by Tim Stretton
“Well said, my lord!” cried Liudas, only to be silenced by a terrible frown.
Mirko and Liudas followed Bartazan through an archway into a pleasant garden, where liveried footmen served spiced red wine and piquant savoury larks. Liudas reached out for a goblet, but desisted when Mirko shook his head. Mirko felt that the interview would prove difficult enough, without Liudas any drunker than he already was.
“Well, Captain Ascalon,” said Bartazan as he seated himself on a bench. “I would be interested to hear your observations on the race and its immediate aftermath.”
“All in all, my lord,” began Mirko. “I detected cautious grounds for encouragement. The crew’s physical strength has clearly improved, and under more sympathetic oversight, the raggedness which marred the latter part of the race could have been avoided.”
“You apportion the blame for the fiasco solely to the absent Orstas, then?” asked Bartazan as he crunched into a lark.
“I would not use the term ‘fiasco’ at all,” said Mirko. “Certainly not in the context of a fourth-placed finish which exceeded all expectations.”
“Enough!” cried Bartazan in rising displeasure, nearly choking on his lark. “Approaching the Rock you had the race won! From here, fourth place is a travesty, an abortion, a —”
Mirko interjected smoothly, “Approaching the Rock we were under considerable pressure from Dragonchaser, a galley plainly able to sustain a higher tempo. Our only hope of winning was to go round ahead, and Liudas took a gamble to see we did. It failed, but a more conservative approach would have been no more successful, I think.”
Bartazan looked unconvinced by Mirko’s analysis.
“You might also care to explain the unorthodox circumstances under which my overseer disembarked Serendipity.”
“The situation is essentially straightforward,” said Mirko as he took a sip of his wine, nodding in appreciation. “You will remember that I had previously alluded to significant defects in Orstas’ performance: in the event these defects became even more manifest that I had suspected, and I was left with no recourse but to discharge him on the spot. Since his abilities were so negligible, I can only assume you had employed him as a favour to friend or creditor; and I apologise for any embarrassment arising.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Bartazan was speechless. While he attempted to formulate a suitable reply, a figure crashed through the undergrowth: Orstas, if possible even drunker than Liudas.
“I hear you, Ascalon!” he cried. “ ‘Discharged!’ I was employed by my lord Bartazan, and only he can discharge me!”
“Orstas!” said Liudas placatingly. “Perhaps we can discuss this under less fraught circumstances.”
In a single movement Orstas turned and landed a flawless punch on Liudas’ nose, with a consequent eruption of blood. Liudas lay on his back in the flower-bed, looking stupidly up at his assailant.
Orstas stood over him, veins standing out from his forehead, alcoholic fumes reeking from his person. “If it wasn’t for you, pansy-boy, none of this would have happened! If you’d only managed to get round the Rock, I’d not have had to push the slaves so hard. And then that whoreson Ascalon would —”
“That’s enough, Orstas,” said Mirko, guiding him away from Liudas, whose efforts to rise were proving ineffectual.
Orstas shook off Mirko’s arm and squared up to him. “You caught me off guard today, pimp. Perhaps now we’ll see who’s the better man — if you dare.”
Mirko laughed in open contempt. Orstas was taller and broader, but while the drink might dull his pain, it would also have destroyed his reflexes. And he doubted strongly that Orstas was used to fighting anyone who might hit back.
Goaded, Orstas launched a long right hand at Mirko’s chin. Mirko swayed out of the way, feinted with his own right hand, and tripped Orstas into the flower-bed, where he sprawled alongside Liudas, with no greater dignity.
Crawling to his feet, he rose to face Bartazan, who had been watching the proceedings in stunned silence, a lark halfway to his mouth.
“My lord,” said Orstas. “I am your loyal overseer. I do not take orders from Ascalon, and most certainly he does not discharge me.”
Mirko said: “For once Orstas and I agree. He does not take orders from me — in fact he disobeyed my order to go to Tempo Eight this afternoon. And, regrettably, neither do I discharge him. You have a choice to make, my lord.”
Bartazan’s pale blue eyes were cold. Mirko did not think he was a sentimental man.
“Constables!” he called, and two Peremptor’s men appeared with amazing facility. “Escort the Gentle Orstas from the premises if you please. He no longer carries the status of overseer, and as such represents a gatecrasher.”
Orstas gave an incoherent bellow as the two guards frog-marched him from the scene. Looking back over his shoulder, he called: “I won’t forget this — either of you!”
Mirko had already turned away. He gave his hand to Liudas and pulled him upright from his botanical bed. “Go home, Liudas,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Dabbing at his nose, Liudas left with what dignity he could manage. At least, thought Mirko, he was leaving without an involuntary escort.
Bartazan and Mirko were alone in the garden.
“Do not think to dictate my policy, Ascalon,” said Bartazan. “In effect you gave me an ultimatum over Orstas. Remember who is the Elector here.”
“My lord,” said Mirko. “It had become essential that Orstas be discharged; plainly you had reached the same conclusion, or you would not have done so. If you want to moralise after the event, of course you may. The fact is that you’ve greatly helped your chances today.”
Bartazan sniffed. “You now have the problem of finding a new overseer.”
“I intend to take on the role myself.”
“Can you handle slaves?” Bartazan asked sceptically.
“I can handle seamen. Two of the crew are Garganet officers. I can hardly do worse than Orstas, at any rate.”
Bartazan pursed his lips. “What next? Don’t expect me to get rid of Liudas too.”
“We both know Liudas isn’t up to the job. The Hanspar isn’t a difficult race to steer; it only has one turn and he botched that.”
“Liudas’ father is a client of mine — the Elector Nool Ipolitas, on whose vote I will depend in the election. I can hardly dispense with his son under those circumstances.”
“I thought if you won the Margariad you didn’t need to worry about cheeseparing votes.”
“Ha! There you have me!” barked Bartazan with an unexpected laugh. “If you could guarantee me victory with the right helm, of course Liudas would be out on his ear.”
“I can guarantee you victory under those circumstances,” said Mirko with a slight smile. Bartazan looked around sharply.
“It’s simple,” said Mirko. “Get me Drallenkoop, and I’ll win you the Margariad!”
“You never know when to stop, Ascalon! Since I assume you have no constructive suggestions to make on this score, Liudas remains. Presumably you can teach him some of the rudiments of steering.”
Mirko shrugged, emptying his goblet. “What I can’t teach him is how not to panic when Dragonchaser’s coming up on his outside. The best he can aspire to is competence; élan will always be beyond him.”
Bartazan had no answer. After a pause, he said: “Be honest, Ascalon. How did we really do today? Might we have won?”
Mirko paused and turned to face Bartazan. “We did better than I thought we would; but we had all the luck going and still came fourth. We had a good draw when Dragonchaser and Excelsior didn’t; and Animaxian’s Glory blocked the field so effectively that we should have been away and clear. And it wasn’t enough. Make no mistake, even if we’d got round the Rock first, Dragonchaser would still have caught us. We’d have held off Morvellos Devil and maybe Excelsior. For this early in the season, we didn’t do too badly; but we are nowhere near Dragonchaser.”
Bartazan nodded slowly. �
�Thank you for your honesty,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, there are several Electors I need to flatter.”
He turned and walked back towards the palace. Mirko waited a few minutes, and then set off to find Larien.
CHAPTER 6
B
y the time Mirko had returned to the banqueting hall, Larien was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was surprised to find himself approached by Drallenkoop. Mirko inclined his head. “Well raced today, sir.”
Drallenkoop waved the compliment away. “It was no sort of race at all. Animaxian’s Glory ruined it as a spectacle; Jukundas should be suspended for such idiocy.”
“If you thought Animaxian’s helmsman was bad …”
Drallenkoop laughed, reaching for a goblet of fire-wine. “Admittedly Liudas did not enjoy the best of races — an event which can hardly have surprised you.”
“It’s hard to helm a tired crew, especially under pressure from a faster boat. Liudas was not as culpable as they make out.”
“You hardly need to spar with me, Ascalon. I know a helming error when I see one; I’ve even made a few myself. You didn’t race badly today, though.”
“Candidly, Serendipity performed above expectations; given certain reforms I want to implement, we may yet be competitive this season.”
“Well said, sir!” cried Larien, who had approached from some place of concealment. “I enjoyed the race today. I’m sure we’ll see better performances later in the season — maybe even in the Margariad!”
Mirko smiled. “You are too kind, my lady. I hope Serendipity can repay your faith — and of course your uncle’s.”
Drallenkoop drained his goblet with a flourish. He was the kind of man, though Mirko, who would hold his drink well. “I’ll bid you good night — my father has promised his friends I will be on hand to recount the day’s story. My lady; Ascalon.” He bowed and went on his way.
Mirko found himself alone with Larien, a state which excited conflicting emotions. ‘N’, for whatever purposes of her own, had enjoined him to make the most of Larien’s company; and for a fact he felt his heart beating faster.
Larien took his arm. “Shall we take a turn around the gardens, Mirko? Coverciano has many secret places to enjoy.”
“I’d be delighted, my lady.”
“Mirko, as a Garganet there is no compulsion on you to refer to me as ‘my lady’. An Elector’s niece is only important to a Paladrian. It would be so much nicer if you called me ‘Larien’.”
Mirko couldn’t remember ever inviting to Larien to use his first name; he did not feel inclined to object.
As they walked through a secluded bower away from the main hall, Mirko appraised Larien from the corner of his eye. What was it Liudas had said before his first visit to Formello? ‘Women rather comelier than you are accustomed to’? He might have been a disastrous helm, but it seemed he had a hidden talent for understatement.
“I’m sure you’re thinking what a terrible frump I look,” said Larien. “Men as quiet as you are usually thinking something to my detriment.”
“If they are so quiet, how do you know what they are thinking?”
Larien laughed her clear high laugh. “All I do is fish harmlessly for a compliment, and you tyrannise my speech.”
“If you’d wanted to know what I thought of your gown, you need only have asked,” smiled Mirko. “I will volunteer my opinion that the sublime quality of the fabric is matched only by the beauty of its wearer.”
Larien laughed again and touched her throat. “So you are a courtier after all! Liudas himself could not have summoned such aplomb.”
“In truth,” said Mirko, “it is a skill I have had little opportunity to develop or practice. I find that your person …inspires … such flights.”
“I begin to think, Mirko,” she said with a widening smile, “that there is more to you than meets the eye. You have even managed to hold your own with my uncle so far.”
“Bartazan’s aims are simple and straightforward, if largely unrealistic. Dealing with such transparent motivations is by no means difficult. I confess to more perplexity when called upon to entertain a charming and beautiful woman of mysterious potentials.”
“Why Mirko! I believe you are making love to me!”
Mirko flushed. Larien was far too mercurial to be dealt with safely. Not for the first time, he wished ‘N’ had told him everything she knew.
“I am simply practising the skills that it seems are such an important part of Paladrian society.”
Larien leaned towards him, and Mirko caught a delicate scent of perfume. “So you do not in fact find me the most fascinating woman of your acquaintance?”
“I … I don’t recall making any such —”
“Oh, Mirko, you showed so much promise in the ways of the courtier. I had hoped to be able to discuss fine fabrics and puppies, as I do with Liudas. But it seems you are just not suited to such things; evidently I will have to find some other use for you.”
Mirko felt that he did well to suppress a leer at this point. “My talents are by and large limited to nautical matters — and even in that area they are finite.”
Larien looked up into his eyes, her cheeks flushed with the wine. “You raced well today, Mirko. Liudas and Orstas are worse than useless. Given such clods you did well.”
Mirko shrugged. “We win or lose together — except Orstas, in the future.”
“You will do well this year — as long as you don’t think you can beat Drallenkoop.”
Mirko turned sharply. “I thought you were supposed to be encouraging me.”
Larien slipped her arm into his as they walked. “And so I am, dear Mirko. Dragonchaser is far and away the best galley that has ever raced: Drallenkoop is a peerless helm, and he has good, strong slaves. If you measure your success against Dragonchaser, you will always be disappointed. Accept that your goals must be more modest, and you can still take satisfaction from the year.”
“Your uncle has employed me specifically to win the Margariad. Much of my reward is dependent on doing so. And what kind of man would I be to accept defeat after two races of the season?”
“Mirko, please believe me when I say I am thinking of you. I’d happily see my uncle come in last every race this year — but I am wishing you do well. Just don’t set your sights too high; it will only end in cruel disappointment.”
“Are we still talking about galleys?”
Larien disengaged her arm and turned away, looking down. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation. I need to find my brother. I will see you soon.”
With that she was gone, leaving Mirko staring into the manzipar trees in the middle distance.
Mirko found that he had little further appetite for the Peremptor’s Regatta Banquet; in addition he remembered that he was supposed to meet ‘N’ at the Waterside. Without so much as a glance at the other guests, he walked back out through the main hall and set off for the Old Town.
At the Waterside nothing had changed. ‘N’ was nowhere to be seen; even taking into account her remarkable powers of concealment, it seemed that he had been stood up. He grimaced; he had enough good information to have expected a decent pouch of coin.
“Panduletta,” he called, “a mug of Widdershins, if you please.”
“On the house,” she said as she filled a battered pewter vessel. “Your fame has brought in a lot of customers in tonight.”
“We only came fourth.”
“Not that — you thrashed Orstas! In this part of town you need never pay for a drink again. Every week he’s down on the docks, going with the girls and never paying — and rough with it. Thinking about it, it’s not just drinks you don’t need to pay for …”
Mirko laughed.
“Don’t get too cosy, hero,” said a voice in his ear. It was, of course, ‘N’. She had timed her arrival with exactitude. Tonight she wore a long black cloak completely covering all her other garments, although the night was some way short of cold. “Get me some beer; I’ll be
in the corner.”
Panduletta filled another mug. “Too snooty for you,” she said.
“If she was ‘for me’ I’d agree with you,” replied Mirko. “She’s just someone I’m doing business with.” He passed over a coin to pay for ‘N’s beer.
By the time Mirko reached the corner booth ‘N’ had arranged herself artfully in maximum shadow. Her dark eyes were all but invisible.
“Do you have anything for me?”
Mirko reached out the letter he had concealed on his person. “You’ll find this is what you want — and I’ve learned more.”
He outlined the previous evening’s events, giving full weight to Bartazan’s bedchamber lubricities. ‘N’ laughed in unaffected mirth; this was a new ‘N’ he had not seen before.
“You’ve done well,” she said. “I don’t know who the man reporting to Bartazan was; the evidence would suggest a member of Giedrus’ household. Now if we could find out who that conspirator was, we’d have yet another lever.”
She swigged at her beer and threw her hood back. Her hair was clean and seemingly scented. “And what about the lovely Larien? I was right about her, wasn’t I?”
“Up to a point,” admitted Mirko. “She has been cordial — much more than cordial — both yesterday and today. How much is play and how much real I wouldn’t care to speculate.”
‘N’ smiled. “Why speculate at all? Just take events at face value.”
“It’s not quite that simple. Tonight I seemed to go too far, although I don’t entirely know what I did. She is profoundly — disorienting, I suppose.”
“It may be that the word you’re looking for is ‘female’. Do you like her?”
Mirko sighed and took a long swill of beer. “ ‘Like’ doesn’t seem to come into it. She doesn’t inspire such commonplace emotions. She is fascinating, alluring, beautiful of course; but I get no sense of her as a person. She loves galley racing and her brother; she appears to hate her uncle. Other than that, her preferences are wholly inscrutable.”
“She appears to have engaged your — attention. She’ll have you drooling like Liudas at this rate.”
