The Ambassador Chronicles

by Graham McNeill

  'Why, Pavel, why? Help me understand why you did this, because I cannot fathom it. What would make you turn your back on your friend to do this for such a loathsome piece of scum like Chekatilo?'

  'It because I am your friend that I do this.' said Pavel.

  'What? You steal from me because you're my friend?' snapped Kaspar. 'Well I suppose I should count myself lucky I am not one of your enemies, for I would hate to see what you do to them.'

  'I mean it.' barked Pavel.

  'Talk sense, man.'

  'Chekatilo sends Rejak for me, tells me I am to steal these things from you.'

  'And you said yes?' asked Kaspar. 'Why?'

  Pavel shook his head. 'I cannot say.'

  'You bloody well will say.' promised Kaspar. 'I want to know what that bastard said to make you betray me.'

  Pavel surged from the chair and planted his hands on Kaspar's desk and shouted, 'I cannot tell you!'

  Kaspar rose from his chair and faced Pavel, his anger hot and raw. 'Either tell me or get out of here now. I warned you what would happen the next time you did anything stupid, did I not?'

  'Aye, but, please, Kaspar. I cannot tell you, it was before you came here. Chekatilo knows things of me, bad things, secret things. Trust me, I cannot tell you.'

  'Trust you?' laughed Kaspar coming from behind the desk and jabbing his finger against Pavel's chest. 'Trust you? Am I hearing you right? You are asking me to trust you?'

  'Yha,' nodded Pavel.

  'Oh well, then I suppose I should, eh? Now that you have led one ambassador astray, put me in debt to Chekatilo and then tried to steal from me, I suppose I should. What could I possibly have to lose?'

  Pavel's face darkened and he said, 'You always so perfect, Empire man? You never make mistakes?'

  'Mistakes?' snapped Kaspar. 'Mistakes, yes, but betray my friends? Never. What kind of mistake would make you betray me, Pavel? Tell me. We fought together for years, saved each other's lives more times than I can count. Tell me the truth, damn you!'

  Pavel shook his head. 'You not want the truth.'

  'Yes,' shouted Kaspar, getting right in Pavel's face. 'I do, so damn well tell me!'

  Pavel pushed the ambassador away and turned his back on him. A great sob burst from the burly Kislevite and he said, 'I murdered Andrej Vilkova, Anastasia's husband. Rejak and me killed him. We caught him outside Chekatilo's brothel and beat him to death. There! You happy now?'

  Kaspar felt his senses go numb and a sick feeling spread from the pit of his stomach to his furthest extremities. He put a hand out to lean on the desk, his mind a whirlwind of confused thoughts.

  'Oh, no, Pavel, no...' hissed Kaspar, the breath tight in his chest. 'You didn't, please tell me you didn't.'

  Pavel returned to his seat and hung his head in his hands. 'I so sorry, Kaspar. Chekatilo has held this over my head since that night. He said he would tell you if I not do this for him and I not want you to find out about what I did, what a pathetic, snivelling piece of scum Pavel Korovic is.'

  Kaspar could not answer Pavel, still reeling from the shock of discovering that one of his oldest friends was revealed as a murderer, no better than Sasha Kajetan. He felt tears of betrayal course down his face, horrified that a man he had trusted his life to on so many occasions was nothing but a common killer.

  Pavel stood and put his hand on Kaspar's shoulder.

  'Don't touch me,' roared Kaspar, throwing off Pavel's hand and backing away from him. He could barely stand to look at him.

  Anastasia...

  By Sigmar, all these years thinking that some street thug had murdered her husband, and all the time the killer was sitting in the Empire embassy, friend to her new lover. As he attempted to comprehend the scale of Pavel's crime, a soft knock came at the main door of the study and one of the embassy guards entered.

  'Sorry to disturb you, sir. Heard shouting and wondered if everything was alright?'

  Kaspar did not trust his voice yet, so simply nodded and raised his hand. The guard, sensing the mood within the room, said, 'Very good, sir,' and withdrew.

  Silence descended on the study, uncomfortably stretching until Kaspar felt like his heart would burst. He wiped his face with his sleeve and managed to say, 'Why?'

  'Why what?' asked Pavel.

  'Why was he killed, damn it?'

  Pavel shrugged, defeated, and said, 'I not know. All I know is Losov came to Chekatilo and paid him to have Andrej Vilkova killed.'

  Kaspar rubbed a hand across his jaw, his brow furrowing as he realised he recognised the name Pavel had mentioned.

  'Losov? Pjotr Losov? The Tzarina's advisor? Are you telling me that he paid Chekatilo to have Anastasia's husband murdered?' 'Yha, I heard him. I think that why Chekatilo have me do it.'

  'That son of a bitch.' swore Kaspar, now realising the source of the enmity between Pavel and Losov. 'Why the hell would he do that?'

  'I not know.' said Pavel.

  'I wasn't talking to you.' said Kaspar, his jaw clenched and his fingers beating a nervous tattoo on his desktop. 'Damn you, but I should hand you over to the Chekist.'

  'Yha, probably you should.' agreed Pavel.

  'No.' said Kaspar, shaking his head. 'I won't. You have saved my life too many times for me to send you to those bastards, but...'

  'But what?'

  'But you and I are finished.' said Kaspar. 'Get the hell out of my embassy. Now.'

  Pavel rose from the seat and said, 'For what it worth-'

  'Stop.' said Kaspar, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Just go. Please, just go.'

  Pavel nodded sadly and walked to the door. He turned as though about to say something, but thought the better of it and left without another word.

  As the door shut, Kaspar put his head in his hands and wept openly for the first time since he had buried his wife.

  II

  Morning brought a cold rain from the east. Kaspar sat behind his desk as weak sunlight spilled in through the window behind him. He had not slept since Pavel had left, his emotions too raw, too near the surface for him to close his eyes. Each time he tried, he would picture Anastasia's face and the pain would surface again. Part of him wanted to tell her of her husband's murder, to lay to rest the ghost of his death, but to renew a friendship on such news was not a possibility.

  He missed her, but felt powerless to do anything about it. She had made her feelings plain and there was nothing he could do to alter them. He was too set in his ways and she in hers for either of them to change and though he craved her company, he knew that they would soon go through the same dance again should they renew their relationship. He would always care for her, but could not allow himself to do more than that.

  And Pavel...

  He cursed Kislev, cursed its people, its language, its customs, its... everything. He felt an intense wave of bitterness rise in him, wishing he had never set foot in this godforsaken country again. It had brought him nothing but pain and misadventure.

  He rubbed his tired eyes, knowing he was reacting with his heart and not his head, but unable to curb the bile he felt. He knew his eyes must be swollen and bloodshot from tears and lack of sleep, so he stood and ran a hand across his scalp, making his way towards his bedroom.

  As he rose from behind his desk, he glanced through the window, seeing a lone horseman ride hard for the embassy, jerking his horse to a sliding halt at the gates. The man wore black armour and an all-enclosing helm of dark iron, but Kaspar immediately recognised him as Vladimir Pashenko, head of the Chekist. He swore silently to himself. Today of all days, he could do without this. But he had a duty to his position here and reluctantly straightened his clothing, still the formal regalia he had worn to the Winter Palace the previous evening.

  He watched Pashenko push through the gate and march purposefully towards the embassy door. His haste and obvious anger told Kaspar that something serious had happened and he wondered what calamity would drive the normally emotionless Pashenko to such heights of agitation.
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  The door below slammed shut and he heard heavy footfalls ascend the main stairs, hurried steps following them along with blustering protests. Kaspar seated himself behind his desk again and waited for Pashenko to enter, which he did seconds later, hurling the door open and striding straight towards Kaspar. His helmet was held under the crook of his arm, but he threw it on a chair as he approached.

  'Ursun damn you, von Velten! shouted Pashenko, his face purple with rage.

  Of all the things Kaspar might have expected Pashenko to say, this was not one of them. He raised his hands and said, 'What is going on? Why are you here?'

  'I'll tell you why.' snapped Pashenko, his accent slipping towards his native Kislevite. 'Because thirteen of my men are dead, that's why!'

  'What? How?'

  'That Svolich.'

  Kaspar felt a chill seize him and raised a hand to his temple, feeling the onset of a pounding headache. He shook his head free of his tiredness and faced the angry Pashenko once more.

  'Kajetan?' he said. 'I don't understand. How could he kill thirteen of your men?'

  'No.' said Pashenko, shaking his head and pacing the room like a caged animal. 'Not Sasha, someone else. Someone else.'

  'Pashenko, slow down, you're not making any sense. Tell me what has happened.'

  The head of the Chekist took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm. Kaspar could see that Pashenko had not slept for some time either by the look of him. His normally clean-shaven cheeks were stubbled and hollow, his long hair wild and unkempt.

  'This does not happen to the Chekist,' he said. 'We are feared and that is how we are able to do our job. People fear us and they do not violate our laws because of that. That is the way it is supposed to be anyway. But now...'

  Kaspar could not bring himself to feel sorry for Pashenko, knowing the brutal methods his Chekist employed and having seen the horror of the gaol beneath their grim building on the Urskoy Prospekt. But the pain of losing men under your command was something he was all too familiar with, so in that at least they had a common bond.

  'I am still not sure what happened.' continued Pashenko, 'but it looks as though two people walked into our building and slaughtered their way towards the cells.'

  'Two people killed thirteen of your men? Who were they?'

  'I do not know, but it was only one.'

  'One what?'

  'Only one person killed my men, a man who wore black robes and a hood. And who was quicker than a snake by all accounts.'

  'I think I know of this man,' said Kaspar. 'He attacked us in the Lubjanko.'

  'The Lubjanko? What took you to that wretched place?'

  'It is a long story,' said Kaspar, not wanting to go into the details of his earlier cooperation with Vassily Chekatilo in front of the Chekist. 'But I have seen his speed, it is incredible, inhuman almost. Who was the other person?'

  'A woman, but no one I've spoken to can give me a good description of her.'

  'Why not?'

  Pashenko shrugged and Kaspar could see the deaths of his men and the apparent ease with which they had been killed had hit Pashenko hard.

  'It is strange,' said Pashenko. 'I have spoken to the survivors of the attack and every one of them gives me a different description of her. And not just little things that I could put down to simple errors, but major differences. Some saw a young woman, others an older woman. To some she was blonde, to others dark haired and yet others saw her as auburn haired. Some saw a thin woman, while others say she was heavyset. But all of them agree that she was beautiful, that they could no more raise a blade against her than stop their own hearts from beating.'

  'How do you think she was able to confuse so many people?'

  'I do not know, but all of them said she had a... a radiance to her, as though her skin had a light burning beneath it. It reeks of sorcery to me.'

  Kaspar felt his skin crawl, remembering Sofia describing something similar while she had been held within Sasha Kajetan's death attic, a magical light that had spoken with a woman's voice. She had not been able to see the face of the speaker, but taken together with the hooded assassin, it was surely too great a coincidence that these events could not be linked. How far back did everything go? The Butcherman, Sasha, the black robed killer, the rats? Was it all connected?

  Something in Pashenko's words tugged at a faint memory, but it was not until Sofia appeared in the doorway of his study, her hair worn down around her neck, that it hit him.

  'Is it true?' asked Sofia, her arms wrapped about herself. 'Has Sasha escaped from your gaol?'

  Pashenko nodded. 'Yha, last night.'

  'Did he kill anyone?'

  'Probably. The gaoler had his throat torn out, most likely by someone's teeth, and it looks like some of his flesh was eaten. It is the same as the Butcherman killings. It could only have been Kajetan.'

  Kaspar leaned forwards. 'You said that some of the people who saw this woman saw her as auburn haired?'

  'Yes, but lots of other colours too.'

  Kaspar moved from behind his desk towards Sofia, reaching up to lift a handful of her long, auburn hair.

  'I think this is partly what stayed Kajetan's hand when he held Sofia prisoner,' he said. 'His madness saw her as his matka, his mother reborn. And when I saw the skeleton he had dug up on the grounds of his family's land, the skull had scraps of auburn hair still attached to it. Whatever magicks this woman was able to conjure, it was for one purpose and one purpose alone - to make Sasha Kajetan believe his mother had come back to him.'

  'Everything he did, he did for her,' said Sofia. 'Every murder was for her.'

  'And now he is free, ambassador,' hissed Pashenko, 'and it will be your fault when he kills again.'

  'Mine?'

  'Yha, Kajetan should have been hanged weeks ago, but no, the ambassador wants to keep him alive to learn what made him a monster. And like a fool I agree, I think that this new Empire man is clever and may be right. Now look where your curiosity had led us.'

  Kaspar wanted to argue, but knew that Pashenko was right: Kajetan should have been executed long ago.

  'Well, what is being done to find him?' asked Kaspar. 'And what can I do to help?'

  'Nothing. On both counts.'

  'Nothing? You are not making any effort to catch him?'

  'I have no men to spare, and the city is so crowded I could search for years and never find him. And I think that whoever has him now will be keeping him well hidden, don't you? No, I will not waste more of my men's lives in hunting Kajetan down. If he is truly mad then he will surface again when he kills, and sooner or later we will catch him.'

  Pashenko turned to retrieve his helmet and turned, bowing stiffly to Kaspar and Sofia.

  'But there will be more deaths, of that I am sure. I just wanted you to know that,' he said and marched from the study.

  Sofia shivered and Kaspar put his arm around her. 'You shouldn't worry, Sofia. I don't think Kajetan will come for you again. He has his matka now.'

  She shook her head.

  'I'm not worried about him coming after me,' she said at last. 'I'm worried about him coming after you.'

  III

  As the new moon rose on the thirteenth night of Nachexen, riders entered the city from the west. Ungol horsemen of wild appearance, they had ridden hard from the western oblast to bring great news, news they shouted from their horses as they galloped through the city streets towards the Winter Palace.

  Cheers followed the riders, all of whom looked on the verge of collapse, who were kept in the saddle by sheer joy. The news soon spread through the city, Boyarin Kurkosk's Sanyza pulk and the army of Stirland had fought and destroyed a great mass of northmen led by a chieftain named Okkodai Tarsus at Krasicyno, putting it to flight and killing thousands of the tribesmen.

  It was the first tangible victory for the allied armies and when he woke to the news, Kaspar had a real sense of history unfolding before him. This was a time of great moment and heroes were being forged daily on the f
ields of battle. Another horde of tribesmen, many times the number of the allied armies, was said to be marching back from the Empire to destroy Kurkosk's army and both the army of Talabecland and the Kislev pulk were being called to battle at a place called Mazhorod.

  In the days that followed the news, the city had seethed with activity as warriors were mustered and the Kislevite pulks, camped along the Urskoy within a day's march of the city, were finally drawn together to head westwards.

  Kaspar watched the preparations for march from the snowcapped ramparts of the city wall with thousands of the city's populace who had turned out in the icy chill to cheer their brave warriors. It did Kaspar's heart a world of good to see such an ebullient display of optimism shining from every face around him.

  He watched the preparations below with a mixture of pride and regret. The greater part of him wanted to ride alongside these brave men of Talabecland, but without a field rank - something he knew Spitzaner would never grant him - he would simply be an observer. The thought of being powerless to intervene in whatever battles these men would soon have to fight was an intolerable prospect.

  Spitzaner had made it perfectly clear that he did not want Kaspar to accompany his army and Kaspar could not blame him. It would undermine Spitzaner's authority were Kaspar, his former commanding officer who many knew had passed him over for promotion, to be there, and Kaspar had reluctantly accepted that he must remain in Kislev. The Emperor's emissaries, Michlenstadt and Bautner, travelled with the general, accompanied by the envoys of the Tzarina who would journey to Altdorf in her stead.

  For all his faults, Clemenz Spitzaner knew how to get an army ready to move with commendable speed. The general had been angry to have missed the great battle at Krasicyno and was determined not to miss this chance for glory. His soldiers were drawn up in their regiments along the roadway, thousands of men formed in column of march, with their weapons high and their colours flapping in the cold wind.

  The general himself rode up and down the line of men, inspecting his soldiers with the eye of a man who knows people are watching.