribs with a horrible squelch.
Ivan gasped. Blood sprayed out of the wound, covering Maxim’s rapier and dripping his hand. He pulled the sword out automatically, and the spray of blood became a veritable fountain, splattering his shirt and waistcoat. Behind him, his sister began to scream. Oh, God. What have I done? The door was partially open, and he ran.
Mikhail stormed back into the room, leading a band of menservants, villagers, and farmers-everyone he had been able to find. He stared at the scene in shock. His father was bleeding profusely from a stab to the chest, and his sister was holding her arm and sobbing pitifully on the floor. She looked up at him, whimpering. “Maxim…he killed our father. He did it to save me…” Mikhail shook his head in dismay, going to his father’s side.
The man wheezed-one last, final gasp, and died. Mikhail straightened up and turned to the assembled men. “My father, the lord of Smolensk, is dead.” He began to smile and raised his voice over the chatter which broke out. “I, Mikhail Ivanovich Romanov, am your new lord. My first act is this: I hereby declare that Maxim Ivanovich Romanov is a traitor and a murderer. Any of you who bring me his head on a stake shall be rewarded with a sum of two hundred thousand rubles!”
Zofiya gasped in horror. “Mikhail, he’s our own brother! How could you?”
Mikhail adopted a sanctimonious air. “As the lord of Smolensk, it is my duty to punish evildoers and administer justice. He may be our brother, but by your own admission, he has committed the sin of patricide and must be punished. Even our own family cannot be above the law.”
Zofiya started to wail.
Luckily for Maxim, the dining hall was on the ground floor, and so it was easy for him to slip out of a window. By keeping close to the walls and staying in the long shadows thrown off by the setting sun, he made his way to the western stable. The stable hand on duty gawked at the sight of his master’s son covered in blood.
“Master Maxim, what happened?”
Maxim looked down his nose at the man-no easy task, as he was taller than him. “That’s none of your business. Now help me ready my horse, and without any of your impertinent questions this time.”
The man was fairly bursting with curiosity, but Maxim’s father paid his salary, and so he kept quiet as he led a black gelding out of his stall and helped Maxim saddle him up. He held the reins while the boy swung himself into the saddle. Finally, he dared a question. “Young master, where are you going?”
“It’s better for you if you don’t know.”
The sounds of a large, angry crowd approaching from the mansion reached them, and Maxim spurred his horse into a canter. “Don’t tell anyone I was here.”
He had passed the border of his family’s estate by the time he relaxed, slowing his horse to a walk. Where am I going to go now? All he knew was that he was heading west, towards the border; the setting sun shone directly into his eyes. I can’t stay in Russia. My cousin Paul is insane; I can’t throw myself on his mercy. Maybe I should go to Prussia or Transylvania and see if any of the local Sparks are looking to hire.
There was a group of ragged-looking men in the road ahead of him. As he approached, they spread out to block his way. One, cleaner and better-fed than the others, spoke to him. “You look like someone who’s used to money. Mind sharing some for a good cause?”
Maxim raised an eyebrow. “What kind of good cause?”
The man chuckled and motioned to his friends. They spread out around Maxim, blocking him in. “The best cause! We’re going to war against the Marquis of Tobolsk for his nephew, and we could use a few more…resources.” He eyed Maxim’s horse blatantly.
Maxim began to smile. “You men are mercenaries?”
The man puffed his chest out, preening. “The very best! I am Sergey Pavlovich Kuznetsov, the leader of this fine band. My best men are here; the rest are busy drinking Smolensk dry.” He was taken aback when Maxim bowed from his saddle.
“If you are mercenaries fighting against the Marquis, then I, Maxim, will gladly pledge my sword, my horse, and myself to your service.”
Sergey looked him over. He was tall enough, and in good enough shape. The sword at his side had clearly seen recent use, from look of the fresh blood on his clothes. If nothing else, he could be put to use as a meatshield. “Welcome to the fold, kid.”