by Tim Stretton
“It’s not like that at all with Liudas!” said Mirko heatedly. “She thinks he’s a — “
‘N’ laughed. “Mirko! I am joking — up to a point. It does no harm to flirt with her a bit, you know. As long as you’re careful.”
To Mirko the observation admitted of more than one interpretation. This time he decided to let it pass.
“I suppose you want paying,” she said.
“That is the basis of our arrangement.”
‘N’ reached a pouch out of her cloak. “There’ll be more next time. By the way, I assume your remark about a bonus for not winning the Margariad was a jocularity.”
“Why should it be? You want me to stop Serendipity winning; in doing so I lose 12,000 valut — an amount which would get me a nice estate in the Emmenrule.”
‘N’ leaned back in her hard seat and laughed. “The fact that you cannot win is neither here nor there, I suppose?”
“What makes you think I can’t? I’ve got rid of Orstas, which is a good start.”
“If there’s one thing I know about, it’s galley racing — it’s in my blood. Serendipity has no chance at all of winning the Margariad. Your slaves are weaker than Drallenkoop’s, and Liudas is not a competent helm. Add in Drallenkoop’s peerless knowledge of the tides and currents, and you are not in the same race.”
Mirko frowned, although the analysis substantially coincided with his own. “In that case, ‘N’, why are you bothering to pay me at all?”
“I really don’t need to tell you anything.”
“I tend to work better when I’m trusted.”
“You’re hired help.”
Mirko flinched. “I’m a Garganet officer, not some periwigged waiter.”
“Were a Garganet officer; there’s a distinction.”
Mirko stood up angrily. “Tell me what you like, as long as you pay me. Nothing could reinforce my degraded estate more than having to take insolence from you.”
“I’m sorry, Ascalon. I meant no disrespect.” Mirko sat down heavily. “One day perhaps you’ll tell me about — why you left Garganet,” she said.
“I can’t imagine you don’t know,” snapped Mirko. “Your research is normally assiduous.”
‘N’ brushed a stray hair out of her eye with a characteristic gesture. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to quarrel. You have undertaken your assignments effectively so far. But I am playing for high stakes.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Mirko said: “I can’t imagine your job is easy — or why you do it.”
“I’ll tell you a little of the background,” she said leaning forward, “so you can see why I need you.”
“Go on.”
“It won’t surprise you to know that a large number of people don’t want Bartazan to win the election. That starts with Giedrus, the current Peremptor, of course; takes in those factions among the Electors who could expect to be suppressed, such as Drallenkoop’s father Koopendrall; those loyal by interest to Giedrus such as Norvydas; but also comprises various vested interests in the city. Suppose you held the tax-collection monopoly like Vilgaudas? You wouldn’t be keen to see Bartazan come to power and redistribute the monopolies.”
“True.”
“Let’s just say that I work for someone who would be materially inconvenienced by ‘Peremptor Bartazan’. Bartazan’s hopes of victory depend on one of two contingencies. The first, and essentially least problematical, is to win the Margariad. His popularity in the city would soar; many of the Electors are swayed by such things; others would be genuinely impressed if Serendipity won. In what promises to be a close election, a victory in the Margariad would bring him into port. Surely you knew that?”
“Yes, Bartazan and others have made the same point.”
“I’ve explained that Dragonchaser’s eminence makes such a strategy impractical, although he loses nothing by trying it.”
“I am surprised Bartazan does not consider sabotaging Dragonchaser.”
“The ploy would be transparent; neither would it work. He would lose to Excelsior or Morvellos Devil instead. So that leaves the political angle. Bartazan’s ‘secret source’ appears to believe that Giedrus currently holds a majority; an analysis with which I concur. He will attempt to bribe, flatter or otherwise suborn the remaining votes. You can tell me his plots and ploys. As Serendipity’s trainer, and a foreigner, you are both close to the centre of events and above — or rather beneath — suspicion.”
“Thank you,” said Mirko. “If you’d told me all that at the beginning we need never have quarrelled.”
‘N’ smiled and drained her mug. “Get me another of these,” she said, “and we’re friends again. Keep your eyes open, and soon I may have another job for you.”
CHAPTER 7
T
he next morning was market day in the Old Town. Mirko found himself with the unusual luxury of gold in his purse, and decided to repair various deficiencies in his attire before attending to training in the afternoon. A breakfast of hot fried whelks bought from a seafront stall made his mood even sunnier. Around the docks many people nodded cordially: galley-racers were always popular, and one who had trounced his overseer was a celebrity.
Galley-racing seemed to involve an inordinate amount of banqueting, and Mirko was keen that neither his own lustre nor that of Serendipity should be tarnished by shabby garments. Larien, too, would no doubt prefer to see him in more modish garb.
The booth of Evaldas, “Appareliste to the Electors”, seemed to offer the most satisfactory range of stuffs, although prices were by no means economical.
“Sir, may I help you?” asked an elderly man with a tall auburn wig which would have appeared unwise on a courtier many years younger.
“I am looking — at relatively modest expense — to create a wardrobe which will allow me to mix in decent society without embarrassment.”
“Since I am Evaldas, you have begun your programme the right way. First, we must establish two essential parameters: what you consider to be ‘decent society’; and a quantitative assessment of ‘modest expense’.”
Mirko flipped the last whelk from his portion into the air and caught it in his mouth. “My two most recent social functions were a soirée at Formello and last night’s banquet at Coverciano. ‘Modest expense’ comprehends a sum which does not provoke me into pitching you into the docks, as I did to my overseer yesterday.”
Evaldas’ eyebrows advanced up his forehead. “You must, then, be the gallant Captain Ascalon!”
“I no longer use the term ‘captain’, but – yes.”
“You can be assured of my best attention, sir,” said Evaldas as he flapped away two assistants who had descended in competitive obsequiousness.
Mirko had not realised quite how much was involved in selecting a new wardrobe. Evaldas provided a ready fund of advice, but his tastes ran towards the flamboyant, and Mirko was frequently obliged to check his enthusiasm.
“We will save time,” said Mirko, “if we rule out of consideration immediately all shoes with curled toes. Frills, ruffs and fancies of all sorts can also be disregarded. I am not excessively vain, and require a style of address which implies sober, respectable competence rather than giddy preening.”
Evaldas pursed his lips, absentmindedly adjusting his wig which had slipped from the level. “Your views are unorthodox. In good society one does not generally wish to convey the impression of having arrived straight from the plough or the docks.”
“I did not notice Drallenkoop in pumps or glitter-britches last night.”
Evaldas sniffed disdainfully, an effect somewhat undermined by the hawking cough which followed. “My lord Drallenkoop achieves his success in society through his racing prowess. Were he judged on the quality of his wardrobe no doubt his status would be very different.”
“Evaldas, I do not imagine that my own status will ever rest on my garments. Simply array me in good quality apparel which emphasises timelessness over modishness.”
With
a sigh Evaldas pulled out a measure and began to chart Mirko’s dimensions. Some while later Mirko left with Evaldas having drawn up the patterns for a suite of garments which largely met his requirements: two pairs of good leather boots, two pairs of breeches (one black and one white), a scarlet frock coat with gold frogging (about which Mirko retained considerable reservations), a more sober plum and umber coat, and another which cleverly incorporated the Azure of Bartazan House. Evaldas had also provided a range of extravagant neckerchiefs as well as some honest white shirts. Mirko had drawn the line at perfumed white gloves despite Evaldas’ blandishments. Haggling had been minimal; a further reference to Orstas had been sufficient to extract what seemed a competitive price.
Time was limited for patronage of the other stalls. Mirko invested in a moderately expensive bracelet for Larien and, on a capricious impulse, a pewter mug for ‘N’ since she seemed to enjoy drinking at his expense. He also bought a Neidel dagger, the black hilt exquisitely chased with golden filigree.
Mirko had time only to snatch a half-loaf of bread and a mug of beer for his lunch before setting off for afternoon training at the Urmaleškas barracks. He arrived to find the slaves lounging around under the negligent supervision of a temporary overseer from Bartazan’s household. Liudas, no doubt nursing his injuries or a hangover, was not in evidence.
Mirko discharged Bartazan’s functionary and addressed the men on the sandy drill compound.
“You will notice that neither Orstas nor Liudas is among us today. Following an incident at Coverciano last night, I can confirm that Orstas has been discharged and no longer represents the House of Bartazan in any capacity. Liudas sustained an injury at the same function and has been excused duty today.”
A cheer went up from the majority of the men. Mirko noticed that neither of the Garganets, Florian and Trajian, joined in with the general applause. Whatever Mirko did, he would always be a renegade with these two. It was an unsatisfactory situation; both were good rowers and influential among the crew.
Trajian called out: “Who is our new overseer?”
“The post is currently vacant. In the interim I will undertake the duties of the post myself. Augenis, you will put the men through the physical routines this afternoon. Skaidrys, Florian, Trajian, Jenx: you are excused training this afternoon, since I wish to discuss race tactics with you.”
The four slaves in question raised themselves with little enthusiasm.
“Skaidrys,” called Mirko. “How long is it since you drank good beer?”
Skaidrys considered for a moment. “Five years or so, I’d say. My lord Bartazan decreed a festival when the Lady Inuela fell pregnant — not that it did any good, of course.”
“Today, then, is your lucky day. We will wander into the Old Town and ponder over a mug or two.”
Skaidrys and Jenx appeared heartened by this news; although in the case of Jenx this was purely relative, since the falcx he had taken yesterday had the effect of depressing his spirits today. Neither Florian nor Trajian appeared seduced by the prospect of beer. Sullenly they pulled on their Azure shirts and set off for the town.
Their moods improved as they walked unshackled through the Old Town. By the time they had arrived at the Waterside they were at least no longer displaying overt hostility.
“Panduletta!” called Mirko on entering the tavern. “Five mugs of Widdershins, if you please.” Panduletta’s young son, who answered to no name more grandiose than ‘Boy’, brought the mugs over, and Mirko said nothing while the crewmen quaffed their first draughts. Even Florian and Trajian appeared impressed.
“There are things we need to discuss,” said Mirko after a decent pause. “The four of you are the most influential crewmen, both on and off the boat. If we’re going to win the Margariad, I need your help; both to establish a winning strategy, and to carry the rest of them along.”
Trajian smilingly shook his head. “Do you seriously believe we can win?”
“Of course. What can Drallenkoop do that we can’t?”
Florian raised a didactic finger. “Firstly, he can steer accurately. Secondly, draw on the experience of winning. Thirdly, call on the complete loyalty of his crew. None of those observations applies to Serendipity.”
Trajian smirked; Skaidrys and Jenx concentrated on their beer.
Mirko signalled for more beer. “Let us leave aside the question of helmsmanship for now. If only experienced winners could ever win, Dragonchaser would win the Margariad for the next thousand years; a contingency I find remote. If we race better than Dragonchaser, we will beat her.”
Florian shrugged. “Point three?”
“You suggest that Bartazan fails to command the same commitment from his crew as Drallenkoop?”
“Not just Bartazan. The crew are no more keen to row for you; while Dragonchaser’s overseer Mindaugas is popular among the men.”
“The crew seemed happy enough when I discharged Orstas yesterday. The only ones who don’t want to row for me are you and Trajian. The others recognise the better and fairer treatment they’ve had since I’ve been involved.”
“If that was so obvious,” said Trajian, “you wouldn’t be needing to belabour the point now.”
“Skaidrys, Jenx: your views would be of interest here.”
Jenx, feeling the unaccustomed effect of beer piled upon yesterday’s falcx, exclaimed aloud. “For a fact Orstas was a miserable bastard. But all I do is beat the rhythm. I can do that for you or for Orstas.”
“Skaidrys?”
Skaidrys was not by and large the most elastic of intellects. He spoke rarely, but his opinion was generally respected.
“Here’s how it is for me, captain,” he said, as Mirko, Florian and Trajian all winced at his use of the title. “You’ve treated us more fairly since you’ve come aboard. We’ve had better food, better rest, better conditions; and last night they were fairly singing your praises for the way you dealt with Orstas. But when it comes down to it, suppose we do improve, pull it off, win the Margariad: who benefits? Me? No, I just get to carry on rowing, the same as ever, until I get too old. Then it’s general service or the smithy. You? You’ll probably get some kind of bonus, enough for you to go off and forget about us. But it’s Bartazan who really wins: he’ll be Peremptor, he’ll have won the Margariad, and he’ll think it’s all down to him. It won’t help any of us. Deep down, sir, the men would rather Drallenkoop won the race than Bartazan.”
“Thank you, Skaidrys. I respect your honesty. Do the rest of you agree?”
“I don’t care,” said Jenx.
Florian said, “Drallenkoop’s a slave-owner just as much as Bartazan. He doesn’t deserve to win any more than anyone else. They say he treats his slaves humanely; well, he shouldn’t have slaves in the first place, so it’s no great credit. Naturally I hate Bartazan, a man who claims he owns me; and it’s no secret that it’s a dishonour for me to serve under you.”
“Trajian?”
Trajian’s grey eyes focused on the ceiling. “Florian perhaps puts it more strongly than I would have, but essentially our views are the same.”
Mirko drained his mug and called for some pickled herring.
“Our goals would not appear to coincide,” he said. “I am employed by Bartazan to win the Margariad, an objective you seem to consider at best trivial, at worst misguided. I have a small number of options. One is that I say to Bartazan: ‘This crew is intractable; no matter how I drill them they lack the will to improve. In all honour I must resign my post and allow you to select a new candidate.’ The other option is that I convince you, by whatever means, that your better interests are served by making a serious effort. Does this seem a reasonable analysis?”
Trajian nodded. Florian shrugged.
“The first option is the one that occasions me the least inconvenience. I lose some of my fee, but I am saved the vexations of working with clay. For you, however, I suspect it is the least satisfactory outcome. Who will Bartazan select to superintend affairs? It’s unlik
ely to be someone with views as liberal as mine: inevitably you will be tyrannised and your condition will be as bad, or worse, as before I took over.”
Florian shook his head. “We stick with you so that our servitude will be a more comfortable indignity.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“The analysis is not entirely persuasive.”
“The four of you, unanimously, must decide here and now that you will back me. Otherwise I go to Bartazan this evening; tomorrow you may find Orstas your overseer.”
Skaidrys spoke. “I’ll row for you.”
Jenx: “I’ll beat for you.”
Florian and Trajian were silent. Finally Trajian said:
“After the race — can you get a message to Garganet? To say where we are.”
“I guarantee it.”
“Then I’m with you. I have to believe my family would get me out if they knew I was here.”
“Florian: it’s all down to you.”
Florian spat on the floor, attracting a scowl from Panduletta.
“I will row with full vigour; I will not intrigue against you; but my heart’s core remains my own. That’s my best offer.”
Mirko sighed. It would have to do. “That’s good enough for me, Florian. I know you will keep your word. Now, I have prepared some charts …”
It was rather later in the afternoon that Mirko and the crew emerged into the sunlight. Unusually for so late in the day, the market-place was still crowded. On the dais in the plaza normally reserved for political addresses stood a commanding figure in purple robes: a Public Declamator.
“ — and I present to you the following information, warranted accurate by the Elector Koopendrall! The following letter was sent by the Elector Bartazan to the Elector Chiess-Vervario:
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…
