Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Mirko sat down and waited as the food was served. Master of the City’s Fleet! He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounded impressive; although since ‘Peremptor Bartazan’ would by then have no real need of him, the chances of such an office materialising were not high.

  Bartazan had outdone himself for hospitality tonight. No fewer than seven courses, each with carefully selected wines, were put before the discerning palates. The vegetables were crisp and succulent, the meats rare and flavoursome. Delicately-spiced pastes and sauces added savour to every dish.

  Larien was in a curious humour; her mood best summarised as ‘distrait’.

  “Have I done anything to offend you, my lady?” Mirko asked quietly while their neighbours were distracted in conversation.

  “Why should you think that?”

  “Your conduct was more — open — yesterday,” he said. “I thought we had moved towards a certain intimacy …”

  “You forget yourself, Captain. I enjoyed your company yesterday, in an informal setting; but here I am the niece of the Elector, and must set frivolity aside.”

  “I thought that perhaps you regretted the degree of intimacy you permitted me yesterday.”

  Larien sighed. “Yesterday was yesterday; today is today. I imagined you to possess more sangfroid than to repine over imagined slights like some mooncalf.”

  “So yesterday was nothing?”

  Larien picked up a napkin and daintily dabbed at her mouth. “Really, Mirko, this is absurd. You expect life to be a dull homogeneity. Yesterday I was in the humour for a diversion, which was undoubtedly pleasant. Tonight I am tired and vexed; and your importunities do not help. A man of breeding would not pursue the subject.”

  Mirko pursed his lips; Liudas leaned towards him. “Did I not advise you to attempt no flirtation with the ladies of Formello?”

  “Liudas, if you have intellectual capacity to spare — by no means a foregone conclusion — I suggest you devote it to the theories of helmsmanship. One day soon, I will require you to steer Serendipity around rocks; another collision will be your last.”

  Liudas sat back and smiled. “My father is the Elector Nool Ipolitas; I don’t think I’ll be off the boat this side of the Election, do you?”

  “If you want to find out, steer for the rocks.”

  Kintautas again rang the gong. Two slaves appeared bearing a covered silver tray. Once again Bartazan rose from his seat, eyes a-glitter.

  “My guests, I hope you have enjoyed the hospitality of Formello. I myself have not relished the occasion as I might, since the rancour of my former servant Padizan’s betrayal has removed the edge from my appetite. No man betrays Bartazan House without paying a full price.”

  Mirko shivered, and thought back with amazement to his previous foray to Formello; if ‘N’ had not intervened, his unmasking could not have been long coming.

  “With this in mind, I have prepared a tableau designed to assuage my displeasure, to entertain, and to warn of the follies of treachery. Some guests among you may feel my lesson is somewhat mordant: this is merely proportionate to the extent of my vexation. Kintautas!”

  Kintautas set down the salver in front of Bartazan. Mirko began to feel a terrible foreboding.

  “Now!” cried Bartazan, “let us see how those who betray me are rewarded!”

  Bartazan lifted back the cover, to reveal the severed head of Padizan, gold coins arranged in a symbolic stream from his mouth, and filling his empty eye-sockets.

  “Traitor to the House of Bartazan!” called the head of the House.

  Next to him, Mirko heard a gurgling sound: Larien had vomited copiously. She rose and ran from the room. At the head of the table was a crash as the Lady Inuela fainted and fell forward. Mirko’s head began to spin — Padizan was dead because … you are becoming involved in affairs you do not understand ….

  Leaping to his feet, he mumbled: “The Lady Larien,” and followed her from the Hall as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him.

  Mirko found himself in the black and white tiled hall. “Where is the Lady Larien?” he barked at a slave, who wordlessly pointed up the stairs. He shook off the attempt to restrain him and ran towards her apartments.

  “Larien!” he called as he knocked on the door. “Larien! It’s Mirko.”

  He waited while she dealt with the heavy lock. She opened the door and walked back into the room; Mirko followed.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her face ashen and her eyes brimming.

  “I just wanted to see that you were …”

  “That I was what? Calm? That I was calm after my uncle had murdered a man I’ve known as long as I can remember and served his head up on a plate? Well no, I’m not calm! I’m angry and vengeful and frightened and …oh Mirko, how could he?”

  Mirko took her in his arms and gently kissed her hair. Added to is guilt over the whole business, he felt satisfaction that Larien had turned to him after her earlier chilliness; an extra frisson of self-disgust ran through him.

  “Your uncle is not …not a temperate character.”

  Larien continued to sob. “Padizan used to look after the stables when I was a child. He always used to make sure there was hay ready for me to feed the striders and gallumphers. ‘How are you, my chicken?’ he used to say whenever I sneaked down there. Sometimes I’d go when I was meant to be at my lessons. What did I care for the history of the House of Bartazan? So I’d slip off to the stables. Padizan always used to take me back, of course. But he’d let me stay for a while and stroke the beasts.”

  “I…”

  “It’s not you, it’s nothing you’ve done. My uncle’s to blame, he killed that good man who’d served him for so many years for no thanks or reward.”

  Mirko clutched Larien tighter, as much to preserve his own balance as to give her comfort. His quixotic act to impress ‘N’ had led directly to the death of the slave-master. Affairs you do not understand …

  “Larien, how can I work for a man like that? How can I carry on doing it?”

  Larien wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Only you can say that, Mirko. They tell me how you treat the galley-slaves; if you went that would all be over. Maybe it’s best for you to continue and do just a little good. You are not a bad man, Mirko, and associating with one does not make you so.”

  “Who told you I had improved the slaves’ conditions?” asked Mirko.

  Larien looked up. “Oh, I don’t know, it’s galley gossip, everyone knows it.”

  “I only treat them as seamen. I’m sure Drallenkoop treats his slaves as well.”

  Larien sniffled and blew her nose. “Drallenkoop! He is our only hope.”

  Mirko looked puzzled.

  “You can beat every galley but Dragonchaser, I’m sure. Whatever happened on the water today, Dragonchaser is still your master.”

  “I never claimed otherwise.”

  “But Mirko — if you could beat Dragonchaser in the Margariad. Just imagine you could. You’d be coming round The Sorcerers in the lead and the race at your mercy. Would you do it? Knowing it would make Bartazan Peremptor?”

  “The Margariad doesn’t make Peremptors: the Electors do.”

  “That’s sophistry. You know it’s not true. The Electors dare not refuse Bartazan if he wins — if you win — the Margariad. You know that. So tell me: if the race was in your pocket, would you win it?”

  Mirko disengaged himself from Larien. “What else could I do?” he said quietly. “I’m a galley-master. When you’re watching, don’t delude yourself with false hopes, Larien. If I’m ahead of Dragonchaser, you can be sure I’m trying to stay there.”

  Larien sank to her couch, sobbing again. “Mirko — I thought you were — I thought you wanted to do right. Leave me now.”

  “Larien, my conscience is mine alone.”

  “No excuses — just go.”

  Mirko inclined his head. “Goodnight, my lady. I will call again soon.”

  As soon as the door swung shut behin
d him, Mirko heard the lock thud into place with what seemed unnecessary force, punctuating his dismissal.

  CHAPTER 11

  M

  irko made his way back to the Banqueting Hall. For the first time he noticed that Larien had vomited on his sleeve, and he dabbed it absent-mindedly with a handkerchief Evaldas had provided as part of the outfit. He knew he would never wear the garment again.

  Entering the Hall, Mirko found that the Lady Inuela had been carried out, and the other ladies were also absent. Although the table had been cleared of food, Padizan’s head remained on its salver for all to see. Nobody seemed particularly discomposed by it; Mirko noticed that Carnazan had left during his absence.

  “Ascalon!” called Bartazan. “How is my niece?”

  “She is distressed, my lord. She told me of her childhood affection for — for Padizan.”

  “What a sweet, open nature she has, Captain — something that men particularly find attractive. She uses her emotions rather than her reason. Padizan had been my retainer for many years, Captain. Imagine my shock, my horror, my revulsion, on finding that he had betrayed me for money. Anger, too of course, but that came later. I had trusted Padizan — trusted him with my slaves, but more importantly to uphold the honour of my House. What a laughing stock I should have been, with Padizan parading about the town in his carriage, enriched through the misguided trust of the Elector Bartazan. Never could this be allowed!”

  Mirko shook his head. Killed to save Bartazan’s face. Bartazan misinterpreted the gesture.

  “I thought you would understand; the pride of the Garganet is famed. Come with me; Kintautas can look after the guests, most of whom now wish to depart, with my lesson fresh in their minds.”

  Mirko followed Bartazan, not without trepidation. “The galley’s performance today gratified me greatly,” he said as they walked out into the open air. “As well as a stern enemy, I am a staunch friend. Do you possess a strider?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “It is time we remedied that deficiency. I cannot have my galley-master riding up to Formello in the rattlejack. I have a mount which would suit your needs admirably. Come, the stables are near.”

  “I don’t know what to say, my lord.”

  This was true enough; the last thing he wanted was an expensive gift from Bartazan after his behaviour tonight; but it was hardly possible to refuse.

  “I will also give you some friendly advice; please take it in the spirit offered.”

  Mirko inclined his head.

  “Larien tells me she has invited you to the Peremptor’s Grand Ball as her escort. Ordinarily I would not permit this; a galley-master is not fit companion for an Elector’s niece. A similar piece of lèse-majesté led to young Minalgas Inisse’s difficulties.”

  Mirko said nothing.

  “On this occasion I am prepared to make an exception. Firstly, you are not a Paladrian, so you do not bring with you an obviously debased social position. Secondly, your presence is likely to discommode Koopendrall and Drallenkoop, a worthwhile end in itself. Finally, Larien has proved headstrong and wilful of late; by granting her this comparatively minor concession, I hope to conciliate her at no great inconvenience to myself. I hope you are sensible of the compliment I am paying you.”

  Mirko had detected no particular compliment, and merely inclined his head again.

  “Do not make the mistake of believing that I approve of your relationship. At the moment it causes me no real disturbance; but its continuance clearly would do so. The Lady Larien is my ward, and both her fortune and her marriage are within my gift. In due course I will bestow them where they do me the most good; plainly that will not be on a Garganet officer, even one who is Master of the City’s Fleet. Am I clear?”

  “In every aspect, my lord.”

  Late that night Mirko found himself proceeding steadily down the road from Formello to Paladria; this time the strider was his own, but he took little satisfaction from the circumstance. His mind ran again and again over the image of Padizan’s head stuffed with the coins he had not had time to enjoy; Padizan, the vulgar and venal slave-master who all those years ago had looked forward to Larien skipping her lessons and tripping down to the stables; Padizan, Mirko’s patsy.

  The next morning Mirko was early at the Urmaleškas. The sun struggled with indifferent success to force a path through the morning mists. Liudas was not yet in evidence, but he roused the slaves into good order and marched them down to the docks. The mood was subdued; whatever method the slaves used to garner their current affairs, it was rapid. Padizan had been neither an especially lenient slave-master nor a harsh one; his position was not one to generate affection among the slaves, and those who had spent time in his pens felt, in the main, indifference; but they sensed from the tension in Florian, Trajian, Skaidrys and Jenx that much remained under the surface.

  Mirko did not make eye-contact with any of the slaves as he arrayed them to march. Once at the docks, he instructed them to clean Serendipity’s sides thoroughly, and summoned his comrades in arms for a private conference.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about last night,” he began.

  “Padizan’s dead — only hours after confessing publicly to a betrayal we all know he didn’t make,” said Florian sharply.

  “Yes. All I can say is that I don’t know what happened or how. My — an associate of mine — observed that Garganet accents were heard in Formello that night. The truth must soon have been known.”

  “So you arranged for Padizan to take the fall? That’s brave and honourable.”

  “Florian, you forget yourself. Padizan’s death was not intended by the people who chose to protect me — and in so doing, protected you too.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Florian scornfully. “You’ve only just told us you don’t know what happened. You told ‘someone’ what you’d done; he said ‘Leave matters to me!’ and Padizan is dead twelve hours later. How convenient for everyone — well, nearly everyone.”

  “That’s enough, Florian,” said Trajian. “What was Ascalon supposed to do? Tell Bartazan that he’d used four of his own slaves to free Inisse? It’s easy for you to criticise with hindsight.”

  Florian shrugged. “It’s all too late for Padizan. Are we rowing today?”

  “If Liudas ever cares to join us.”

  “I can helm,” he said. “I was a helm in Garganet.”

  Mirko turned wordlessly.

  “It’s easier to row, in general; and since Liudas has the job for the season, it seemed a redundant accomplishment.”

  As they returned to Serendipity, Mirko was accosted by Drallenkoop.

  “Hey, Ascalon! Do you fancy a rematch?”

  “We aren’t doing speedwork today,” said Mirko politely.

  Drallenkoop cawed. “Very wise; we’d give you ten lengths start and still beat you to the Hanspar.”

  “Believe as you will, Drallenkoop. There’s only one race that counts, and events are starting to run in our direction.”

  Drallenkoop laughed. “You’ve done better than I expected so far; but the Margariad has three turns, two of them tight; and you have Liudas at the helm.”

  Mirko inwardly acknowledged the justice of this observation. “The race is won on the water, Drallenkoop, not in your mouth.”

  Dragonchaser was swiftly away from the jetty, and moved with conspicuous crispness about her manoeuvres. Serendipity, perhaps suffering from yesterday’s exertions, or depressed by the tension among the Quartermen, performed with slackness and error. Florian showed to reasonable advantage — certainly enough to commend his helmsmanship above Liudas’ — but the rowers’ technical exercises were vitiated by sloppiness. After forty-five minutes Mirko abandoned the session in disgust; perseverance would only ingrain bad habits.

  The crew returned shamefaced to the docks, aware that any other overseer would have had them whipped for such a display. Mirko maintained a steely silence.

  “Tomorrow, I expect better,” he said
, and set off briskly for his lodgings.

  Mirko was grateful that evening for the strider — styled ‘Boodle’, according to its collar — which Bartazan had bestowed upon him. The cliffs overlooking The Sorcerers were even further away than Formello, and Mirko rode Boodle hard to make his rendezvous for seven bars. Dismounting, he led Boodle up the crest of the final rise.

  He saw in the middle distance a slight figure in a dark cloak, evidently practising archery. Arrows flew rapidly into the trunk of a tree some distance away, none missing the target. ‘N’ was a woman of many accomplishments. On hearing Mirko’s approach, she stopped and laid down the bow, slightly out of breath.

  “Ascalon,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Mirko noticed that again she looked tired, the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced. He still wasn’t sure whether he was angry with her or not.

  “Your letter didn’t give me a choice,” he said. “Besides, I would welcome your explanations.”

  “Come and sit on the grass,” she said. “Look out to sea.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Sea. Sky. Sunset. Rocks.”

  “ ‘Rocks?’ Those are The Sorcerers.”

  “So I understand.”

  “They are the three largest rocks in the Bay of Paladria; they have the most treacherous and unpredictable currents anywhere in Mondia. I know what I’m talking about; I’ve been round and through them on galleys before.”

  “The point of this geological discourse?”

  “The Sorcerers form the third and final turn on the Margariad course, a fact you may or may not have researched. Most helms go around the outside of the rock Anazgro, a smooth turn which sets the galley up well for the long run home; a more daring or desperate galley will go between Rybalard and Basile-Orario, a shorter distance, but a much tighter and more technical turn.”

  “I am nothing if not thorough. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”