1 the ambassador

by Graham McNeill

  'He truly is a magnificent warrior,' said Kaspar.

  'Sasha? Yes, he is rather formidable, isn't he? Sweet too, in his own way.'

  'Sweet?' said Kaspar, raising an eyebrow. 'Not a word I'd associate with him.'

  'Oh, yes...' said Anastasia. 'I heard about that unfortunate altercation outside my home, but you really mustn't trouble yourself over that. While he does have a hopeless infatuation with me, he wouldn't dare hurt you.'

  'No? What makes you so sure?' asked Kaspar.

  'Because he knows it would displease me, and unfortunately, everything Sasha does he does to please me.'

  'I wouldn't be too sure, Ana. When I looked into his eyes, all I saw was the desire to hurt me... or perhaps be hurt. Trust me, it is more than infatuation he harbours for you, Ana.'

  'Well, that's his own fault. I've told him on several occasions that I don't think of him in that way. Besides, there are others more deserving of my affections, I think.'

  Kaspar held the reins loosely in his left hand and felt Anastasia thread her arm through his and hold his wrist. He smiled to himself as he guided the wagon along the rutted roadway that led through the gates of Kislev, enjoying the comfortable silence as Anastasia slid closer to him on the buckboard.

  Seeing the white-clad form of Anastasia next to him, the crowds parted before the wagon - her well-known reputation as a friend to the poor ensuring their quick passage along the busy prospekt. There was still a tension on the streets, Kaspar saw, as well there might be. He had heard that the Butcherman had struck again, slaughtering an entire family as they slept within a sheltered alleyway not far from the docks.

  The wagon soon ate up the distance between the city gates and the embassy and barely a quarter of an hour had passed before Kaspar tugged on the reins and drove the wagon down the alleyway alongside Ulric's temple.

  As he passed the iron railings and circled the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, he reflected that the tradesmen he had employed had done a fine job in restoring the embassy. The graffiti had been washed away and skilled carpenters had fitted new windows and a sturdy new door.

  'Well, this certainly looks like an improvement,' noted Anastasia.

  'Aye,' agreed Kaspar, sourly. 'So it should be, it's cost me enough, and not a copper pfennig from Altdorf.'

  Even the fountain had been scrubbed, the hidden lustre of the bronze shining through in the cherubic angel's face as clear water gurgled from its cup. He stepped down from the buckboard and swiftly made his way around to the other side, offering his hand to Anastasia.

  She slid over to the side and reached down, ignoring his proffered hand and reaching out to steady herself on his shoulders. She nimbly hopped down to the cobbles and smiled up at him.

  'Shall we?' she said, entwining her arm in his once more.

  Seeing the ambassador approach, a pair of guards marched from the embassy towards the gates.

  Kaspar noticed a bundle of red cloth sitting before the gates, obscured from the inside by a decorative motif plate at the gate's base. As the guards reached the gate, he knelt beside the bundle and prodded it with his gloved hand.

  A terrible smell wafted from the bundle as he began unwrapping it.

  As the cloth unwrapped like a long scarf, he recognised it as a crimson sash normally worn by Kislevite boyarins. The stench worsened the more he unwrapped the bundle, but he could not stop now.

  A perverse fascination compelled him to complete the task.

  At last the contents of the sash lay revealed on the cobbles.

  He heard Anastasia scream.

  And looked down at a collection of four human hearts.

  II

  THE LUBJANKO HOSPITAL had been constructed over two hundred years ago against the eastern wall of the city by Tzar Alexis after the Great War against Chaos. Too many men had died needlessly of their wounds following the battles and Alexis had been determined that Kislev would boast the finest facility for the treatment of injuries in all the Old World.

  Upon its completion, the priestesses of Shallya had blessed its walls and, for a time, the Lubjanko had indeed served to house those wounded and traumatised by the horrors of war. But before long it had become a dumping ground for the sick, the deranged and the crippled. Entire floors were dedicated to the process of dying, where those too badly injured to live, whether struck down by axe or age, were left to rot away the last miserable hours of their lives.

  Rightly it is said that misery loves company and the Lubjanko became a magnet for all manner of the dispossessed. Orphans, homeless, the diseased and the mad came to rest within its walls, and its black stone facade and high, spike- topped walls served as a grim reminder of the fate of those who had fallen between the cracks. Mothers would quiet unruly children by promising to cast them within its brooding, nightmare walls and injured soldiers would pray to the gods to be spared the Lubjanko.

  Nightly would the wails of the damned echo from its narrow, barred windows and death stalked its halls like a predator, claiming its nightly toll that would then be taken to the pyres.

  Two men made their way along a cold stone corridor, its length dimly illuminated by a dripping torch carried by a limping man whose bulk almost filled the width of the passage. He coughed and spat a phlegmy wad onto the floor, the sound swallowed by the weeping and howling that echoed from the cells to either side of them.

  Following behind at a careful distance, Pjotr Losov walked gingerly along the centre of the passageway, his hooded cloak dragging on the dirty flagstones. A trio of rats scurried past him and he chuckled to himself, watching as they sniffed around the first man's wad of spittle.

  Grimy, wasted hands reached from between the bars of the cell doors, piteous moans, curses and bodily fluids following close behind. The limping man smashed a bronze-tipped cudgel against those cell doors whose inhabitants thrashed and screamed the loudest.

  'Be silent, you filth!' he yelled.

  'They are loud tonight, Dimitrji,' observed Losov.

  'That they are,' snarled the other man, hammering his cudgel against the bars of another cell. 'It always gets like this as winter comes. I think they sense the darkness and what it hides.'

  'Unusually poetic for you, Dimitrji,' said Losov.

  Dimitrji shrugged. 'These are unusual times, my friend, but not to worry, I have a clutch of pretties that I think you'll like. Young. Unsullied.' He licked his lips as he spoke.

  Losov loathed this sad excuse for a human being. He had no love for many of his fellow species, but Dimitrji was a particularly loathsome example of all that was diseased about humanity. How he longed to draw his wheel-lock, crafted by the master gunsmith Chazate of the eastern kingdoms, and blow Dimitrji's brains out. These walls had seen many horrors in their time, what would one more matter?

  He had never told Dimitrji his true name; the gaoler-warden of the Lubjanko believed he was a filth-monger who preferred his sexual conquests to be younger and more easily dominated than those of the common man. The thought that Dimitrji believed this so readily made him sick to his stomach - that one as initiated as he could belong to such a perverted fraternity.

  But it was a convenient fiction to maintain, for the truth was far worse.

  He had to physically restrain himself from reaching for his pistol when Dimitrji reached a locked door at the end of the passageway and fished a jangling set of keys from beneath his voluminous robes. The lock clicked open and Dimitrji pushed open the door, standing aside to let Losov enter and handing him the torch as he passed.

  Unlike every other cell in the Lubjanko, this one was clean and did not stink of shit, death and desperation. Four small cot-beds lined the walls and on each one sat a young child, two boys and two girls. None were older than five or six years.

  They looked up nervously as Losov entered and tried to smile at him as they had been told to. They were frightened, but looked at him hopefully, perhaps seeing in him the chance of escape from this dank hellhole.

  Losov felt the
blood thunder in his veins as he looked at the children.

  Dimitrji had been right. They were all unsullied and were perfect.

  They had to be innocents. She would know if they were not.

  Only the blood of innocents would be good enough.

  III

  KASPAR HAD BELIEVED his mood could not have worsened after having found the macabre offering left outside the embassy gates.

  He could not have been more wrong; this was just the beginning of one of the worst nights of his life. After calming Anastasia down, they had made their way within the embassy to find Pavel awaiting them in the downstairs hallway.

  The big Kislevite looked pensive as he said, 'Riders from Altdorf upstairs with letters for you. Important ones, I think.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'Heavily armed. Tough men. Ridden hard to get here.'

  'I see,' said Kaspar, gingerly passing the gory bundle to Pavel. 'Here, hold this.'

  Pavel nodded and peeled back a layer of cloth. 'Ursun's teeth, these are hearts!'

  'I know,' said Kaspar, disgustedly as he ascended the newly-carpeted stairs.

  Awaiting him within his study were the four riders from Altdorf, their ragged clothes and pinched faces confirming that they had indeed ridden hard for many weeks to get to Kislev. Two knights stood with them and snapped to attention as Kaspar entered.

  'Gentlemen.' began Kaspar, moving to stand behind his desk. 'I can see that you have had an arduous journey to get here. Might I offer you some refreshments?'

  'No, thank you, herr ambassador.' said a burly man with a face like a mountainside who held out a folded piece of parchment sealed with green wax. 'My name is Pallanz and I bring you letters that come with the greatest urgency. I would see them delivered to you before taking my leave.'

  'As you wish, Herr Pallanz.' said Kaspar, accepting the letter. He saw that the wax seal was emblazoned with the crest of the Second House of Wilhelm and his unease grew. He broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment, taking his time in examining the letter's contents. The script was controlled and angular, and even before he saw the simple signature at the bottom of the letter he knew the handwriting belonged to no less a personage that the Emperor Karl-Franz himself.

  Kaspar read the letter twice before letting it slip from his fingers. He slumped into his chair and let the words flow over him, not wanting to believe that they could be true and what it might, nay, would mean for his position here in Kislev.

  He barely heard the riders ask for permission to retire and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the door as the request was repeated.

  As the riders left his study, Pavel entered, drying his hands on a linen towel.

  Pavel pointed at the letter and said, 'Is bad?'

  'Is bad.' nodded Kaspar.

  IV

  'DRINK THE WHOLE lot.' said Sofia. 'It won't do you any good if you don't.'

  'Damn you, woman!' snapped Matthias Gerhard. 'It's vile! You are trying to poison me, I know it.'

  Sofia Valencik held the glass in front of the merchant and said, 'I assure you, Herr Gerhard, if I had wanted to poison you, then you would already be in no state to complain about it.'

  Lamplight glittered through the murky concoction Sofia had mixed together from a multitude of ingredients taken from her canvas satchel. An unhealthy looking remedy, the drink was a leafy liquid that smelled of soured milk. Gerhard sneezed violently and grimaced, but accepted the glass and drained it in a single swallow. He retched and spluttered as he swallowed the herbal medicine, setting the glass down amidst a pile of papers before folding his arms petulantly across his chest.

  'It is galling that a man of my standing should be treated in such a manner.' he said.

  'You should think yourself lucky, Herr Gerhard.' replied Sofia. 'Many a man would have you thrown in the Chekist's deepest gaol for your crimes. Be thankful that Ambassador von Velten still has need of you and has allowed you to remain in your own home.'

  'Kept in my study all day under constant guard by armed knights and that old viper!' said the merchant pointing at Stefan, who sat at Gerhard's fabulous oaken desk behind a wall of leather-bound accounts ledgers. Pince-nez glasses were perched on the end of his nose and a goose-feathered quill darted across a long parchment.

  'If you ask me, Sofia.' said Stefan, without once looking up from the piles of Gerhard's ledgers, 'you should just let him die of fever. He's certainly earned it.'

  'Be quiet, you old fool.' said Sofia, stuffing several jars of herbs and poultices into her satchel. 'The ambassador asked me to make sure this one doesn't die, and I do not intend to let him down.'

  'I bet you don't.' said Stefan, the quill twitching across the parchment.

  'And what exactly is that supposed to mean?' demanded Sofia, rounding on Stefan.

  'Nothing.' said Stefan airily, 'nothing at all.' 'Good, and I'll thank you to keep any such insinuations to yourself in future.'

  'I'm just saying that-'

  'Well don't,' she said, as the sound of hammering on the front door came from below.

  She turned to Gerhard and asked, 'Are you expecting guests?'

  V

  DARKNESS HAD FALLEN by the time Kaspar and Pavel had changed into clothes more fitting for the palace. Rather than riding, as he normally would have, Kaspar consented to be carried in his carriage to the Winter Palace. Four embassy guards, led by Leopold Dietz, clung to the carriage's running boards and six knights cantered alongside.

  The carriage struggled along the crowded streets of the city, pushing its way slowly along the prospekts of Kislev and forcing a path towards the palace hill.

  Kaspar sat hunched within, attempting to formulate exactly what he would say to the Tzarina. Assuming that she consented to see him that was, though somehow, he didn't think that would be an issue this time. He had a sick feeling that the brick walls he had met thus far in his attempts to secure an audience with the Tzarina were about to be smashed down from the other side.

  'Maybe it not be so bad,' offered Pavel from the seat across from Kaspar. 'Tzarina not stupid, she know Alexander a waste of space and she not like him anyway.'

  'There's a difference between not liking your cousin and not caring when he's killed in a foreign city,' pointed out Kaspar.

  'Maybe, but it more or less accident.'

  'Can you imagine Karl-Franz turning the other cheek if one of his family was murdered "by accident" in Kislev?'

  'I suppose not,' said Pavel, folding his arms and looking out the carriage's window. 'Is very bad.'

  'Yes,' agreed Kaspar. 'It is.'

  Pavel's assessment of the situation could not have been more apt, reflected Kaspar bitterly. The letter from the Emperor had spoken of an 'unfortunate and most regrettable incident' that had occurred in one of the less salubrious areas of Altdorf some weeks ago.

  Unfortunate and most regrettable did not even begin to cover it.

  On a foggy night in Brauzeit, a carriage carrying the Tzarina's cousin, Alexander, had been travelling along the Luitpoldstrasse towards the Street of a Hundred Taverns when armed bailiffs acting for one of Altdorfs largest counting houses stopped it outside the notorious Crescent Moon tavern.

  An inveterate gambler and infamous libertine, Alexander owed considerable sums to these establishments and their agents were in no mood to listen to his pleas for clemency, hurling him into the nearest debtor's prison.

  Upon the morn, when those in power awoke to the previous night's events, there was considerable embarrassment at such a breach of protocol. However, embarrassment was to turn to horror when Alexander's gaolers opened his cell door and found him violated and murdered by his fellow prisoners.

  Kaspar could barely imagine the Ice Queen's fury at such ignominy done to her family and the thought of appearing before her in such a frame of mind dumped hot fear into his gut. He would rather confront an army of rampaging greenskins than face the powerful wrath of the enraged sorcereress.

  He rested his
elbow on the lip of the carriage window and propped his chin on his palm, staring out into the darkness as it emerged into Geroyev Square. Thousands of those people who had been fortunate enough to gain entry to the city before the gates had been shut were camped here, their cookfires burning throughout its length and breadth, and a ragged city of canvas filling the once-spacious square.

  'Sigmar's hammer,' cursed Kaspar softly. 'It will be the devil's own task feeding this many when the armies of the north come.'

  'Aye,' nodded Pavel. 'How long, you think?'

  'As soon as the first snows break,' said Kaspar. 'Late Nachexen, early Jahrdrung at the latest I should imagine.' 'Not long.'

  'No.'

  The first inkling of trouble came when one of the Knights Panther ordered a knot of people to make way before the ambassador of the Empire. Shouts of abuse and anger were hurled at the coach and Pavel leaned over to look out of the carriage's window.

  'Must go faster...' said Pavel.

  'What?' asked Kaspar, shaken from his misery-filled reverie.

  'Must go faster.' repeated Pavel, pointing through the window.

  Kaspar looked outside and saw hundreds of angry faces surrounding the coach, pressing in around the knights and hurling abuse at them. None dared approach them too closely, but Kaspar could see the mood was ugly.

  'What are they doing?' said Kaspar, 'And what are they shouting?'

  'They know about Alexander.' said Pavel in alarm. 'Not happy about it.'

  The yells of the crowd grew louder and the motion of the carriage slowed yet further as more and more angry people pressed in around them. Kaspar now questioned the wisdom of travelling through the city in a carriage liveried with his own personal heraldry and that of the Empire. His knights yelled at the Kislevites to stand back, and even though their words were not understood, their meaning was plain from the way they jabbed their lance butts into the faces of those who got too close to the carriage.