The Kremlin Games(98)
He threw some more wood on the fire.
* * *
Things were going much better now. They were making much better time. The steam pressure valve was constantly open, but doing its job. So it seemed.
Pavel checked the screw and it was looser, he was almost sure. He was considering tightening it, when it happened. The pressure in the boiler had been building gradually for several hours and the iron was not as strong or as well welded as it should have been. The seam broke and ripped loose, happening faster than the eye could possibly follow.
Pavel was cut in half by the jet of steam before he knew anything had happened. And the shattering boiler sent burning wood from the firebox and shrapnel from the boiler flying everywhere. The rest of the water in the boiler flashed into steam in an instant.
Ivan, Stinky, took a piece of shrapnel in the belly and went down screaming. Mikhail Ivanovich, who had been bragging that it was he who was responsible for their increased speed, was only slightly wounded by a piece of boiler that struck him in the arm, but was shocked and confused by the noise. More importantly, the same piece of boiler that struck Mikhail’s arm bounced into a barrel of lamp oil, ripping it open and spilling the contents across the deck.
For fateful moments, as the lamp oil spread across the deck toward bits of burning wood, the survivors were held immobile in shock. Then, as the oil reached a burning shard, fire covered the front third of the barge. And that brought Dmitri and Alexsey out of their shock. Alexsey grabbed Mikhail Ivanovich from the deck and Dmitri went to try to rescue Ivan, who was still screaming.
Neither of the rescuers was in time, for the flames breached one of the gunpowder barrels. And the newest, fastest, most technologically advanced riverboat in Russia ceased to exist.
Chapter 56
July 17, 1634
“Oh!” Judy the Younger Wendell heaved a great sigh. “She’s beautiful.”
The bride was beautiful. Brandy Bates wore a flowing, white, angora/wool gown with a Chinese silk veil. The veil was attached to a wreath of white roses mixed with baby’s breath and myrtle leaves. The leaves were said to bring good luck to the marriage. Brandy carried a bouquet of more white roses, baby’s breath, ivy and pale pink carnations.
“She’s probably melting in that wool,” Vicky Emerson muttered. “God knows, I am.”
The Barbie Consortium were bridesmaids at the wedding of the season. Wedding of the year, could be. And in spite of Vicky’s every effort, the skirts were long and the dresses modest. Not her favorite look.
“Shh!” Millicent hissed. “She’s almost here.”
The wedding was being held in the formal garden of the Residentz, the home and offices of Vladimir Gorchakov’s Russian delegation. Father Kotov had pushed for the wedding to be held at St. Vasili’s Russian Orthodox Church, but there were just too many people who needed to be invited. And most of them had shown up.
* * *
“Brandy is just gorgeous.” Tate Garrett, Vladimir’s chef, wiped her eyes.
“Prince also,” said Father Kotov’s wife Kseniya. Her English was so heavily accented it was barely comprehensible, but given that the woman had only been in Grantville for three months Tate was impressed she spoke any English at all. She herself had only learned a handful of Russian terms and was still incapable of following any sentence spoken in the language.
Kseniya was right about the prince, too. Vladimir had suffered the indignity of Grantville’s eclectic fashion mix—with Russian tradition thrown in—but somehow, magically, it had all come together in a cohesive whole. He wore a Russian style fur hat and cape and trousers that were so tight they might almost have been hosiery. The ceremony was nice, too . . . if a bit long and convoluted with the greater part of it in a language hardly anyone understood. The reception was more interesting.
The wedding cake Tate had worked on decorating for two days stood tall and gleaming in the center of a table, flanked by molded Russian Creams on each side. Every kitchen maid at the Residentz had learned to make mints whether she wanted to or not, because there were literally thousands of them. Tate blessed Vladimir several times for choosing an afternoon reception. She might have had a nervous breakdown if she’d had to do a formal dinner for all these dignitaries. Instead, they’d set up an informal buffet. People were circulating freely, murmuring to one another about various things.
Tate began to relax. It was going well.
* * *
“No, it’s not that simple,” Kseniya Kotova said. “The czar can’t make laws, not without the consent of the Assembly of the Land or at least the Boyar Duma. It’s not just that it would be unadvisable; he literally doesn’t have the authority to change the law on his own.”