by Tim Stretton
“Why make things more complicated than they are? I like your company, you seem to like mine, the Grand Ball is coming up, and I’d rather have you as an escort than some political crony of my uncle’s. At the very least the food is good.”
Mirko thought for a second. ‘N’ had told him to stay close to Larien; the event might provide some useful information for her; and he was essentially unconcerned with Bartazan’s good opinion.
“Very well,” he said. “I’d be delighted. Who else will I know?”
“There’s my uncle, of course, although I doubt you’ll be getting too much of his attention. Carnazan will be there as long as he remembers to show up. There won’t be many galley-men, I’m afraid, although Drallenkoop will be there as Koopendrall’s son, and Liudas of course.”
“I’m sure I’ll find plenty to entertain me,” smiled Mirko. “What are you doing this evening?”
“Mirko! You lead me to suspect your motives!”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” laughed Mirko. “I thought with your taste for seeing your uncle discomfited you might enjoy an event I understand is taking place in the Plaza at sundown.”
“Now you do have my attention,” Larien replied. “But how do you propose we occupy ourselves in the interim?”
By the time Mirko and Larien had made their way back from the secluded cove, sunset was nearly upon them. Larien had hidden her auburn hair under a loose cowl to avoid the scandal of an Elector’s niece consorting with riff-raff in a low part of town.
‘N’ had evidently used her time assiduously, for the Plaza was crowded and expectant. With theatrical precision, on the instant of the sun’s setting a herald in the gold and scarlet of House Drall stepped out onto the central dais, lit by two retainers with torches.
“Now hear me all!” he called. “I am Forendan, the herald of my lord Koopendrall! Tonight will be unfolded for you a tale of woe, intrigue and heroism. Every man among you will have heard of the terrible and unlawful imprisonment of Minalgas Inisse, Adept of the Mysteries of Animaxian!”
The crowd muttered. Bartazan’s acts were still fresh in their mind.
“Only last night, an act of personal bravery and conviction proud led to the release of this noble man! Minalgas Inisse was immured within the deepest and darkest dungeons of Formello, the mountain fastness of the Ilkmeister Bartazan.”
“Grrr!”, “Down with Bartazan!”, “Bring him out!”
“One man showed the courage of his conscience: learning of Minalgas Inisse’s imprisonment, he resolved to free him! His intrepid spirit deserves our adulation!”
Again the crowd responded to Forendan’s prompts. Mirko was frankly baffled. ‘N’ had been intended to preserve his anonymity, rather than laud his deeds to the sky. Next to him, Larien snuggled into his side; she was enjoying the day.
“Do you want to see the man who saved Minalgas Inisse?” called Forendan.
“Yes!”, “Yes!”, “Bring him on!”
“Behold, then, the man!”
From the base of the dais a figure was pulled up, richly adorned in cloth of gold. Mirko looked on in astonishment: it was none other than Padizan, the overseer of the slave pens!
“My friends,” continued Forendan, “meet if you will the Gentle Padizan, formerly slave master with Ilkmeister Bartazan!”
Mirko gasped in sheer amazement with the rest of the crowd, although for not entirely similar reasons. The audacity of ‘N’ was beyond all reason.
“Sir Padizan, tell us, if you will, of the release of Minalgas Inisse.”
Padizan, not in Mirko’s experience the most forthcoming or assured of men, cleared his throat.
“I, the Gentle Padizan, speak to you,” he said in a voice slurred by drink. “Last night, when all good men slept, I descended to the deepest dungeons of Formello. Unarmed, I fought with guards and beat them into dormancy. I pulled the Noble Minalgas Inisse from his gloomy pit, and concealed him in my slave pens. I sent immediately for the Constables before the alarm could be raised. I asked no boon for my deed, which represented its own reward. Nonetheless, I give thanks to those friends of Minalgas Inisse who have furnished me with a small competence to compensate me for the position with the Elector Bartazan which circumstances have compelled me to leave at short notice.”
Padizan continued in this self-aggrandising strain for some little time, growing in bombast as he declined in coherence. The crowd appeared not to care; Padizan’s act had rescued the popular Inisse and paid back Bartazan for his arrogance.
Mirko realised what ‘N’ had done; by some means she had had Padizan spirited out of Formello and bribed to claim responsibility for the deed. Bartazan would need to pursue his inquiries no further and Padizan was anyway beyond the reach of further interrogation — implicitly, if not explicitly, under Koopendrall’s protection. Mirko laughed aloud.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Larien.
“I was enjoying the ironies of the event. No doubt you too derive a certain amount of amusement from the developments.”
“I would never have imagined Padizan to be so audacious.”
“No doubt the lure of valut played a part. Many folk would pay well for such a moment.”
“No doubt,” said Larien. “Do you really live around here?”
“Why yes,” said Mirko. “Perhaps you’d like to visit the tavern where I spend much of my time?”
“Why not?” said Larien in high spirits. “I don’t believe I’ve ever visited a dockside tavern.”
CHAPTER 10
T
he next morning Mirko, after seeing Larien to a rattlejack, made his way to the Urmaleškas. It seemed a long time since he had been out on the water. This morning a significant workout would be necessary. He was pleased on entering the barracks to see that Liudas was present and eager for the fray. He was conducting an exercise regime with the slaves, who responded with dutiful if unenthusiastic compliance.
Mirko caught Florian’s eye as he went through his stretches, but it seemed Florian had returned to recalcitrant mode; he looked away without acknowledgement. Mirko sighed; he supposed he could see Florian’s point: companion in arms one day, slave the next.
“Quartermen!” he called. “Form your sections, prepare to march!”
The four Quartermen, Florian, Skaidrys, Trajian and a sneering swarthy man named Slovo, drew up their men into order and led the way down to the Jurbarkas Docks. Dragonchaser was already out on the water, and Excelsior was just casting off. Morvellos Devil was preparing to sail, while Animaxian’s Glory lay dormant: no doubt the surprise return of their helm had driven practice from their minds.
“Right!” said Mirko. “Today we to restore our honour. Bartazan may be in disgrace; but Serendipity is not! You see Dragonchaser?”
“Yes, captain!” said Skaidrys.
“Today, we will catch and pass her.”
“But she has a quarter mile on us!”
“That’s why we’re going to teach her a lesson. Jenx, beat Eight!”
Jenx grinned. “Aye, aye, sir!”
“Quartermen, I need you to keep the rhythm. The rest of you, just follow your Quarterman. Come on now, Eight is easy!”
Pull-pull-pull-pull. Pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity settled into an easy unforced rhythm. The bay was choppy with an unruly wind, and white spray coursed over the bow, soaking the men. Pull-pull-pull-pull. Dragonchaser, clearly not operating at full speed, came ever closer into view.
“Jenx! Beat Nine!”
Pull-pull-pull-pull-pull. Pull-pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity gained ever more speed, the waves cresting against the bow, sending up spurts of foam. Dragonchaser realised that Serendipity was testing her; Drallenkoop, at the helm, looked back over his shoulder and laughed.
“Come on, if you can!” he called back.
“They’re mocking us!” shouted Mirko to the crew. “Quartermen, keep the rhythm there. Come on, let’s beat them to the Hanspar!”
Kestrel, exercising nearby, eased ou
t of the way. “Strong strokes, Serendipity,” shouted Daumantas, her helm and owner. “Catch her and pass her! Come on! Come on!”
“Trajian! Trajian!” shouted Mirko. “Keep Nine, for Animaxian’s sake! I thought you wanted to see home! Florian, you look ragged! Dragonchaser ahead!”
Astonishingly, Serendipity pulled alongside Dragonchaser. Drallenkoop, at the helm, had little to do in a straight line race, and instead interfered with the instructions of the overseer, Mindaugas: “Ten! Go to Ten! We can’t let them beat us!”
Mirko knew that, however motivated Serendipity was today, she had neither the skill nor the energy to maintain Ten rhythm. If Dragonchaser could pull this off, Serendipity was beaten.
“Jenx! Keep Nine! They’ll crack. Florian, Slovo, keep the rhythm there!”
Then, for the first time in Mirko’s experience, Dragonchaser faltered. The unusual and punishing Ten rhythm had proved too much for her. The forward starboard quarter cracked first, losing any semblance of control. The bow swung around, coming across the wind and the current.
Mindaugas was quick to react. “Stop and Nine! Stop and Nine!” he called, and the error was almost immediately rectified. But Serendipity was past and running clear for the Hanspar.
“Keep it going! Keep it going! We have her!”
And so it proved. In less than a minute Serendipity was past the Hanspar rock ahead of Dragonchaser. Mirko was not disposed to push his luck by testing Liudas’ helmsmanship, or the crew’s stamina, for the pull back to shore.
“All stop, lads! Take a breather! Superb rowing, boys! We’ve beaten Dragonchaser today!”
Spontaneously the crew stood in their seats and to look back at Dragonchaser: behind them, and trailing in their wake! When had Serendipity last outsprinted Dragonchaser? No-one could remember. Mirko did not fool himself that this was equivalent to victory in a race; Dragonchaser had not geared up for maximum effort until too late, no steering had been required, and the sprint had been nothing like race distance. But Dragonchaser was beatable, and they had proved it today; and arguably they had shown Serendipity was faster in a straight line; and if Dragonchaser were put under pressure she could not sustain Ten.
“Back to shore! That’s enough for today. Jenx, beat Six.”
The news of Dragonchaser’s eclipse was swiftly spread among the racing community, where it excited wildly different emotions, but never indifference. One Elector, high in his mountain fastness, grinned in wolfish triumph and raised a goblet to his galley-master; another, in the town on business, stopped in sheer disbelief, before setting the subject aside until he could make further enquiries. Two women of different temperaments also learned the news: one cursing aloud in sheerest outrage; the other, surprised and some way short of delighted, nonetheless smiled to herself and wondered whether she had underestimated the Garganet after all.
Mirko returned to the Waterside in the evening to find that the morning’s news had preceded him. Bartazan, whose popularity had reached a new low with Padizan’s confession, now found himself revered for owning such a formidable galley. Mirko found two notes awaiting him; he turned first to the one bearing the seal of Bartazan House:
Ascalon,
I was gratified by what I learned of Serendipity’s recent performance, and I attribute the improvements to the methods you have employed. Insofar as I will be meeting the Elector Koopendrall and his son at the Peremptor’s Grand Ball next week, I consider the timing to be most opportune. You will oblige me by waiting upon me at Formello at your soonest convenience.
Of Bartazan House, Bartazan.
Mirko tried to read between the lines for any inference of a bonus, but without success.
He recognised the handwriting on the second letter, and he was not surprised on opening it. He took it to his room and quickly deciphered it.
‘G’,
You have surprised me in many ways in recent days. Your rescue of Minalgas Inisse, while rash and in many ways foolhardy, showed a praiseworthy sense of justice, and the unexpectedly strong showing of Serendipity this morning shocked many seasoned observers of the galley-races.
It is possible you have endangered yourself more by the second act than the first; and probable that you do not even realise it. It is important I see you as soon as possible. While it is melodramatic to suggest that your life is in danger, you are becoming involved in affairs you do not understand.
I cannot see you this evening, but I will meet you on the cliffs overlooking The Sorcerers at seven bars tomorrow.
‘N’
Mirko could not repress a smile at ‘N’s characteristic overstatement. For her, no act was without ramifications in secret policy and covert strategies. There was something endearing about her deadly seriousness — and, of course, the gold she commanded. There was nothing to be done tonight, and instead he went about selecting appropriate apparel from the parcels Evaldas had sent him.
He debated the merits of the plum and umber coat, which offended his sensibilities the least, and the scarlet frock coat, which struck him as something Liudas might wear. In the end, he decided to save plum and umber for the Grand Ball, and chose scarlet for his visit to Formello.
Stepping out onto the waterfront he looked around for a rattlejack, only to find himself approached by a pair of squat ruffians. The scarlet coat had done nothing but mark him out as a dandy. His hand dropped to his rapier; before he knew it, one of the rogues was pinned against the wall with steel against his throat. The second was disappearing along the dockside at speed.
“Go!” called Mirko. “Be grateful I’m in a hurry and don’t care to wait for the Constables.”
As he settled back into the rattlejack he started to wonder. Was it more than coincidence that the ruffians had accosted him the instant he had appeared? What had ‘N’ written? ‘It is melodramatic to suggest your life is in danger’. That was not the same as saying it wasn’t in danger. Was such involution an everyday part of the secret agent’s life? It was a pensive Mirko who disembarked the rattlejack at the Henderbridge.
Inside the Banquet Hall, Mirko found himself distinguished immediately by Bartazan.
“Ascalon!” said the Elector with marked cordiality. “My lords, this is my noble galley-master who bloodied Drallenkoop’s nose. Captain, allow me to present the Electors Algimantas, Baltazaras, Gerdvilas and Chiess-Vervario.”
Mirko bowed to the Electors, somewhat surprised to be introduced. It seemed he had become an electoral asset. Mirko noticed Chiess-Vervario, a dyspeptic bald figure; no doubt one Bartazan was keen to conciliate, since the Minalgas Inisse affair had been injurious to his reputation. The Electors did not seem to be overwhelmed by Mirko’s presence; Baltazaras appeared more interested in the contents of his goblet, while Gerdvilas’ attention was focused on examining matter recently voided from his nose. Mirko wondered how secure Bartazan was of their votes.
Looking around Mirko also saw Larien and Carnazan, and resolved to quit the Electors’ society as soon as possible. Fortunately Kintautas soon banged the great gong to signal dinner, and Mirko found himself seated towards the foot of the Great Table Heldegrin, away from the Electors, but adjacent to Larien and opposite Carnazan. Nearby sat Liudas. Before the food was served, Bartazan cleared his throat and stood up.
“My family and my honoured guests,” he said. “I am grateful to you all for joining me at Formello tonight. It has not been a good week for the House of Bartazan.”
A self-deprecating smile and pause drew mainly polite laughter from the table. Larien remained stony-faced while Carnazan, after all the heir of Bartazan, simply appeared disapproving. Mirko was sorry he could not see Chiess-Vervario’s face; he did not give the impression of a man to laugh at his own misfortunes.
“Nonetheless,” Bartazan continued, “I am not of a temper to be daunted. My arraignment by Giedrus’ lackeys is a matter of no consequence, an act of politically-motivated spite designed to turn the Electors of Paladria against me. Naturally, such ham-fisted efforts will not
succeed, and indicate only the Peremptor’s discomfiture. Next week is Declaration Day, and if I can persuade five Electors to endorse my candidature, hah hah, I propose to put forward my name for the third and final time for the office of Peremptor of Paladria!”
Kintautas led what was by no means spontaneous applause. The Electors joined in dutifully, although Mirko detected no real enthusiasm. Carnazan gave an ironic cheer while Larien fought to suppress a smirk. The Lady Inuela, sitting next to Bartazan, after a minatory glance at Larien evinced no reaction at all.
“You will all be aware that my arraignment was the result of an act of avaricious spite by a former servant, whom I had raised from humble origins. Such breach of fealty is not to be tolerated, and I can only assure you that I have taken steps to secure my dignity: more of this later. For now, I prefer to move to a more enjoyable topic. You will all be aware that I have engaged the services of Captain Mirko Ascalon of the Garganet navy to provide technical guidance in the preparation of my dear wife’s galley for the Margariad. Progress has been in line with my most optimistic expectations, and only this morning the renowned galley Dragonchaser came off second best to Serendipity. I am confident that the House of Bartazan will be celebrating a double triumph at the end of the summer. Captain Ascalon, please rise while the company salutes you!”
Mirko felt he had no option but to comply and stood self-consciously while goblets were raised, his face feeling as red as his coat.
“To the noble Captain Ascalon! And also to his estimable helm Ipolitas Liudas! Defeat to Dragonchaser!”
Mirko noticed that Larien’s non-cooperation extended to refusal to participate in the toast. The Electors complied with a generally sour-faced ill-grace.
“Let me further pledge,” said Bartazan, “that should I be successful in my political ambitions, I will immediately appoint Captain Ascalon Master of the City’s Fleet. Now, let us begin our festivities, setting aside the petty machinations of our pitiful rivals!”
