'No? Then go back to bed and let me get you something to eat. You need sleep, some food and a wash.'
Pavel shook his head. 'I can't sleep and I don't think I could eat anything anyway.'
'You have to, Pavel,' said Sofia. 'Let me help you, because you'll die if you carry on like this. Is that what you want?'
'Pah! You are exaggerating. I am a son of Kislev, I live for kvas.'
'No,' said Sofia, sadly, 'you will die for kvas. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.'
'I don't doubt it,' said Pavel, rising from the bed and pushing past Sofia, 'but before you try and save someone, make sure that they want to be saved.'
IV
A fog had descended upon Kislev by the time Kaspar returned to the embassy, wrapping the city in a muffling blanket of icy mist. The cold was worse than Kaspar could ever remember, even in the far north when they had pursued Kajetan into the wilderness.
The Knights Panther had prepared Kajetan for his journey to the Chekist gaol, wrapping him in furs and a hooded cloak to obscure his features. It had now become common knowledge around the city that the Butcherman murders had been committed by Sasha Kajetan, and Kaspar was taking no chances that a lynch mob would take the law into their own hands to administer vigilante justice on the swordsman.
The fog would help also, and as he tightened the saddle on Magnus, he watched Valdhaas help Kajetan onto the back of a horse, since, with his wrists and ankles bound, the swordsman was forced to ride sidesaddle. Kajetan looked up, as though sensing Kaspar's gaze and gave him a vacant look, utterly devoid of human emotion that chilled Kaspar worse than the cloying scraps of fog.
Kaspar shuddered, sensing the hollow emptiness of Kajetan's soul. The man was a void now, drained of emotion and humanity. The swordsman had been unresponsive and lethargic when they had taken him from his cell, and Kaspar feared that he would learn little of whatever twisted fantasies had driven him to murder so many people.
'We're ready to go, ambassador,' said Kurt Bremen, startling Kaspar from his reverie.
'Good,' nodded Kaspar. 'The sooner he's gone from here the happier I'll be.'
'Aye,' agreed Bremen. 'I have lost good men thanks to him.'
'Very well then, let's get this over with, I'm sure Vladimir Pashenko is eager to get his hands on the Butcherman.'
'Do you think he will keep his word and not hang Kajetan the first chance he gets?'
'I don't know.' admitted Kaspar. 'I do not like Pashenko, but I believe he is a man of his word.'
Bremen gave him a sceptical look, but nodded and turned to accept the reins of his horse from his squire. 'What is it you hope to gain by keeping Kajetan alive anyway?'
Kaspar planted a foot in his stirrup cup and hauled himself onto the back of his horse, adjusting his cloak over the animal's rump and tightening his pistol belt.
'I want to know why he killed all those people, and what could make a man do such vile, unthinkable things. Something made him the way he is and I want to know what.'
'I remember asking you on the oblast if you were sure you really wanted to know the answer to that. The question still stands.'
Kaspar nodded, guiding his horse to the embassy gates.
'More than ever, Kurt. I don't know why, but I feel that much depends on knowing those answers.'
Bremen raised his mailed fist and the knights set off, with Kajetan riding in their midst, a ring of steel preventing the swordsman's escape or his murder by a vengeful mob.
Kaspar and Bremen led the way, walking their horses along the street that led to Geroyev Square, the fog so thick that they could barely see the walls to either side of them.
The solemn procession emerged into the square, the fog deadening sounds and forcing them to keep to the edges of the square for fear of losing their bearings. The jingle of the horses' harnesses and their muffled steps through the snow the only sounds that disturbed the eerie silence that had descended upon the city.
They passed shadowy outlines of small encampments of refugees and saw the occasional glow of cooking fires, but even with these touchstones, the silence and sense of isolation were unnerving, especially in a city so thronged with people. People moved like ghosts in the fog, drifting in and out of sight as they moved from the horsemen's path.
Eventually Kaspar and Bremen reached the Urskoy Prospekt, the great triumphal road that led to the Tzarina's Winter Palace and housed the Chekist building. Named for the great reliquary at its end that housed the remains of Kislev's greatest heroes, the wide boulevard was also strangely quiet as they rode along its length, though, looking up, Kaspar could see the weak rays of the sun finally beginning to penetrate the fog.
Ahead, Kaspar could see the grim outer walls of the Chekist building emerge from the mist, a pair of armed men in black armour standing before the imposing black gates. He twisted in the saddle, pulling on the reins and drawing level with Sasha Kajetan. The swordsman glanced up as Kaspar rode alongside him, but said nothing, returning his gaze to the snow.
'Sasha?' said Kaspar.
The swordsman did not reply, lost in whatever thoughts were echoing within his tormented soul.
'Sasha,' repeated Kaspar. 'Do you know where we're going? I am taking you to Vladimir Pashenko of the Chekist. Do you understand?'
Kaspar thought he was going to have to repeat himself again, but almost imperceptibly, Kajetan nodded.
'They will hang me...' whispered the swordsman.
'Eventually, yes, they will,' said Kaspar.
'I am not ready to die. Not yet.'
'It is too late for that, Sasha. You killed a great many people and justice must be done.'
'No,' said Kajetan, 'that's not what I mean. I know I deserve to die for things I have done. I meant that there are things I have yet to do.'
'What do you mean? What kind of things?'
'I know not yet,' admitted Kajetan, raising his head and fixing Kaspar with his dead-eyed stare. 'But know that it involves you.'
Kaspar felt a thrill of fear slick across his skin. Was the swordsman threatening him with violence? Unconsciously, his hand slipped towards his pistol, his thumb hovering over the flint, as he realised just how far away the Knights Panther were from him. It was a few feet at best, but it might as well have been a mile, for Kaspar knew how quick and deadly Kajetan could be. Had Kajetan simply feigned docility so that he might now escape and continue his grisly work?
But it seemed that Kajetan did not have violence in mind, his head drooped again and Kaspar let out a long breath, his eyes narrowing and his brow knitting in puzzlement as he saw something peculiar.
A flickering glow of green light wavered on Kajetan's stomach. Kaspar watched as it slowly eased up his body until it settled in the centre of his chest.
Mystified, Kaspar could see a pencil-thin line of green light, a light that would surely have been invisible but for the fog, tracing an arrow-straight course from Kajetan's chest upwards into the mist.
He waved his hand through the light, feeling a tingling warmth through his thick gloves as he broke its beam. He tried to follow the line of the green light. He soon lost it in the fog. As a breath of wind parted the murk for an instant, he saw a dark, hooded shape atop one of the redbrick buildings of the prospekt silhouetted against the low sun, holding what looked like one of the long rifles made famous by the sharpshooters of Hochland.
Kaspar's heart raced and he reached for one of his flintlocks as he realised what he was seeing.
'Knights Panther!' he yelled, reaching out and dragging Kajetan from his saddle as he heard a sharp crack from above. Instinctively, Kajetan twisted free of Kaspar's grip and the two men tumbled to the snow as something slashed past Kaspar's head and exploded against the wall behind them, blasting bricks and mortar to powder.
Kaspar rolled, the wound in his shoulder flaring as the stitches tore open. He flailed against Kajetan as the swordsman sprang to his feet.
'Kurt! On the roof! Across the street!' shouted Kaspar as the Knight
s Panther hurriedly wheeled their horses and closed on the struggling pair. Another bang echoed along the prospekt and Kaspar watched horrified as the closest knight was spun from his feet, his shoulder blown out in a shower of red. The knight fell screaming and, behind him, Kaspar could see a smudge of greenish smoke from where the shots had been fired.
He clambered to his feet and took hold of Kajetan as the knights formed a protective cordon of armoured warriors around them. Valdhaas lifted the downed knight to his feet as Kaspar drew his pistol and hurriedly aimed at the rooftop across the prospekt. The chances of hitting anything were negligible, but he fired anyway, the pistol bucking in his hand and further obscuring his view.
'Ambassador! shouted Kurt Bremen. 'Are you hurt?'
'No, I'm fine, but we need to get off the street! Now!'
Bremen nodded, shouting orders to his knights and the group made its halting, stumbling way towards the Chekist building. Kaspar half carried, half dragged Kajetan onwards, the bindings on his ankles limiting the speed at which he could move considerably.
'Pashenko! Vladimir Pashenko!' bellowed Kaspar. 'Open the gates! This is Ambassador von Velten! For the love of Sigmar, open the gates!'
The black armoured soldiers Kaspar had seen standing before the gates emerged from the mist, cudgels at the ready, and, as they saw the desperate group of Imperial knights hurrying towards them, turned to open the gates behind them.
Kaspar knew a disciplined handgunner could load and fire between three and four aimed shots a minute, but a long rifle took somewhat longer, with its finer powder and more exacting preparations. Exactly how much longer, he didn't know and as each second passed, he kept waiting for another shot to pitch one of their number to the snow.
But no shots came and they gratefully hurried through the thick gates of the Chekist building, emerging into a wide, cobbled courtyard before the fortress-like headquarters of Kislev's feared enforcers. Two Chekist hurriedly shut the heavy gate behind them as Kaspar pushed Kajetan to the ground. He took out his other pistol and pointed it at the swordsman, lest he use the confusion of the attack to make his escape. But the prisoner merely knelt in the snow with his head bowed.
Valdhaas lowered the screaming knight to the ground, hurriedly unbuckling his breastplate and shoulder guards to get to the wound. Blood steamed in the cold air as it sheeted down the man's armour. Chekist were running from the building's main door and Kaspar could see Vladimir Pashenko amongst them.
'Is anyone else hurt?' shouted Bremen.
No one else was, and Kaspar felt himself relax a fraction when another crack echoed and a portion of the gateway was blown to splinters as something smashed through. A man screamed and Kaspar saw a Chekist in front of him drop, a bloody hole blasted through his chest. Knights and Chekist alike threw themselves to the ground, horrified that anything could have penetrated the thick timbers of the gateway.
'Everyone inside!' yelled Kaspar, rolling aside and finding himself face to face with Pashenko.
The head of the Chekist nodded and helped Kaspar drag Kajetan towards the doors of the building. The knights and Chekist soldiers backed towards the entrance, anxiously scanning the tallest rooflines for the would-be assassin.
Pashenko kicked open the door and Kaspar fell through it, collapsing in a heap with his back to a corridor wall. Kajetan rolled onto his back, moving out of the way of the open door.
Kaspar did likewise as the last of the knights entered the safety of the building and Pashenko slammed the door shut. He threw heavy iron bolts across before sliding down the wall to rest on his haunches.
'Ursun's blood, what just happened here?' said Pashenko, his face a mask of fury.
'I don't know exactly,' said Kaspar. 'We were riding along the Urskoy Prospekt when someone started shooting at us.'
'Who?' asked Pashenko.
'I didn't see him clearly, just a dark shape, maybe with a hood, on the rooftop.'
'What in Ursun's name was he firing? It penetrated nearly a span of seasoned timber with enough power left to kill one of my men. Save a cannon, what manner of weapon could do such a thing?'
'No blackpowder weapon capable of being carried by a man, that's for sure,' said Kaspar. 'Even the contraptions designed by the College of Engineers in Altdorf are not that powerful.'
'Trouble has a habit of following you,' observed Pashenko.
'Aye, don't I know it,' agreed Kaspar, as two Chekist soldiers lifted Kajetan and led him towards the cells below.
'I would suggest you remain here for a while, ambassador.' said Pashenko, picking himself up and straightening his uniform. 'At least until my men ensure that whoever attacked you is not still lurking and waiting for you to emerge.'
Kaspar rose to his feet and nodded, though as he watched Kajetan's disappearing back, he had the strong impression that whatever the purpose of this attack had been, he had not been the intended target.
V
Nights in the brothel were always busy, filled with men afraid to die affirming that they were alive in the most primal way possible. Chekatilo did not usually trouble himself to visit the main floor, but for reasons he could not fathom, he had decided to drink and smoke amongst the common herd tonight. Most people here had come from the north and would not even know his name, let alone be fearful of him, though the imposing figure of Rejak, standing behind his chair, left no one in any doubt that he was a man not to trifle with.
Chekatilo watched the crowd, seeing the same sick desperation in every face. He saw a young boy, probably barely old enough to need a razor, enthusiastically coupling with a woman draped in red silks and furs. He was watched by a similarly-featured man, old enough to be his father. Chekatilo guessed that this was a fathers last gift to his son: that if he were to die, it would be as a man and not a boy.
Such pathetic scenes were played out throughout the brothel: old men, perhaps desiring one last memory to take to the next life, young men for whom their existence was one long indulgence and those who had already resigned themselves to the fact that life had nothing more to offer them.
'This places reeks of defeat.' muttered Chekatilo to himself. 'The sooner the Kurgan burn it to the ground the better.'
Watching the parade of human misery before him made him all the more sure that he was making the right decision to leave Kislev. He had no great love for his country, and its dour, provincial nature was suffocating for a man of his ambition. Marienburg, with its bustling docks and cosmopolitan nature, was the place for him. He had made a great deal of money in Kislev, but no matter how much he possessed, he would never escape his birth. Respect and esteem were for those of high birth, not for a filthy peasant who had managed to haul himself out of the gutters and fields.
In Marienburg, he would never have to worry about freezing winters and raiding northmen. In Marienburg, he could live like a king, respected and feared.
The thought made him smile, though as Rejak had pointed out, it was a long way to Marienburg - through Talabheim, on to Altdorf and finally westwards to the coast. He would need help to get there safely, but knew exactly how to get it.
The door to the brothel opened and Rejak said, 'Well, well, look who's back again.'
Chekatilo looked up and smiled as he saw Pavel Korovic enter, shivering and stamping his heavy boots free of snow.
'Pavel Korovic, as I live and breathe,' laughed Chekatilo. 'I would have thought he'd had enough of this place to last a lifetime.'
'Korovic?' said Rejak. 'No, ever since he came begging for you to help the ambassador, he's been coming here, swilling bottle after bottle of kvas till dawn before somehow managing to stumble out the door.'
Chekatilo saw Korovic notice him, and blew a smoke ring as the big man nodded curtly before making his way to the bar and tossing a handful of coins to its surface. Korovic snatched the bottle of kvas the barman brought and retreated to an unoccupied table to drown his sorrows. Chekatilo toyed with the idea of going over and speaking to him, but dismissed the thought. What d
id he have to say to him? Korovic knew his place and Chekatilo had no wish to bandy words with a drunkard.
He caught a flash of swift movement in the corner of the hall and jumped as something bristly rubbed against his leg. Startled, he looked down and saw a sleek, black-furred shape dart beneath his chair.
'Dazh's oath!' he swore disgustedly as another rat, this one the size of a small dog, joined the first. 'Rejak!'
Even as he shouted the name he saw more rats, dozens, scores, hundreds of them, boiling out from unseen lairs to invade his brothel. The screams started seconds later as the tide of vermin attacked, a swarming, squealing mass of furry bodies, pointed snouts and razor-sharp incisors that bit and clawed at exposed flesh.
Chekatilo surged from his chair, toppling it as Rejak stamped down on a rat and broke its spine. He stumbled backwards, horrified as he saw the young boy dragged down by the sheer weight of rats, his face a mask of blood as they ripped off long strips of his flesh. Men and women crawled across the blood-slick floor, unable to believe that this was happening to them as frenziedly biting rats clung to their bodies.
A naked man struggled with a pair of rats while yet more bit and clawed his lower body to the bone. He smashed one rat's skull to splinters against the wall, but another leaped from the stairs and fastened its teeth around his neck, biting out his throat with its powerful jaws. Bright arterial spray spattered the walls as the man collapsed and the scent of so much blood drove the swarming rats into an even greater frenzy.
'Come on!' yelled Rejak, pushing Chekatilo towards the door that led to the chambers at the back of the brothel. Screams and sobs of pain filled the air, mixed with the sounds of breaking glass, smashing furniture and squealing rats. Hundreds of darting black shapes sped through the rooms and corridors of the brothel, as if directed by a malign intelligence, snapping and squealing in a frenzied mass as they attacked with teeth that cut like knives.
A frantic woman, flailing at a rat caught in her hair and biting her neck and shoulders, knocked a lamp from its mounting on the wall. It fell and smashed on her head, spraying blazing oil across her and the floor. She screamed as the flames hungrily seized her clothing, blundering blindly through the brothel and igniting furnishings, spilled alcohol and other patrons as she went. Fire roared through the place with horrifying speed in her wake.
The Ambassador Chronicles Page 4