The Ambassador

by Graham McNeill

  'Ambassador, I don't think that is a very good idea,' warned Bremen.

  But it was already too late.

  Kaspar strode to the gate. He raised his pistol above his head and, before Bremen or anyone else could stop him, fired the pistol into the air.

  The crowd screamed as the pistol boomed and a cloud of powder smoke drifted from the muzzle.

  'Pavel!' shouted Kaspar. 'Translate for me.'

  'Ursun save us,' muttered Pavel, but stood beside the ambassador.

  'Tell them that I am deeply sorry for Madam Kovovich's loss, but that I had nothing to do with her husband's death.'

  Pavel shouted into the crowd, but they were in no mood for conciliation and drowned his words with cries for vengeance. The remaining Knights Panther raced from the embassy, their swords drawn and closely followed by fearful looking embassy guards with halberds held loosely before them.

  Kaspar holstered his spent pistol and drew the second, but before he could fire it, Kurt Bremen grabbed his arm and said, 'Please, Ambassador von Velten, don't. It will only inflame this situation more.'

  Kaspar said, 'I'll not be browbeaten by a mob, Kurt.'

  'I know, but do you really want to aggravate these people further? It will not take much more for this situation to turn murderous.'

  Cold clarity settled on Kaspar as he realised the gravity of the situation. He was reacting as a man and not a leader. A hundred or more angry people were yelling for his blood, only kept at bay by a fence in serious need of repair.

  Bremen was right, it was time to defuse this situation rather than inflame it.

  He nodded. 'Very well, Kurt, let's see what we can do to calm these people down.'

  Bremen sighed in relief, turning sharply as more pistols boomed and screams echoed from walls. A score of horsemen dressed in black with lacquered leather breastplates and long, bronze-tipped cudgels rode into the street. They fired flintlocks over the heads of the crowd and rode into its midst, their cudgels cracking skulls and breaking bones wherever they struck.

  'What the hell?' said Kaspar before Pavel bundled him back towards the embassy. 'Who are they?'

  Pavel did not stop, but said,'Chekist! Like city watch, but much, much worse.'

  Screams and cries rang out as the horsemen circled within the courtyard, bludgeoning those closest to them and dispersing the crowd without mercy. Within seconds, the mob had fled, leaving dozens of its members to bleed on the cobbles before the embassy. Stunned, Kaspar and the Knights Panther watched the horsemen circle the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, making sure that there was no further resistance.

  Several horsemen rode off in the direction the bulk of the mob had fled while the others reined in before the embassy gates. The leader, a man wearing a fully enclosed helm of dark iron with a feathered crest, dismounted and approached the gates.

  The Knights Panther glanced round at Kaspar and Bremen.

  Kaspar nodded and the knights unbarred the gate, allowing the leader of the Chekist to enter. He marched towards the building and slung his cudgel from his belt before removing his helmet.

  He wore his hair long, pulled back in a long scalp lock, and his moustache was clipped short on his upper lip. His eyes were coal-dark and expressionless, his bearing that of a warrior.

  'Ambassador von Velten?' he asked in fluent Reikspiel, utterly devoid of accent.

  'Yes.'

  'My name is Pashenko. Vladimir Pashenko of the Chekist, and I am afraid I must ask you some questions.'

  V

  Stunned silence greeted Pashenko's question.

  'Did you not understand the question, ambassador?'

  'I understood it well enough, Herr Pashenko, I'm just not sure how you can expect me to take it seriously.'

  'Because murder is a serious business, ambassador.'

  'I couldn't agree more, but I find it hard to believe that you could think I had anything to do with Boyarin Kovovich's death.'

  'Why?' asked Pashenko.

  'Because I only met him once for less than a minute.'

  'How well did you know the boyarin?' asked Pashenko.

  'I just told you.' said Kaspar.

  'Had you heard of him before you assaulted him at the Winter Palace?'

  'I didn't assault him, he-'

  'That's not the information I have, ambassador. I have witnesses who inform me that you grabbed the boyarin and threatened him before the Tzarina's advisor separated you.'

  'He insulted me.' snapped Kaspar.

  'And that infuriated you.'

  'No. Well, it made me angry, yes, but not enough to kill him.'

  'So you admit you were angry?'

  'I never said I wasn't. He told me that he hoped my nation burned in hell.'

  'I see.' said Pashenko, writing in his notebook. 'And when did you leave the Winter Palace?'

  'I'm not sure of the exact time, not long after we heard that Wolfenburg had fallen.'

  'I also have witnesses who tell me that Boyarin Kovovich left around the same time, giving you ample opportunity to follow him and butcher him.'

  'Butcher him? What are you talking about?'

  'The boyarin's corpse was found the morning after the reception at the palace, though it took some days to identify him due to the fact that his head was missing and much of his clothing and flesh had been burned, as if by some form of acid.'

  'Is that supposed to shock me?'

  'Does it?' 'Yes, but no more than you thinking that I did it. Sigmar's hammer, don't you already have a killer in Kislev who does this kind of thing? The Butcherman?'

  'We do indeed,' nodded Pashenko. 'Though it is not unknown for other wrongdoers to commit crimes in a similar manner to those of an existing criminal in an attempt to have them accrue the blame for their own violent actions. And let us not forget lunatics and the deranged who attempt to emulate someone they perceive as worthy of imitation.'

  Kaspar was speechless. Surely this idiot couldn't seriously believe that he had anything to do with the boyarin's death?

  But despite the ridiculousness of the accusation, Pashenko radiated an easy confidence that unsettled Kaspar.

  'When did you identify the boyarin's body?' asked Kurt Bremen.

  What has that to do with anything?' said Pashenko.

  'Perhaps nothing, but when?' pressed the knight.

  'Just this morning. His head was left outside our building on the Urskoy Prospekt.'

  'Yet not long after that, an angry mob forms and makes its way here? It seems the people of Kislev are truly great detectives to have spoken to all the witnesses you claim to have, deduce the ambassador's involvement and arrive here before you and your men.'

  'What are you suggesting?' said Pashenko.

  'Come on, Herr Pashenko,' said Kaspar. 'Don't play games with us. Someone gave you the information you have and told the grieving widow where to go, didn't they?'

  'You are mistaken,' replied Pashenko.

  'No, sir, it is you who is mistaken if you think I am some ignorant peasant you can browbeat with your pathetic attempt at intimidation,' said Kaspar, rising from his seat and indicating the door. 'Now if you will excuse me, I have urgent ambassadorial duties that require my attention. I'm sure you can see yourself out.'

  Pashenko rose from his seat and bowed curtly towards the ambassador.

  'Your attitude has been noted, herr ambassador. Good day to you.' said Pashenko.

  The Chekist turned on his heel and left the room without another word, and as the door shut behind him, a collective sigh of relief followed him.

  Kaspar rubbed a hand over his scalp and said, 'Can you believe that? If it wasn't so idiotic it would be funny.'

  'Nothing funny about Chekist,' said Pavel darkly.

  'Oh, come on, Pavel.' laughed Kaspar. 'He didn't have a shred of proof.'

  'You not understand, Chekist not need proof.' snapped Pavel standing and jabbing his finger at Kaspar. 'You not in Empire now, Kaspar. In Kislev, what Chekist say is law, is law. They d
isappear people. You understand? Throw people in gaol and they never seen again, never heard of again. Gone...'

  'Even an ambassador of a foreign power?' scoffed Kaspar.

  'Even you.' nodded Pavel.

  Kaspar saw the seriousness of Pavel's expression, finally understanding Pashenko's easy confidence and realising that perhaps the Chekist's threat wasn't as empty as he'd believed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  Sparks flew where the two heavy broadswords clashed, the ring of steel echoing across the courtyard. Kaspar rolled his wrists and stabbed with the point of his sword, but his opponent easily sidestepped the attack. A sword this heavy wasn't meant for thrusting, it was designed to smash through armour by virtue of its sharp edge and sheer weight. He stepped back as his blade was swept aside and a slashing riposte passed within inches of his chest.

  He was sweating profusely and his sword arm burned with fatigue. The wire-wound grip of the sword was slippery with moisture and he switched to a two-handed grip, the blade held straight out before him.

  'Had enough yet?' asked his opponent.

  'No, are you feeling tired?' he replied.

  Bader Valdhaas smiled, holding his own heavy blade as though it weighed nothing at all. Kaspar wasn't surprised, Valdhaas was a knight in his prime and thirty-three years Kaspar's junior. He'd watched in admiration as the Knights Panther trained every day with their heavy swords and lances, maintaining the strength and stamina required to wield such cumbersome weapons with ease.

  Kaspar couldn't remember blades being this heavy when he had been a soldier, but then he wasn't a young man any more and the strength and immortality of youth were a distant memory to him now. Valdhaas wore his plate armour, while Kaspar was armoured in an iron breastplate and pauldrons edged with twists of gold with a bronze eagle at its centre. To protect against any accidental injuries during this sparring session, he had also been furnished with a mail shirt normally worn beneath a full suit of armour.

  The edges of the swords were dulled, but Kaspar knew that any impact from such heavy weapons would still hurt like a bastard. Knights and guards had gathered to watch their new master from the cloisters and balconies overlooking the courtyard and Kaspar began to question the wisdom of his decision to begin sparring again. He had no wish to be carried off on a pallet in front of his staff if he could avoid it.

  'Go easy on him, Valdhaas!' called Pavel from an upper balcony. 'Ambassador is old man now, he don't see good!'

  'No, Pavel,' shouted Kaspar. 'It's me who should go easy on him, this old dog still knows a few tricks.'

  Valdhaas grinned and launched his attack, the blade sweeping low towards Kaspar's legs. Impulsively, the ambassador stepped to meet the blow, bringing his blade down to block, intending to spin inside Valdhaas's guard and deliver a scoring strike to the knight's side.

  But the expected impact never came and Kaspar had a horrified moment of seeing the knight's sword slashing towards his face instead. His rash counterattack had brought him much closer than Valdhaas had expected and the knight's sword was about to smash Kaspar's skull to splinters.

  As though handling a lightweight duelling sabre, Valdhaas pulled his stroke in time to avoid decapitating Kaspar, but could not prevent the blade from striking his shoulder. The impact tore the pauldron from his armour, spinning him round and sending him crashing to the stone flags of the courtyard. He heard a gasp from the spectators and felt a sticky wetness on his neck.

  'Ambassador!' shouted Valdhaas, dropping his sword and rushing to Kaspar's side.

  'I'm fine.' said Kaspar, groggily reaching up to touch his neck.

  He looked down and saw the torn padding and split links of his armour, blood leaking from a shallow cut just above his collarbone.

  'Ambassador, accept my apologies.' blurted the knight. 'I didn't think you would risk coming in so close to attack.'

  'I know, and don't worry. This was my fault, I need to remember I'm not the young man I was.'

  'I tried telling you that before you started, but you not listen to me.' laughed Pavel.

  'But he's a typical man, and had to nearly get his head caved in to learn that.' added a similarly accented female voice from the cloister below Pavel.

  Kaspar smiled and pushed himself to his feet as Valdhaas helped him off with his armour. He turned to face the speaker, a tall woman with auburn hair pulled in a severe bun and pinned behind her head. Her features were lined but handsome, and she wore a long green dress with a white apron and a linen pashmina decorated with colourful needlework along its length.

  'I know, Sofia, I know.' said Kaspar, pulling his shirt over his head to allow her to examine the cut. She pushed his head to one side and used the edge of his shirt to wipe away the blood.

  'You'll need stitches.' she declared. 'Sit over by the trough.'

  The knights and guards drifted away, the excitement over for now, and returned to their duties. Kaspar slapped his palm on the knight's armour and said, 'Well, done, lad, you have a fine sword arm on you there. Strong and, thankfully, fast.'

  'Thank you, ambassador.' bowed Valdhaas before withdrawing.

  Kaspar sat on a stone bench at the edge of the trough and rested his back against the hand pump as Sofia wetted his ruined shirt in the water and cleaned the cut of blood.

  'You're a damn fool. You know that, don't you?' she said.

  'Aye, it's been said before.'

  'And, I have no doubt, will be said again soon enough.' said Sofia.

  Kaspar had been introduced to Sofia Valencik when Stefan had employed her as the ambassador's personal physician. She had presented herself at the gates of the embassy three days ago with some impressive credentials and had begun her tenure by insisting that she be allowed to thoroughly examine Kaspar so that she might learn all about her new responsibility.

  Between cursing Stefan for the wretch he was and fending off her attempts to remove his clothing for a full examination, Kaspar had insisted he didn't need some Kislevite sawbones poking around his body. But Stefan and Sofia were insistent and eventually he had been forced to relent.

  Sofia Valencik could often be blunt, was frequently disrespectful of his position and often affected an aloof superiority, though Kaspar had discovered that she had an irreverent sense of humour. Her manner was honest and if you didn't like it, then you could go to hell.

  Kaspar liked her immensely and the two had hit it off almost immediately.

  'A man of your age playing with swords... I don't know.' she said shaking her head and pulling a length of twine and a curved needle from her apron.

  'I wasn't playing.' said Kaspar, cursing the fact that he sounded like a scolded schoolboy as Sofia threaded the needle and pressed the point to his skin. He gritted his teeth as she expertly worked the needle through his skin, pulling the stitches tight and snipping the end of the twine with a small pocket knife.

  'There.' she smiled, 'good as new.'

  'Thank you, Sofia, that was mostly painless.'

  'Just be thankful I remembered to pack my small needle today.' she said.

  II

  Kislev bustled with life, though having heard what Pavel had to say on the subject, he could see that many of the people on the streets and filling its parks were not natives of the city. They had the bemused, awed expressions common to peasants when they came to a large city. Even in the few short weeks he had been in Kislev, Kaspar could already see that there were more and more such people coming to the city every day.

  On those occasions when he journeyed beyond the city walls to watch the Knights Panther training his embassy soldiers, the roads were always busy with columns of people with carts and drays heading south. The only traffic coming north was occasional river boats from the Empire riding low in the dark waters of the Urskoy as they brought in much-needed supplies. The grain stores of the city were already under pressure and the situation was only going to get worse if the stream of refugees from the north continued.

  He had despatch
ed numerous letters to several Empire merchants trading in Kislev in an attempt to secure supplies for the scattered remnants of Imperial regiments trapped here, but had had no luck thus far in cajoling any aid from them.

  As each river boat hurriedly departed, Kaspar would ensure that each captain took sealed letters bound for Altdorf, each asking for news from home, requests for more supplies and information regarding the course of the war.

  Tensions were high and several violent skirmishes between hungry people fighting for food had already been broken up by the city watch and the Chekist. Kislev was filling up and that was not good for a city that would no doubt come under siege when the fighting season began in the spring. Kaspar knew that soon the Tzarina was going to have to bar the gates of her city and deny a great many of her people sanctuary. Kaspar had made that choice before and did not envy her the decision as to when to shut the gates. He could still remember the pleading faces outside the walls of Hauptburg when he had been forced to close the gates to save the mountain town from rampaging tribes of greenskins.

  Desperate faces watched him from the streets and tree-lined boulevards, each one looking for some sign of hope, but he had none to give them. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of a black armoured Chekist amongst the throng, and wondered if Pashenko was having him followed. It would not surprise him, but he could do little to prevent it as he and two of his Knights Panther rode slowly down the Urskoy Prospekt, making their way to Anastasia Vilkova's home.

  The woman intrigued Kaspar and though he had no wish to antagonise the jealous and fiery Sasha Kajetan any further, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Anastasia, her dark hair, emerald eyes and full lips. There was no doubt he was attracted to her and he believed that even though they had only briefly met, there had been a natural chemistry between them.

  Whether that was wishful thinking, he didn't know, but he had resolved to find out and thus he and his knights rode to the wealthier southern quarter of Kislev. In all probability it was a fool's errand, but Kaspar had long ago resolved never to let opportunities, no matter how fleeting, pass him by.