by Tim Stretton
“Now,” she said. “You have one mildly hazardous engagement, and one potentially enjoyable one. And you’re getting paid. I can’t see a great deal for you to complain about.”
“What’s the job?”
“Firstly, I need you to go back to Formello.” She unfolded paper and slipped it across to him. “That’s a map of the castle.” She indicated several locations. “In this room Bartazan keeps his ‘special’ correspondence. There is one letter in which he and Chiess-Vervario discuss methods for suppressing a certain person. Both Bartazan and Chiess-Vervario would be discommoded were this information to become public knowledge — to the corresponding enjoyment of those who would relish their discomfiture.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I just do,” said ‘N’ with a disarming smile. “It’s my job to know things. In this case it’s yours to find them out. More detailed instructions are encrypted here,” and she passed a small envelope across.
“You mentioned another assignment.”
“Ah, yes!” said ‘N’, and permitted herself a light laugh. “How did you like Larien?”
Mirko paused for thought. “All in all, she created a favourable impression.”
“What if I told you that she was keen to make your further acquaintance?”
“In truth, I appeared to make little impact on her. We had a brief stroll outside, primarily to vex Lady Inuela, and I learned she does not regard the House of Bartazan with any affection; but I detected no signs of overt interest.”
“She would be delighted to see you again.”
Mirko shook his head. “You are a strange woman, ‘N’. You talk large, and in the main your observations prove to be accurate; but how you find out these things …”
‘N’ pursed her lips with something of the asperity she employed when Mirko fished too obviously for information. “I have many informants. I work for a powerful sponsor. Finding things out is easy; you ask someone who knows the answer. You should try it.”
“So if I asked you how you knew Larien wanted to see more of me?”
“I wouldn’t tell you, of course. You have to be more subtle sometimes. You’d have to ask something else; I’d evade answering that question, but give away the answer to what you’re really interested in. Candidly, men rarely have that kind of finesse, and you appear no different.”
Mirko raised his eyebrows.
“Now, you have your instructions: get me that correspondence, and pay a call on Larien. You may even save yourself rattlejack fare if you combine the two errands.”
Stepping briskly from the booth, ‘N’ was gone, leaving Mirko as confused as normal after their meetings.
The next morning Mirko made his way to Formello to supervise the transport of the slaves to Urmaleškas, the town barracks employed by Bartazan for his private militia. Satisfied that Orstas appeared to have the task in hand, he decided that he had a suitable occasion to pay a call on Larien, much as he doubted the advisability of ‘N’s advice. Hailing a rattlejack from the waterfront, he used the journey to compose himself for the tasks ahead.
To his surprise Larien appeared almost immediately he had presented himself to Kintautas, Bartazan’s factotum. Attired today in a light brown dress which nicely set off her hair and complexion, she greeted Mirko with every appearance of cordiality.
“Captain Ascalon! How good of you to leave your administrations to call upon me. Please, refresh yourself!” she said, handing over a goblet of a pale cool wine which Mirko found heady but not unpleasant.
“I enjoyed our conversation on my last visit to Formello,” he said as the pair walked down a shady path towards the back of the estate. “I thought I might chance to call upon you.”
Larien smiled to reveal charming dimples. “Lord Bartazan will have been sorry to miss you; and I will take care not to announce you to Lady Inuela.”
Mirko was surprised at Larien’s cordiality. Perhaps she really did entertain a partiality for him; one she must have confided to someone else, for ‘N’ to have come by her information. Mirko saw no harm in responding warmly.
“My lady,” he said. “My previous experience of Formello was all too fleeting. I would be honoured if a trusted servant, or even Kintautas, could give me a tour of the building.”
“Kintautas!” she exclaimed in a high clear voice. “I will show you myself! Let us begin immediately.”
For the next hour or so Larien conducted Mirko around the cool splendour of Formello, pointing out towers, gatehouses, stables, kitchens. Mirko was quickly able to orient himself to ‘N’s map, and tried to formulate a plan to gain access to Bartazan’s private apartments, high in the Adamantine Tower. Secure behind two levels of fortification, it seemed unlikely that there would be extensive security.
“Are your own apartments nearby?” asked Mirko, hoping to avoid the leer which sometimes marred his countenance in such circumstances.
“Why yes they are!” laughed Larien. “All of the ‘family’ live in the Adamantine Tower. Let me show you!”
Larien was undeniably an attractive woman. Her pale blue eyes sparkled with barely suppressed vitality. Mirko’s experience of the intelligencers’ trade was limited; but he had rarely imagined it to be so easy or so pleasurable. While to a certain extent it was possible to attribute his success to date to strong mental powers and innate charm, Mirko felt that events were moving with a suspicious facility. He would need to question ‘N’ more closely the next time they met.
Larien’s apartments were furnished with a largely understated good taste, the furniture well-designed and constructed, and wall-hangings of quiet distinction blending into the background. The terracotta and ochre shades of the fabrics created a soothing ambience. One intricate tapestry depicted a galley race; the profile and colouring of Dragonchaser were discernible, but most of the other craft were indistinguishable.
“A present from Koopendrall to my uncle,” laughed Larien. “Drallenkoop had just won the Margariad for the first time and Koopendrall commissioned a series of these tapestries, showing Dragonchaser trouncing all comers. They were presented to vanquished rivals: this one I rescued from the dung-heap.”
“Was not your uncle vexed at your conduct?”
“Why, yes he was, since you ask. Since this was the main point of the episode from my point of view, I was well satisfied. In time I came also to like the tapestry, which is exquisite. Look at the detail with which the artist has rendered Dragonchaser’s slaves! It was an expensive act of bravado from Koopendrall.”
“I hope I am not impertinent in suggesting that your life here cannot be an unalloyed pleasure. Neither the lord nor lady of the house appears to afford you much comfort.”
Larien smiled. “You are not impertinent, since I volunteered as much to you on our last meeting. I develop my own expedients for improving my condition.”
“Such as provoking Lord Bartazan and Lady Inuela at every opportunity.”
“That, of course,” she laughed. “You will also have noticed the sally-port I leave unlocked to slip into the gardens. There is another in the outer wall, which allows me to leave Formello unnoticed at will. I can roam the forest or step down into Paladria as the mood takes me. No-one notices I am gone.”
“No doubt Bartazan would be vexed to learn you so carelessly compromise the castle’s security,” said Mirko with a smile – thinking as he did so that 'N' might be interested to learn this information.
Larien gave a scornful laugh. “Bartazan is negligent! Formello is an imposing fortress, but unless Paladria is at war no-one will attack it. He employs the minimum – indeed, less than the minimum – number of guards, and they are rarely drilled with the necessary vigour.”
Mirko had not expected Larien to provide such information so casually. “Why is such slackness permitted?”
“You must understand,” said Larien, “that an Elector is not a military leader. Bartazan’s concern is to cut a fine figure among his peers: it is in this light you should view F
ormello. Add also that my uncle is most notoriously niggardly, and spends many valut on his informants, and all is explained.”
“You still do not paint an engaging picture of your life at Formello.”
“I often spend time among the servants. Such carelessness of place displeases my uncle, and the servants are merry folk when the mood takes them. Sometimes I visit old Padizan, the slave-master.”
Mirko had met Padizan on various occasions when seeking better slaves for Serendipity. He had formed no high opinion of his capacities.
Larien divined something of his thought. “He is not the most vigorous of persons,” she said with a smile. “I know that he sleeps every night away when he should be on watch at the slave pens. But he was kind to me when I was a child, and he enjoys my visits. And of course, if he knows I am likely to be on hand, he resists the temptation to neglect or even mistreat the slaves.”
“I wonder how the servants respond to a great lady in their midst,” said Mirko. “Are they not inhibited?”
Larien laughed her high laugh. “I am no ‘great lady’, captain! There are fifty Electors in Paladria, and I am simply the orphan niece of one of them. Some of the servants are more pleased to see me than others. Stoggo the kitchen-lad, for instance, always welcomes my approach: Master Ninkin, who superintends him, is less gratified. The reasons are simple: Ninkin loads punishments upon poor foolish Stoggo mercilessly, and is forced to desist on my arrival.”
Mirko smiled at the thought of Larien protecting a lack-witted kitchen boy from petty tyranny. At this moment Kintautas appeared with a pregnant cough.
“Excuse me, my lady. The Noble Ipolitas Liudas presents his compliments and begs to remind you of your appointment.”
Larien’s mouth drooped in displeasure. “I confess to overlooking my obligation. Kintautas, please convey my apologies to Liudas and tell him I will join him directly in my uncle’s parlour.”
Kintautas bowed and went his way. Larien smiled apologetically. “I am sorry — I had asked Liudas to call on me to discuss some clothing, and I had forgotten. If you care to wait here, I will be no longer than an hour; feel free to refresh yourself, or sample my collection of books.”
Mirko bowed. “Please do not let me detain you! I am happy to relax in such congenial surroundings.”
Engaging as Larien’s company had been, Mirko felt that her absence represented an excellent opportunity to satisfy his other objective. ‘N’s instructions had guaranteed that Bartazan would be from home, and Mirko stepped briskly down the corridor and through the arras into Bartazan’s private quarters.
Mirko was surprised by the comparative austerity with which the apartment was furnished. This was clearly a place of work rather than relaxation. One chair, sturdy but scarcely luxurious, faced a solid unpretentious wooden desk. Two walls were lined with unimposing wooden cabinets, the location of Bartazan’s compromising papers. Mirko knew that the item he required would be filed under ‘C’ for ‘Chiess-Vervario’, and so it proved. He extracted an item and swiftly scanned it to ensure it was the right document:
Under the Grand Seal of Bartazan
At Formello
The 14th Day of Maio, Second Peremptorate of Giedrus, Fourth Year
My Lord Chiess-Vervario,
I am pleased to report that the person who has so vexed you has been apprehended and now finds himself my guest at Formello. I perform this favour as a token of the great esteem in which I hold the House and Electorate of Chiess-Vervario, and no reward is necessary.
Naturally I appreciate that any whisper of this deed, or the release of a certain person into society, would cause considerable embarrassment to me, and of course to yourself. In retaining his custody I thereby insure us both against censure. I am sure you will be conscious of this minor sacrifice at the appropriate time.
I remain your steadfast friend,
Of Bartazan House, Bartazan
This was clearly the right document: while it hardly meant ruin for Bartazan, his standing with the Electors would not be enhanced by the illegal incarceration of prisoners in his dungeons. Mirko wondered who the ‘certain person’ was; presumably a person of consequence for the matter to be worth ‘N’s attention. Regardless, she would be well pleased.
Mirko heard a sound behind him; immediately he dived into the nearest room, which as luck would have it, proved to be a bed-chamber. Crouching behind Bartazan’s couch with a distinct lack of dignity, he saw two sets of male ankles move past and into a reception chamber. From here Mirko could hear all that occurred but see nothing.
“So,” said a voice Mirko recognised as Bartazan’s, “what do you have to report?”
“The Animaxianites continue to search with vigour,” said the second voice, cool and relaxed. “They suspect Chiess-Vervario of complicity in the deed. Soon, I think, they will conclude that Chiess-Vervario has had him killed. At no stage has the potential involvement of the House of Bartazan been mooted.”
“Good, very good,” said Bartazan. “You have done well, and as long as we hold such a powerful counter, Chiess-Vervario’s vote is secure. What of the other Electors?”
“Giedrus remains assured of seventeen votes from his adherents, such as Norvydas, and those implacably opposed to yourself, such as Koopendrall. Those naturally of your party amount perhaps to twelve, and if we add in Chiess-Vervario and Baltazaras we arrive at fourteen. I cannot imagine Algimantas supporting Giedrus under the circumstances, which brings us to fifteen. That makes thirty-two votes essentially decided, with sixteen remaining. Of those you require ten. It’s still in the balance.”
“Is it not? Is it not?” asked Bartazan softly. “If we win the Margariad, the waverers will have to back me; they will not stand against the people. If not, we may have to unearth a few secrets … Tell me, how does Ascalon shape up?”
“He will win no prizes for harmony. Orstas loathes him, Liudas thinks him a buffoon. I see no discernible improvement in the sea trial performance. The Hanspar Regatta is tomorrow and we will learn more then.”
“I tell you,” said Bartazan, “Ascalon may yet surprise you. He was an exceptional commander in Garganet.”
“Maybe,” said the second voice. “But if I were you I’d try to get those votes before the Margariad.”
“Thank you again for your efforts. Kintautas will have something for you on your way out.”
The second man left the room, leaving Bartazan alone. Mirko hoped he would soon move, since he was becoming uncomfortably cramped. Unfortunately, Bartazan stepped across, pulled a bell-cord, and came into the bed-chamber itself. Mirko, wedged into a corner, could see only a ceiling painted with martial scenes.
Mirko recognised the voice of Kintautas, who presumably had been on hand nearby to give Bartazan’s informant his douceur.
“My lord?”
“Ah, Kintautas! Do you have the Menstrual Register to hand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ansifer, Culyrama, Locapeste: which of these is not currently inconvenienced?”
“Both Ansifer and Locapeste are available for your requirements, my lord.”
“Good, good! Send up Ansifer, no wait — send up both! I find myself in the mood for diversion tonight.”
Mirko, who might also have welcomed diversion, did not welcome the guise it was likely to assume. Nonetheless, he doubted that he possessed the sang-froid simply to emerge from his concealment and saunter from the chamber. Bartazan, after all, was his employer, and was unlikely to take a positive view of Mirko’s espionage. ‘N’s instructions had been insufficiently precise regarding such situations. No doubt she would enjoin him to fall back on his natural resource.
Bartazan settled himself back on his couch to await the arrival of Ansifer and Locapeste. Mirko eased himself by inches under the couch, so that he would no longer be visible to anyone walking around the room. Shortly two sets of ankles appeared in his vision, both trim and evidently female; Mirko hoped that they would make short work of easing Bartazan’s l
usts.
The period that followed remained in Mirko’s memory as an ineradicable nightmare of infamy. The pounding of the couch immediately above him, the shrieks of ecstasy, the groans of satiation, all forced themselves into his consciousness with a grotesque vigour. Just when all seemed completed, Bartazan rose from his couch and chased Ansifer and Locapeste around the room with renewed energy. Mirko hoped that neither would think to feign concealment under the couch; he doubted he could find a conversational gambit adequate to the situation.
Fortunately Bartazan was able to subdue his playmates without need for under-couch frolics. After his late flourish, Bartazan dismissed Ansifer and Locapeste, and soon fell into a deep and audible sleep. Mirko admired his stamina: rest was well earned. Moving slowly and quietly he left the apartments, and made his way back to Larien’s.
Mirko was not surprised to find that Larien had returned during his absence. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I became restive in your absence and explored a little.”
“Well,” said Larien, “I forgive you this time. Would you like to stay awhile?”
Mirko might normally have been happy to explore the notion in more detail, but his recent experience under Bartazan’s couch had dampened his ardour. With a polite excuse and fulsome thanks for Larien’s hospitality, he made his way to the main gate and, desperate for exercise, walked down the long hill to Paladria Old Town.
CHAPTER 5
T
he next morning Mirko sent a brief note to ‘N’ outlining his progress to date. No doubt she would soon be keen to see him, and almost certainly provide more money. It was also the day of the Hanspar Regatta, the first test of the racing season for Serendipity under Mirko’s tutelage.
Mirko made his way to Urmaleškas, Bartazan’s private barracks on the outskirts of the Old Town. Liudas was already present, and Orstas soon was on hand to shackle the slaves.
“Orstas!” called Mirko with some asperity. “There will be no shackling today! The crew will march down to the docks as close to free men as we can contrive it.”
