by Tim Stretton
With this he leapt aboard the galley, leaving neither Mirko nor Raïdis vexed: such bravado was part of the game, and characteristic of Drallenkoop’s confidence.
“Mirko! Wait there!” called a high voice as he prepared to board Serendipity. It was Larien, tripping lightly down the jetty, kitted out in a dockhand’s garb of white shirt and black trousers gathered at the ankle. “Will you take me out this morning? I haven’t been out on a galley this year.”
“Climb aboard,” he said, holding out his hand. “You can ride the observation platform, as long as you’re quiet.”
Larien made a comic moue. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“That’s the deal: I’m still overseer in Orstas’ absence, and I can hardly invite one of the slaves to oversee.”
“Why are we waiting, then?”
As he helped her up to the observation platform, he said: “I’m glad you seem happier today, Larien. What happened at Formello was a terrible shock.”
“It’s past now. I have many reasons to hate my uncle; this is just one more. And now he’s driven Carnazan away too …”
“Relax and enjoy the sea. You’ll find it surpassingly soothing.”
“Thank you, Mirko — and thank you for forgiving me. I behaved abominably.”
Mirko shrugged, and failed to suppress a grin.
“Ascalon!” called Liudas. “Are we going?”
Mirko dropped down to the overseer’s hollow. “Indeed we are. Jenx, beat Seven!”
The bay was crowded, with most of the contenders for next week’s race going though their paces. Mirko worked Serendipity hard, experimenting with a number of tempos, running at Nine for as long as possible, and practising rapid changes from Seven through to Nine and back again. The results were encouraging, and Mirko called a halt for rations with some satisfaction. Larien had seemed thrilled, occasionally calling aloud in appreciation.
After a break, Mirko decided to order some helm work. A few sharp turns around the Hanspar went relatively successfully; Liudas’ evolutions lacked the crispness of natural aptitude, but the Rock was avoided without excessive diminution of speed.
“Jenx! Beat Seven! Liudas, make for The Sorcerers!”
This was an important conclusion to the day’s exercise. The turn around The Sorcerers next week would probably decide the race, and while Liudas was performing relatively well it seemed opportune to familiarise him with the prevailing conditions.
The pull from the Hanspar to The Sorcerers was hard work into a strong current. The three rocks, Anazgro, Rybalard and Basile-Orario, named after the three infamous and ill-fated wizards of East Gammerling, looked much larger and more forbidding close up, and Mirko decided it was unnecessary bravado to attempt to ‘thread the needle’, especially as he had no intention of doing so in the race. Animaxian’s Glory was also doing some practice work around the rocks, which made threading the needle even more inadvisable. Mirko compromised on an approach at full race pace going round the outside of the rocks.
“Jenx! Beat Nine! Liudas! Round the outside, if you please!”
Animaxian’s Glory had pulled up to within half a length, both reckless this close to The Sorcerers, and discourteous in a practice session.
“Animaxian’s Glory! Back off! Back off!” called Larien from the observation platform. Inisse sneered and made an obscene gesture from the helm. He mouthed something of which only ‘Bartazan bitch’ was audible.
“Maintain tempo! Maintain course!” called Mirko calmly. “Florian, Skaidrys! Keep the rhythm there, men! Liudas, outside, outside!”
Animaxian’s Glory was unable to gain terms with Serendipity and Liudas pulled the long swinging turn around the outside of Anazgro, the easiest of the Sorcerers, quickening appreciably as she came round into the current.
From the observation platform came the call: “She’s threading the needle! Animaxian’s Glory is threading the needle!”
Larien was right, Mirko saw from the overseer’s cockpit. Inisse had swung the helm hard to port, turning Animaxian’s Glory almost a hundred and eighty degrees. It was an amazing manoeuvre — and seeing it, Mirko knew that never in a lifetime could Liudas master it — and Animaxian’s Glory shot ahead as she hit the faster inter-rock current first. She emerged a length and a half ahead of Serendipity but then lost momentum as the current died — always the outcome for a galley which came through the eye of the needle. It was now incumbent on Inisse to move aside to avoid a collision, since Animaxian’s Glory was the slower boat; but instead she angled her bows across Serendipity. Mirko’s crew, rowing Nine, had no chance to slow or avoid. She ploughed through Animaxian’s Glory’s oars, smashed full on into her hull, before jolting to a halt.
There was a scream from the observation platform; Larien, unbalanced by the sudden stop, was launched into the air and hit the water with a stunning splash. Without thinking, Mirko plunged into the water, diving deep under the surface. The impact of the sea knocked the breath from his lungs, and he surfaced, gasping.
Looking around, he saw Larien floundering. He didn’t know whether she could swim, but the shock of the fall had clearly disoriented her. She beat ineffectually at the surface, her head bobbing below the surface with alarming regularity. Mirko saw that Animaxian’s Glory was effectively obstructing Serendipity’s attempts to disengage and move across to pick them up; he could expect no immediate help from that quarter.
Mirko swam across to Larien with swift, even strokes; swimming was something all Garganet mariners did well. “Larien! Relax! I’ll keep you afloat!”
Larien made to say something, but she sank back under the surface with her mouth open, emerging a second later with a great choking gasp. Mirko closed the gap between them and put an arm under her back, keeping her above the water with his own bodyweight. Once he had established a stable position it was relatively easy to maintain an equilibrium.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” gasped Larien. “I — I could see we were going to hit but I couldn’t brace myself. I thought I was going to drown.”
“You’ll be safe now — as long as Serendipity can disengage from that dog Inisse.”
“I can swim, you know.”
“You hide it well.”
“I just panicked. Let me go, I’ll stay afloat.”
Mirko felt such a course would be more cognisant with her dignity if she really could swim, and gently disengaged to assess her competence. She appeared to tread water efficiently enough.
“Can you swim to Serendipity?” asked Mirko.
“I think so.”
Larien was as good as her word, and soon they were in range of the rope thrown out by Trajian. Mirko secured it under Larien’s arms and she was hauled aboard, with Mirko scrambling impatiently up the side.
Once on the deck, Larien embraced him with a kiss for good measure. “You saved my life,” she said, sinking her head on his shoulder.
“I thought you could swim,” replied Mirko.
“So I can,” she said. “But I would have drowned before I remembered it.”
A remark, presumably lewd, from Jenx caused immense hilarity on the slave deck. Liudas uttered an ineffectual reproof but there was now no halting the string of ribaldries from the rowers. Mirko turned to face them.
“Do you take this assault on our honour so lightly? Do you forget the provocation from Inisse? Today there will be a reckoning.”
Florian called out: “Do you intend to chastise Minalgas Inisse?”
“Yes, Florian, I do. Our honour is at stake.”
Florian shook his head. “The term ‘irony’ is insufficient for this situation.”
“Enough, Florian. Attend to your station. Trajian, Skaidrys, with me.” Trajian and Skaidrys left their oars and moved astern. “Animaxian’s Glory appears unable to disengage our oars. Let us step across and offer our assistance.”
“Aye, sir.”
Leaping the narrow gap between the craft, they soon found themselves on the helm platfor
m of Animaxian’s Glory. Inisse stood at his helm undaunted, his overseer and several slaves surrounding him.
“Sir,” said Inisse in a strong voice, “you find yourselves on the sacred deck of Animaxian’s Glory, a vessel consecrated as a temple to the sea-god Animaxian, the deity of Paladria. Kindly regulate your conduct accordingly.”
Mirko dropped his hand to his sword-hilt.
“I rather thought I had come aboard a brigand’s lair where the rules of the sea are set at naught. Since neither Trajian nor myself subscribe to Paladrian superstition in these devotional matters, we disregard your claims to sanctity. Account for your actions this instant, or face the consequences. A young woman nearly lost her life through your malice today.”
Inisse laughed. “And what of my sufferings? Who is to avenge those? If the Bartazan trollop had drowned it would not wipe off one iota of the debt owed to me for the eight weeks I spent in Bartazan’s pit. You are Bartazan’s men on Bartazan’s galley — I can only regard this morning’s events as highly satisfactory. If that concludes your business, you may leave immediately: we are required at the Temple of Animaxian to conduct a Mystery.”
Mirko stepped smartly forward and dealt Inisse a buffet around the ears. “You aggravate your offence by referring to the Lady Larien as a ‘trollop’. Conduct your Mystery, by all means — and then bring yourself back to the jetty. You and I, sir, have business to transact.”
Inisse bowed insolently. “In case you feel the provocation insufficiently direct, let me expand my characterisation of the Lady Larien to include the terms ‘hussy’, ‘harlot’, ‘whore’, ‘jade’, ‘beastialist’, ‘fornicatrix’, ‘deviant’, ‘reprobate’ and ‘moral leper’. Good evening to you, captain.”
Mirko raised his arm, to a sneer from Inisse. Trajian and Skaidrys quickly pulled Mirko away and they returned to Serendipity. Mirko’s face was thunderous.
“Liudas! Disengage from this buffoon’s craft, steer for shore. Jenx, beat Seven.”
Larien, who appeared to have heard Inisse’s discourse, said: “You do not need to protect my honour, Mirko — and certainly not Bartazan’s.”
“Inisse’s insults were an abomination. I would have felt obliged to defend the honour and reputation of any lady so maligned.”
“His list was by and large unspecific, and reflected only the understandable bile of his temper. His provocations have been extreme. Those terms which referred to specific acts — with the exception of ‘fornicatrix’ — were demonstrably false, and those which did not were largely subjective value judgements.”
Mirko smiled, welcoming Larien’s return to her customary spirit: her immersion had inflicted no lasting damage.
As soon as Serendipity had moored, Mirko summoned a rattlejack for Larien and instructed Skaidrys to accompany her back to Formello. He was uncertain how Bartazan would react; while he evinced little regard for his niece, the insult to the honour of Bartazan House was clear and direct. Better if he dealt with the matter himself.
As he waited for Animaxian’s Glory to reach the jetty, he could not help reflecting on the irony of the situation. It was solely due to his own impulses that Inisse was at liberty at all; yet Inisse, perfectly reasonably, hated with a vengeful passion everything to do with Bartazan House and seemingly would not rest until he ruined either it or himself. He was hardly in a position to draw the facts to Inisse’s attention, and he certainly felt no personal animosity — but in his current humour, Inisse represented a real danger not just to himself, but to Serendipity and Larien. The situation was difficult and complicated: the person best able to help him was ‘N’, he suspected. But ‘N’ always made sure she was the one to initiate contact, and he had no reliable way of arranging a meeting with her. He would have to track down one of the various intermediaries he occasionally used.
A short while later, Animaxian’s Glory lashed herself to her mooring. The officers and crew disembarked and set up a wailing chant as they marched off, presumably to undertake their Mystery. Mirko sent the crew back to the Urmaleškas under Liudas’ command, with the exception of Florian and Trajian whom he retained as seconds. He spent the next hour or so honing the various duelling skills he had learned as a matter of course in Garganet; while his practice had been negligent of late, he doubted that Inisse, after eight weeks in an underground pit, would be any more proficient.
“How have you managed to get yourself in this position?” asked Florian as they stopped to drink. “You risk your life — and ours, of course — to rescue Inisse, and now he won’t rest until he’s killed you. Whichever of you dies, it’s an absurdity and a waste.”
Mirko sighed as he sat back on a mooring bollard. “I hardly know how else it could have turned out. I can’t tell Inisse who rescued him without endangering us all, and I can’t allow him to insult the Lady Larien without chastisement.”
Trajian said: “You could, in fact. You are an employee of the House of Bartazan — however eccentrically you discharge that employment — and any rebuke would be better be administered by Bartazan himself or Carnazan.”
“It’s my imaginings of the form Bartazan’s rebuke might take that disposes me to settle this myself; remember Padizan. And Carnazan is not here to intervene. Besides, Larien was under my protection as galley-master. A man must have some honour.”
Florian snorted. “Honour? Trajian and I know what you did in Garganet. It hardly seems appropriate to talk about honour in those circumstances.”
Mirko’s jaw clenched. “That was Garganet. I forfeited enough; it doesn’t mean I can’t try to act with dignity here.”
Trajian said: “We agreed that Garganet is behind us, Florian. We all need to stick together if any of us is going home. But Mirko, you should be careful with Larien: I don’t think Bartazan will be overjoyed if you debauch her.”
Mirko shrugged. “We act as we act; and take the consequences. I regulate my conduct by this precept.”
CHAPTER 14
T
he sun was low in the sky when Inisse returned to the jetty. Accompanying him were two Animaxianites of sober habit and surly mien. Florian and Trajian lounged on the jetty planks, while Mirko leaned, dead still, against his bollard.
Inisse stepped towards him. “You had business with me, I understand?”
Mirko stood erect and stepped forward. “You insulted the Lady Larien today in terms I found strongly offensive. I am sure that on reflection you will wish to withdraw the remarks and tender an apology to the lady.”
Inisse rubbed at his beard. “My animosity against the House of Bartazan is strong and understandable. Naturally I comprehend the Lady Larien in my displeasure. My only regret is that the imminence of the Mystery prevented me from outlining my opinions at greater length.”
“Very well,” said Mirko. “I have given you the chance. ‘Death, blood, or yield’, sir.”
Inisse bowed. “The devotees of Animaxian believe the dispensation of death is a matter for the Great One alone, and not to be presumed upon by man. I choose ‘yield’.”
Mirko’s smile of relief was masked by his bow. He had had no desire to kill Inisse, nor to die himself, although this possibility was more remote.
Inisse said: “Perhaps we might adjourn to the dockside where conditions are not so cramped as the here on the jetty. My seconds are the Pious Derellen and Aranisse.”
Mirko nodded to them. “Mine are the Gentle Florian and Trajian. Let us proceed with rapid effect.”
The dockside was empty, the only sound the lapping of the tide against the wharf and the occasional scrape of a galley hull. Inisse and Mirko drew their rapiers and circled cautiously. Mirko essayed a couple of feints which Inisse read and parried competently. Stepping up the tempo of his attack, Mirko managed to force Inisse back. A swift lunge caught Inisse’s shirt but failed to draw blood; instead Inisse was prompted to leap forward, prancing and stamping; a technique unorthodox but effective, and Mirko was forced to give ground. Encouraged by his success, he pushed further forwa
rd; Mirko, ducking under an over-ambitious lunge, caught Inisse’s cheek with a slight nick.
“You may yield, sir!” called Mirko. Inisse shook his head, rejecting an honourable defeat.
Inisse’s injury had raised his hackles, and he redoubled his attacks. His swordplay was characterised by flair, daring and more skill than Mirko had expected. Mirko continued to fight in the classic Garganet style: defensive, watchful, patient. Another opening presented itself and he jabbed forward to nick Inisse’s shoulder. Neither injury would inconvenience a determined opponent.
“Fight, man!” called Inisse. “My grandmother fences with more spirit!”
Mirko said nothing, content to give ground until he could force an opening. Inisse’s physical condition could not be good; he could not possibly have recovered full fitness yet.
It proved to be his patience which was exhausted first, however: with a cry of “Animaxian is great!” he launched a huge leap at Mirko who, surprised, stumbled backwards. With a cry of triumph, Inisse thrust at Mirko’s throat, a move signalled so far in advance that he was able to roll aside, the blade missing him by an inch. With his left hand he grabbed Inisse’s sword-arm and pulled the wrist back against his knee. He thought to hear a faint ‘crack’ and Inisse dropped the sword with a yelp. Mirko applied more pressure to the wrist and pulled Inisse to the ground, hauling himself erect in the same movement.
He stood with his sword at the prone Inisse’s throat. “You’ve fought with skill and vigour, Inisse. Now yield.”
Inisse spat up at Mirko. “Dog!”
“I don’t want to kill you, Inisse. Yield or die.”
“Yield!” hissed Inisse.
