Warhammer - [The Ambassador Chronicles 01] - The Ambassador

by Graham McNeill (lit)

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'You said it yourself, he is a man of honour and if you find out what he needs to know, he will not allow that debt to go unpaid.' said Pavel, twisting and knotting his fingers as he spoke.

  Chekatilo considered this for a moment and took another puff on his cigar.

  'Very well. I will see what I can do.' said Chekatilo eventually. 'But you know that it is not just the ambassador who is in my debt now.'

  'Yes.' said Pavel wretchedly. 'I know that also.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  I

  NIGHT AROUND THE Lubjanko was a time to be feared. The howls of the lunatics and dying within its fortress walls filled the air with cacophonous ravings and the fear that their madness or maladies could somehow be caught even by being nearby. As such it was a shunned place, the derelict buildings and empty streets around its spike-topped walls empty and deserted, even in a time when so many were desperate for shelter and warmth.

  Even criminals, those to whom the scrutiny of others was unwelcome, did not often frequent the echoing prospekts around the death-house of the Lubjanko. Only those about some particularly dark business would dare the haunted shadows that gathered about it, and even then, they hurried to complete their business rather than linger too long.

  But one such individual dared to venture here, working silently in a narrow alley that ran the length of the Lubjanko at its rear, beside an open gateway that led within. The hooded man lifted cloth-wrapped bundles onto the back of a high-sided wagon, sweating despite the cold as he hefted each one. He lifted six bundles onto the back of the wagon then stepped around its front, gripping the driver's bench and preparing to climb up.

  'Still coming for the young pretty ones, Pjotr?' said a huge figure of a man as he stepped from the shadows. Vassily Chekatilo sauntered towards the wagon, looking for all the world like a man out for a leisurely stroll in his favourite park rather than in the shadow of one of the most dreadful buildings in all Kislev. His assassin and bodyguard, Rejak, followed him, his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword.

  The man addressed turned and threw back his hood.

  'What do you want, Chekatilo?' said Pjotr Losov.

  Chekatilo rounded the wagon and lifted a flap of cloth from one of the bundles Losov had placed onto the wagon. A young girl, perhaps five years old, lay bound with cord, her eyes unfocussed. She was obviously drugged.

  'She's pretty,' observed Chekatilo and Rejak sniggered.

  Losov frowned and pushed past Chekatilo to pull an oiled canvas over the wagon's contents. Though dwarfed by the massive criminal, Losov showed no fear and repeated his question. 'I said, what do you want?'

  'Well, since you're obviously in no mood to share a moment of friendly banter-'

  'We are not friends, Chekatilo, I thought you understood that.'

  'Now that hurts, Pjotr, after all I have done for you.'

  'For which you have been adequately rewarded,' pointed out Losov.

  'True,' said Chekatilo, 'but there is the matter of the man who worked for me that you shot in the head. What was his name, Rejak?'

  'Sorka,' said Rejak.

  'Yes, Sorka, not a particularly vital cog in my operation, but a cog nonetheless.'

  'Never heard of him,' snapped Losov.

  'Ah, well, he wasn't a particularly memorable man, but he had just delivered a rather expensive and dangerous item to you, a chunk of warpstone.'

  Losov flinched as though slapped. 'Damn it, Chekatilo, you were paid not to look in the box.'

  'Yes, but I could not resist having someone check for me. It would be remiss of me not to know what I was smuggling into the city for you, would it not?'

  'Very well, what is it you want then?'

  'I take it you know that Sasha Kajetan has fled the city, that he is the Butcherman?'

  'Of course,' said Losov. 'I'm not an idiot.'

  'You know where his family estates are, and I want to know where they are too.'

  'What?' laughed Losov. 'Are you now the lapdog of von Velten? Did he send you here? Truly he must be desperate if he sends you to do his dirty work.'

  'No, von Velten did not send me here, but that is irrelevant. You will tell me what I want to know or I shall make it known to your peers that you are a trafficker in forbidden magicks, that you are an abuser of children and a murderer to boot.'

  'You can't scare me, Chekatilo,' scoffed Losov, though there was an edge of apprehension in his voice. 'Who in their right mind would believe a fat, lowborn bastard like you anyway?'

  'You know as well as I do that belief doesn't matter, Losov. Mud sticks, does it not? Can a man in your position afford to have even the suggestion of such wrongdoings attached to his name?'

  Losov chewed his bottom lip before saying, 'Very well, it matters little anyway, and the sooner he is dead the better. Expect to hear from me at first light; I shall send you what you want to know.'

  'A wise choice, Minister Losov,' said Chekatilo, patting the side of the wagon. 'And have a pleasurable evening.'

  II

  THE DAWN BROUGHT fresh snows, but Kaspar was oblivious to the worsening weather as he sat on the edge of Sofia's bed and poured her a hot tisane. She sat up with a grimace of pain and accepted the delicate cup. She blew on the steaming liquid before taking a sip, wincing as it burned her cracked lips.

  'Perhaps you should let it sit for a while.' suggested Kaspar.

  'No, a tisane is most effective when hot.' said Sofia with a smile. 'First thing I learned from my father.'

  'Was he a physician too?'

  'No, he was a schoolmaster in Erengrad, and a good one too. It was my mother that was the physician in the family. I was apprenticed to her once I finished my schooling, then sent to Altdorf to finish my training at the Emperor's College of Physicians.'

  Kaspar nodded, glad to have Sofia back and in, more or less, one piece. Even as he formed the thought, his eyes drifted to her bandaged hand. Sofia caught the glance and said, 'I know what you're thinking Kaspar, but I want you to promise me you won't kill Sasha out of hand.'

  'I don't know if I can, Sofia. Not after what he did to you.' said Kaspar honestly.

  'That's just it, he did it to me, not you. Killing him won't undo what he did, nothing can.'

  'Then we should just let him get away with it?' asked Kaspar incredulously.

  'No, of course not.' said Sofia, 'but I won't have murder done on my account, Kaspar. I'm a physician, a good one, and I save lives. I won't have any part in ending lives in that way. If Sasha is not already dead and you are able to catch him, then he must see justice at the hands of the proper authorities. And if that means he swings from the gallows pole, then so be it, I have no problem with that. At least it will be justice and not murder.'

  Kaspar felt his admiration for Sofia soar at her ability to transcend hatred of a man who had so horrifically abused her. To show such restraint was something he knew he would not be able to exercise had someone wronged him so greatly.

  'You know that you are a remarkable woman, Sofia?' said Kaspar, reaching up to stroke the side of her head. As his fingers touched her hair, she flinched and a shudder went through her entire body. The cup of tisane spilled from her hand and shattered on the floor as tears welled up in her eyes.

  'I'm sorry.' said Kaspar hurriedly as she drew her knees up, her eyes wide and scared.

  Sofia shook her head and sobbed, 'No, it's just...'

  Kaspar leaned forward and Sofia threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably as the horror of her captivity, dammed for so long behind her reserves of determination to survive, finally broke through.

  'It's alright.' whispered Kaspar, though he knew such a sentiment was wholly inadequate. He wished he knew the right thing to say to bring her out of the nightmare in her head, but he was only a simple man and did not know what else to do but hold her.

  All he could do was say, 'It's alright, it's going to be alright, I promise.'

  They sat that
way for over an hour, Kaspar gently rocking Sofia and holding her tightly as her sobs gradually subsided. She gripped him tightly, until at last she pulled away and lay back on the bed, her head turned away from him.

  'I never thanked you.' she said eventually.

  'You don't need to, Sofia. I wouldn't give up on you. I knew you were out there.'

  She turned her tear-streaked face towards him and smiled weakly, taking his hand.

  'I know.' she said. 'I knew you wouldn't. I don't know why, but I just knew.'

  'I'm just glad we've got you back.'

  'It is good to be back. I didn't think I was ever going to get out of that place.'

  Kaspar felt the rapid beat of Sofia's pulse through her hand and though he hated to press her on what had happened in the attic, he knew that any scrap of information she might be able to give him could prove vital in the hunt for Kajetan.

  'You don't have to tell me.' he began, 'but why... why do you think Kajetan kept you in that place and didn't... you know...'

  'Kill me?' said Sofia. 'I don't know, but for some reason I don't understand, he saw me as his mother. I think that's at the heart of what drives him. And I saw, or rather, I felt... something else there.'

  'Felt what? Another person?'

  'No, it felt like... like magic, I think,' said Sofia, becoming more animated as her thoughts crystallised. 'It felt like someone or something was using magic to talk to him, manipulate him. I knew there was another reason not to kill him out of hand, Kaspar! Someone made Sasha this way and you won't find out who if you spit him on a sword.'

  'Very well,' said Kaspar, placing his hand over his heart. 'I swear I'll try not to let Kajetan get killed, but he may not allow himself to be taken alive.'

  'I know that, Kaspar, but try. Please try.'

  'I will,' he promised as he saw a knight appear in the doorway and signal for his attention. He leaned down and kissed Sofia's cheek and said, 'Try to get some rest, I'll come and see you again soon.'

  Sofia smiled and nodded, her eyes already drooping. 'I'd like that,' she said.

  Kaspar straightened his tunic and followed the knight as he made his way down to the vestibule of the embassy.

  'There is a man outside who claims to have information for you, ambassador,' said the knight as they descended the staircase.

  'Who is he?'

  'I don't know, sir, he has not given us his name and so we have not allowed him past the gates. He looks like a disreputable type though.'

  'Don't they all?' muttered Kaspar and pushed open the front door. Snow swirled inside and the aching cold gripped him as he pulled on a cloak handed to him by the knight. He trudged through the slushy snow, the path having been cleared and salted earlier that morning.

  A man dressed in thick furs paced around the icicle-wreathed fountain before the embassy, his face wrapped in a thick woollen scarf and shadowed in the depths of a hooded cloak.

  Even before he pushed back his hood, Kaspar recognised the hostile stance of Chekatilo's assassin, Rejak. The man grinned and approached the gates, the knights and guards stationed there raising their weapons.

  'It's alright.' said Kaspar. 'I know this man.'

  'Ambassador.' nodded Rejak with a mocking bow.

  'What do you want? We have Sofia back, and all without the help of your master.' growled Kaspar. 'If you are here to claim some kind of favour from me, you have made a wasted journey.'

  'We know you have woman back, but Chekatilo still able to help you.' said Rejak, pulling a leather scroll case from within his cloak and holding it through the bars of the gate. Kaspar took it and untied the cap.

  'What is this?' he asked.

  'What you need.' answered Rejak as he stalked off through the snow. 'Just remember who got it for you.'

  Kaspar upended the scroll case and pulled out a rolled up sheet of ragged canvas parchment. He handed the case to a guard and unrolled the parchment.

  It was a map, a map of Kislev, and Kaspar wondered why Chekatilo had seen fit to deliver this to him. There was the city of Kislev itself, etched in copperplate lettering and there in the north was Praag, the city of lost souls, and in the west the port of Erengrad.

  The map's significance was lost on Kaspar until he noticed that many locations were marked as the territories of various Kislevite boyarins and saw one particular marking, some hundred miles north of Kislev, where the two tributaries of the Tobol merged. Written in a small, precise script were three words that sent his pulse racing.

  Boyarin Fjodor Kajetan.

  He spun on his heel and shouted, 'Saddle the horses!'

  III

  'CHEKATILO KNOWS TOO much.' said Pjotr Losov, pacing the darkened interior of the derelict building. 'We should have had Kajetan kill him while we could.'

  'What does he know, really?' said a figure dressed in long, iridescently dark robes that seemed to swallow what little light penetrated the boards nailed across the windows, its voice smoky and seductive. 'That he is party to smuggling warpstone into Kislev? Somehow I do not think that is knowledge he will be too keen to see brought into the light of day. And anyway, once the representative of the verminous clans reaches Kislev, it will be gone. We need not worry.'

  'No.' agreed Losov, 'but it makes Chekatilo dangerous. He may tell the ambassador.'

  'The ambassador is not a problem, Pjotr, my dear; he is already becoming a pawn of Tchar. And let me worry about Chekatilo. When the army of the High Zar has taken the stones at Urszebya and comes to raze Kislev, I will see that he inflicts the most painful of deaths upon Chekatilo.'

  'I had to give Chekatilo the location of Sasha's family estates,' admitted Losov, 'and that he will tell the ambassador.'

  'I know. The ambassador and his warriors set off earlier today to follow Sasha.' said the figure 'Damn.' swore Losov. 'They must not catch him.'

  'Do not fret, Pjotr.' soothed the figure, drawing a long, thin bladed knife. 'Sasha had served his purpose and was of no more use to me anyway. He had become too deeply immersed in his madness to control effectively and that Valencik bitch had more cunning about her than I gave her credit for.'

  'Then if Sasha is not dead, we must hope that von Velten kills him.'

  'Have no fear of that, Pjotr, the ambassador is a man of fierce passions and even though Sasha is far from me, I can still exercise a measure of influence on my handsome prince. So either Kaspar will kill Sasha or Sasha will kill him. It is of no matter.'

  Losov watched as the figure bent down to unwrap the bundles he had brought.

  The children's pink flesh reflected from the polished steel of the knife.

  'These are perfect, Pjotr.' said the figure. 'Pure and innocent. They will do nicely.'

  IV

  THE HORSE STUMBLED, its movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Sasha Kajetan knew that it would not live much longer, the cold and lack of fodder conspiring to kill it before it had borne him to his destination. But it had carried him farther than he had expected and he admired its courage to have brought him this far.

  Blinding snow flurried around him, but he guided the dying horse unerringly through the blizzard, his numb fingers entwined in its mane. Kajetan had ridden for perhaps three or four days, sheltering both himself and his horse in the lee of rocks and wrapping them both in the furs he had managed to steal before leaving Kislev. His bow provided him with food and he ate snow for water.

  The more distance he put between himself and Kislev, the clearer his thoughts became, the painful hammering of his trueself on the inside of his skull diminishing until he found he could ignore its screaming altogether. The motion of the horse and the unending plateau of whiteness that stretched before him lulled him into a trance-like state where his mind emptied of conscious thought.

  He lost track of time and distance, hypnotised by the numbing cold and bleak vista surrounding him, and felt his mind drift back over the years since he had killed his father.

  The facts of what he had done to his father in the dark forest had b
een lost amid the scramble of the local boyarin who had fought to take over his lands. Men who had drunk kvas, hurled their glasses to the floor and filled the halls with their songs of war and sworn eternal brotherhood with his father soon fell to fighting as first one, then another would ride in with his men and take Boyarin Kajetan's halls for his own.

  He and his mother would be swapped between the boyarin as they fought to claim the land. None wanted another man's wife and child, but knew that to harm them would invite a united retribution from the others. Such a state of affairs had continued for three years until the moment when his mother had sickened of a fever and, despite the most potent medicines of the local midwives, died one bright spring morning.

  Sasha's entire world had collapsed around him, his beloved matka, the centre and extent of his existence was gone and as his fathers halls fell into ruin he journeyed north to Praag and crossed the World's Edge Mountains over the high pass. He had travelled along what he later learned was known as the road of skulls and journeyed ever onwards to the fabled lands of the east, driven by a need to set eyes on things no man of Kislev could claim to have seen.

  Here he had learned the skills of war from the hidden lords of the islands, channelling every aspect of his being into becoming a master of blades. In Kislev the word was Droyaska,blademaster, but on the islands, Sasha had transcended such a state and entered a realm of skill that went beyond such a poor description.

  However, the call of his homeland was stronger than he would have believed possible and he had returned to Kislev, earning his passage as a guard on a merchant caravan travelling along the Silver Road to the land of his youth.

  His horse stumbled again, breaking his reverie, and he felt himself slip from its back. His fingers slid from the animal's mane and he thumped onto his back in the snow, crying out in pain as the splintered ends of his cracked ribs ground together. He felt his furs soaking and rolled painfully onto his side. His horse was on its knees, its head buried in the snow and its back legs scrabbling weakly.