by Tim Stretton
Orstas flushed red, and not only from the already powerful morning sun. “As long as I can use the snib.”
“You only demean yourself by beating the men. I want to see none of it today.”
“It’s the overseer who’s blamed if they row badly.”
“Beating them doesn’t make them row any better.”
Liudas strolled across. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said lightly. “Can you not set aside your philosophical differences for today?”
Orstas spat into the sand of the compound. Mirko shook his head in seeming wonder.
“You two,” said Mirko. “Go down to the dock and check that the hands are setting the galley up correctly. I’ll bring the crew down myself.”
Liudas and Orstas set off with ill-grace, Orstas appearing particularly vexed. Mirko leaped onto a refectory table.
“Men!” he called out to the assembled crew. “Today you row in an important race. Bartazan, Orstas, Liudas, myself: we can do nothing. The performance of Serendipity is down to you! There will be no shackles and I expect to see less beating. In arranging such conditions I have tried to safeguard your welfare; if you row badly, you make a fool of me, and make it easier for them to shackle you next time. Row well and the concessions we have achieved will be renewed.”
One of the slaves, a one-eyed rogue named Augenis, called out:
“Why should we care? We’re slaves and we’ll die slaves! What do we care who wins?”
“Here’s one reason,” replied Mirko. “Serendipity will soon be a prime galley. Those of you who don’t row with enthusiasm will find Bartazan sells you to less liberal owners, or gelds you to guard his seraglio. Neither prospect is appealing.”
Another man, a captured Garganet officer called Florian, also had objections. “Why should we listen to you, Ascalon? You were stripped of your rank at home, and should never have charge of seamen again! We don’t want to row for you and we don’t want to row for Bartazan.”
“Florian, we are in Paladria now. We are a racing galley, not a warship. All we have is our pride in our performance. We’re racing for ourselves, not Bartazan.”
The men muttered among themselves. Those who had been born slaves — the minority — seemed puzzled by their unshackling. The former free men appeared, by and large, to stand taller with their irons off. Mirko was cautiously optimistic.
“Quartermen!” he called. “Form your quarters, and follow me to the dock. We’ve a regatta to win!”
Privately Mirko’s opinion as he walked to the dock was that victory was out of the question. The men still had not built up their strength, despite the improved diet and training. More importantly, Orstas remained an appalling overseer, with brutality his only recourse. So far Bartazan had refused to replace him, but sooner or later he would need to do so. Liudas, while willing enough, lacked the instincts of a truly sound helm. His replacement was not so urgent as Orstas’; however an experienced helm would surely add to Serendipity’s competitiveness.
These reflections occupied Mirko all the way to the docks. The approach to the galley was already thronged with an enthusiastic crowd. The most popular boat was clearly Dragonchaser, with many of the crowd waving red and gold flags, or curious effigies of Drallenkoop. Animaxian’s Glory was popular, reasonably enough, among the eccentrically-dressed acolytes of the sea-god Animaxian. Mirko was surprised to see a sizeable group bedecked in the Azure chanting the name of Serendipity. What if she started winning? Did Bartazan employed retainers to cheer Serendipity on?
Away from the main throng was an enclosure raised on stilts affording a prime view of the bay where dignitaries watched the races. At the summit was the Peremptor’s Box, and today it seemed Peremptor Giedrus was in attendance. Mirko didn’t know whether the Peremptor was an aficionado; as ruler of Paladria, by custom he did not maintain a galley.
Mirko made his way towards the enclosure; he had not had the chance to discuss progress with Bartazan in recent days and was keen to play down the Elector’s expectations.
Bartazan was at the steps at the foot of the enclosure, in keen conversation with a florid man of early middle-age. Bartazan shook hands with the man and then caught sight of Mirko.
“Captain Ascalon! A grand day for a race!”
“Good day, my lord! The conditions do appear promising. I hope Serendipity performs creditably.”
“Hope?” said Bartazan with a frown. “Hope is for those who lack any more rational basis for success. I have heard of your new training measures and have high expectations!”
“It might be prudent, my lord, to remember that it is early in the season, and Serendipity does not start from a position of strength. My aims are focused on the Margariad; a good performance today would be a welcome bonus.”
“Since you have just seen me place 100 valut on Serendipity to win at odds of twelve to one, my expectations run higher than ‘a good performance’.”
Mirko was saved from further hectoring by the arrival of Carnazan and Larien to take their places in Bartazan’s box. They exchanged formal if not cordial greetings with their uncle; both seemed in elevated spirits, especially Larien, who surreptitiously squeezed Mirko’s arm.
“Ascalon!” she cried. “You cannot imagine how much I adore these days — the sun, the crowds, the galleys! Serendipity looks so smart in the Azure, and look at Dragonchaser — how hard she will be to beat! And they say Excelsior has been training well too!”
“Enough!” laughed Carnazan. “Ascalon will need to compose his wits before the race, not listen to your prattle! I take it you’ll be aboard today?”
“Oh yes,” said Mirko. “Strictly there’s no need for me, but Orstas is even worse when I’m not there, and I hope to steady Liudas’ judgement. I’ll learn more on the water than on the quay.”
“We won’t keep you then,” he said. “The galleys will be moving out soon.”
Mirko made his way through to the jetty, moving past the rival boats as he did so. Excelsior, lilac and silver, was first, with an unfavourable inside draw which meant she would need to fight her way past the other boats to get a clear run. He nodded a greeting to Raïdis and Haïdis as they superintended their slaves.
He saw Morvellos Devil with her distinctive orange and yellow livery, with a mermaid pennon streaming from her stern; Kestrel, privately owned and helmed by Daumantas, a wealthy merchant; and of course Dragonchaser, also hampered by an unfavourable draw. Drallenkoop, already aboard, did not look worried. His white pantaloons made a contrast with his sun-tanned torso as he lounged at the helm. His overseer, Mindaugas, appeared no more concerned. Alone of all the boats, Dragonchaser faced the race with no apparent trepidation. Drallenkoop raised his arm to Mirko in airy salute and called out something he did not hear against the cheers of the crowd; Mirko waved back.
The penultimate galley on the quay was Serendipity, making an exceptionally favourable draw. The Hanspar was in no sense a tactical race; the galleys pulled out against a strong current for ten minutes or so until they reached the Hanspar Rock; rounding the rock, they then pulled for the finish line, largely with the current. A boat with a good draw, such as Serendipity or Animaxian’s Glory, was in a strong position, since the other boats had to pass the leader against the current. Mirko’s tactics were simple; he intended to run flat out into the current from the base of his favourable draw; Dragonchaser and Excelsior had ground to make up, and if he could get to the Rock ahead of them, they might never close the gap.
Mirko surveyed his own crew. Liudas was pale and sweating; this was real racing. Orstas’ jaw was clenched, determination oozing from every pore. Jenx, the slave-drummer, chewed on what Mirko suspected was a narcotic weed; he needed to have an absolute sense of rhythm, and if it took falcx to achieve sufficient detachment, Mirko wasn’t going to complain.
A great gong sounded and the crowd redoubled their cheers. Serendipity started to move away, Jenx beating the rhythm ‘Seven’.
“Orstas!” called down Mirko from the observation
platform, “beat Nine!”
Orstas nodded and mouthed an order to Jenx, who increased his rhythm. Serendipity perceptibly gained speed. Liudas pulled the helm around to starboard to bring her dangerously close to Animaxian’s Glory, who had had the most favourable draw. The manoeuvre appeared to unsettle Animaxian’s Glory, who attempted to pick up her speed. The result was a clash of oars which cost momentum, and Serendipity streaked past. The race was thirty seconds old, and Serendipity was in the lead!
Animaxian’s Glory had been badly affected by her fouling, and slewed round to the port side, blocking the boats in third and fourth. Mirko could not believe their luck; Serendipity was in the lead and all the pursuing boats would have to move around the now virtually stationary Animaxian’s Glory.
“Orstas! Keep Nine!” he called. The greater the lead Serendipity could open up now, the more disheartened the pursuit would become.
The crew, he noted, seemed comfortable enough with Nine — not a rate to maintain for a long race, but for a well-trained crew with good morale, sustainable in the short term. Orstas shouted out periodic curses but no more; Liudas was required to do nothing more than steer in a straight line; and Mirko was able to draw breath, and enjoy the steady pull-pull-pull from the crew.
Soon Mirko sensed from the crew that Nine was too fast and pulled the rhythm back down to Eight. He looked back over his shoulder, and to his dismay saw that Dragonchaser was the second-placed galley, with Excelsior in third. These skilful and well-trained crews had found it easiest to get around Animaxian’s Glory, now way back down the field.
Mirko counted Dragonchaser’s strokes; it looked as though she was sustaining Nine. This was hardly surprising; Dragonchaser was the best for good reason, her crew strong, fit and well-nourished. At this rate, though, Serendipity would reach the Rock first.
Liudas and Orstas had noticed Dragonchaser making ground. Orstas looked up, expecting the call for Nine, but Mirko shook his head. He called down to Liudas: “Prepare to turn!” and Liudas nodded grimly.
The crew of Dragonchaser had set up a great howl, a plangent tone which raised the hackles on Mirko’s neck. If it was meant to unsettle, it was certainly effective.
“Liudas, careful now! Steady turn, you have time!”
Liudas had not judged the approach well. Serendipity was moving towards the Rock on too flat a trajectory, making a shorter line, but requiring a tighter, more technical turn. The crew, their backs to the direction of the galley, maintained their rhythm. Liudas realised that his approach was too close, but rather than pulling wider and losing time, gambled on being able to make the turn smartly enough to whip around.
It was a manoeuvre that would have taxed an experienced helm, and it was too much for Liudas. Grrrch! The lead starboard oar caught the rock, snapped clean in half; the hull followed with an alarming thud.
“Starboard oars! Push off! Push off!” cried Mirko. “Liudas — hard to port, hard to port!”
Liudas waved the helm ineffectually while the crew did what they could to push Serendipity back away from the rock. Orstas liberally applied the snib, despite Mirko’s instructions to the contrary.
Eventually Serendipity was back in the main stream, albeit virtually stationary. Dragonchaser, who had executed the turn perfectly, slid past at Nine, and while Serendipity was realigning herself Excelsior moved past too, Raïdis giving a cheery wave.
Serendipity, with one starboard oar broken, another badly cracked, and the hull leaking, was in no position to make up the ground, even if Orstas had applied himself to encouragement rather than brutality. Fortunately the current was now in her favour, and while Dragonchaser and Excelsior streaked away, only Morvellos Devil made serious inroads into the remainder of the gap.
Orstas affected not to hear Mirko’s calls from the observation platform, and instructed Jenx to set a ludicrous Nine rhythm. Given the speed at which she had rowed the first leg, and the damage she had sustained, this was the height of optimism. Inevitably several of the crew fell short of the rhythm, leading to fouling and erratic course. Liudas, a dejected figure in his Azure livery, was unable to correct such veering. Orstas became steadily more enraged, roaming the deck beating any rower who dropped below the Nine.
Morvellos Devil, rowing Eight but with a full complement of oars and a more sustainable rhythm, passed Serendipity with a great cheer just before the finish line. Zigzagging wildly, Serendipity crossed the line in fourth place to a good ovation. Mirko would have settled for the result beforehand, but the race should have been won. Both Liudas and Orstas had revealed significant defects.
Orstas appeared to place the blame elsewhere. He dragged Skaidrys, the unlucky oarsman who had been snapped on the Rock, from his seat as Serendipity moved alongside the jetty.
“You cost us the race! You cost us the race! If we’d gone round the Rock first we’d have won!”
“How could I tell? I was facing backwards!” replied Skaidrys with some spirit.
“Bastard slave-son of a pox-whore!” yelled Orstas. “No slave talks back to me!”
He struck Skaidrys full in the face with the snib, opening a wound from cheek to jaw. Skaidrys fell senseless to the deck, which was insufficient to check Orstas’ rage. Again and again he beat the prone figure.
Mirko leaped from the platform. “Orstas!” he said, voice quiet but eyes blazing. “Enough! More than enough!”
Orstas looked up and spat, then raised his arm for another strike at Skaidrys. At the top of his stroke, Mirko held his wrist and took the snib, which he then brought down on Orstas’ shoulders. Orstas toppled over in sheer astonishment. Mirko hauled him up by his Azure shirt, which he then ripped off. He administered three smart blows to Orstas’ bare back. Orstas, too stunned to respond, simply stared. Mirko grasped Orstas’ waistband firmly.
“Orstas,” he said loudly enough for the whole galley to hear. “You are a disgrace, not just to the position of overseer, but to the condition of man. Consider yourself discharged — on the instant!”
With this Mirko pitched Orstas over the side of Serendipity and into the dock in front of the watching masses. After some ineffectual splashing, a dockhand held out a pole and Orstas was hauled to safety.
The crowd, at first stunned into silence, set up a great chant. “Serendipity! Serendipity! Serendipity!” If part of Mirko’s job was to boost Bartazan’s popularity with the masses, it seemed he had earned his money today.
He jumped nimbly off the galley and walked off into the crowd. A woman in black bumped against him, and Mirko turned to apologise. It was ‘N’. “I imagine Bartazan will want to talk to you tonight. So do I. Come to the Waterside when you’re through with the Elector,” she said, and was gone.
Bartazan proved elusive, and it was not until early that evening that Mirko found him. The Peremptor traditionally held a banquet at his grace and favour palace Coverciano after the major regattas, to which Electors, gentlefolk and crew were invited; naturally the guest-list did not include the slaves.
Coverciano was a palace in some contrast to Formello; it occupied sprawling grounds on the outskirts of the city, a two-storey structure of white stone, surrounded by luxuriant gardens concealing artfully disguised grottoes, groves and glades. It was a place designed for warfare covert rather than overt.
Mirko presented himself at the main entrance, where Constables in Peremptor’s black scrutinised his credentials before conducting him to a cool high chamber. Immediately Mirko saw Bartazan in conversation with another Elector, one of those who had been present on his visit to Formello. Before he could make his presence known, Carnazan approached him with a bound.
“Mirko! Good to see you! You were unlucky today.”
Mirko gave a grim smile. “Hello, Carnazan. I hope your uncle takes the same view, although as I caught him wagering on the result beforehand, somehow I doubt it.”
Before Carnazan could respond, two voices called out:
“Mirko!”
“Ascalon!”
The first was Larien, and Mirko responded with a cheery wave; before registering that the second voice was Bartazan’s. He immediately set his countenance to gloomy.
“When you have finished ogling my niece, captain, perhaps I might have a word?”
“Of course, my lord.” Mirko could not repress the image of Bartazan’s ankles chasing Ansifer and Locapeste round his bedchamber and failed in his attempt to subdue a smirk.
“I fail to see the source of your amusement, captain. Serendipity, or should I say you, threw away the best chance of victory I have had for two years. Join me immediately in the ante-chamber!” said Bartazan, indicating the adjoining room.
Unfortunately the room was already occupied by Raïdis and Haïdis of Excelsior; they were engaged in earnest conversation with the hapless Liudas, who appeared not to have borne his error with fortitude. His flushed face, dishevelled garments and inane smirk indicated an excessive acquaintance with Coverciano’s wine.
Bartazan bowed without warmth to Raïdis and Haïdis. Raïdis grinned back with something marginally short of insolence. “My lord.”
“Gentlemen, would you be so good as to give us privacy? I am keen to discuss events with Ascalon and Liudas.”
Raïdis uttered a hoot of laughter. “No doubt you are, my lord. My only surprise is that overseer Orstas is not here to add his own contribution — perhaps with the snib.”
Bartazan sniffed with probably unaffected hauteur. “Be that as it may, I require the use of this chamber. You will oblige me by quitting it immediately.”
“I’m sure I would,” said Raïdis, “if my intent were to oblige you in the first place. Since I feel no such urge, I think I will remain here. What do you say, Haïdis?”
“Yes.”
Bartazan glowered. Neither by temperament nor by station was he a man who brooked insolence or dissent.
“Ascalon! Liudas! Leave the room to these louts. If we must transact our business outside we shall.”
