Then the Emperor shocked them by not asking for Romey’s report at all.
“Lieutenant Michkov. Write to General Tanov. I would hear more of this young officer of his.” And he led his entourage away, his stride a bit longer than usual.
Michkov had done it, made the Emperor smile. Such an easy thing, when he put his mind to it.
Romey crossed the space between their desks and rummaged through the piles of dispatches. Michkov, wearing a pleased and almost giddy smile, was still watching after the Emperor and almost didn’t notice. When he did, it was with a sense of curiosity rather than anger.
“What are you doing, Romey?”
“Looking—ah, here it is.” He retrieved a document and read it quickly, eyes darting. Scowling so that his jaw trembled, he glared at Michkov with bullet-dark eyes. “That lieutenant didn’t crawl into enemy range. This says he was trapped there while looting bodies and was forced to shoot his way free.”
Michkov blushed. “Yes, well—the end result was the same. He did disable the entire line of artillery. And—did you see him?” Michkov gestured at the closed door where the Emperor had gone. “Did you see how pleased he looked?”
Romey slapped the dispatch against the desk. “No more of your stories, Michkov. I’m warning you.”
Michkov, declining to be intimidated by Romey’s theatrics, raised a brow. “We’ll go on as we always have, I expect. You continue to tell your stories, Romey. I will continue to tell mine.”
From then on, the Hero performed only the most daring of exploits. He assassinated enemy generals, rallied his men in the face of defeat and led them to stunning victories. He raided a den of highwaymen, making safe once more a road that was essential to the resupply of the army. He refused promotions, preferring instead to remain with the infantry, fighting in the dirt, smoke, and blood with the rest, where he felt he could do the most good.
The medals which he was awarded remained in a box, kept by a provincial gentleman’s beautiful daughter, to whom the Hero was betrothed.
“Well, Michkov—do you have any new reports of our young lieutenant?” the Emperor asked his undersecretary with startling familiarity.
Over the course of several months, Michkov produced everything the Emperor had hoped for in his great army, everything Michkov had dreamed, a respite from the dirge of dispatches they faced each morning, simply by painting the young lieutenant—his Hero—into his reports.
“Ah—he has a young lady he wishes to marry when the war ends, your Majesty.”
“Of course, of course. But the end is near, I think. I’m pleased I promoted General Yurivno. The new blood may turn the tide yet. Dear General Tanov was long due for retirement. Then again, those ne
w supply lines may make all the difference.”
Michkov’s stories had done more than cheer the Emperor. They had revitalized him. No more a tired old man resigned to the wounds fate dealt him and his Empire, he reassessed his army and his frontier war, found them lacking, and went about repairing them. His inspired enthusiasm traveled down the chain of command. A battle won here, a new road there, made a difference.
“Perhaps—Lieutenant Michkov, do you think I should award our hero a medal? A Meritorious Service Medal.” His eyes lit with the thought. “I could summon him to the capital. We could have a ceremony.”
A little too quickly Michkov said, “Your Majesty—I am sure he is needed on the front, he may not be able to leave his duties—”
“Ah, yes, you’re right of course. Well. When the war ends, yes?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Michkov said, sighing as he bowed.
When the door closed and the undersecretaries were alone in the reception hall, Romey trained his ferret gaze on Michkov.
“I don’t believe your reports. I don’t believe your dispatches hold anything but catastrophe. There are no heroes.”
In a bright mood, Michkov laughed. “A sad life you must lead, Romey. Can’t you consider for one moment that some good might exist?”
“I have never seen it.”
“You’ve never seen a whale, either, but I assure you they’re real.”
Romey could not know what Michkov did or did not fabricate, how much his reports shaded the line between fact and interpretation. Each morning, half the dispatches were placed on his desk and half on Romey’s. Romey could have no idea what information lay in Michkov’s dispatches, what he may or may not have been inventing.
At last the day came when Michkov arrived at the great reception hall and found Romey already there, all the dispatches sitting in a pile before him.
“I’ve read them all,” he said. “I see nothing here about our great Hero of the eastern front.”
“Perhaps you’re not looking closely enough,” Michkov said, frowning.