Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  The man stared glassily ahead as Mirko, Florian and Skaidrys left the cell. Reaching the end of the corridor, they found the trapdoor carelessly concealed under some rough matting. Impatiently Skaidrys tried the keys, until the last one turned the lock. Mirko gingerly lifted the trapdoor; beneath was a gloom too profound for sight.

  Skaidrys held his torch over the opening and peered down into the darkness. Below was an oubliette, a squalid pit which gave off a noisome odour of damp and worse; in the corner sat a figure in filthy garments, evidently discommoded by the light.

  “Who are you?” the prisoner called up in a cracked voice.

  “If you are Minalgas Inisse,” called Skaidrys softly, “we are your deliverers.”

  Inisse stood up creakily and moved towards the centre of the cell. “That will suffice for now,” he said, his voice growing in power. “Kindly let down a rope and we will leave on the instant.”

  Stepping back from the oubliette’s entrance so that Inisse would not hear his voice, Florian looked at Mirko. “You have the rope?”

  “I used it to tie the guards in the gatehouse.”

  Florian smirked. “So how do we raise Inisse from his cell?”

  “Go and get the guards’ breeches. We can improvise rope of our own.”

  Florian made his way back up the corridor and soon had shredded the breeches to make a serviceable line; Mirko dropped into the hole, made a loop under Inisse’s arms, and watched while Florian and Skaidrys hauled him aloft. At a signal from Mirko, Skaidrys went back to the antechamber to ensure the guards’ docility, Jenx coming back in the opposite direction.

  Mirko looked around the oubliette with a shudder. There was no light in the room, and the unwholesome damp odour was all-pervasive. Inisse appeared surprisingly robust after eight weeks’ incarceration. No doubt his faith in the sea-god Animaxian had proved sustaining. With a peremptory gesture he called on Florian and Jenx to pull him from the pit.

  Inisse looked around him as if the concept of freedom were an abstraction whose realisation he could not comprehend. “You have my gratitude, sirs. Do we now intend to depart?”

  “For various reasons,” said Jenx, “you will spend one more night in Formello. Conditions will be less onerous, and you will be on hand to see Bartazan’s dismay tomorrow.”

  “I have additional reason for gratitude,” said Inisse. “Will you now tell me your names?”

  “That will not be possible,” replied Jenx. “We would not have our deeds widely known; there may be inconvenience at a later date. You must accept us as men of good will.”

  Skaidrys and Trajian returned, dragging the two unconscious guards to the end of the corridor and, with a quiet smile to himself, Skaidrys dropped them into the oubliette, taking care to lock the door, before repositioning the mat.

  The company made their way up the stairs from the dungeons towards the Slaves’ Tower. Mirko was hopeful that in the small hours they would meet none of the castle’s inhabitants: with Inisse among their number there were few, if any, legitimate explanations for their presence. They moved slowly through corridors, past the stables and towards the now deserted kitchens. At length they came to a door at the base of the Slaves’ Tower. Mirko peered in and, as he’d expected, saw only the slave-master Padizan, fast asleep with a half-empty flagon of wine beside him, the keys to the slave quarters on the table in front of him. Here, as in the matter of the sally-ports, Larien had been accurate in her information.

  He nodded to Jenx. With the skill of a former cut-purse, he moved on noiseless feet and abstracted the keys. He opened the door to the slave quarters and beckoned Inisse to him. The door swung shut behind them, and several minutes later Jenx emerged alone. He glided back across to his companions. Mirko beckoned them down another corridor, in the direction of the Kitchen Tower.

  “He would have preferred to accompany us,” said Jenx.

  “Our identities must have become known,” said Mirko. “Bartazan would regard himself justified in discontinuing my employment in such circumstances.”

  Florian chuckled. “I would be more concerned about him discontinuing your life. Where Bartazan is slighted, he is quick to take vengeance.”

  “He must first catch us.”

  A voice rang out down the corridor. “Hoy there! Who is abroad at this hour!”

  Mirko cursed his inattention. “Stoggo the kitchen-boy!” he called. “Master Ninkin requires me to scrub the turnips before sunrise.”

  “I heard voices,” called his inquisitor. “Who is with you?”

  “I was singing to myself, sir, to keep the chill off. Pray do not detain me further, for there are many turnips and but one Stoggo.”

  The voice called back querulously: “Cannot you go about your business in peace, lad? There is little enough peace in Formello without high-spirited loons at all hours of the night. In addition, your singing lacked both timbre and melody.”

  “Your pardon, sir. I will use greater decorum in future.”

  “Hmm,” said the voice, before shuffling off the way it had come.

  Mirko released his breath in a great sigh. How nearly they had been undone by a moment’s carelessness!

  None of the party spoke again as Mirko guided them out of the gate at the base of the Kitchen Tower – where no sounds of turnip-scrubbing could be discerned – and through the darkness to the Ninth Port, where they had entered an eventful hour before. As they stepped through the sally-port and out of Formello, the first shafts of sunlight peeked over the horizon on the Bay of Paladria. Mirko ripped his domino off and set off for the trail down into the town with his companions at his back. What would ‘N’ make of tonight’s work?

  CHAPTER 9

  T

  he next morning a detachment of forty Peremptor’s Constables, ten mounted on fine striders, presented themselves at the River Gate before Formello with a polite but firm demand to search the Slaves’ Tower. Kintautas temporised in the absence of the Elector, who had stayed in Paladria on business; but to no avail. The Lieutenant of the Constables offered the persuasive argument of his thirty-nine comrades and the force of the Peremptor’s writ.

  A search of the Slaves’ Tower revealed that while twenty-one slaves were shown on the roster, twenty-two were in residence. The Constables conducted a roll-call, and the figure left over at the end was swiftly identified as Minalgas Inisse, formerly the helm of the galley Animaxian’s Glory, missing since the previous autumn. Kintautas was unable to give a satisfactory account of Inisse’s presence, while the captain of the guard declined to offer an explanation.

  Minalgas Inisse was conveyed in a rattlejack commandeered for the purpose to the Temple of Animaxian, where he was restored to the custody of his brethren. The Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House was arraigned by the Lieutenant of the Constables on charges of kidnap, false imprisonment and, since Inisse was an Adept of Animaxian’s Mysteries, sacrilege. This bill of charges, while by no means negligible, was not sufficient to deprive the Elector of his liberty. On payment of a bail of 1,000 valut and the Pledge of Good Conduct given by the Elector Nool Ipolitas, Bartazan was allowed to go his way, while a date for his Inquisition was set.

  The events of the morning directly compromised Mirko’s plans for the day. En route from the Urmaleškas to the Jurbarkas docks to conduct sea-trials, the crew found themselves stoned by an unruly mob, and required an escort of Constables to conduct them back to the barracks. Mirko was not dissatisfied to miss sea-trials, since he had enjoyed little sleep, but he sensed that his actions of the previous night had wider ramifications than he had planned.

  Once the mob dispersed, Mirko made his way to the Waterside tavern, where the talk was all of the night’s extraordinary activities.

  “Who could have carried out such an act?” asked one man wonderingly of Mirko.

  Mirko shook his head. “The ways of the Paladrians always surprise me. I fail to understand all aspects of the affair.”

  Panduletta joined the conversation as she strolled p
ast with a tray of beer. “For a fact, Bartazan is a rogue, to imprison poor Inisse, who had never harmed him at all — with apologies to you Mirko, as Bartazan’s man.”

  Mirko made a deprecatory gesture. “I would never present the Elector as a model of rectitude; and indeed he does not employ me to do so. I merely look after his galley.”

  “No doubt he would expect a more spirited defence from his servants,” said a quiet sardonic voice: ‘N’.

  “Ah,” said Mirko, unable to think of any response more cogent.

  “I think we need to have a chat,” she said. “Panduletta, beer — plenty of it — and whelks, a triple portion if you please. Ascalon, this way.”

  Mirko made his way to the corner booth invariably preferred by ‘N’.

  “Well,” she said. “I assume you want to share something with me.” Her eyes had the beginning of dark circles underneath and her cheeks had an unusual flush.

  “Why?” asked Mirko. “If you remember, I broke off my connections with you yesterday; and you’re the one who came looking for me.”

  ‘N’ nodded her thanks as Panduletta brought over the beer and whelks.

  “Don’t think to play with me, Ascalon: I am more powerful — and more dangerous — than you have ever imagined. I want to know what you had to do with Inisse’s release.”

  Mirko leant back in his wooden chair, which creaked in protest.

  “If you want the truth, your callousness about Inisse vexed me. The letter that you caused to be published made his life worth nothing; and then you had the audacity to call me mercenary! I saved his life, and I don’t want anything for it.”

  ‘N’ shook her head in silent wonderment. “Do you know how long we scheme and plot? How precisely we calculate our moves and effects? It was time that the world knew Bartazan had incarcerated Inisse: that didn’t mean it was time for him to be arraigned!”

  “I can’t see it does your principal any harm.”

  “We are not yet ready to move against Bartazan! His fury will be terrible; he will turn every stone to see who has betrayed him — and you are not the only false servant he has. What were you thinking of, to act independently?”

  Mirko sucked a whelk from its shell. “You forget that I no longer work for you. I acted as a concerned citizen.”

  “As it turns out,” said ‘N’ with an approach to a smile, “you haven’t done badly at all. It was a bold stroke, and can only hurt Bartazan’s popularity; it may even cost him a couple of Elector’s votes, although I doubt it. He may be unsettled by such an obvious strike, and he may respond precipitately. You’ve shown courage and resourcefulness, if very little sense.”

  Mirko smiled dryly. “Is that an approach to a compliment?”

  “Don’t be so prickly, Ascalon. Our contretemps last night was a misunderstanding; more than ever I want someone capable inside Bartazan’s household. Here’s gold for your work with Inisse.”

  “I didn’t do it for the money. My associates are slaves and unable to use their own shares.”

  “Why did you do it, then?”

  “Candidly? It was a demonstration. Nothing more complicated than that — a demonstration that a Garganet officer is impelled by higher motives than you give me credit for.”

  ‘N’ looked across into Mirko’s eyes, her own expression inscrutable. “You didn’t have to,” she said. “If I thought you were for sale I’d never have worked with you — I might not be able to keep up with the bidding. I knew what I was getting and you haven’t surprised me. There’s a difference between needing money and being ruled by it.”

  “Why do you always have to pretend to have foreseen everything? Omniscience is for the gods.”

  ‘N’ took a long swallow of her beer. “I don’t like surprises,” she said. “Among intelligencers, surprises and death are kissing cousins: it’s a consideration that promotes planning and reflection. Now, tell me every detail about last night. I may be able to help you.”

  Half an hour later, beer, whelks and story were finished. ‘N’ sat silent in thought for a minute. “You showed considerable élan; took no more risks than necessary; and enjoyed a little luck. Do you think you can evade suspicion?”

  “Why should Bartazan suspect me? He can see the progress I’m making with Serendipity.”

  ‘N’s face seemed flushed from the beer. “Here’s why. I was greatly amused by your resourcefulness in becoming Stoggo the kitchen-lad: but might it not be surprising to anyone who thinks to ask that he had a Garganet accent? Of course, no-one may ask, but I would not stake my life – or yours – on it ”

  Mirko cursed under his breath. “I don’t even know who was prowling the corridors.”

  “Not Master Ninkin, for certain,” said 'N' with a smile. “Luckily, I can remedy matters. It will be necessary to divert suspicion elsewhere.”

  “‘N’! Don’t allow an innocent man to be punished on my account.”

  ‘N’ smiled. “I won’t have to. Be at the Plaza at sundown and you’ll see.”

  Mirko had not seen Larien since the Hanspar Regatta Ball. He was therefore gratified on returning to his lodgings to find she had sent him an invitation to meet her at Garrion Cove at noon. Since a launch for Serendipity was out of the question, he made his way to the secluded dunes where Bartazan and his family occasionally relaxed.

  Walking down the cliff path to the sand, Mirko saw Larien, her legs tucked under her on a rug designed to keep the sand from her clothes. On seeing Mirko’s approach she smiled and called him over.

  “I’ve brought a picnic,” she said. “It can’t go to waste.”

  “How did you know I’d come?” Mirko asked. “Serendipity might have been out on the water.”

  Larien laughed, her teeth white and even. “I looked out from the Azure Tower this morning with my spyglass,” she said. “There wasn’t a single galley on the water.”

  Mirko thought he knew the reason why.

  “You must help me eat all this,” she continued. “My aunt was not in favour of my bringing such a large hamper.”

  Mirko found this option preferable to facing Bartazan for any number of reasons. “I’d be delighted to share your repast, my lady.”

  Larien beamed. “Look what I have here, Mirko: cold roast fowls, red salad, Minchu morsels, and some Televen wine. I’ve even brought goblets!”

  “Just the thing,” said Mirko, hungry despite the whelks and beer he had consumed for breakfast.

  Larien poured two glasses of the rich cool wine. “Be careful,” she said. “Televen is stronger than it tastes.”

  Mirko savoured his first glass, which had a subtle fresh tang. They sat in companionable silence awhile sharing a cold fowl.

  At last Larien said: “How are you finding my uncle?”

  “In truth, he does not seem as bad as I’d been led to believe. He was almost understanding about the Hanspar, and required remarkably little persuasion to agree to sack Orstas.”

  Larien looked into his face. “Don’t ever make the mistake of trusting him, Mirko. All the while you are useful to him, he will assume a reasonable approach; but once that’s past, don’t ever expect a favour. And this morning’s business with Minalgas Inisse will enrage him beyond measure.”

  Mirko wasn’t sure how to respond to the topic of Inisse, although there was no way Larien could know of his involvement. He wondered whether the investigations would reveal the unlocked sally-ports and curtail Larien’s freedom: it could not be helped.

  “Did you know he was there?” he asked.

  “Oh, not at all,” said Larien. “I knew he had dungeons, of course; if I’d thought about it, I’d even have guessed he put people in them, or why have them? But why hold Inisse? It’s Chiess-Vervario who had the grudge. Now, of course, it makes sense: just one more vote for Peremptor Bartazan.”

  “Do you think he will win?”

  “I’d like to say ‘no’, but I know how duplicitous he can be. I wonder how many other votes he’s suborned one way or another. He wo
n’t win the Margariad, of course — forgive me! — but he could yet force the Electors by other means.”

  “Would it be so bad if he did win? Is Giedrus any better?”

  Larien’s eyes kindled. “Anything would be better —”

  “What have I said?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how many grudges Bartazan holds. He does not have a forgiving disposition. The whole of House Drall, not to mention Inisse, any number of political rivals: they’d all have to go into exile or be killed. I’ll take Giedrus without any qualm: at least he’s already settled his scores. Here, have a Minchu morsel.”

  Eventually the picnic was finished. Mirko, who had taken several goblets of the Televen wine, felt sleepy; Larien was preternaturally alert.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said as Mirko reclined on the blanket.

  “You just did.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “You know what I mean. I’d like to do something wildly unconventional, which will amuse both of us and vex my uncle.”

  Mirko sat back up abruptly. “You begin to interest me,” he said with a smile. Suddenly he didn’t feel so sleepy.

  “Next week is the day for formal nominations for the Peremptorate elections. Did you know that?”

  “No. In truth I’d never thought about it.”

  “Every five years the Peremptor holds a Grand Ball at Coverciano. All the Electors and their families are invited. Any Elector who can call upon the support of five others may challenge the Peremptor. Next Wednesday is the Ball. I’m Bartazan’s niece, so I’m invited.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  “Ah.”

  “ ‘Ah’? What does that mean?”

  “It means I’d like to come with you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I recall you’ve been sniffy about the difference in our status before.”

  “You’re actually very eligible,” she said with a slight smile. “Garganet naval officer, galley-master, handsome in a grim way …”

  “Sometimes — no, most of the time — I don’t understand you, Larien. This is one of those occasions.”