After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  “So? Did it tell us anything?”

  Khan was silent a moment. “The father of her child was not Semetai Manas.”

  “Bure,” Kazakov said.

  Khan nodded again. “How did you figure it?”

  Kazakov sighed, thinking of girls in pink sweaters and undying love between a traditional Muslim boy and a Christian girl.

  “It was a lot of things that came together. The story about the young girl who was assaulted by a school boy in Bure’s file. The fact that a young, blonde prostitute was bought by the Red Veil because he liked her. The way the mother and Bure reacted when Yekaterina died and the horror the mother felt about me investigating further.” He shook his head. Natania Bure had been her daughter’s Baba Yaga—sometimes good, sometimes bad, living in a small house that might as well have danced on chicken legs for all the safety it provided her daughter. But then, perhaps unknowingly, each person was a Baba Yaga to somebody. He thought of Maria.

  “I should have seen it sooner,” he said. “Maybe I would have, if I’d been able to continue the investigation in the open. Antonov and Alenin didn’t lie when they said Semetai killed her. He loved her, but then she told him she was pregnant with her stepfather’s child. How could a boy raised in a traditional Muslim home deal with that? He’d risked everything to love her and then he’s told that. He killed her, probably in abhorrence at the child she carried and then they killed him for fear of what he knew. Perhaps he actually threatened Bure somehow. So Collin Archer killed him to protect Boris Bure but then somehow Archer’s people found out about his duplicity. Or maybe they couldn’t take a chance on him being arrested for Semetai’s death. Two cases, except they weren’t. Did the Americans get the police to take action? Did Prae get arrested?”

  Khan shook his head as another gust of wind found them and Kazakov raised his collar against the cold. He was still recovering from the gunshot wounds after losing a kidney. He’d been offered a pension and Rostoff encouraged retirement, but Kazakov wasn’t sure that was what he wanted. What did he know about retiring?

  “From what I heard, they went to the Red Veil but the woman was already gone—back to China probably. Frau Zelinka has been arrested, but I don’t know what they’ll charge her with. From what I hear, she’s cooperating as much as a madam might be expected.”

  Kazakov eased his side and leaned on his cane—temporarily, he hoped. Overhead the clouds were thickening and dusk was gathering around the flakes. Another day ending, with holy Russia like a fairy tale heroine, lost in the deepening Siberian snows.

  “And Bure?” he asked wondering again why Prae needed to protect him. Because he was a favored patron, or was it something more?

  Khan shrugged. “What can I say? We could cause him some trouble with the news of his stepdaughter’s pregnancy, but there are too many people paid to smooth that bit of trouble away.”

  As they already had.

  “There’s something about him. Something that doesn’t fly right. Why would the Chinese care if Bure rises or falls?”

  “Old friend, that is an investigation that could blow up in your face,” Khan said softly into the wind.

  Kazakov swirled the tip of his cane in the snow. He was tired of the implement; would be glad when it was gone, but for now it was the one solid leg he had. “You have your family to protect. I have nothing to lose.”

  He set off down the hill, feeling his way through the white forest of snow. When he looked back, Khan was no longer there.

  Kazakov went on alone.

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  The Detektiv Kazakov Mystery Series

  Set in an alternate history Russia, the series is introduces Detektiv Alexander Kazakov, a loner detective committed to finding the truth for the dead and murdered. The series takes place in a world where Catherine the Great’s conquest of the Crimea woke the slumbering Ottoman Empire and brought the great Khans down upon Moscow. Two hundred years later the remains of the Russian population dream of Russia’s past glories, while their new country of Fergana lays like the gristle in a joint between the rumblings of the Ottoman and Chinese Empires. The death of a young Russian girl sets Kazakov on a series of investigations that have implications for the entire world.

  Books in the Series:

  After Yekaterina

  Mareson’s Arrow (Coming July 2018)

  The Tsarina’s Mask (Coming September 2018)

  About the Author

  Karen L. Abrahamson is the author of literary, mystery, romantic and fantasy fiction including the highly regarded Cartographer fantasy series. She is a well-traveled writer who has explored cultures and countries around the world but British Columbia, Canada is her favorite place to come back to. She lives on the west coast of Canada with two Bengal cats that aren’t quite as well traveled as she is.

  When she isn't writing she can be found with a camera and backpack in fabulous locations around the world.

  To find out more about her and her writing, visit www.karenlabrahamson.com

  Fantasy and Mystery by Karen L. Abrahamson

  Mystery (Writing as K.L. Abrahamson)

  Through Dark Water

  After Yekaterina

  Fantasy Mystery

  Aung and Yamin Series

  Death By Effigy (Guardbridge Books)

  A Death in Passing

  Death in Umber

  Fantasy

  The Cartographer Universe (in chronological order)

  The Warden of Power

  Impossible

  The Cartographer’s Daughter

  The American Geological Survey Series:

  Afterburn

  Aftershock

  Aftermath

  Afterimage

  Terra Incognita

  Terra Infirma

  Terra Nueva

  Other Fantasy Novels

  Ice Dragon

  Emberstone

  Mutable Things

  The Crystal Courtesan

  Copyright

  Electronic edition published by Twisted Root Publishing March 2018. After Yekaterina Copyright © 2018 by Karen L. Abrahamson.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-927753-67-5

  Cover design by Twisted Root Publishing

  Cover image: © artfotoss|DepositPhotos.com

  For more information about Twisted Root Publishing, please visit our website at http://www.twistedrootpublishing.com.

  Sneak Preview

  Mareson’s Arrow

  Chapter 1

  “Deep in a forest filled with snow an old couple lived. The snow was so deep that the old man could not hunt on his weak legs and so he and his wife would starve. As a result, the old couple decided to slaughter their mare to have food for the winter.

  “A raven at the window overheard their plan and flew to the stable to warn the mare. “You’d best break down your stall and jump the fence before the deed is done
,” the raven said.

  “And so, the mare did, escaping deep into the forest. She wandered for maybe a long time or maybe it was short, for who can say how far was far in these distant times. She came to a cloak thrown across the snow and found upon it a dead man of the east. She took a bite out of his right knee and then of his left, and found herself pregnant.

  “When the mare gave birth, she named her son Ivan Mareson. He grew into a handsome lad and when he was old enough to be on his own she told him to make himself a bow and arrow and every night stick the arrow into the earth. That way she would know that he was alive. If he did not stick the arrow into the earth she would come looking for his bones.”

  Old Mrs. Ryabkov words seemed to hum in the warm dacha air as she stopped her recitation of the old Russian folktale. She peered at New Moscow Police Detektiv Alexander Kazakov from the tops of her eyes across the worn wooden table her long-dead husband had made. Her bird eyes glittered in the light from the single candle between them and so did the half-empty bottle of vodka and the cracked edges of the old china bowls that had held their supper. Her old cabin’s stone walls were lost in shadows. So were the cobwebs amongst the rafters of the low-ceilinged structure and the neatly made up narrow cot against the rear wall. Agafya Ryabkov’s dacha was small, built like a part of the earth, so that Agafya, her house and her story seemed to have grown out of the dust and rock of this country. But instead of the usual dusty scent of the herbs drying amongst the rafters, the single, low-ceilinged room smelled of the warm scent of the kutia in their bowls. Kazakov had made the traditional Russian Christmas Eve honeyed porridge this afternoon, but the rich poppy seeds, berries and nuts that he’d included seemed inappropriate to enjoy alone, so he’d brought it through the snow to her house. Oddly, he hadn’t wanted to spend this evening alone even though he normally preferred to be on his own.

  “Continue, please,” he said to her, awaiting her spin on the miraculous tale of the mare’s son who had wonderful adventures and who died and was raised from the dead many times. It was a story of resurrection that was near and dear to the hearts of the exiled Russian people in their adopted homeland of Fergana. It was as if they expected Holy Mother Russia to rise the same way. It was not something he had expected his ancient Kyrgyz neighbor to choose. But then he had learned to always let the storyteller choose the story and the way of telling. An artist always chose a first story they could tell with confidence. Later, with coaxing, the storyteller would tell the tale that touched her soul. You could always tell by the emotion in their voice. It was the same with witnesses.

  Or suspects, for that matter.

  Agafya set her spoon down and sat back in her chair. It was one of two that her Russian husband had carved. The chairs, the table, the stone house and his bird-eyed wife, all that he left behind him when he died.

  She gave a single, stubborn, shake of her head. “It was my husband’s tale. Or that of his people—not mine. I thought I could tell it, but…” Agafya’s Kyrgyz heritage shone through in more than her diminutive size and her attitude. She still wore the felted embroidered skirts and leggings of her girlhood. What remained of her fine grey hair was wound around her head and her black gaze glittered with old suspicions. “What is it to you? What do you want here?”

  Kazakov eased his stiff side and shoulder—the penance he paid for being shot twice and thrown down a set of stairs—and straightened. He nodded at the table. “It’s January 7th--Christmas Eve, remember. I brought the kutia to celebrate.”

  Lips tightening over her teeth she shook her head. “Pah on your Christmas.. ” She shoved the bowl away. “This is not what I cook.”

  Kazakov tried a smile. The January 7th date was the Christmas of the Russian Orthodox Christian faith that had not spurned the Julian calendar as most of the world had. Of course, Agafya was not Christian of any stripe, but Muslim.

  “But the Kutia’s good, yes? My mother made it this way. I’ve spent years trying to recreate her recipe.”

  Agafya shook her head and took a long drink of the cup of vodka he’d poured her. “I am not your mother.” She looked away. “I want to be alone.”

  Kazakov sighed. Agafya Ryabkov was a fierce woman, perhaps the strongest he’d ever met, save for the one he’d lost most recently. Agafya had always been the perfect neighbor, asking for nothing and barely tolerating when Kazakov came checking that she was safe and well. He knew when her limited tolerance for visitors was surpassed.

  He pushed himself up from the table. “All right. I thought it would be good to share Christmas Eve with a friend, but I will leave you to your peace.”

  As he pulled on his muffling, wool great coat and heavy boots, she stood and shuffled to the old woodstove where he’d put the pot of kutia to keep it warm. He held up his hand. “Keep it and enjoy the kutia. I’ll pick up the pot in a few days.” For regardless of what she’d said, she’d polished off her bowl in record time. The old woman was made of twigs and skin and he had no idea how she survived. He’d been bringing her groceries for years.

  Thankfully, she didn’t argue, but continued fussing around the cabin. He pulled on his lynx fur hat and tugged up his collar. “Thank you for the hospitality, Agayfa. It was good to hear the old tales again.”

  She only harrumphed, so he grabbed his cane and let himself out, closing the door behind him.

  Black night greeted him and cold. January in Fergana was usually chill, but it was in the mountain foothills like this that winter truly came and this year more than most years. The air was still, except for a few flakes that tumbled down. Even the smoke from Agayfa’s chimney rose straight up for a hundred feet before swirling into calligraphy against the stars. The new moon was only a sliver and the air carried the scent of wood smoke and pine from the surrounding forest. To the east a passing cloud picked up the amber glow of New Moscow’s streetlights.

  This far away he could almost imagine the city slumbering and at peace, but he knew better. Under the white covering of recent snow was the scurrying of rats—both in animal and human form. Rats with guns who had left him minus one kidney and, at forty-five, needing to help himself with a cane like an old man. He hoped it was only temporary.

  He limped down Agafya’s stairs to the trail his arrival had laboriously cut in the snow. The tip of his cane fought him as he lumbered across the clearing that during the summer would hold Agafya’s small garden, and down the treed driveway towards the road. Halfway down the driveway, where the snow was heavier, waited his trusty Perseus vehicle. He’d parked here for he hadn’t been certain whether even the Perseus could navigate through the heavy snow around Agafya’s home.

  He sank into the driver’s seat and realized that he was sweating. Since when had a two-hundred-meter walk stolen all his strength? The answer was simple: since the shooting in late November and the surgery that had left him convalescing. He had done nothing to keep in shape, instead diving deep into reading—folk tales that glossed over the horror of too much killing and that left him trying to determine the stories’ purpose; mysteries that left him ready to toss the book across the room; histories that were determined to present the victors in the best light possible and to vilify those on the losing side.

  Fictions all of them.

  In response, he’d turned back to the news and non-fiction, but even those he’d come to suspect were not the truth.

  He turned the Perseus’ ignition and the engine roared. Through the frosted windscreen a white world was revealed in the headlight beams. Truth, it seemed, was in short supply these days. Even the shooting deaths of two police officers who had been responsible for Kazakov’s injuries hadn’t been reported accurately. But then, who in the New Moscow police force was going to damn two of their own?

  Apparently, no one.

  Perseus in gear, he carefully backed out of Agafya’s driveway, following the tire tracks in his rear taillight’s glare. At the road the vehicle bumped over the snowplow’s most recent drift and onto the narrow road, before startin
g uphill.

  The drive to his dacha was not quite half a mile along from Agafya’s. His next nearest neighbor was over a mile farther on and he liked it that way. He guided the Perseus into his drive and under the sheltering dark pines and pale naked poplars, but something about the driveway wasn’t right.

  The snow clearly showed the tracks of his departure and the half-filled ruts of his comings and goings prior to the most recent snow. But now another set of tire tracks, wider than the Perseus’s, followed the upward slope of the driveways and obscured his tracks in places.

  He slowed the vehicle and felt his heart beat a little faster. The last time strangers had come to his dacha uninvited had been the first time he’d been shot. The last time a friend had come to the dacha was well back in November just after he’d been released from the hospital. No one had visited in December and that was just fine.

  Back up and leave whoever was waiting for him or see who it was? He wasn’t in the same situation as he’d been in November, working a case that technically wasn’t his and another that he’d clearly been ordered to leave alone. Now he wasn’t involved in anything.

  Technically.

  So. He might as well see who had disturbed his isolation.

  He eased his foot off the brake and the Perseus chugged up the slope into the clearing around his dacha. A blocky, black sedan sat waiting, its windows fogged with frost as if whoever waited had chosen to wait in the car.

  Interesting. Such a vehicle was the choice of the New Moscow police department.

  Jaw clenched, Kazakov drove the Perseus past the unknown sedan. He parked in the shelter behind the dacha and then climbed out. The cold stung his cheeks. The heavy timbers of the dacha’s walls were pitch black in the night, but overhead a thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney, so the fire he’d left banked was still burning.