Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  DRAGONCHASER

  Also by Tim Stretton

  The Zael Inheritance

  The Dog of the North

  The Last Free City

  DRAGONCHASER

  Tim Stretton

  Published by

  Thirst eDitions Fiction

  www.dragonchaser.net

  First edition September

  2005

  Copyright © Tim Stretton 2005

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  Set in Palatino Linotype

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  for Sue and Danielle

  Many readers have helped to make this book what it is. My thanks to everyone who read and commented on the drafts or sent their encouragement. Special thanks are due to Paul Rhoads and Steve Sherman for their varied assistance above and beyond the call of duty.

  CHAPTER 1

  O

  ne morning, Mirko, taking his customary early-morning stroll along the beach, found his attention captured by an uncommon scene. Two fishermen, unusually smart in shirts of red with a gold dragon at the chest, were hauling a large object in a net up the shingle. Stepping back out of sight with an instinctive caution, he saw that the ‘object’ was in fact a mermaid. Such sights were rare in Mirko’s home realm of Garganet – where indeed mermaids had a reputation for duplicity – but less so here in Paladria, where a colony lodged on the rocks at the base of the Morvellos Lighthouse. ‘Never trust a mermaid’, the saying went in Garganet: by popular belief they lured mariners to destruction on hidden rocks. In this case, though, the circumstances seemed somewhat different: the mermaid was clearly at the mercy of the two fishermen.

  Mirko surveyed the men with disfavour. They appeared to be preparing to molest the mermaid, at the very least. He had noticed a lack of refinement among the Paladrians before now; but even by their usual standards, this conduct appeared indelicate.

  He turned away. This really was none of his affair, and he had seen injustices enough without needing to become involved in this one. Help me! sounded a voice in his head, and more insistently, Please! Help me! Was it the mermaid or his conscience? With a sigh he dropped his hand to his sword-hilt and stepped forward.

  “Enough!” he called. “Let her go.”

  One of the fishermen turned around to face Mirko, while the other pinioned the mermaid to the shingle.

  “What’s it to you?” demanded the first, swarthy, truculent and bristling.

  “Let the mermaid go,” said Mirko calmly. “I can’t let you assault her.”

  The fisherman sneered. “And are you going to stop me?”

  Mirko pulled his rapier from his sheath. “It looks very much like it.”

  Neither fisherman was armed, and they exchanged looks which suggested they recognised the futility of resistance.

  “Why shouldn’t we have her?” demanded the second. “She was caught in our nets, fair and square. It’s the law of the sea.”

  Mirko knew of no custom which allowed casual rape of woman or mermaid. He took a step forward and pressed his sword-point against the man’s throat. His companion, seeking to catch Mirko by surprise, lunged forward at Mirko’s flank. The strategy, which would have been obvious to a child, ended in embarrassing failure as Mirko, with a scarcely discernible twitch, spitted the man in the side – a wound likely to prove no worse than uncomfortable. He sank to the ground, red seeping through the hand pressed against the wound.

  The second man stood and circled warily. Mirko casually feinted with his sword. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the mermaid edging her way down the beach with a kind of dragging crawl; she was not made for the land. Mirko kept his sword pointed at the fisherman until the mermaid had safely re-entered the water. Swimming out twenty feet or so, she seemed content to watch the proceedings from a distance.

  The fisherman eyed Mirko steadily. “So what now?”

  Mirko shook his head. “Take your friend. You’ve had a day every bit as memorable as you’d hoped. Be off with the pair of you.”

  The fisherman said nothing. He helped his comrade to his feet, slipped an arm around his waist, and together they made their way back off up the shore, bereft of both mermaid and any legitimate catch they might have made.

  Mirko walked down towards the waves gently lapping at the beach. The early morning mist obscured the Morvellos lighthouse. She stared wordlessly back at him, only her head and shoulders above the waterline.

  “Are you all right?” called Mirko. “Do you need anything?”

  But the mermaid made no response. She plunged beneath the surface, and Mirko could see only the wake of her tail as she swam back out to sea. Thank you said a voice in his head. Maybe the mermaids really could communicate in this way. A thought ran through his head: mermaids always repay their debts. He was not sure whether the mermaid herself had thought this, or whether it was another piece of Garganet folk-wisdom he had recalled. Since he was scarcely in a position to deliver an account to ‘The Mermaids, c/o Morvellos Lighthouse’, the question was not one of more than academic relevance.

  The Waterside Tavern, down near the docks of Paladria Old Town, was not by and large the haunt of exclusive society. Its clientele consisted largely of dockhands and seamen awaiting their next excursion; gender parity was maintained by a fleet of portside doxies, mostly past the first flush of youth. However, the wine was cheap, if vinegary; victuals were in the main wholesome, especially if weevils and like insects were treated as nutritious protein rather than infestation. Meat was usually available, and few felt compelled to observe that rat or dog were seldom served at the best tables.

  It was not the environment that Mirko, once accustomed to better things, would have chosen to occupy his leisure hours had circumstances permitted otherwise. However, funds were short and there were many worse establishments; additionally he had an arrangement with several of the doxies whereby he prevented molestation from the more boisterous patrons, in return for a small retainer. Those guests of the establishment who created difficulty when the time came to settle their score might also make Mirko’s acquaintance.

  He caught the eye of Panduletta, the widow who owned the tavern, with a rueful smile. The years had been kind to Panduletta — excepting only her teeth — and Mirko was grateful for the employment, although he did not envisage a lasting career at the Waterside. It kept his muscles in trim and allowed an outlet for any belligerence he might feel; but it was hard to conceive of any enduring satisfaction in these surroundings.

  The circumstances of Mirko’s departure from Garganet still rankled, and he left with resentments and frustrations which were not easily resolved. In the meantime, he was content to fill his purse where he could, so long as he remained near the sea.

  Mirko did not find himself in the mood for meaningful activity for the remainder of the day, and the evening found him nursing another mug of small beer as he dealt with his correspondence at a quiet bench in the Waterside. His habits were regular and well-known, and it was not unusual for prospective employers to approach him at this hour. He was not, therefore, surprised to find a figure standing before him as he concluded his final letter. He looked up at the man. Even in the dim light of the tavern, his visitor’s attire fitted him for a higher place in society. A cl
oak was a rarity in the Waterside; the cerise silk shirt which it only partly covered was even more remarkable.

  Noting Mirko’s attention, the man approached him with a crisp bow. He sported a neat brown beard at his chin, which glistened with fastidious grooming.

  “Captain Mirko Ascalon? I am the Noble Ipolitas Liudas, and I represent an important principal — the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House, with whom you are no doubt familiar.”

  Mirko gestured negligently to a nearby vacant bench. “The term ‘captain’ is not strictly appropriate. It pertains to my previous employment in the Garganet navy and is not portable.”

  Liudas acknowledged the point with an indifferent wave. “The Elector is familiar with the details of your career. He would like to employ you to undertake some technical advice on galley management. Present yourself at the Jurbarkas Dock tomorrow at sunrise, before the vessel Serendipity. Funds will be provided.”

  Mirko raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Will you take a glass of ale, my friend?” He was conscious that his words were a touch slurred, a circumstance which would be unlikely to increase his stature with the patrician Liudas.

  “My compliments to you, sir, but no thank-you,” replied Liudas. “Important affairs compel me; you need only follow your instructions.”

  Mirko was largely immune to surprise. Various maritime commissions had come his way in the few months he had been resident in Paladria. Already he felt the situation threatened complexities and frustrations: patricians in the main expected much and returned little. But the word ‘funds’ had an undeniable allure to one in his circumstances, and after all, he had nothing else planned.

  The next morning Mirko arrived at the rendezvous in good time, and looked over the galley Serendipity, designed for ornament rather than warfare. Galley racing was a popular pastime in Paladria. Rich men – usually Electors – owned the galleys, and the populace cheered its favourites. Plenty of money changed hands. Why shouldn’t Mirko’s experience secure some of it?

  Serendipity appeared a well-constructed vessel; Mirko’s practised eye detected none of the immediate signs of neglect or shoddy workmanship. With a good crew and crisp handling, she would race with vigour and enterprise. The broad blue lateen sail appeared new and of decent quality. In its centre was a representation of a woe-fish, the emblem of the House of Bartazan.

  Mirko, engrossed in his examination of the vessel, did not notice the two men approaching. Turning at the sound of footsteps he saw Ipolitas Liudas, and another figure, richly-dressed if without the flamboyance affected by Liudas. This, he surmised, was Bartazan of Bartazan House, and he bowed with measured courtesy. Liudas laughed.

  “This is Overseer Orstas,” he said quickly. “He controls the slaves, and will be glad to see the respect you give him.”

  Orstas, a young man, handsome and dynamic with a dimpled chin, favoured Mirko with a smirk without returning his bow. “The famous Captain Ascalon. So you’re the man to lick Serendipity into shape. This I must see.”

  “My duties are not yet determined,” he said. “I imagine they may extend to oversight of the overseer.”

  Orstas laughed. “I think not. The overseer is the most important man on the galley. Your role will, I suspect, be largely advisory.”

  He broke off to bow low to a new arrival, dressed in workaday clothes — a loose white shirt and navy trousers. To exact such obeisance from Orstas, this must be Bartazan of Bartazan House. Mirko engaged in a rapid scrutiny. The Elector was a powerful figure, robust and well-nourished and something above average height. His hair, receding at the temples, was black streaked with silver. He was an imposing figure — not a man to be taken lightly; nor, Mirko suspected, one to be trusted.

  “Bartazan of Bartazan,” said the new arrival, with an airy salute. “You must be Ascalon.”

  Mirko bowed and touched his sword hilt. “At your service, my lord.”

  “Serendipity is as good a racing galley as we have on the ocean. We’ll take her out this morning and I’ll explain my requirements. “

  Under largely unheeded encouragement from Liudas, a shambling group of thirty or so slaves, generally lackadaisical and dressed only in culottes and sandals, made its way to the dock. They stepped spiritlessly across the gangplank and took up familiar stations at the oars. One of the slaves, smaller and sparer than the rest, carried a large drum and he set up towards the galley’s stern.

  Orstas sat next to the man, while Liudas stepped aboard and took the helm. Bartazan motioned to Mirko and the pair climbed to an observation platform some six feet above the deck.

  Orstas motioned to the drummer, who struck up a slow loud beat. The rowers began to move in time with the beat and Serendipity moved steadily away from the dock and onto the open water. The low sun dappled the calm sea, and Mirko felt again the satisfaction which came with being on the waves. Bartazan clapped him on the shoulder.

  “This is the life, eh, captain? Nothing like a the pull of the oars and the smell of the brine.”

  “It’s not quite what I’m used to,” said Mirko. “Serendipity is a racing galley, much less solid than the Garganet vessels I was in. And I’m still not sure of the nature of our association. Or how much you’re going to pay me.”

  Bartazan laughed with a false heartiness. “I admire directness — up to a point. I have two ambitions; one is relevant to our business and the other is not. Have you heard of —”

  Bartazan was interrupted by a grinding of oars; a lack of synchronisation between two rowers at the back of the boat had caused them to become entangled. Orstas roared in outrage, whipped a cudgel from his belt, and stepped forward to belabour the miscreants, seasoning the punishment with his curses.

  Bartazan called out: “Orstas, what are you at? The overseer is meant to oversee the crew. Why do they make such basic mistakes?”

  “They are lazy and incompetent,” called back Orstas. “They just don’t want to row. I’ll show ‘em the snib!”

  Bartazan ignored Orstas’ justification and scowled. “Useless. Idle overfed lumps. They should be working at the smelter. As I was saying — are you familiar with the Margariad?”

  “A galley-race…”

  “Rather say, the galley-race. In Paladria we love our races — and the Margariad is the biggest of all. The man who wins it nets a fortune; and he’s never forgotten. I’ve never won the Margariad. Twelve times I’ve entered. Once I was second; once I was third.”

  The grinding of oars — again followed by strokes of the snib — punctuated the conversation once more. Mirko wondered what the other crews must be like to finish behind Serendipity.

  Bartazan caught some of Mirko’s thought. “This is the worst crew I’ve ever had. Orstas is a good overseer, not too soft, and Liudas helms well enough. But the crew just doesn’t have it. They all have sea experience — that’s why I bought them — and a couple are even Garganet. But as a crew they’re worse than useless. Serendipity is a marvellous boat — I’ve always used her in the Margariad. But I can’t get close to Dragonchaser — that’s Drallenkoop’s galley. He’s won it the past three years, and he helms himself.”

  Bartazan gripped Mirko’s arm. “I want to win the Margariad! And it must be this year. I don’t have the time to lick this crew into shape myself — the life of an Elector is hard. But you could do it.”

  Mirko thought for a second. “I may suggest some improvements to technique and training; I don’t know how far behind Dragonchaser you are. No guarantees — but pay me enough and I’ll have a go.”

  Bartazan’s eyes narrowed. “Certain things should be clear. I am Bartazan of Bartazan House — Elector today and who knows, Peremptor tomorrow. I don’t haggle with a cashiered skipper and pimp.”

  “I didn’t ask for the job and I don’t especially want it. I’m sure you can pick up any number of Garganet officers at the click of your fingers. Perhaps one of these would better suit your requirements. “

  Bartazan scratched his chin. “Avarice is an unappealing c
haracteristic. It’s convenient to use you but not essential. If you’ll take 4,000 valut as a retainer and another 4,000 for winning the Margariad, the job’s yours. I only negotiate with my peers; take it or leave it.”

  Mirko considered. It would take diligence — and many arguments — to make this crew viable. 4,000 valut was a decent sum but probably not commensurate with the necessary effort; and while 8,000 clearly was more attractive, the extra 4,000 would scarcely discommode Bartazan once he had the prize money for winning the race. Still, his current circumstances, while not destitute, fell short of affluence, and for a variety of reasons acceptance seemed the best response.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re back ashore,” he said. “For now I want to watch the crew and the water.”

  An hour and a half later the Jurbarkas Dock came back in to view. Mirko had enjoyed the quiet rhythm of the sea, although Orstas’ frequent blows and curses had upset his concentration, and Liudas’ helmsmanship had been erratic at times.

  “Well,” said Bartazan. “Certain rustiness aside, and apathy among the slaves, I felt a degree of encouragement in today’s display. What is your own assessment?”

  “May I speak candidly?”

  Bartazan of Bartazan House frowned. “Candour is by no means the virtue the common mind believes it.”

  “I cannot recommend the improvements you require without a forthright assessment of current shortcomings,” said Mirko.

  “Very well,” said Bartazan with poor grace. “A brief overview of inefficiencies can do little harm.”

  “I would start by noting that the level of punishment used by Orstas is both morally and practically deficient. No crew, free or slave, will respond favourably to such treatment. When we consider that the crew is clearly malnourished, denied sufficient rest—”