Chapter Seventeen
Staging Area 3
Kolakolvia
Kristoph Vals
Kristoph hated the endless settlement that had grown up along the front. The staging grounds they called it. In reality it was a haphazard civilization, stretching for over a hundred miles, beginning east of Trench 1 to the north, just outside the Prajan pass, and ending at Trench 700 to the south near the Sedet Sea. Some patches along the front of the staging grounds were sparse, nothing more than the occasional tavern or whorehouse catering to the troops when they got leave. In others, like this, it was almost a city. Only without all the benefits of law and organization that a real city should have. It was the inevitable parasitic growth of a century of war happening in basically the same location.
He despised the staging grounds. It was the false sense of freedom everyone here had. They acted differently. Happier. It made him nauseous. He knew the Almacians had an equivalent on their side of the line, but he suspected theirs would be more orderly.
His accommodations here were atrocious. The food was unrefined. Being this close to the front lines made his skin crawl. And yet, this was his duty. To act anything other than grateful was to incur the wrath of the Chancellor.
The Chancellor had told him to see to his regular duties until it was time to strike at the Almacian gas factory. However, Kristoph had not been idle. He had made plans. He had picked a platoon of elite light skirmishers who were stationed nearby to be his strike team. The Rolmani Baston would be their guide. He had commissioned the sewing of traditional Transellian peasant garb for them to wear, so that they could blend in with the local populace. He had procured transport, an innocuous-looking riverboat, so that they could travel in secret into and out of Transellia. Of course, it was just a convenient coincidence that he had decided Dalhmun Prison’s dock was the best place for them to land.
Plans made, there had been nothing to do but wait. So he had passed the days doing what he did best, watching for traitors and spies. He’d not found any here yet. If the Chancellor didn’t give him new orders soon, he’d have to create some traitors to persecute, simply to avoid dying of boredom.
That evening Kristoph sat on a corner, watching the streets, hoping for some manner of subversive crime to take place. Vasily was hidden in the shadows behind him so as to not spook the prey. But there was no disloyal talk to be overheard, or anti-Tsarist graffiti on the walls. The people of the staging grounds knew they had it good here, so they didn’t jeopardize it. A fact which annoyed him greatly.
An infantryman—his insignia marked him as a Kapral—passed by, arm in arm with a very young prostitute. The girl seemed far too young, even for this lawless place. She seemed so reluctant that the soldier was nearly dragging her along. She must be new here then, not ready for this terrible life. Her eyes met Kristoph’s briefly, wide, frightened, as if begging for help, and then she was gone.
The couple was barely a handful of steps past him, and Kristoph knew he had to confront the soldier. His jurisdiction was whatever he declared it to be, but agents of Section 7 did not usually concern themselves with such mundane business, especially when there was no gain for him or the empire. Except there were lines even he didn’t like seeing crossed.
He turned in time to see the young couple take the street to the right. He got up and began walking after them. Vasily followed like an obedient puppy.
Kristoph kept his distance, not wanting to spook the couple. When he turned another corner, he spied them ahead, but further along than he’d originally anticipated. He increased his gait, heard the Cursed match him. The soldier pulled the girl into a smaller street on the left.
Again, when he made the same turn, though he had sped up he was no closer to catching them. Suspicion took root in his mind. He looked side to side, then over his shoulder. There were a great many people meandering about their business, but no obvious tails. He reached under his long coat and loosened the knife there.
I hate this place.
He followed the soldier and prostitute around another corner into a narrow alley.
Kristoph should have known better.
The alley was empty except for an oppressive darkness. He always carried an abundance of caution, but with a Cursed at his side there was little to fear.
The blow took him from behind. A flash of blinding white. Pain at the back of his skull. Kristoph hit the ground hard, tasted blood in his mouth from biting his tongue.
Anger, embarrassment flooded him. Then curiosity. How had this happened? Vasily should have stopped any attempt to sneak up on him. That was the Cursed’s job.
A kick to his midsection flipped him over to his back.
“He doesn’t live up to his reputation.” The soldier. Only a silhouette illuminated at the edges by the mouth of the alleyway.
“Perhaps,” the girl said, except her voice was much older than expected. She bent over him, and he realized her youth was the result of an impressive makeup job.
The man squatted down, punched Kristoph in the face, bouncing the back of his head off the ground. He hit Kristoph twice more for good measure, splitting his lips and bloodying his nose. “Give him the message.”
Kristoph saw Vasily. The Cursed stood to the side, unhurt and unmoving. It stared down back at him through the blindfold. Impassive. Seemingly unimpressed.
Bastard. You deserved your death.
“No one cares where you rank, Vals,” the woman said. “You can easily be replaced. You are not untouchable. All your scheming? All your machinations? They are as transparent as you are predictable.”
Predictable.
The man laughed, sounding like a donkey. “The boss was right about one thing. He is a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
A sucker?
Maybe.
Kristoph coughed and whispered something unintelligible. He blinked like he was going delirious.
“What’d he say?” the woman asked.
The donkey shrugged. “Who cares? She said she’d reward us for delivering her message. Message delivered. Let’s go.”
Ah. She. And now he had enough clues to figure out who had sent this message. Information. The currency of the truly rich. The truly powerful.
Kristoph began laughing, letting the pain he felt in his head and face add a line of hysteria to the sound. He whispered again, too low for the two assailants to make out what he was saying.
Not that he was saying anything at all.
“See if you can make out what he’s saying,” the woman ordered.
“We should just kill him. Say it was an accident.”
The woman hitched a thumb in the direction of Vasily. “Except she’d know.”
“Fine. But he’d better not spit any blood on me . . . What’re you crying about, Vals?” When the donkey leaned in close, it was too late.
Kristoph smiled, teeth coated in blood. Donkey’s eyes widened as the knife pierced his throat. “How’s that for predictable?” Then Kristoph rammed it up into the brain. Donkey collapsed on top of him, blood spilling everywhere.
Kristoph pushed the corpse off and levered himself to his feet with the aid of the alley wall. The dead man had fists of stone, so he was rather dazed. The woman backed away wordlessly, then turned to flee, only she collided with the unmoving form of Vasily, rebounded off the Cursed and crashed to the ground.
Before she could regain her feet, Kristoph kicked her in the face as hard as he could. Blood and teeth flew in the air, briefly illuminated by light from the mouth of the alley. He fell down alongside her, rolled onto his side, stabbed her in the stomach. Twisted the blade. Tore it free.
She clutched at her wound, mewling in pain. But Kristoph felt no pity. No remorse. He’d followed her to help her, and this was the thanks he received. Humanity at its finest. Kristoph savored the sound. The feel. He knew he was not the man he once had been. He was a lifetime removed from that person. Some days that self-realization gave him pause.
Today, it gave comfort.
He pushed himself to his knees, and grabbed her by the hair. “Your message was delivered. Though, I don’t expect in the way you would have wished. But I have good news for you. You’ll be able to deliver a message to your superior for me.”
“What . . . what . . . ” Blood spilled from the corners of her mouth.
“Watch and learn.”
Kristoph crawled to the dead man’s body, straddled it, and began sawing at his neck. Blood drained onto the dirt. This likely wasn’t the first time this particular stretch of ground had tasted the liquid. Nor would it be the last. Tonight.
He snarled as he wrenched the neck, stretching it to cut between vertebrae. When his trophy was free, he stood, cast a baleful gaze at the Cursed. “Are you watching? Do you see? Pathetic. Weak.” He hurled the severed head, hitting Vasily square in the face. The Cursed didn’t flinch, but the red smear on its blindfold gave Kristoph a moment of satisfaction.
In a turn of pure luck, the head fell next to that of the woman, and rolled to face her. His eyes were still open in shock. Tears spilled from hers.
“Ah. So there were actual feelings between the two of you. Then I hope he escorts you to Hell.”
He staggered back and slashed across her throat. Blood sprayed, though not in the dramatic crimson arc he’d hoped for. She had already lost too much.
When she’d stopped twitching, Kristoph took a moment to regain his breath. He rifled through her clothing and was rewarded with a set of papers. Their edges had soaked up some of their previous owner’s blood, but the script was easy to read. It had a cipher, but it was a familiar one he knew by heart. Directorate S had their favorite codes.
The papers described him, even his favored routes and places he liked to stay in this makeshift city. His preferred foods. What he typically wore. When he would arrive at the front. And how he had a propensity to want to help women in danger, which could be exploited.
The dizziness subsided. Kristoph braced himself against the wall and walked out of the alley. Vasily—face covered in the dead man’s blood—turned and followed silently and obediently. The perfect guard and companion.
His suspicions had been confirmed, at least in part. Someone was keeping an eye on him through his assigned Cursed. He doubted Chancellor Nicodemus was behind the attack; though he always encouraged infighting among members of Section 7, this was far too overt. If the Chancellor wanted you dead, you simply died. Whomever this mysterious “she” was, she had a good deal of information on Kristoph, was in the Directorate, and had the ability to keep Vasily docile. That left him with a very shallow pool of suspects.
Anyone who recognized what he was typically gave him a wide berth in the streets, but now they did so with worried looks worn on their faces. Directorate S was something to be feared. A bloodied member of their elite was someone to avoid.
His head ached. He paused and spat out a glob of blood that hit the boot of a passing soldier. A simple Strelet.
“Watch it you piece of sh—” The soldier swallowed his words, lowered his eyes, and walked away quick as he could.
Kristoph ambled on unsteady legs through the staging grounds in the direction of the front, where he had been given living quarters for the immediate future. His temporary apartment was on the second level of a solidly built building owned by Directorate S. Not as nice as his apartment in Cobetsnya—not even close—but it was clean and fully furnished. The steps up were a challenge after having his skull repeatedly bashed.
I hope the ghouls eat their corpses.
His head was swimming as he reached his door. Kristoph pulled the key from his pocket, grateful he hadn’t lost it in the scuffle. He didn’t want anyone bothering him tonight.
“Vasily, stay here. Guard the stairs.”
When the Cursed turned away, Kristoph bent down and loosened the floorboards in front of his door so they would squeak if someone stepped on them. An old habit that saved his life on more than one occasion.
He bolted the door from the inside, wedged a chair under the handle. Collapsing in his bed sounded wonderful, but he couldn’t countenance getting blood on the sheets. He leaned against the wall and sunk to the floor so he could face the door. Exhaustion pressed down on him, a tangible presence.
His mind worked through the problem as best as it could in the circumstances. They could have killed him, but they hadn’t yet. They knew he was plotting something. The attack had been to rattle him, to make him reveal what he knew. Kristoph wasn’t particularly upset by someone making a play for his position. He’d done it himself to move up the ladder, just as he hoped to someday usurp the Chancellor himself.
A light pattering on the glass of his small window announced rain. He felt oddly relieved to see streaks spilling down the outside of the window. There would be no gas attacks in bad weather. It would buy the Kolakolvian forces a little time.
Kristoph’s vision faded out, then back in. Worries for tomorrow. Stay alive. Discover who was making a play against him. Gain control of Amos Lowe.
Short-term to long-term. Always plan. Always adjust.
Kristoph was not a man troubled by setbacks.