Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Mirko did not need to listen further. His companions, however, were rapt, along with the crowd. The Public Declamator continued in his well-modulated tones. When he had finished the letter, he paused briefly.

  “The Elector Koopendrall appends a commentary to this information, which I read as follows:

  “The foregoing correspondence shows a great conspiracy against the state of Paladria. Bartazan, an Elector who aspires to the August Office, has immured in his private dungeons at Formello the person of Minalgas Inisse, the lover of the Elector Chiess-Vervario’s daughter Ratzendila; in so doing he hopes to secure Chiess-Vervario’s vote in the forthcoming Election. People of Paladria, I, Koopendrall ask you: can this be tolerated?”

  The crowd was silent while it digested the information, the significance of which was largely lost on Mirko. As he looked quizzically at Florian, the crowd erupted into chants of ‘No!’, ‘Down with Bartazan!’ and ‘Koopendrall for Peremptor’.

  Florian said: “Minalgas Inisse used to helm Animaxian’s Glory; at the same time he romanced the Elector Chiess-Vervario’s daughter — a circumstance which made Inisse tremendously popular with the crowd and Chiess-Vervario something of a laughing stock among the Electors, since Inisse was of no great pedigree. Then Inisse disappeared and —”

  “Florian!” called Skaidrys in alarm. The crowd around them had started to mutter alarmingly.

  “Azure! Azure! They’re Bartazan’s men!” cried one of the mob. Mirko realised that in their distinctive liveries their allegiance was clearly identifiable. “After them! Give ‘em a beating!”

  “Run!” shouted Jenx, setting off at a canter. Any chance of talking their way out of this one was gone as the crowd surged after Jenx.

  “Make for the Urmaleškas!” cried Mirko.

  Mirko was fortunate that his knowledge of the Old Town’s byways was extensive. Quickly he plunged down a side alley, whose narrowness encumbered the pursuing mass. They seemed all but clear when Skaidrys, not the nimblest of men, stumbled over a pail of night-soil, sending a foul stinking mass across the street. The mob was on Skaidrys before he could rise. Mirko was grateful for the dagger he had bought that morning; drawing quickly, he stabbed the first assailant in the side. The man gave a sigh and sank to the ground. The mob stepped back when they saw what had happened.

  Trajian and Florian stepped up to Mirko’s shoulder, followed by Jenx. Skaidrys leapt to his feet and joined his comrades.

  “The first man to step forward dies!” called Mirko. “We are going about our business in peace; turn and go!”

  The mob suffered from a lack of leadership; now it was forced to think, indecision was the result. Mirko began to hope. From the crowd a man stepped forward, poorly nourished but with wild eyes.

  “There are five of you!” he shouted. “There are five hundred of us!”

  “You have only one life to waste, fellow! Be assured you will die first!”

  Mirko felt this advice should have proved placatory, but the man let out a great roar. “Die, Bartazan dogs!” and he surged forward, followed by his peers.

  Mirko lashed out with his knife and the man fell; Skaidrys buffeted the next and stunned him; Florian dragged down a rope which had been supporting laundry, which confused the mob as the leaders became entangled in sheets and undergarments.

  “Run!” called Florian and once again they were off; but the Urmaleškas was far away.

  “Make for the tavern!” called Mirko, and with pursuit hot on their heels they emerged onto the dock-front. From an upper window at the Waterside a bow sang and the lead pursuer fell, an arrow in his throat. Instantly the bow was redrawn and another man fell dead. The mob stopped; Mirko and his comrades gained the sanctuary of the tavern. Panduletta immediately barred the door.

  “Mirko!” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes — for now,” said Mirko with a reasonable approximation of calm.

  “I’ve sent Boy to fetch the Peremptor’s Constables — they’ll disperse the crowd.”

  “Good work! Who’s the archer? He’s a deadly shot.”

  “ ‘He’ is your lady friend — the snooty one. She told me she could shoot, and I didn’t believe her. And I still don’t know how she knew she’d have to.”

  Mirko laughed. “There isn’t much she doesn’t know about. Now, while we wait, how about a few mugs of Widdershins?”

  Panduletta brought over the beer. “You were brave today,” said Trajian to Mirko.

  “I used to skipper a Garganet galley,” sighed Mirko. “Whatever you think, that’s no job for a coward or a weakling.”

  “Maybe there’s more to it all than meets the eye,” said Trajian. Florian ostentatiously looked away; Skaidrys and Jenx appeared uninterested.

  “Maybe there is, Trajian. The matter is of no consequence.”

  Trajian shrugged.

  Mirko called over to Panduletta. “Where is our friend?”

  “She gave instructions that you go up and see her once you remembered to ask about her — alone.”

  Mirko smiled. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Mirko made his way up a deeply unsafe set of stairs, narrow and uneven. He knocked at the room where he judged ‘N’ must be and entered without waiting for an answer.

  ‘N’ stood by the window, a small bow negligently held in one hand. She turned at Mirko’s approach, her dark eyes sparkling. “Ascalon,” she said. “You had a narrow escape.”

  “I noticed. Your archery is surprisingly proficient.”

  “We all have hidden talents; and I practise.”

  Mirko sat on the grimy pallet which passed for the bed. “I’m grateful for your intervention.”

  ‘N’ made an airy gesture. “I got you into trouble in the first place; anyone in the Azure when that letter came out was likely to be unpopular. I just made sure I knew where you were when the Public Declamator started.”

  “That’s almost sentimental of you, ‘N’”

  ‘N’ laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself — I’ve invested my time and somebody else’s money to get you where you are. I’d hate to start again. Add in the fact that you’re shaping up promisingly — it’s self-interest.”

  “I’m glad we understand that,” said Mirko, suppressing a grin. “And what about this ‘somebody else’? Right now, Koopendrall looks a good bet.”

  “You still have much to learn,” said ‘N’. “Just because Koopendrall laid a deposition with the Public Declamator doesn’t mean I work for him. Koopendrall doesn’t mind having his name associated with a statement like that — but that need not suggest he was behind the espionage.”

  “What about Minalgas Inisse?”

  “I wouldn’t give a price on him surviving the night. He was a useful hostage, securing Chiess-Vervario’s vote. Now that his presence is known, Bartazan has no need to keep him alive.”

  “You don’t seem worried.”

  “People die. He should have known better.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Sleeping with an Elector’s daughter, if you really want to know. There are some things you don’t do.”

  “You’re encouraging me to sleep with an Elector’s niece.”

  “That’s different - you’re getting paid.”

  Mirko shook his head. “At times you are almost likeable, ‘N’; and then you say something like that.”

  ‘N’ flushed. “You’re getting paid twice, in fact. You don’t care who’s paying you to spy on Bartazan; you cannot moralise to me.”

  “Is that what you think?” demanded Mirko, nettled. “You really needn’t have bothered saving my life if I’m so mercenary. I’m finished with you, ‘N’. Keep your gold; I’m going back to Serendipity and we’re going to win the Margariad. And before then I’m going to surprise you.”

  “Mirko! Don’t be such a —”

  But Mirko was already on his way down the stairs.

  “Florian! Trajian! Skaidrys! Jenx! We have work to do! Panduletta, get us so
me old clothes, if you please.”

  “What is this?” asked Florian.

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” said Mirko. “It’s a long story.”

  CHAPTER 8

  T

  hree hours later the five men stood at the base of Formello’s imposing walls. All had swords, which would mean death for the slaves if they were caught: Mirko, theoretically at least, as a free man would be exempt from such a penalty. He was not eager, however, to argue the niceties with Bartazan should events run awry.

  Cloaked in the dark, their faces concealed by dominoes, they were inconspicuous against even the most alert watchers; and as Mirko had noted on his previous visits, the guards were more noteworthy for the brilliance of their uniforms than their perceptions.

  As they huddled down against the base of the walls for concealment, Florian said: “You are dependent on the quality of your informant. If you are misinformed, we cannot even enter Formello – or worse, we may enter and find conditions are not as you were told.”

  “A degree of risk is inevitable in such an enterprise,” said Mirko sharply. “If the possibility of danger alarms you, you may return to the barracks.”

  Florian scowled. “There is no merit in foolhardiness for its own sake. The scheme you have outlined is contingent on the accuracy of your information. I would have arranged affairs differently.”

  “You are no position to arrange affairs at all. If you wish you may stand lookout.”

  “I think not. I prefer you where I can see you.”

  With an urgent whisper Skaidrys interjected. “Shh! Someone is on the walls.”

  Looking up, Mirko saw he was correct. Even in the wan moonlight, the red livery of a castle guard was evident. He had not expected patrols of the outer walls – they had been deserted when he had been in this part of the castle with Larien.

  The guard stepped to the edge of the wall above them and peered out into the night. Mirko surreptitiously drew his cloak around him. What is he looking for?

  Perplexity was resolved when the guard fumbled at his breeches and, shortly thereafter, launched a stream of urine from the castle walls: he had merely been looking for a place to relieve himself. Unfortunately the trajectory of his relief ended directly upon Trajian’s head; he jerked aside in disgust but was unable to move away for fear of alerting the guard.

  Once the guard had moved away Trajian hissed a range of complaints to a largely unsympathetic Mirko, who was comforted that the event had no more sinister import.

  “Now,” he said, “the outer walls of Formello have sixteen sally-ports. We can be sure that the Ninth Port is unlocked.”

  He stepped quickly and quietly across to the sally-port and gently turned the round metal handle. The door remained immovable.

  “Let me,” said Jenx, always deft and dextrous. But he was no more successful: the sally-port remained obstinate, bolted on the inside.

  Florian looked at Mirko with a scornful expression. Trajian said: “Where is the map?” and Mirko passed it across. Stepping back from the wall, Trajian pointed up at a tower on the inner set of walls. “Which tower is that?”

  Mirko searched his memory. “That’s the Seraglio Tower: you can see the bars across the windows.”

  “Then this is the Eighth Port,” said Trajian, pointing out the locations on the map. “The Ninth Port is this way.”

  Mirko grinned ruefully. His vexation with ‘N’ was impeding his judgement. He walked along to the next sally-port. To his relief the door swung open. Thank you, Larien.

  The five slipped in to the outer ward. Mirko was reliant on his previous observations that vigilance was limited inside the walls: Bartazan did not know that Larien left sally-ports in each wall unbolted, and did not conceive of rogues roaming the inner precincts at will.

  “Remember,” said Mirko. “Only Jenx and Skaidrys are to speak to anyone inside Formello. Our Garganet accents are too distinctive.”

  The good fortune of finding the sally-port unlocked was partly offset by its location. They were close to the Adamantine Tower, housing the quarters of Bartazan and his family, but diagonally opposite the Azure Tower, home of the dungeons. Mirko decided to slip past the Seraglio Tower, on past the Servants’ Tower before securing entry to the River Gatehouse. This was one of the dangerous moments of the plan, but once they were inside, access to the Azure Tower would be relatively easy.

  Crouching close to the ground the intruders moved past the Seraglio Tower, not without glances of regret from the slaves, for whom female company was a long-forgotten luxury. As they approached the Servants’ Tower, Mirko heard footsteps and they pressed back against the wall. The figure went directly to the door, and as he opened it the light from within illuminated his face: Mirko saw distinctly the features of Bartazan’s factotum Kintautas. If he had only looked to his right he must surely have seen the intruders: the dominoes covering their faces would not have counteracted suspicion. The dominoes hampered Mirko from assessing his companions’ expressions, but Jenx’s grin had a nervous intensity: he forbore from mentioning that the dangerous parts of the enterprise had yet to begin.

  As they crept past the Servants’ Tower – Mirko was confident that Kintautas’ inspection of the lower servants would be meticulous, and that he would not soon re-emerge – they saw before them the River Gatehouse. With its barbican and solid walls, this was where the bulk of Bartazan’s guards would be stationed. The trespassers’ only advantage was that visitors could be expected to approach over the Henderbridge and through the gate in the outer wall: the guards would be no more likely than Bartazan to suspect activity from within the castle.

  Florian’s eyes looked out at Mirko from behind his domino, given extra intensity by the black cloth surrounding them. This was the part of the plan about which Florian had been the most sceptical. Mirko nodded to Skaidrys.

  Although the burliest of rowers, Skaidrys had a naturally high voice, and now he forced it into an unnatural falsetto.

  “Oh help me!” he called, in passable female tones. “Oh, outrage in the Servants’ Tower! Come now! Oh! Oh!”

  A guard emerged from the barbican. “Who’s there?”

  “Oh! Come quickly! Such a mischief! Such lewdness!”

  “Back to your quarters!” called the guard. “What do I care?”

  Hidden at the base of the wall, Mirko could see the guard, but he was too far away to be overpowered.

  “Oh no!” cried Skaidrys from the shadows. “I couldn’t possibly! Must I call for the factotum?”

  Another guard issued from the barbican. “Faltus, can you not shut that wench up! My nap is disturbed!”

  Faltus stepped toward Skaidrys’ voice. “A pox on you, woman! We don’t care to be disturbed by your vapours! Do I have to chastise you myself?”

  Mirko grinned at the man’s lack of gallantry, as he stepped from the darkness, slipped a cloth bag over his head and buffeted him into insensibility. Florian and Trajian stepped forth to administer the same treatment to his colleague.

  Skaidrys continued his hooting, to further imprecations from within the barbican. Finally two more guards came out threatening to redefine ‘lewdness’ if silence were not immediately reimposed. The Garganets dealt with them in the same way as before. Skaidrys’ entreaties now drew no response, and Mirko surmised that the entire guard was incapacitated. Bartazan was slack indeed, to insist on a night-watch of only four men in the River Gatehouse. But retainers were expensive, and who would think to assault the fastness of Formello?

  After securing the guards with gags and stout cord, the intruders stepped through the portal into the gatehouse, which was as empty as they had hoped. Mirko was encouraged by the laxness of the watch: Bartazan deployed more guards during the day, when they would impress visitors with their crisp uniforms, than at night when there was no prestige to be gained.

  Mirko led his men along the corridor connecting the gatehouse to the Azure Tower. ‘N’s map indicated the location of the dungeons within the tower, an
d they found the cells without difficulty. In an antechamber in front of the cell area sat two guards, idly chatting over the remains of their supper. Torches flickered low in sconces around the wall. Mirko had hoped that the evening would pass without violence, but four guards had already been subdued by force, and there was nothing for it but a further dose for the two cell-men.

  Mirko nodded at Trajian and Skaidrys, who leapt forward with quiet certainty. Skaidrys struck the first guard with a mighty fist; the second slumped to the hilt of Trajian’s sword.

  “Jenx, Trajian: keep watch here,” said Mirko. “Fetch us if either of them stirs. Jenx, hand me the keys.”

  Mirko, Florian and Skaidrys made their way down the corridor, opening the cell doors as they came to them. Some contained instruments of horrid purpose: these gave off an aura all but tangible. Most were empty; a few contained wretches in various stages of emaciation. Skaidrys studied each man carefully, shaking his head each time. “He’s not here. I’ve seen him on the water often enough.”

  Mirko paused in thought as he considered his options. “Where else can he be?”

  “Dead,” said Florian.

  “Already? Even Bartazan would stop at cold steel when he will have to account for his actions. Remember, everyone knows he’s here.”

  “I have other ideas,” said Florian. “Formello is reputed to have a series of oubliettes. Where better to hide a secret prisoner?” He turned to the man chained to the wall. “Are there any other cells? Any other prisoners away from this corridor?”

  The man croaked, tongue swollen in a parched mouth, an infirmity with which Florian appeared to have little sympathy. “Did you hear me?” he hissed, shaking the man by the ragged shirt.

  “Downstairs,” gasped the man. “There’s a trapdoor at the end of the corridor. They say there’s a special prisoner down there.”

  “Yes!” exulted Florian, his eyes gleaming behind the domino. “Of course!”

  “Thank you,” said Mirko. “I can’t release you as things stand; but if I’m successful Bartazan will find it difficult to maintain his dungeons.”