The Ambassador Chronicles

by Graham McNeill

  'It is an invitation to journey to Altdorf and join with those who would stand against the forces of darkness that threaten to destroy us all,' said Michlenstadt. 'The Emperor has decreed that on the Spring Equinox there shall be a great Conclave of Light, a gathering of the great and mighty where the fate of the world shall be decided.'

  'You think its fate is yours to decide?' laughed the Tzarina. 'Then you are a fool. So like men to believe that the world is theirs to save or destroy as they choose.'

  Both emissaries stared at each other in confusion, unable to have anticipated this reaction.

  'This world will turn regardless of what you and your Conclave of Light decides. What matters now is not talk, but action. Armies pillage my land, kill my people and sack my cities. My warriors fight and die, and your Emperor would have me leave my land in its hour of greatest need?'

  'He seeks only to defeat the greater menace that threatens us all,' protested Michlenstadt.

  'Yes,' agreed Bautner. 'As free peoples we must all stand together or we shall surely perish separately.'

  'A convenient sentiment now that there are armies despoiling your own land,' said the Tzarina, turning towards Kaspar, and he felt the chill of her gaze upon him, his skin prickling to goosebumps beneath his clothes.

  'Ambassador von Velten,' began the Ice Queen, 'you say nothing here?'

  Kaspar knew he would need to choose his next words with great care, seeing the emissaries' desperate eyes upon him.

  'I leave such games of state for those best suited to them, your majesty.'

  The Tzarina scowled, 'You are the Emperor's ambassador to Kislev, are you not?'

  'I am,' agreed Kaspar.

  'And as his ambassador, you speak here with his voice, do you not?'

  'I do, yes,' said Kaspar, seeing the trap she had laid for him, but unable now to remove his head from the snare.

  'So tell me, ambassador, what would your Emperor do were the situations reversed, if the Empire were ravaged by war and he was called to abandon his land while enemies killed his people and burned their homes?'

  Kaspar hesitated before speaking, though he knew the answer to the Tzarina's question clearly enough.

  'He would refuse to go, your majesty,' said Kaspar, hearing outraged intakes of breath from Spitzaner and the Emperor's emissaries. 'Karl-Franz is a man of honour, a warrior king, and he would never abandon his people while his heart still beat.'

  The Tzarina nodded, smiling as though she had known exactly what answer Kaspar would give. She rose from her throne and addressed the two Imperial emissaries directly.

  'You may take word to your Emperor that I thank him for his invitation, but that, regretfully, I must decline. I have a land to save and I cannot leave it while the tribes of the north make war upon us. I shall send my most trusted envoys with you on your return to Altdorf and they shall speak with my voice at this conclave.'

  The Tzarina bowed gracefully to the men of the Empire before turning away and gracefully departing the hall through the golden doors from whence she had come, her warriors following closely behind her. As the doors shut, a detachment of bronze armoured knights threw open the entrance that led to the vestibule of the Winter Palace, standing guard to either side.

  Thus dismissed, Kaspar and his fellow countrymen marched dejectedly from the Hall of Heroes under the unchanging gaze of the Tzars and Khan Queens of Kislev.

  IV

  Kaspar shook his head as the squire came forward to take Magnus's reins, dismounting and leading the horse around the side of the embassy to stable the horse himself. He could see the guards who had accompanied him to the palace groan at the thought of not getting inside the warmth of the embassy and said, 'You men go on. I won't be long.'

  The guards gratefully retreated into the embassy, leaving Kaspar to open the frost-limned stable door and lead his horse inside. He was cold and tired, but his nerves were wound too tightly for him to think of sleep just yet. He bent down, wincing as his knee cracked, and undid the girth around Magnus's belly, removing the heavy leather saddle and slinging it across a nearby rail.

  He fed the horse a few handfuls of grain then took out a stiffened wire brush and began giving the horse's coat a thorough rub down, combing his mane and working out the stresses of the day with every stroke.

  Though he knew he could not have given the Tzarina any other answer, he wondered if the Emperor would see it that way when Michlenstadt and Bautner returned to the capital and informed him of her refusal to attend his conclave. Spitzaner and the emissaries had been furious with him upon leaving the Winter Palace.

  'Sigmar damn you, von Velten!' Spitzaner had shouted, his normally pale features ruddy with outrage. 'Do you know what you have done?'

  'I said nothing the Tzarina did not already know,' pointed out Kaspar.

  'That's not the point,' said Michlenstadt, trying to keep his voice even.

  'No,' agreed Bautner, shaking his head. 'An ambassador is not simply the Emperor's voice at another court, but a means of enacting his will. You should not have said what you did, ambassador, it was highly inappropriate.'

  'You mean I should have lied?'

  Bautner sighed, as though being forced to explain something straightforward to a simpleton. 'These are dark times we live in, ambassador, and sometimes the values we cherish in peacetime must, shall we say, bend in times of strife. If the idea of lying is offensive to you, perhaps you could simply have omitted to mention certain truths that might have influenced the Tzarina's decision.'

  'Omission of the truth? Since when is that not lying?' asked Kaspar.

  'In the affairs of courtly politics it can be an important distinction sometimes.' said Michlenstadt.

  'She would not have gone to Altdorf regardless of what I said.'

  'We do not know that for sure, von Velten.' snapped Spitzaner. 'Make no mistake, the Emperor will hear of what happened here tonight.'

  'Of that I have no doubt.' said Kaspar, already weary of Spitzaner's voice.

  The general and the emissaries had ridden back to their billets in the city without another word, escorted by their halberd-wielding soldiers, leaving Kaspar and his guards to ride through Geroyev Square towards the embassy.

  The night had been cold, but without the sharpness that had characterised it throughout the winter and it was plain to see that, while winter had not yet released its grip on Kislev, it was definitely in retreat.

  Kaspar had worked up a sweat while grooming Magnus and felt its chill on his skin as he finished the task of stabling his mount for the night. He threw a thick, brightly patterned blanket over the horse's back to keep him warm overnight and left the stables, careful to drop the latch as he left.

  He trudged across the slushy ground towards the servants' door at the rear of the embassy, deciding that he could use some food and a drink of kvas. Kaspar pushed open the door, surprising the few servants gathered there playing cards with his arrival. They hurried to make themselves look busy, but Kaspar bade them return to their game, removing his boots and cloak and handing them to his manservant.

  Wanting a light supper to take to bed, he cursed softly as he remembered that there was no kvas in the embassy; Sofia having made sure that every drop of the spirit had been poured into the gutters to keep Pavel from temptation.

  Kaspar shrugged. Probably for the best anyway; the last thing he needed at the moment was alcohol. He might have put the final nail in his ambassadorial career tonight, but he was damned if he was going to face any repercussions of what had happened with a hangover. He cut some slices of bread, cheese and ham and prepared a sweet tisane before picking up a candle and climbing the back stairs to the upper floor of the embassy and his bedroom.

  The servants' corridors were dimly lit by tallow candles that flickered in the draft from below, but they were quiet and, for that, Kaspar was grateful. He had no wish for conversation tonight and just hoped he would be able to snatch a few hours of sleep before first light.

  He push
ed open the servants' door to his bedroom and set his supper down on the table beside his bed. He could see a bulge in its centre where a bronze bedwarmer filled with heated coals had been placed and angled the candle he'd taken from the kitchen to light the lamps at the side of his bed.

  Something registered at the corner of his vision and he paused, cocking his head to one side as he heard a rustle of papers and a soft thump from his study next door. He lifted the candle away from the lamp, leaving it unlit and gripped the butt of his pistol with his free hand. There should be no one in his study at this time of night and his mind filled with dark possibilities as to who might be within.

  Treading carefully so as not to alert the intruder, Kaspar approached the door to the study, his anger building with each soft step. He knew he should go back downstairs and alert his guards to this trespasser, but his already dark mood was filling him with the desire to hurt the bastard himself. He eased the flint back on his pistol, seeing a flicker of light and shadow beneath the bottom of the door.

  He held his pistol before him, took a deep breath and kicked open the study door.

  'Don't move!' he shouted, quickly entering the room. 'I am armed.'

  He saw a bulky figure standing behind his desk and was about to repeat his warning when he recognised the man rifling through the contents of his desk.

  Pavel. It was bloody Pavel.

  V

  Sasha Kajetan groaned as he shifted his weight, the chains around his wrist digging into the raw flesh of his wrists. His world had shrunk to the point where all he knew now was pain and hunger and he welcomed it. The trueself had eroded all but the last remnants of his sanity and all that remained in his mind were thoughts of violence and death.

  He knew his longing for atonement would never come now and silently prayed for death from whatever deities might not yet have abandoned him. But death would not take him. It seemed even the kingdom of Morr was to be denied him. He could not blame the guardian of the kingdom of the dead; after all, who would want such a wretched soul as his?

  He had accepted now that this was his lot - an eternity of suffering and starvation in this gaol with nothing but the steady drip of water and mange-ridden rats for company.

  One such specimen sat on its haunches at the doorway, where it had pushed itself through a gap between the rusted iron door and the crumbling brickwork. It scrabbled at the hole it had come through with its claws, digging away the sodden brickwork for some unguessable purpose.

  He watched the rat for a while, losing track of time as he became transfixed by its diligent labours. Eventually, it completed its task and turned to face him, squealing at him as if trying to impart some message. He gave the appearance of ignoring it and the animal drew closer, squealing with greater urgency.

  His foot lashed out. The rat darted aside, but not fast enough as the heel of the swordsman's foot caught it in the centre of its spine and broke its back. He grinned crookedly as the rat twitched and died. He might now be a broken, shell of a human being, but he was still quick. He dragged the dead rat towards him with his feet, leaning down to sink his teeth into its furry belly.

  Sasha felt thin bones snap under his rotten teeth and tasted the rodent's warm blood fill his mouth like a tonic. He swallowed a gristly lump of meat, biting off another chunk as he suddenly became aware of being watched, turning his head to see a bloated white rat squeeze its bulk through the widened hole in the brickwork. Its fangs were long and curved, like the daggers of the steppe nomads, and its small, slitted eyes glittered an unhealthy red.

  He watched the rat for several seconds, blood dripping from his chin, as it looked him up and down as though appraising him. Its lips curled back from its fangs and it gave a long, squealing bray, unlike any sound Sasha would have expected a rat to make.

  Was this some kind of sign? He had felt the rats above him before, plotting and planning, but until now they had been content to merely watch him. Did they now have greater designs in mind for him?

  Dimly, he heard the clang of an iron door and, seconds later, saw a soft glow from beneath his cell door. Fear fluttered in his breast as he heard the rattle of keys and the cell door was flung open. The white rat scurried from the cell, but it was forgotten in an instant as Sasha saw the glowing shape that filled the doorway.

  She stood before him in all her remembered glory, beautiful, auburn haired and full of love for him. She wore a long green gown, the shimmering fabric and pale nimbus of light haloing her head hurting his eyes.

  'Matka...' he whispered, weeping tears of shame, love and happiness as his matka opened her arms to him. Sasha sobbed like a child, the trueself surging to the forefront of his consciousness at the sight of her. He reached for her, but was prevented from touching her by the shackles that bound him to the wall.

  As if in answer to that thought, the gaoler stumbled into the cell, blubbering uncontrollably as he was hurled to the floor by a stooped figure swathed in black robes and carrying a short, curved sword.

  'Free him.' said his matka.

  The gaoler nodded hurriedly, fumbling for the key in terror. At last he found the correct key and unlocked the fetters that bound Sasha. The swordsman slumped to the ground, his wrists raw and bleeding and skin covered with festering sores.

  His matka knelt beside him, cupping his head in her wonderfully soft hands. He couldn't see her face properly, her features blurred and indistinct as the light swum around her head.

  'It's me, my handsome prince.' she said.

  'Matka...' he hissed, his throat parched and constricted.

  'Yes. I've come for you.'

  'So sorry.' he managed, pushing himself upright.

  His matka wiped a finger across his jaw, flicking the rat's blood at the brickwork walls of the cell. She shook her head. 'Wouldn't you rather have something else? Something better than the blood of vermin?'

  The robed figure with the sword darted forward, grabbing the gaoler by the neck and, tearing his glass-lensed hood off, slashed his sword across the man's throat. Blood fountained from the wound, arterial spray gushing like a hose over Sasha's face.

  Hot blood, straight from a beating heart filled the swordsman's mouth and he drank it greedily, feeling his matka's hands upon him as he swallowed and swallowed. He felt her hands warm him, a pleasant heat and arousal radiating outwards from where she touched him.

  Fresh vigour seeped into his body and he felt forgotten strength flow through his atrophied muscles as he drank and his matka somehow restored his life. He snarled, feeling the trueself's lust for death grow. He reached out and took hold of the twitching gaoler, biting and tearing in a frenzy at the flesh of the man's neck.

  'Yes.' said his matka. 'Feed, grow strong. Tchar has need of you.'

  Sasha hurled aside the mutilated corpse and pushed himself to his feet, hot, angry energy coursing around his body.

  'Not too fast, my love.' cautioned his matka, as he steadied himself against the wall of his cell. 'It will take time for your strength to return in full.'

  He nodded, watching as the gaoler's killer wiped his sword on his victim's undershirt. The hands clasping the sword's hilt were furred and clawed and, as though sensing his scrutiny, it turned towards him, hissing in challenge.

  Sasha stared into the beady black eyes beneath the hood and wondered if this - thing - was also a minion of the bloated albino-furred rat.

  He turned his back on the verminous killer, following his matka from the cell and along the corridor towards an open iron door that led to some stairs. A body lay at the foot of the stairs, a triangular piece of metal embedded in its neck.

  'Come, Sasha.' said his matka. 'I have such things for you to do...'

  The trueself nodded, hearing the little boy that had once been Sasha Kajetan screaming from the depths of his tortured soul.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Kaspar lowered the pistol as the two men faced one another over the top of his desk. A lamp sat on its corner, casting a fitful illumin
ation around them, but leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Pavel said nothing, clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand and a wooden handled seal-stamp in the other.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing, Pavel?' asked Kaspar, lowering the flint and jamming his pistol through his belt.

  'Please,' begged Pavel. 'Let me do this and go. You never see me again.'

  'I asked you a question, damn it.'

  Pavel circled the desk and said, 'I can explain this.'

  'You bloody well better,' snapped Kaspar. He closed with Pavel and snatched the papers and stamp from his old comrade's hands. Pavel bit his bottom lip as Kaspar moved towards the lamp, examining what had been taken from his desk. The seal was his personal crest, ringed by the spread wings of the Imperial eagle, while the documents were letters of transit, letters that would allow the bearer to traverse the length and breadth of the Empire without let or hindrance.

  He recognised the documents for what they were and his heart sank as he realised who Pavel must have been stealing them for.

  He sat down heavily in his chair, dropping the items and rubbing the heels of his palms across his scalp.

  'Damn it all to hell.' he whispered to himself.

  'Kaspar, please-' began Pavel.

  'Shut up!' roared Kaspar. 'I do not want to hear it, Pavel. Everything that comes out of your mouth now is nothing but dung! It has been so long since I heard you speak the truth I have forgotten what it sounds like.'

  'I know.' said Pavel. 'I stupid fool. But I sorry.'

  'Don't tell me you are sorry, you miserable piece of shit, don't you dare tell me you're sorry! You were stealing these for Chekatilo, weren't you? Answer me! Weren't you?'

  Pavel slumped into one of the chairs beside the fireplace, his face wreathed in dark shadows as he moved away from the lantern.

  'Yha, I was stealing them for Chekatilo.'

  Kaspar felt his anger at Pavel reach new heights, heights he did not believe it was possible to reach. Was there no limit to Pavel's betrayal?