by Tim Stretton
“Enough!” cried Bartazan. “Your comments go well beyond candour into the realm of personal abuse! In excoriating my overseer there is a clear implication that the judgement of his employer is likewise questionable.”
Mirko shrugged. “You employ me to recommend improvements. In truth there are many apparent to the most casual inspection, and many more necessary if Serendipity is to rival Dragonchaser.”
“That may be,” said Bartazan of Bartazan House with significant emphasis, “but they are of no concern to you; you may consider yourself discharged with immediate effect.”
“I doubt we could have established a productive relationship in any event,” said Mirko. “Your insensitivity to constructive criticism is equally likely to bar you from high political office.”
Serendipity returned to the dock in silence. At an adjacent jetty another racing galley was docked, painted a striking scarlet and gold. The sail was dyed a deep red with a golden dragon at its centre, and the prow was carved into the head of a dragon. This, then, was Dragonchaser. Mirko vaulted from Serendipity and wandered across to scrutinise the vessel in more detail, his back ostentatiously to Bartazan of Bartazan House.
Down the gangplank of Dragonchaser came two men in earnest conversation. The younger, stripped to the waist in the hot midday sun, called over to Bartazan.
“Good morning, my lord! How goes it?”
Bartazan bowed infinitesimally. “Well, thank you, my lord Drallenkoop. Calm seas and strong strokes to you.”
Mirko uttered a caw of laughter ignored by both men. Drallenkoop appeared to take Bartazan’s claim at face value, but evinced no real interest in Serendipity’s performance. He returned to his conversation with the older man, whom Mirko took to be Dragonchaser’s overseer.
Orstas disembarked the slaves in generally poor array. Bartazan and Liudas boarded a waiting open carriage drawn by two fine striders, which smartly made off towards Paladria New Town. Orstas mounted a strider of his own and took the slaves off in another direction. None spared Mirko any attention.
Dragonchaser’s slaves, meanwhile, were disembarking in more disciplined order. While there was no levity, they appeared in high morale and well-nourished. Drallenkoop, noting Mirko’s presence, made his way over. He was a man of early maturity, with short fair hair, a trim and tanned torso, and an air of negligent confidence. His clear blue eyes, delicate nose and crooked smile suggested a natural leader, flexible and resolute: a formidable commander of a racing galley.
“Well, fellow,” he called. “How do you like Dragonchaser? A bit of an improvement on Serendipity, eh?”
Mirko smiled. “The boat itself looks little different,” he said. “Your slaves are better disciplined and better nourished. Given a decent overseer and three months I imagine Serendipity might be a match for you.”
Drallenkoop laughed. “Maybe you’re right; maybe you’re not. But I know Orstas — the worst overseer in the city. Maybe you’re his replacement?”
“I have no association with Serendipity. The Elector asked me aboard for some informal observations, which I made. Further involvement is unlikely.”
Drallenkoop laughed again. “I know who you are now! They said Bartazan was going to recruit some Garganet renegade, and now I’ve placed your accent. I take it Bartazan’s conditions didn’t suit.”
Mirko flushed. “ ‘Renegade’ is not a term I recognise in that context. I used to be with the Garganet navy; now I’m not.”
Drallenkoop made a mollificatory gesture. “My apologies, sir. Garganets are known for their mettlesome spirit. I like you already, since you seem to have discommoded Bartazan. My father detests him above all men. Bartazan is set on becoming Peremptor this summer — and that means ruin for my family. All the more reason to beat him in the Margariad.”
“Paladrian politics are not something I follow closely.”
Drallenkoop took a long pull of water from a hide bottle, and passed it across to Mirko, who realised he was thirsty.
“It’s surprisingly simple,” said Drallenkoop as Mirko drank. “The Peremptor is the ruler of Paladria. His powers are virtually unlimited, and every five years the Electors meet to choose one of their number to fill the post. Bartazan of Bartazan House naturally aspires to this high estate. Twice already he’s allowed his name to go forward; twice he’s been rejected. Once more and he’s not allowed to stand again. Bartazan thinks, with good reason, that if he wins the Margariad his popularity will be so high among the people that the Electors won’t dare to oppose him. There’s a long rivalry between our families; my father, Koopendrall, is an Elector but commands little support. If Bartazan wins, he’ll destroy Koopendrall.”
“Not an attractive character.”
Drallenkoop laughed again. “He needs to win the Margariad first. You saw them out there this morning. I may not win this year; but Serendipity won’t beat me.”
CHAPTER 2
A
week later Mirko made his way up a steep and winding path leading to cliffs above the Bay of Paladria. Behind him were the flatlands leading to Io and Theris: before stretched the full expanse of the Bay of Paladria, its smooth surface punctuated by the reaching rocks which made up the obstacles for the Margariad. This morning was the Morvellos regatta, the first race of spring. All of the main contenders for the Margariad would be in action, and Mirko was interested to see them in action from a high vantage point. The cliff-top was almost deserted.
Mirko had become interested in the racing calendar and recognised several of the galleys jostling around the start line. Most conspicuous was Dragonchaser with her red and gold paint. Serendipity, chequered in dark and light blue, was some distance off: other notable craft were Animaxian’s Glory, green and white; Morvellos Devil, twice second in the Margariad; and Excelsior, proud in silver and purple, and tipped to make a strong impact.
The sound of a powerful horn indicated the start of the race: Mirko pulled out an eyeglass. Dragonchaser was baulked by Morvellos Devil at the start, and it was Excelsior who moved away most smartly, surprisingly followed by Serendipity. For ten minutes or so the two lead galleys duelled at the head of the field. Dragonchaser finally shook off the attentions of Morvellos Devil, but remained well behind the leaders, tucked in fourth place. Serendipity appeared to increase her speed in an attempt to pull around Excelsior. Just as she seemed to be on the verge of pulling ahead, two oars became entangled. The helm, presumably Liudas, attempted to steer clear of Excelsior to allow Serendipity to recover; but instead she swung wildly towards the lead boat. Serendipity’s port bank of oars enmeshed Excelsior’s, and both boats lost impetus. Animaxian’s Glory and Dragonchaser, with much stronger momentum, bore down; Dragonchaser in particular made ground with astonishing vigour.
By the time Excelsior and Serendipity had disengaged, Dragonchaser had streaked past. Visibly demotivated, Serendipity slipped back through the field. Excelsior made a game effort to catch Dragonchaser, but it was futile. Dragonchaser won by half a minute, with Animaxian’s Glory well back in third. Serendipity trailed in seventh of the eight boats.
Mirko watched the race to its end, shaking his head ruefully at Serendipity’s ineptitude. While the money would have been useful, he doubted that the kind of improvements Bartazan had required were possible. He would have to carry on with his casual activities at the Waterside; it was probably for the best that he had no more to do with the galleys. It reminded him too much of what he had lost.
He walked back down towards the Old Town. The Plaza was thronged with crowds, for today was a double festival: not only the Morvellos regatta, but hanging day. The twin entertainments and copious beer had generated a carnival atmosphere among the crowd.
Mirko disliked public hangings. While justice on occasion demanded a dire penalty, its infliction in public pandered to a baseness in the spectators which he could not approve. In Garganet such matters were dealt with behind closed doors.
Only three felons were scheduled for despatch today: an infanticide
, a poisoner, and a man condemned for a form of sacrilege Mirko had difficulty understanding. All were shackled together in an open rattlejack, where they had ridden in company with six Peremptor’s Constables and the hangman.
The crowd set up a hooting as the poisoner was led towards the platform, where the gibbets were erected at a good elevation to facilitate viewing. The prisoner cowered low as the noose was set around his neck.
“Larkas Laman,” said the Sergeant of the Constables sonorously, “you have been adjudged guilty of the heinous crime of extinguishing your wife – ”
“As we all would if we could!” called one wag from the crowd, to general hilarity.
“ – using toadstools garnered for that purpose. Your guilt is unquestioned. Do you have a final message of repentance or edification, that others might not share your fate?”
Larkas Laman seemed unwilling to draw general conclusions from his circumstances. “I am innocent!” he called. “There were no toadstools! Her mother laid an information against me, but poor Melsifar was always of sickly disposition.”
The Sergeant was attuned through long practice to the tenor of condemned folks’ final speeches. Protestations of innocence were common, if futile, and provided neither entertainment nor enlightenment. He nodded at the hangman, who pulled on a theatrically large lever. A trap-door opened, Larkas Laman dropped a foot with his conclusions unfinished, to kick and jerk on the end of the rope. The crowd cheered this satisfactory outcome.
Next was brought forward the schismatic Clovildas Cloon. Unlike Larkas Laman, he spoke long and fervently, ignoring questions of guilt and innocence, instead justifying his acts. Mirko was no clearer as to the nature of his offence at the end of the peroration, but he recognised a fanatic. Clovildas Cloon appeared to welcome martyrdom, and at the end of the speech commanded the hangman to pull the lever “that I might the sooner begin my eternal blessings.”
The crowd had enjoyed this spirited defiance of mortality – even if, to Mirko’s eyes, religious feeling was not in great evidence – and the opening of the trap door was greeted with applause. There appeared to be little difference between the twitching bodies of Larkas Laman and Clovildas Cloon: might the latter’s eternal blessings be deferred, or even apocryphal?
The final execution brought a grim horror to Mirko’s stomach. A girl of no more than sixteen was adjudged to have smothered her new-born daughter. Even the crowd appeared subdued at the thought of a young and comely girl meeting such a horrid fate.
The Sergeant of the Constables could not allow himself to be swayed by sentimentality. “Ausra Seltaras, the Peremptor has found that, brought to bed of an unwanted child, you did murder her to prevent your condition becoming known. For this wicked deed only death can result. Whatever your final thoughts, will you not share them?”
Ausra Seltaras set up a great shriek as the noose was placed around her neck. “No! No! I did not kill her! Oh, have mercy! Please, good sirs!”
The crowd booed lustily. The infamy of infanticide outweighed the pitiability of the perpetrator, and now with clear conscience they could demand justice. Mirko felt revulsion more for the crowd than the murderess. What benefit was served by hanging a terrified girl in public?
“Have you no last observations?” asked the Sergeant, scanning the crowd as he did so. “Then it seems events must proceed.”
From the crowd came a cry: “A moment, good Sergeant!”
At the side of the platform a man stepped forth. His black uniform and four-cornered hat marked him out as a high officer of the Peremptor’s Constables. “I have here a communication from the Peremptor himself. Kindly delay matters an instant!”
The officer stepped up on to the platform and handed the Sergeant the letter. With the rope still around Ausra Seltaras’ neck, he paused to read it aloud.
I, Peremptor Giedrus of the City and Peremptorate of Paladria, have given my personal attention to the case of the infanticide Ausra Seltaras. Be it known that in the light of her youth, and certain doubts pertaining to the circumstances of the crime, I rescind the sentence of death. Ausra Seltaras, you are free from the Peremptor’s justice. I decree a payment of one hundred valut in compensation for your sufferings.
By order of the Peremptor.
As the noose was removed from an uncomprehending Ausra Seltaras’ neck, the crowd began a mighty cheering. A minute ago they had howled for her death: now they celebrated her reprieve. Mirko was disgusted by the charade. What if the pardon had been for Larkas Laman or Clovildas Cloon? Too late for either. Events had clearly been stage-managed, the messenger awaiting the last possible moment before stepping forth. Entertainment had been provided for all, and no harm done – except for poor Ausra Seltaras, compensated with a few paltry coins for an unnecessary ordeal. Was she guilty or innocent? That seemed to be the least of anyone’s worries. The Paladrians were a cruel and frivolous people.
His mood of gloom continued into the evening. It was a quiet night at the Waterside. The doxies were out on the waterfront soliciting trade from the revellers enjoying the race festivities. The stale odour of the tavern offended him more than usual, and he took himself outside for some sea air. With wry amusement he saw advancing towards him none other than Ipolitas Liudas.
Liudas was as richly dressed as ever, but his spirits seemed subdued. Mirko remembered with the start of a smile that Liudas had been Serendipity’s helm that afternoon, and had not performed with any particular credit. His turn around the Morvellos Lighthouse had been particularly inept.
“Ascalon,” he said. “The Elector would like to see you. Tomorrow evening. At Formello.”
“Formello?”
“His Lordship’s estate in the hills. I am not favoured with his confidence: however it seems unlikely he has any desire to be acquainted with you socially; therefore you may surmise he desires to discuss a business arrangement with you.”
“Perhaps he requires a new helm for Serendipity.”
Liudas sniffed. “I’ll collect you at six bars tomorrow. Be ready, and be presentable. There are likely to be persons of quality present.”
CHAPTER 3
T
he next evening Mirko found himself accompanying Liudas aboard a rattlejack pulled by two galumphers along a well-maintained road up into the hills above Paladria. Mirko had selected a simple outfit of coat, shirt and breeches in black with a silver stock and belt. The garments, while not discreditable, were unlikely to commend him to the best society.
Liudas, in a better humour tonight, was more gaudily attired. His coat, with tails of impractically extravagant length, was canary yellow, creating a brave contrast with his orange shirt and deep green pantaloons. His shoes carried an affected curl at the toes.
Bartazan clearly intended to reopen negotiations with him to take Serendipity in hand. Mirko found himself oddly indifferent. If Bartazan was willing to meet his price, well and good; if not he was no worse off. So resolving, he settled himself back in the rattlejack to enjoy the scenery. Liudas seemed to consider conversation beneath his dignity, and Mirko breathed deeply of the clean woodland air, crisp and sharp at this altitude above the city.
Eventually a looming castle came into view. The structure radiated no great warmth of spirit, but evinced an austere grandeur. Liudas became alert.
“This,” he said loftily, “is Formello, the Elector’s private estate. Tonight he holds a grand soirée, at which several Electors and their families will be present. There will also be a number of important persons from the racing world. I cannot imagine the Elector will favour you greatly with his notice.”
“You paint an impressive picture. Naturally I wonder how I come to have earned an invitation — and indeed it seems you must be a person of greater distinction than your popinjay manner would suggest.”
Liudas chose not to respond, unless silence could itself be considered a response. Mirko was free to concentrate on the approach to Formello. Seemingly it had been designed originally with defence in mind, with great
crenellated walls rising above a denuded approach. Anyone wishing to assault Formello would not do so by surprise.
The rattlejack came to a halt and the driver gave his hand to Liudas, who climbed down gingerly, his freedom of movement hampered by the tightness of his garments and the impracticality of his footwear. Mirko vaulted to the ground rather than submit to such indignity. A pair of footmen, faintly ludicrous in powdered wigs, issued from Formello and bowed low to Liudas and Mirko.
Liudas leaned forward and spoke quietly to Mirko: “Remember — this is Formello, where events may go with more punctilio than you expect. Avoid obtruding yourself on the notice of the Electors, and you may acquit yourself without obvious buffoonery. Wait patiently until the Elector chooses to transact his business with you. Do not drink to excess; you will embarrass yourself and more importantly the Elector: even in an indirect sense myself.
“You will see many women, the majority of whom will be rather comelier than you are accustomed to. Be assured that your attire would be sufficient to repel the lowliest of them, even before your uncouth manner. In this context any lewdness, familiarity or flirtation would be not merely unwelcome, but unutterably jejune.”
“You suggest, then, that I should stand quietly in the corner, trying to avoid the notice of all society, until the Elector remembers why he invited me?”
“In essence, yes.”
“I am puzzled as to how the Elector will be able to find such an invisible person among his guests under these circumstances.”
“Pah! There is no helping some folk. Drink, belch, fart and rut as the mood takes you. It is all one to me.”
The footmen silently escorted Mirko and Liudas across a long courtyard to the entrance into the main hall. From the inside came the music of hautboys, sober and dignified. Stepping inside, Mirko saw a large hall furnished in some luxury: damask-covered divans, rich hangings and tapestries were arrayed liberally around the hall. A waiter in the Bartazan livery of dark and light blue — the ‘Azure’ — handed Mirko a silver goblet filled with a sensuous red wine. With a wink at Liudas, he quaffed a handsome measure. The rich warmth soothed his throat; this was better than the Waterside could offer.
