The Ambassador Chronicles Read online

  The two men trudged on in silence for some time until Nikolai nudged Marska as he saw the two dogs suddenly stiffen and draw their jowls back over sharp teeth. Neither dog made a sound, their vocal chords having long since been cut, but their bowstring-taut posture told both ratcatchers that they had sensed something they didn't like. Ahead, Marska knew the passage widened into a high-domed chamber where a number of divergent effluent tunnels converged before heading out to the Urskoy.

  Marska unhooked a small hand crossbow from his belt and eased back the string, wincing when the mechanism clicked as it caught. But to keep the weapon cocked would lose the tension in the string and reduce the power in the bolt. The weapon was an indulgence; most ratcatchers could only ever afford a sling and pebbles for shot, but one glorious summer, Marska had discovered a body floating in the sewers with a purse bulging with gold coins. He had hidden the coins about his person for many months before daring to spend them. Nikolai slipped a rounded pebble into his sling and eased himself past the two dogs, his footsteps silent for such a big man.

  Ahead, Marska could hear voices, muffled and obscured, but years of working below the streets of Kislev had given him a good ear for picking out sounds that wouldn't normally be expected here.

  Nikolai turned and gestured quizzically along the length of the tunnel to a sprawling pile of debris, bricks and mud that lay on the ledge that ran alongside the effluent. The rubble looked for all the world as though it had been pushed from the wall and Marska wondered who in their right mind would want to tunnel into a sewer. The dogs padded along silently, stopping as they reached the tumble of debris, dipping their heads to sniff at something on the ledge.

  Marska ghosted forwards and crouched beside the mud that had spilled from the hole in the wall. Tracks, but tracks that didn't make any sense. They were smudged and deep, as though whoever or whatever had made them had been carrying something heavy, but that wasn't the first thing Marska noticed that was odd. It was hard to be sure, but the prints looked as though they only had four toes on each foot, and from the conical depression a little beyond each toe, it appeared as though they were clawed...

  It was obvious that whatever had made the tracks walked on two legs, but what manner of man had only four toes and claws? An altered perhaps, or one of the beasts of the dark forests come down from the north? Marska felt a flutter of fear race up his spine at the thought of one of these hideous creatures loose down in his sewers. As a child, he had seen such a beast when a band of Ungol horsemen had ridden through his stanista with the corpse of one of these monstrous, horned creatures and Marska remembered the terror he had felt at the size of the beast.

  The voices came again, thrown from far away by the curve of the tunnel. Only fragments of conversation echoed back towards the ratcatchers, but Marska knew that they must be talking about something important. After all, people did not meet in the sewers to discuss the latest harvest or the weather.

  As a member of the Guild of Ratcatchers, Marska was also part of the network of informers who worked for Vassily Chekatilo, the ruthless killer who controlled everything illegal in Kislev, a dangerous man who traded in stolen goods, narcotics and flesh. Part of his power came from knowing things that he should not know and the ratcatchers were an important part of that, for who paid any attention to the filthy peasant covered in shit who cleared your house of vermin?

  Taking great care to tread silently, the two ratcatchers crept forward, at last reaching the edge of the fallen pile of brickwork. Now that they were closer, Marska could see that the hole in the wall disappeared into the darkness for some way.

  Moving slowly so as not to draw the eye of any observers, Marska and Nikolai eased their heads above the level of the rubble.

  The domed chamber echoed with the lapping sewage, ripples of reflected light dancing on the vaulted ceiling. A circular ledge, some six feet wide, ran around the circumference of the chamber and eight, half submerged pipes disgorged their filthy cargo into the central reservoir that drained downriver. On the far side of the chamber stood four figures beside a ramshackle cart, like that used by the collectors of the dead. An apt choice of conveyance, thought Marska, seeing a bronze coffin sealed with a number of rusted padlocks atop the cart. Two figures dressed in rippling robes that appeared to change colour stood closer to the wall of the chamber, while another pair stood beside the cart.

  These last two figures were smaller than the others, hunched over, and even over the reek of the sewers the stench emanating from the nearest was overpowering. Dressed in excrement-smeared rags and bound around the arms and chest with weeping bandages, it was bent almost double by a collection of thick, brass edged books tied to its back. A cracked bell hung from a rope belt around its waist and its face was, thankfully, obscured by its patchwork hood. Its companion was hidden in the shadow; so well that Marska had very nearly missed him. Swathed from head to foot in black robes the figure clutched what appeared to be a long-barrelled musket of some kind, though it was festooned with brass fittings, coils and pipes whose purpose escaped Marska.

  The tallest of the figures in the multi-coloured robes took a hesitant step forward, holding a metal box, some six inches square. The filth-smeared figure beside the bronze coffin raised its head, as though scenting the air, its head darting quickly from side to side. Marska watched as the lid of the box was opened and a soft, pulsating emerald-green light radiated from inside it, bathing the chamber in a fearful, sickly glow.

  'Your payment.' said the figure holding the box, its voice smoky and seductive.

  The filthy hunchback snatched the box with a squeal of pleasure, almost quicker than the eye could follow, and stared deep into the glowing depths, as though inhaling the scent of whatever lay within.

  'And this is what you bring me?' asked the former owner of the box, reaching out a delicate hand to touch the coffin.

  A blur of motion, black on black, and a clawed hand snatched out and grabbed the hand reaching for the coffin. Marska was amazed; without seeming to move, the black robed figure with the musket had darted from the shadows to intercept the hand reaching for the coffin. No man could move that fast; it was inhuman.

  The filthy book-carrier shook its head slowly and the hand was withdrawn.

  Marska turned and cupped his hands around Nikolai's ear, whispering, 'Nikolai, get back to the surface. Chekatilo will want to hear of what's happening down here.'

  'What about you?' hissed Nikolai.

  'I want to see if I can hear anything else, now go!'

  Nikolai nodded, and Marska could see that his young apprentice was glad to be leaving. He didn't blame him, but he had to stay. If Chekatilo found out - and he would - that he had seen these events and not learned all he could, he might as well slit his throat now.

  As Nikolai slipped away, Marska turned his attention back to the drama unfolding before him in time to hear the rotten, bandaged figure reply to an unheard question, hissing a single word that sounded as though it came from a mouth never meant to speak the tongues of men.

  'Eshhhiiiiin...' it said, bobbing its head, pointing to the figure dressed in black. As it did so, Marska saw what looked like a long, fat worm waving in the air behind it. His lip curled in distaste before he realised that he was not looking at some serpent as people were often wont to claim dwelled in the sewers, but a tail. A pink tail, hairless save for a few mange-ridden patches of coarse, wiry fur.

  Revolted, he drew in a sharp breath, and in that moment knew he had doomed himself as the figure in black's head snapped in his direction.

  'No...' he hissed, pushing himself to his feet to sprint away. He had barely risen when a flurry of silver flashed through the air and struck him in his chest. He grunted in pain, turning to run, but his legs wouldn't obey him, and the ground rushed up to slam into his face as his limbs spasmed violently. Marska rolled onto his back, seeing a trio of jagged discs of metal with dripping blades protruding from his chest. Where had they come from, he wondered, as he felt his mus
cles jerk and his lungs fill with froth?

  He tried to move, but was helpless, dying.

  With the last ounce of his strength he yelled, 'Run, Nikolai, run! They're coming!' as a dark shadow enveloped him, darker even than that pressing in on his eyes.

  Marska looked into the face of his killer and realised that Death had a sense of irony after all.

  III

  The Goromadny Prospekt was busy despite the late hour. People with no homes to call their own wandered the streets, rightly fearing that to lie down in the cold snow would be to die. Snow drifted up the sides of buildings, the central thoroughfare of the city trodden to brown slush. Those few taverns with any wares left to sell burned what fuel they had to keep the worst of the cold at bay, but it was a futile gesture against the aching, marrow-deep cold of Kislev.

  Families huddled together for shared warmth in doorways, fur blankets pulled tight around them, yet still shivering in cold and fear.

  Harsh times had come to Kislev, but worse was yet to come.

  The scrape of metal on stone was the first hint that something out of the ordinary was happening, but most folk ignored it, too cold and hungry to pay any mind to matters beyond their concern.

  A rusted iron manhole slid through the snow, grating on the cobbles, bloodied hands reaching up from below the street. A man, covered in muck and screaming in terror hauled himself from the sewers, jerking like a marionette as he rolled in the slush.

  Something fell from his dirty clothing, a short-bladed dagger with a curved blade; a blade that had caught in the folds of his leather tabard and nicked the surface of his skin.

  The man thrashed upon the ground, desperately trying to put as much distance between himself and the entrance to the sewers. His back arched as he convulsed and his screams of agony moved even the hardest hearts to pity.

  As curious onlookers cautiously approached, the man screamed, 'The rats! The rats! They're here, they've come to kill us all!'

  People shook their heads in weary understanding, now seeing the man's ratcatching apparel, guessing that he had simply spent too long below ground and thus fallen prey to lunacy. It was sad, but it happened, and there was nothing they could do. They had troubles of their own.

  As the onlookers dispersed, no one noticed the venomous yellow eyes that stared out from the blackness below, or the clawed hand that reached up to slide the manhole back in place.

  IV

  If Kaspar had been grateful to see the spires of Kislev as they rode from the oblast, it was nothing compared to his relief at returning to the Imperial embassy. Snow clung to its walls and long daggers of ice drooped from the high eaves, but a warm homely glow spilled into the night from the shuttered windows and smoke spiralled lazily from the chimneys. He and his knights rode up to the iron, spike-topped gates, blue and red liveried guards eagerly opening them and welcoming their fellow countrymen back.

  A tutting farrier took the bridle of Kaspar's horse and he dismounted, wincing as the stiffness of two weeks in the saddle pulled at his aged muscles. The wound he had received from the leader of a Kurgan scouting party pulled tight, the stitches Valdhaas had pierced his flesh with still raw beneath a fresh bandage.

  The door to the embassy opened and Kaspar smiled as Sofia Valencik strode along the path towards him, a heartfelt smile of relief creasing her handsome features. The physician's long, auburn hair was pulled in a tight ponytail and she wore a green dress with a red, woollen pashmina wrapped around her shoulders.

  'Kaspar.' she said, throwing her arms around him, 'it's so good to see you.'

  'And you, Sofia.' replied Kaspar, returning the embrace and holding her tight. He was pleased Sofia was on her feet again; the last time he had seen her, she had been confined to bed, recovering from her brutal kidnapping by Sasha Kajetan. Her left hand was still bound with bandages where he had severed her thumb.

  Thinking of the captured swordsman, Kaspar opened his mouth to speak.

  'Sofia-' he began, but she had already seen her former captor being pulled from the saddle by one of the Knights Panther. He felt her go rigid in his arms.

  'We were able to capture him, Sofia, as you wanted,' said Kaspar softly. 'I've sent word to Pashenko that we'll bring him to the Chekist building tomorrow and-'

  But Sofia appeared not to be listening, pulling free of Kaspar's arms and marching stiffly towards Sasha. Kaspar made to follow her, but Kurt Bremen gripped his arm and shook his head slowly.

  Sofia hugged her arms tightly about herself as she neared Kajetan, the swordsman's emaciated frame held aloft by two knights. Kaspar could see how much courage it took her to face her abuser and felt his admiration for Sofia soar once more. Hearing her steps, Kajetan turned and Kaspar saw the swordsman shudder in... what? Fear, guilt, pity?

  Kajetan met the woman's eyes for as long as he could before dropping his head, unable to endure the cold heat of her accusing gaze any longer.

  'Sasha,' she said softly, 'look at me.'

  'I can't...' whispered Kajetan. 'Not after what I did to you.'

  'Look at me,' said Sofia again, this time with steel in her voice.

  Slowly Sasha's head rose until once again their eyes met. Tears streamed down Kajetan's cheeks and his eyes were violet pools of sorrow.

  'I'm sorry,' he choked.

  'I know you are,' nodded Sofia. And slapped him hard across the face.

  Kajetan didn't flinch, the red imprint of her hand bright and vivid against the ashen pallor of his face. He nodded and said, 'Thank you.'

  Sofia said nothing, wrapping her arms around herself once more as the knights led Kajetan to the cell beneath the embassy. Kaspar moved to stand behind Sofia as the Knights Panther attended to their mounts and the embassy guards closed the gates once more.

  'Why did you bring him here?' asked Sofia without turning.

  'I wasn't about to hand Sasha over to Pashenko before getting some assurances that he wouldn't hang him the minute my back was turned,' explained Kaspar.

  Sofia nodded and turned to face him once more. 'I am glad you are home safely, Kaspar, I really am, and I'm happy that you managed to bring Sasha back alive. It was just a shock to see him there like that.'

  'I understand, and I'm sorry. I should have sent word ahead.'

  'It brought it all back, the terrible things he did to me. I almost couldn't move, but...'

  'But?' asked Kasper when Sofia's words trailed off.

  'But when I saw what had become of him, I knew that I wasn't about to let what he'd done beat me. I'm stronger than that and I had to show him that, even if it was just for my own sake.'

  'You are stronger than you know, Sofia,' said Kaspar.

  Sofia smiled at the compliment and linked her arm with Kaspar's, turning him around and walking back to the embassy with him.

  'Come on, let's get you into a hot bath, you must be frozen to the marrow,' said Sofia playfully. 'I don't know, a man of your age gallivanting outside in the middle of winter like you're some kind of young buck.'

  'You're starting to sound like Pavel,' chuckled Kaspar, his grin fading as he saw Sofia's face darken at the mention of his old comrade in arms.

  'What's the matter?'

  Sofia shook her head as they entered the embassy and shut the door behind them. Kaspar immediately felt the warmth of the building envelop him as one of the embassy guards helped him off with his frosted cloak and muddy boots.

  'It is not my place to say,' said Sofia archly.

  'But I can see you're going to anyway.'

  'Your friend is nekulturny,' she said. 'He spends all his time drinking cheap kvas, and falling into the blackest of moods. He hasn't been sober since you left to go after Sasha.'

  'He's that bad?'

  'I don't know what he was like before, but he seems intent on drinking himself into the Temple of Morr as soon as he can.'

  'Damn it,' swore Kaspar. 'I knew something was wrong before I left.'

  'I don't know what's the matter,' confessed Sofia, 'but w
hatever it is, he needs to sort it out soon. I don't want to have to stitch a shroud for him.'

  'Don't worry,' growled Kaspar. 'I'll get to the bottom of it, that's for damn sure.'

  V

  Vassily Chekatilo threw a handful of thin branches onto the crackling fireplace and took a drink of kvas from a half-drained bottle, enjoying the comfortable warmth filling his chambers at the rear of the brothel. His establishment was busy tonight - as it had been for the last few months since the refugees had begun streaming south - and several whores sprawled on chaise-longues in various states of undress and narcotic oblivion, waiting to be called back to the main chambers.

  Most of them had once been pretty. Chekatilo only employed pretty ones, but they were now shadows of their former selves, the rigours of their profession and the escape of weirdroot soon robbing them of whatever beauty they might have possessed. Once, he had thought that having such nubile creatures around his chamber gave it an air of exotica, but now they merely depressed him.

  Though sumptuously furnished with many fittings and furniture he had extorted from the previous ambassador from the Empire, Andreas Teugenheim, his chambers were nevertheless assembled with the taste of a peasant. His criminal enterprises had garnered him great wealth and many fine things, but there was no escaping his humble origins.

  'A piece of shit in a palace is still a piece of shit.' he said with a smile, watching a pair of black-furred rats gnaw on something unidentifiable in the corner of the room.

  'Something funny?' asked Rejak, his flint-eyed assassin and bodyguard, who had entered the room without knocking.

  'No,' said Chekatilo, masking his annoyance by turning and drinking some more kvas. He offered the bottle to Rejak, but the assassin shook his head, circling the room and unashamedly ogling the naked women sprawled around the room. As he reached the chamber's corner, his sword flashed from its scabbard and stabbed downwards. A pair of squeals told Chekatilo that the two feasting rats were dead. Trust Rejak to find something to kill.