by Nathan Long
And was protecting the victims of such predators really just sentimental foolishness? Was her wish to be a good shepherdess to Praag just idealistic nonsense brought on by a few sad songs and a moment’s melancholy for the loss of her father? Perhaps, but didn’t it also serve a purpose? A Lahmian lived hidden within society, not outside it like other vampires. Therefore, maintaining the status quo was a matter of self-preservation. If society collapsed, what would all the Lahmians in their lovely little houses do then?
She groaned and rolled over in her brick bed. The Lahmians wouldn’t even listen to her. Boyarina Evgena seemed a calcified tyrant, so concerned with defending her dominance she couldn’t even allow Ulrika to exist. Why couldn’t she leave her alone? With her father gone and his lands lost to the hordes, Praag was the only remaining place in the world Ulrika had feelings for. She wanted to make it her home. She couldn’t let Evgena and her sisters drive her from it, any more than she could let the Slaaneshi cult destroy it.
The cult worried her. Though both Evgena and her mysterious rescuer had dismissed them as a toothless threat, Ulrika had felt their bite and was not so sure. Their organisation appeared far-reaching and well funded. They had manpower, money enough to hire gangsters to collect girls for them and powerful warlocks among their ranks, and if they succeeded, her city would be gone.
But how to track them down? They had swiftly and efficiently cut off and cauterised all leads. She was back to where she had begun.
She gnawed at the problem until her thoughts at last grew jumbled, and sleep drew her down into uneasy dreams, full of stealthy shadows and purple flames.
The next evening, as soon as the sun set, Ulrika, still unable to think of any other way forwards, returned to the cellar of the kvas distillery, looking for clues – and not having much luck. The bodies of the ceremony leader and his minions had been removed, as had any evidence of the sacrificial circle. The wagon that had brought the girls was gone too, and not a weapon nor a stitch of clothing had been left behind among the brass vats that lined the walls. Nor were there any books or notes or eldritch inscriptions to be found, just the smears and splashes and drying rivers of blood she had spilled in her frenzy the night before.
Still, there might yet be a trail. Her nose was as keen as a hunting cat’s, and she had used it before to track her prey. The trouble here was there were too many scents, all mixed up together. They would be easier to pick apart in the yard.
She turned towards the ramp, then stopped and lowered her hand to her rapier. Someone, or something, was coming down it. She heard a heavy dragging sound – the slithering of a great snake? Some daemon conjured by the hated warlock? She extended her senses, but heard no pulse, nor felt the warm flicker of a heart-fire. Did daemons have hearts?
She hid behind a pillar and drew her blades. A long shadow stretched down the moonlit cobbles, extending like a slug as the dragging sound continued. Ulrika tensed to spring.
The slim silhouette of a man appeared at the base of the ramp, a man with a sword, but no heartbeat, dragging a dead man by the collar.
‘You should be more cautious,’ the swordsman said, letting the body drop. ‘The Lahmians posted a swain to watch for your return.’
Ulrika grunted with anger and chagrin. It was her insulting rescuer. She stepped out from behind the pillar, but did not sheath her rapier and dagger. ‘If you find me so pitiful, why do you follow me?’
He knelt and wiped his blade on the cloak of the dead man. ‘I have reconsidered what you said about the cult,’ he said. ‘I fear they might be a threat to Praag after all, and I cannot allow that.’
‘The fate of the city concerns you?’ Ulrika curled her lip. ‘I thought you did not bother with the affairs of men.’
‘I care nothing for Praag,’ said the vampire. ‘But Mannslieb is next full in three nights. If these fools succeed in conquering the city by then – even if they fail, but still throw it into confusion – they may interfere with my vengeance.’
Ulrika raised an eyebrow. ‘What vengeance is this?’
The vampire stood and sheathed his blade, then regarded her again for a long moment with cool grey eyes. ‘As you despise your own kind so much, you may not understand this, but I have come to Praag to avenge the death of my blood father, Count Ottokar von Kohln, a great and noble prince of Sylvania who died at the hands of a false friend and betrayer.’
‘I understand the love of a child for a parent,’ said Ulrika stiffly. ‘I loved my father more than I did my life.’
‘You understand nothing,’ said the vampire dismissively. ‘Your true father was yours only by accident of birth. Mine chose me, and I chose him. He was more to me than any human father ever could have been. Indeed, he took me from my human father, and I thanked him for it.’ He turned away suddenly, hiding his face from her. ‘Now,’ he said, after a long moment. ‘He has been taken from me, and I will not rest until I kill his killer.’
Ulrika bristled at his arrogance, but his sudden emotion surprised and intrigued her. She had not expected it. ‘Who is this killer?’ she asked.
‘A vampire named Konstantin Kiraly,’ he said. ‘He was my father’s guest for centuries – his friend, we thought – until he revealed his true nature and killed him in his sleep.’
‘Kiraly?’ said Ulrika. ‘A Kislevite then?’
The vampire nodded. ‘Five hundred years ago Praag and its environs were his domain, but then the Queen of the Silver Mountain sent a beautiful Lahmian to wrest it from him – the woman you know as Boyarina Evgena. For years she pretended to be his faithful consort, but then, during the Great War against Chaos, when he went with an army of swains to defend his properties in the hinterlands, she saw her opportunity, and cut off his head in his camp tent, making it look as if the marauders had done it. Only, Kiraly did not die.’
The vampire leaned against a pillar and continued. ‘His head and body were taken away by some of his followers, and preserved in a coffin filled with blood. They took him to Sylvania and brought him to my father, who was wise in the ways of necromantic healing, and there he stayed for three hundred years, knitting slowly back together and regaining his strength as our guest, while his mind festered with thoughts of vengeance against the woman who had betrayed him. Now he has recovered, and comes north with the descendants of his followers to take that vengeance.’
‘And you,’ said Ulrika, ‘come north to take vengeance on him.’
The vampire nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Have you warned Boyarina Evgena of this Kiraly?’
The vampire laughed, sharp and cold. ‘She feared I was here to kill her. She cast me out before I could speak.’ He shook his head. ‘If I can kill Kiraly before he kills her, I will. If not…’ He shrugged. ‘She is no kin of mine.’
Ulrika nodded. It sounded precisely how the boyarina would react. ‘And this Kiraly is in Praag?’
‘If he was, I would be hunting him, not the cultists,’ said the vampire. ‘No. He travels from Sylvania with all his followers, and they move only as fast as their baggage train. It was too risky to try him on the road, surrounded by his retinue and with no shelter to retreat to if things went badly, so I raced ahead. Here I will be able to separate him from his swains and lose myself in the maze of streets if I am overwhelmed.’ He sighed. ‘But only if Praag still stands when he arrives. If it falls to Chaos beforehand, he will fear to enter. Even if the cultists fail, but leave all in confusion, he may wait, as he has already waited two hundred years. I cannot wait. I do not have his patience. My blood father must be avenged! Therefore, these fools’ plans must fail.’
‘So, what do you want of me, then?’ asked Ulrika.
‘Information,’ said the vampire. ‘Who are these cultists? Where is their lair? What is their plan?’
Ulrika snorted. ‘Would I be sniffing around down in this pit if I knew that? My last link to them burned to death in that warehouse. I know no more than you do.’
‘That… is unfortunate,’ he said. ‘I
had hoped to end this tonight.’ He looked at her levelly for a moment, his eyes unblinking, then sighed and turned towards the ramp. ‘I might have wished for a more seasoned hand, but time is of the essence, and it seems I must make do. Very well. You will assist me in finding the cult. Come. We will start immediately.’
Ulrika stared as he walked away from her, so shocked by his effrontery it took a moment for her rage to manifest. ‘I will assist you?’ she sputtered at last. ‘I’m damned if I will! I owe no fealty to you!’
The vampire turned on her, an eyebrow arched. ‘Do you not? What did you say to me last night, after we escaped the fire? Do you recall?’
Ulrika stopped, then faltered, remembering. ‘I… I said I owed you my life.’
‘Do you deny it now?’
‘I… No. I do not.’
The vampire nodded. ‘You have the rudiments of honour, at least. The rest may come in time. What is your name?’
‘Ulrika Magdova Straghov,’ said Ulrika, bowing automatically.
‘And your sire?’
‘Boyar Ivan Petrovich Straghov, warden of the Troll Country marches.’
The vampire sighed. ‘Your blood sire.’
Ulrika hesitated, then shrugged. A Sylvanian wouldn’t care that she had a Sylvanian father. ‘His name was Adolphus Krieger,’ she said. ‘And he was not more to me than any human father ever could have been. Indeed the swine killed my true father.’
‘Krieger? The upstart?’ The vampire curled his full lips. ‘He who thought he would rule us all. I did not know he had made a get.’
‘It was almost the last thing he did,’ said Ulrika, grim. ‘Before my companions killed him.’
The vampire smirked. ‘Your companions did us all a favour.’ He gave a formal bow, clicking his heels. ‘Stefan von Kohln, of Castle von Kohln.’ A dark look clouded his eyes. ‘At least I was until Kiraly forced me from it.’ He turned to the ramp again. ‘Come. We have wasted enough of the night.’
Ulrika glared after him, still affronted by his arrogance. At the same time, if he wanted to stop the cultists, she could use all the help she could get, even if he thought she was helping him. With a sigh she sheathed her rapier and dagger and started up the ramp.
Ulrika and Stefan did their best to follow the cultists’ various scents, which led out of the distillery’s yard and split up as they wound through the deserted streets of the ruined Novygrad, but the trails were too cold. As soon as they reached the more populated quarters they became overlaid with the smells and spoor of a day’s traffic and vanished altogether. Five times they returned to the distillery and followed another trail, and five times the trail led to nothing.
‘What about the sites of the fires?’ Ulrika asked as they stopped, defeated, in the middle of the ruins. ‘The jeweller’s place and the warehouse?’
Stefan shook his head. ‘The trail will be even more buried there. The bucket brigades, the gawkers and looters, the watch, all will have come and gone. We will never find the right scent among them.’ He cursed. ‘The villains have done an admirable job of disappearing.’
Ulrika nodded and sighed. ‘Perhaps we can follow rumours of vanished girls.’
Stefan grunted with displeasure and turned away. ‘There must be a quicker way. It is only three days until Mannslieb is full.’ He frowned, then swung back to Ulrika, looking at her from under his long black locks. ‘You say you are sworn to protect Praag. Was it your home, then, in life?’
Ulrika shook her head. ‘I spent last autumn and winter here, during the siege, but it is not my home. I am from the northern oblast.’
‘A pity,’ he said. ‘I had hoped you might know someone here with knowledge of this cult – rumours at least. There are always whispers, suspicions people dare not speak aloud.’ He looked up at her. ‘You have no former acquaintances that could be beguiled into telling what they knew? You don’t know any chekist agents? Or perhaps some female friend? Women are always great collectors of gossip.’
Ulrika scowled at this casual slur, then put it aside and returned to the question. Who did she know here from before her death? Max Schreiber immediately came to mind, as well as her cousin Enrik, who was after all only the Duke of Praag himself, but she dismissed them as quickly as she thought of them. She had already decided she would never see Max again, and revealing herself to Enrik would be suicide. Besides, she doubted they knew anything. If they did, the cult would have already been destroyed.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I have one or two old acquaintances here, but they would not be of use to you. Nothing but soldiers and foreigners.’
‘Are you positive?’ he asked.
Ulrika nodded, wishing she had a better answer for him. His idea was a good one. Finding someone with an ear to the ground made more sense then prowling the streets hoping to stumble upon the cultists by accident. But she really knew few people here, and no one who would know enough to make them worth turning over to Stefan’s tender ministrations. She certainly didn’t know any of Stefan’s ‘gossiping women’. She had never associated with the sort of ladies who whispered secrets to each other in parlours.
She paused, chuckling.
That wasn’t precisely true. She had recently joined a sisterhood of such women – the Lahmians. Their entire empire was founded on the collection of secrets. They gained influence by learning them, and holding them over the heads of the powerful. They employed armies of seductresses, skilled at pillow talk, who won whispers from generals and lords and kings. They made slaves of men who then told them all that went on within the guildhalls and the court. If there were rumours to be heard, her ‘sisters’ would have heard them.
Ulrika smiled at Stefan. ‘I know who to ask,’ she said.
The vampire raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’
‘Boyarina Evgena Boradin. There will be no greater hoarder of secrets in Praag.’
Stefan’s face went cold and still. ‘Never,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Ulrika asked.
‘I told you,’ said Stefan. ‘They attacked me when I went to them. They attacked you. You would get nothing from them but a dagger in the heart.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Ulrika, thinking. ‘The boyarina gave me three choices – swear fealty to her, leave Praag, or die. It is only when I refused the first two that she chose the third for me. If I was to return to her and agree to join her sisterhood, I think she would stay her hand.’
‘And you believe she would then answer questions from you?’ asked Stefan, sneering. ‘You would be the lowest of her servants. She would tell you to know your place.’
‘I will make answering my questions a condition of my agreeing to serve her,’ said Ulrika, lifting her chin.
Stefan laughed. ‘She will accept no conditions from you, girl. I certainly would not.’
‘Then perhaps I can convince her the threat of the cult is real. If I go with head bowed, I might be able to buy myself a moment to plead my case.’
‘You will buy yourself a swift death,’ said Stefan. ‘I will not allow it. You will not throw away the life you owe me so foolishly.’
‘Have you a better plan?’ Ulrika asked. ‘A better source for rumour? As you said, we have three nights.’
Stefan turned away again, shaking his head, but after a moment he sighed. ‘I will not come with you. And you would do well not to mention my name.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE DRAGON’S DEN
Ulrika glanced nervously up at the dark windows and verdigrised domes of Boyarina Evgena’s crumbling mansion as she climbed its cracked granite steps. It was the evening after the night of fruitless searching, and she wished now she hadn’t argued so hard for this meeting, or that Stefan hadn’t given in so quickly. He had almost convinced her to give it up. Had he made one more salvo of logic, her enthusiasm would have collapsed and she would have agreed to try something else. Now it was too late. She was committed. Stefan was waiting for her at the Blue Jug to hear how she had progressed – if she lived to
tell.
She had spent much of the intervening day awake in the darkness of the bakery cellar, sewing the rips in her black doublet and breeches and brushing out the dried blood and dirt. She had polished her boots and her sword as well, and trimmed off the singed ends of her hair, entirely by feel, for she could of course not see herself in a mirror. She hoped she hadn’t made a lopsided mess of it.
When the sun had at last dropped behind the western walls, she had dressed and followed the directions Stefan had given her to Evgena’s mansion, a rambling sandstone pile lumping up like a baroque carbuncle out of a sprawling, overgrown garden. Now she stood before it.
Her hand hesitated as she reached for the rusted iron knocker in the centre of the heavy wooden door. Stefan had undoubtedly been right. She could expect to receive nothing from the Lahmians but the point of a blade. Raiza would be beyond that door – Raiza, upon whom she had dropped a wall when last they met. It would be a miracle if she was given even a second to speak, but there was no going back now.
Ulrika squared her shoulders and rapped three times with the knocker, then stepped back. Knowing Lahmians as she did, she was certain she was already being spied upon, so she did her best to look calm and demure, and kept her hands away from her weapons.
After a long wait the door opened, and an ermine-clad giant of a man with a great, square-cut white beard looked down at her. If she had seen him in other circumstances Ulrika would have mistaken him for the king of some eastern land, but he was apparently nothing but Evgena’s majordomo.
‘Yes?’ he said, and there was more contempt in that single syllable than in all Stefan’s casual insults combined.
‘Ulrika Magdova Straghov to see Boyarina Evgena,’ Ulrika said, bowing crisply. ‘I have reconsidered her offer.’
‘I shall enquire,’ said the majordomo, and closed the door in her face.