Barely even bothering to mask his contempt, Losov briefly inclined his head in Pavel's direction before saying, 'If you would permit me, I should like to escort you to the Gallery of Heroes. There are many people here tonight I believe it would be to your advantage to meet, Herr Ambassador, should you wish your post here to be a profitable one.'
'So long as the Emperor's views are expressed at court, then I consider that my time here will have been spent profitably.' replied Kaspar.
'My meaning entirely, Herr Ambassador.'
The white doors below the massive portrait were held open by more of the blue-liveried servants as Losov escorted them through into the Gallery of Heroes, and once again, Kaspar found himself lost for words at the opulence of the scene before him.
IV
The Gallery of Heroes was one segment of a great three-part hall composed of what Kaspar at first took to be glass, before realising that it was in fact solid ice. This first part of the gallery made up the southern wing of the palace and glittered dazzlingly with pinpoints of reflected light from the hundreds of silver candelabras. On one side, it opened through a single, great arch and arcade of ice columns, into a massive semi-circular room filled with tables and set for dining.
On the opposite side, a series of small arches led from the gallery into another, equally impressive space where clapping observers watched a group of bare chested warriors sparring with long, curved swords.
Kaspar halted to watch, grotesquely fascinated by the warriors, each with blades sheathed through cauterised flaps of skin on their heavily muscled chests and stomachs. Long topknots dangled from their shaven skulls and azure sashes were bound around their narrow waists. A handsome warrior with a long waxed moustache and oiled topknot bounced lightly on the balls of his feet in the centre of a circle of warriors. He had a lithe, dancer's physique together with the narrow hips and powerful shoulders of a swordsman. He carried two exquisite blades and wore loose fitting scarlet cavalry troos. His body was freshly oiled and his sculpted muscles gleamed in the torchlight.
Four similarly attired warriors surrounded the man and bowed to him before raising their swords. Kaspar watched with a practiced eye as the lone man dropped to a fighting crouch, one blade pointed at his nearest opponent, the other curled above his head.
'Who is that warrior?' asked Kaspar as Pjotr Losov appeared at his side.
'That,' said Losov proudly, 'is Sasha Fjodorovich Kajetan. He commands one of the Tzarina's most glorious squadrons of the Gryphon Legion. His family have estates at a wondrously picturesque part of the Tobol and many say he will command the legion within the year.'
Kaspar nodded, suitably impressed as the four swordsmen closed on Kajetan.
'This hardly seems fair.'
'I know,' agreed Losov, 'but Kajetan is Droyaska, a blademaster. Were he to take on any more opponents it would appear as though he were showing off.'
Kaspar cast a puzzled glance at Losov before returning his attention to the fight. Kajetan's cold features betrayed little apprehension at the thought of facing four armed opponents and Kaspar could not decide whether it was arrogance or courage he was seeing.
The fight began and it was over so quickly that Kaspar had trouble believing what he had just seen. As the first of Kajetan's foes lunged towards him, he leapt and spun through the air to land between two of the swordsmen and slam the pommels of his swords against their foreheads. Even as they fell, he was in motion, swaying aside from the slash of another opponent's blade and rolling beneath a high cut that Kaspar felt would surely decapitate him. He rolled to his knees and swept his leg out in a long slash that scythed another swordsman's legs out from under him. He hammered his elbow into the fallen man's neck before arching his back and bringing his swords together above his head to block a downward cut. He somersaulted backwards, delivering a thunderous kick to his last opponent's jaw as he spun through the air before landing gracefully with his swords crossed before him.
Rapturous applause filled the hall and Kaspar found himself joining in, amazed at this warrior's sublime skill. His opponents groggily picked themselves up as the applause swelled.
'Where in the name of all the gods did that man learn to fight?' he asked.
'I'm given to understand that he took instruction from a warrior order far to the east,' said Losov vaguely. 'On one of the Cathayan islands, I believe.'
Kaspar nodded, still in awe at Kajetan's dazzling display and allowed himself to be led from the contest of arms into the main gallery once more. Its great vaulted ceiling was filled with a vast mosaic depicting the coronation of Igor the Terrible and a great chandelier from the time of Tzar Alexis hung from its centre. Great columns formed from sepia-tinted ice, veined with subtle golden threads and capped with fluted, hand-carved capitals supported the ceiling. The walls were smooth and translucent and numerous rugs from Bretonnia, Estalia and Tilea were strewn across the cold floor.
Kaspar was amazed; he had visited the Imperial Palace in Altdorf many years ago, when receiving his general's baton, but its splendour paled next to this opulence.
He could see that Bremen was similarly in awe of his surroundings as Pavel accosted another servant to replenish their empty glasses. Losov guided Kaspar into the hall, pointing out particularly impressive paintings and features of the room.
'The Gallery of Heroes takes its name from the collection of paintings of the Kislevite Tzars that hang here. It is a living history of Kislev's ancient rulers, with portraits of Tzar Alexis, Radii Bokha, Alexander, his children and, of course, the Khan Queens Miska and Anastasia.'
Kaspar nodded in time with Losov's words, lost in the wonder of his surroundings.
Losov continued his narration. 'The furniture is mostly Bretonnian, and includes a number of pieces by Eugene Fosse, which were brought to the Winter Palace from Bordeleaux in 2071.'
As Losov began talking about the portraits of the Khan Queens, Kaspar found his gaze and attention straying to a raven-haired woman dressed in an ivory gown who moved behind the throng of guests. Whilst giving the appearance of listening to Losov, he attempted to get a good look at her face, but she remained frustratingly out of plain sight. As he caught a glimpse of her mischievous smile, a faint memory fluttered, but remained elusive.
Kaspar realised Losov had moved on and stepped after him, cannoning into another guest and spilling his wine down the man's furred dolman.
Horrified, Kaspar said, 'My apologies, sir. My fault entirely...'
A string of unintelligible Kislevite assaulted him and though his knowledge of the language was rudimentary, he could tell he was being horribly insulted. The man was broad and powerful, his thick furs and armour obviously expensive. He wore a peaked helmet edged with gold that marked him as a boyarin, one of the Kislevite nobility, and his ruddy, bearded features spoke of a hard life spent outdoors. The collision had almost knocked him from his feet and Kaspar could see the boyarin was stinkingly drunk, his bleary eyes ugly and hostile.
'You Empire man?' asked the man in thickly accented Reikspiel.
'I am, yes,' answered Kaspar. 'I am-'
'Bastard Empire,' slurred the man. 'Kept safe with Kislev blood. You and your land be dead but for us. Kislev's sons die to keep your lands safe and only when Empire burns do you come to fight.'
Kaspar fought to hold his temper as the drunken boyarin jabbed his thick finger into Kaspar's chest. 'What here for, huh? Want Kislev warriors fight for you? Ha! Treat us like dogs then expect us to die for you?'
'That's not-'
'Shit on you, Empire man. I hope your lands burn in hell,' growled the boyarin and Kaspar bunched his fists, feeling his temper fray even more. He grabbed the boyarin's tunic and pulled his face down to his own.
'Now listen to me, you piece of-'
'Come now, Alexei Kovovich,' said Pjotr Losov smoothly, appearing once more at Kaspar's side and separating the two men. 'There's no need for all this. Ambassador von Velten is to be presented to the Tzarina tonight and I'm sure you wouldn't want to b
ruise him before then, would you?'
Alexei Kovovich focussed on Losov before spitting on the floor in front of Kaspar and turning away to stagger towards the martial displays in the previous hall. Heads throughout the hall had turned to watch the altercation and Kaspar felt his skin redden.
'My apologies, ambassador,' said Losov. 'Boyarin Kovovich can be a little uncouth when in his cups, though he is a great warrior if he can stay sober. A common factor amongst some of our aristocracy, I regret to say.'
'That's alright,' said Kaspar, ashamed at his loss of temper. What sort of impression would that make on the Kislevites? The tension slowly drained from him as Losov ushered him into a line of guests extending from a set of beaten gold double doors at the far end of the hall. It seemed he was not the only person to be presented to the Tzarina tonight, and judging by his position in the line, not even the most noteworthy.
An ornate clock above the doors began chiming and at the ninth chime, the double doors of the inner apartments were flung open. Immediately the silence of death fell upon the gallery. A voice announced: 'The Tzarina, Katarin the Great, Queen of all Kislev!' and Kaspar had his first glimpse of the infamous Ice Queen herself.
Tall and majestic, with the beauty of a sculpted work of art, the Tzarina wore a long, pale blue dress with a lace train that glittered with icy shards. Her hair was the colour of a clear winter sky, confined beneath a crescent of azure velvet and set with pearls, from which hung a long white veil.
The Ice Queen was followed by her many retainers and close family. As she greeted those closest to her apartment doors, Kaspar watched the effect her entry had on the faces of those within the hall. Every countenance had assumed the same expression, by turns serious and smiling, as though everyone present was afraid to catch the eye of their queen, while at the same time afraid not to try.
The Tzarina had almost reached him and he was reminded of the Ice Queen's status as a powerful sorceress whose powers were said to come from the icy land of Kislev itself as the air around him grew colder. He shivered as his gaze was drawn to the Tzarina's waist where a long bladed sword was buckled. Waves of icy chill radiated from the weapon and Kaspar knew he looked upon the mighty war-blade, Fearfrost. The magical sword had been forged in ancient times by the Khan Queen Miska and wielded by her when she had conquered whole swathes of the Empire.
Not only was it highly unusual for the Tzarina to be armed on an occasion such as this, but Kaspar understood that it was a calculated insult for her to wear a weapon that had killed so many Empire nobles in the past.
At last the Tzarina reached Kaspar and he could feel the chill of her nearness deep in his bones as he bowed deeply towards her. The Ice Queen offered her hand, palm down, to Kaspar and he lifted it to his mouth, kissing it lightly. His lips burned with cold, as though he had kissed a block of ice. He straightened and met the Ice Queen's gaze as she pulled the lace veil back from her face. Her skin was pale and translucent, a mocking smile playing about her lips. Her eyes were like chips of cold sapphire.
'Ambassador von Velten. We are pleased you could attend. I hope we did not drag you from some pressing business to attend our little soiree.'
'Not at all, your majesty. I wouldn't have missed this for all the gold in the Grey Mountains.'
'Quite,' agreed the Tzarina, her milky eyes drifting to the other guests in the line.
'My compliments on your palace, truly it is magnificent.'
'Thank you for your kind words, Ambassador von Velten. I am, of course, always pleased to welcome our cousin in the Empire's representatives to Kislev and hope that you enjoy more success than your predecessor.'
'I endeavour only to serve, your majesty.'
'What a wonderful philosophy you have, ambassador,' said the Tzarina playfully before moving on to the next guest and Kaspar felt the chill air depart with her.
V
As the opening chords of a marching tune were struck to polite applause, the Tzarina, along with her current favourite, led the way into the centre of the long hall. The fine rugs from foreign lands had been removed and the polished floor could now serve for dancing. Other couples followed the Ice Queen and Kaspar caught sight of Pavel offering his hand to a grey haired woman old enough to be his grandmother, smiling indulgently as he strutted along like a Tzar himself. He laughed as he saw a young girl of no more than sixteen summers grab Kurt Bremen's hand and all but drag him onto the floor. The crowd clapped in time to the Tzarina's steps and Kaspar joined in, the smile freezing on his face as a delicate hand slipped into his own and pulled him away from the dance floor.
He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it just as quickly as he recognised the dark haired woman he had been searching for earlier. Kaspar guessed she was perhaps in her mid thirties, and when she smiled at him her savage beauty struck him like a comet. Jet-black hair spilled from a crescent of jewelled silk and gathered around her shoulders like iridescent oil, framing her full lips and jade green eyes perfectly. Her ivory dress flirted with decency, with a golden pendant hanging in her ample cleavage.
Crafted in the shape of a crown encircling a heart, Kaspar's eyes were drawn to it as he recognised the heraldry on the coach that had passed him when he arrived through the gates of Kislev. The elusive memory he had grasped for earlier swam to the surface of his mind as he remembered her face passing by him on the Goromadny Prospekt. He felt her eyes on him and blushed as he realised what she must think he was looking at.
She chuckled playfully and as they passed a series of arches in the eastern wall of the gallery, she inclined her head in the direction of an adjacent gallery.
Kaspar nodded, quickly checking to see that Bremen and Pavel were still occupied behind him and followed the woman into the next hall.
Smaller than the Gallery of Heroes, it was nonetheless still impressive. To Kaspar's left, wide stairs led down to sets of double doors that opened into a shimmering garden of white trees and ice sculptures. A massive painting depicting the final battle of the Great War against Chaos at the gates of Kislev dominated the hall and, hand in hand, Kaspar and the woman made their way to stand before it.
She stared at the picture as though enraptured, still holding Kaspar's hand, and he followed her gaze. The picture was a work of grand scale and he was impressed by its passion, if not its bias.
In the painting, the city of Kislev was in flames, her noble warriors painted with bold brush strokes and noble countenance. The dwarfs and warriors of the Empire who had also fought to defeat the forces of Chaos were painted with smaller, less confident strokes, their faces in shadow. He had to hunt before he could even find Magnus the Pious, the Empire hero who had led the combined armies to ultimate victory. As far as revisionist pieces of artwork went, it was a classic.
He threw a quick glance over his shoulder into the Gallery of Heroes as the dancing began in earnest. He recognised the first measures of the mazurka, a passionate military dance of Kislev and smiled as he watched a young warrior of the Gryphon Legion beat time to the music with the sole of his spurred boot. The man swept a redheaded woman into his arms and threw himself forward, leaping across the room with long strides. He spun the laughing girl and fell on his knees before her. Kaspar's heart surged as he remembered dancing the mazurka with Madeline in Nuln. It was a dance from the old days of gallantry, full of suggestions of passionate and romantic love.
He felt the woman's eyes on him and turned from the energetic dancing, lifting her hand and planting a kiss upon its warmth.
'You are gallant indeed, Kaspar von Velten.'
'One must always be gallant in the presence of beauty, milady.' replied Kaspar, not relinquishing his hold on her hand.
'If only all men thought as you do.' smiled the woman. 'But unfortunately that is not always the case.'
'Sadly true, milady.' agreed Kaspar. He wanted to ask her name or how she knew his, but felt that to do so would break the spell that held them here in this moment.
'I am Anastasia Vilkova.' she s
aid, solving his dilemma.
'The Khan Queen.' whispered Kaspar, inwardly cursing himself for his clumsiness. He was supposed to be a diplomat and here he was tongue tied, blurting the first thing that came into his head.
Anastasia laughed, saying, 'Yes, I was named after her, but to put your mind at ease, I have no intention of mounting your head on a chariot spike.'
'Well that's a relief.' replied Kaspar, a measure of his composure returning.
'Though I am told I have a wicked streak, I think that would be a bit much.'
'At best it would be impolitic given my position here in Kislev.' agreed Kaspar.
Anastasia's eyes darted over his shoulder and Kaspar turned to see the man who had given the stunning display of swordsmanship approach with the confident stride of a natural warrior. He wore an embroidered green tunic with a scarlet sash tied crosswise across his chest and his twin blades sheathed in hide scabbards across his back. His topknot was freshly oiled and hung around his neck like glistening snake. His violet eyes were the cold steel of a warrior about to go into battle, and Kaspar had to resist the urge to take a backward step.
The man bowed curtly to Anastasia, ignoring Kaspar and said something in the thick tongue of Kislev. Anastasia's features wrinkled in annoyance and she shook her head impatiently, casting a wary glance in Kaspar's direction.
'Kaspar, have you been introduced to Sasha Kajetan?' she asked.
'Not yet.' replied Kaspar, turning to address Kajetan and offering his hand. 'A pleasure, sir.'
'What are you doing?' said Kajetan, ignoring Kaspar's outstretched hand. 'Why are you talking to Anastasia like this?'
'I'm sorry?' said Kaspar, nonplussed. 'I don't follow...'
'Well I do!' snapped the swordsman. 'Don't think I don't understand what you were trying to do here. Anastasia is mine, not yours.'
'Oh, come now.' protested Anastasia, 'that's hardly the kind of conversation we should be having here.'
'Are you trying to tell me he wasn't kissing your hand a second ago?'