by Tim Stretton
Mecislovas contented himself with a chuckle as the other Electors frowned. Bartazan appeared somewhat discomposed.
“It seems the entertainment has begun before the nominations are finished. My lord Giedrus, my qualifications are slight, when measured against the great names of the past. But three previous Bartazans have held the August Office, and with reckless candour, I accept the nomination of my peers.”
With this, Bartazan returned to his seat. Giedrus rose.
“My brother Bartazan, you disinterestedness and selflessness inspire us all, and serve as an example to the whole of Paladria. I welcome you again to the Judgement of Equals. Now, with the Nominations concluded, we may proceed to the frivolities. Musicians! Play! My guests, the Palace of Coverciano is at your disposal. The evening is young — disport yourselves in the pleasure gardens to your hearts’ content.”
Mirko and Larien wandered easily into the open air.
“Wasn’t that just the most hypocritical performance?” asked Larien. “Could anyone have been fooled by my uncle’s reluctance; everyone in Paladria knows he covets the Office above everything. Giedrus will destroy him.”
Mirko smiled slightly as he looked at her. “Unless I —”
“Let’s not revisit that, Mirko. I understand your position: that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, here comes Liudas: will you excuse me for a while? I must attend to an item of business.”
Larien looked surprised but nodded her head.
Walking towards a footman, Mirko said:
“Please direct me to the Orange Grove.”
“This way, sir.”
The Orange Grove was accurately if unimaginatively named, a grove of citrus trees giving off a beautiful clean scent. Mirko inhaled the fresh perfume deeply; it was perhaps the only natural thing he had yet encountered at Coverciano.
Turning slightly, he realised ‘N’ was next to him. In her ceremonial regalia she seemed taller, a burgundy dress setting off her fair hair and complexion to advantage. Her eyes seemed dull, and once again Mirko thought she looked tired.
“Hello, ‘N’”
“Hello, Mirko.”
This, he noticed, was the first time she hadn’t called him Ascalon. He wondered what this augured.
“Won’t Larien be missing you?”
“I’ve left her discussing apparel with Liudas; I doubt she’ll notice I’m gone.”
“I’m sure you undervalue your charm — but that’s not why I want to talk to you.”
“No?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question. I came because Larien asked me to; and I certainly didn’t expect to see you — my lady.”
“So you’ve established who I am?”
“I assume I have the pleasure of addressing the Lady Catzendralle, of House Drall?”
‘N’ pursed her lips. “Why did you have to find out?”
“Why didn’t you tell me to start with? Because you didn’t want me to know I was working for Koopendrall?”
“I didn’t think you cared who you worked for. Gold is gold.”
“It’s not quite that simple now, is it?”
To Mirko’s surprise, ‘N’ — or Lady Catzendralle — smiled. “It never was simple, Mirko. Nothing in Paladria is simple. It’s my own fault — I should have guessed Larien would bring you.”
“Does it matter that I know who you are?”
“Follow me,” she said quietly, walking into a nearby maze. “There are better places to talk than the Orange Grove — but you’d never have found this one.”
Mirko followed Catzendralle as she steered flawlessly through the maze, finally stepping through an artfully concealed entrance into yet another garden.
“This,” she said, “is the Secret Garden — and for once, the term means exactly what it says. Only two people know of its existence, and they’re both standing here.”
Mirko looked around the garden, with its gravelled paths, neat lawns and shrubs, and borders of flowers in every colour.
“I’m not sure I believe that, my lady. These gardens appear to be immaculately maintained, and your observation implies that you do the gardening yourself.”
“Sit down,” said Catzendralle with a quickly repressed smile, calmly folding her legs under her as she sat. “This garden is unique; it is maintained by the Old Craft.”
Mirko started. “The Old Craft has been gone from Paladria for hundreds of years!”
“Indeed it has. But the garden is maintained by a charm of stasis, itself many hundreds of years old. It will persist forever, since — as you observe — the Old Craft is no longer practised here to undo it.”
“I have to ask how you know about it.”
Catzendralle laughed. “And equally, I don’t have to tell you. There are many things only I know: I make it my business.”
“It occurs to me,” said Mirko, “that this is the sort of place you’d bring someone to kill them, especially if they’d found out an important secret about you.”
“Mirko! There are much easier ways of killing you which don’t require me to look you in the face while I do it. I brought you here because I imagined you’d have certain questions, and I’d rather answer them away from eavesdroppers. And the Secret Garden is so beautiful.”
Mirko was never more suspicious of Catzendralle than when she played the ingénue. It was just one more ploy to keep him off balance.
“Catzendralle, what do you intend to do about the fact that I know who you are and who you work for?”
She sighed and lay back on the grass, looking straight up into the sky. “What can I do? I can kill you, as you suggested —”
“I didn’t exactly suggest it …”
“— but I’m not going to. The other option is simple: nothing. I don’t like my agents to find out who I am, for all sorts of reasons, and it’s never happened before. But now it has. You have been useful and energetic so far, and as a foreigner I doubt you’ll be staying here forever. And then of course, if I’m exposed, you’re exposed. Matters will proceed as before. I’m inconvenienced by today, but not endangered.”
Mirko looked across at her; her eyes were closed as she lay on the grass. “So you trust me?”
Without moving, she said: “Never make that mistake. I’m forced to trust you within certain limited parameters, no more than that.”
After a pause, Mirko said: “You have a lonely occupation, if you can’t or won’t trust anyone. How did someone like you end up doing this?”
Catzendralle opened her eyes and rolled over onto her side to face Mirko. “I won’t ask what ‘someone like me’ is supposed to mean; I don’t think I’d like the answer.”
“You know what I mean; you are gentlewoman, not uncomely, intelligent. Such a background would not generally lead to a career in espionage.”
Catzendralle sighed. “I doubt that you call Larien ‘not uncomely’ to her face. Leaving that aside, a gentlewoman who is educated and unwilling to be married off at her relatives’ whim finds few opportunities present themselves. I was approached to undertake some minor assignments, showed potential, and in time ended up where you see me now: in Coverciano’s secret garden, hoping my agent won’t unmask me.”
“Essentially your motivation is boredom?”
“I have two sisters: Jallendralle is married to an Elector’s brother, an odious character, violent when he’s drunk and promiscuous when he’s sober. She had to marry him because I refused to.”
She shuddered and continued. “Yanderalle isn’t married at all, and she’s older than me. A stimulating day for her involves playing with Jallendralle’s children; more often she sketches or works at a silkscreen. Well-born women in Paladria have about the same amount of freedom as slaves.”
Mirko was silent at the intensity of Catzendralle’s quiet observations. “I’m sorry — I had never thought —”
She smiled. “Men never think; which is one reas
on why a woman can be really rather good at what I do.”
Mirko felt a sombreness to her mood. He stood up. “Are you going to show me round the gardens?” he asked, stretching out his hand to help her up.
Catzendralle got lightly to her feet; her hand was cool and dry in Mirko’s. “Don’t think,” she said, “that because you’ve found out who I am, and I’ve told you something about myself, that our relationship has changed. Your instructions are the same as before, I pay you the same as before, and I am ‘N’, not Catzendralle.”
“Do you never relax? You can trust me, you know, even though you don’t want to.”
“No, I don’t ever relax: I prefer staying alive. You have been careless enough with your own safety so far; I don’t relish such a cavalier approach to mine. And you should be getting back to Larien.”
Mirko shrugged. “You’re more interesting than you appear at first sight, Catzendralle. You should try letting people like you for a change.”
Catzendralle said nothing for a few moments. “Can you find your way out of the maze?” she finally said sharply.
“Yes, unless it’s obscured by some Old Craft trickery.”
“It’s not. I’ll be in contact after The Sorcerers. Now go — I’ll stay here for a while.”
Mirko made his way out of the secret garden. Somehow Catzendralle had managed to make him feel guilty that he had found out who she was, and boorish for wanting to know more. He still didn’t know what to make of her; sometimes she seemed genuinely warm towards him, but if he reciprocated she reacted defensively or as if he’d affronted her. Since she was paying him, that, he supposed, was her prerogative.
CHAPTER 17
M
irko was surprised, on finally locating Larien, to find her in conversation with Koopendrall’s party on the Sunset Lawns. Even more to his surprise, she did not seem offended by the time he had spent with Catzendralle.
“Mirko!” she said. “Have you met the Elector Koopendrall? We are just discussing the prospects for next week’s regatta. Drallenkoop you know of course, and the Lady Allara — I would not answer for who she knows.”
Mirko bowed to Koopendrall — the man, it seemed, who was paying his wages. “My lord. I am honoured to meet the man who sponsors Dragonchaser.”
Koopendrall waved away the compliment. “She is my son’s galley; he maintains her from prize money. She’s nothing to do with me — although of course I take pride in her achievements.”
The Lady Allara, a young woman with blonde hair and disconcertingly wide blue eyes, asked Mirko, “Do you think you will win next week, captain? They say Serendipity has been performing well.”
“It would be rash to speculate on the outcome, my lady. Dragonchaser is the boat to beat, and in a week’s time all will be known. I can influence only the performance of my own galley.”
“I have to observe, Mirko,” said Larien, “that the Lady Allara’s knowledge of galley-racing is not large, and her commendation is not of immense weight. Am I not right, Allara, in saying that you have never watched a race from start to finish?”
“Certainly, my lady Larien, I have not made it my business to throw myself at every galley-master on the Bay; and consequently find little to occupy me on the waterfront.”
Larien arched her eyebrows. “I notice you are the guest of the most prominent galley-master of all today. As a result I would not think you best-placed to insinuate on the conduct of others in this regard.”
“I am not sure how your own escort will feel at hearing my Lord Drallenkoop styled ‘the most prominent galley-master of all’ when his own reputation has soared so dramatically. I accompany Lord Drallenkoop at his express invitation, which I accepted out of regard for his superior intellectual and social qualities, rather than his success in the regattas.”
Drallenkoop shot Allara a glare which effectively quelled any further conversation. Koopendrall took advantage of the pause to address Mirko.
“How did you enjoy the speeches, sir?”
“I was favourably impressed with their brevity; their content fostered an idea of humility in the participants which I suspect would not be borne out on closer examination of their characters.”
Koopendrall laughed. “You speak with dangerous latitude about your employer, especially with his niece present.”
“I am sure that even my lord Bartazan would not seriously claim humility among his virtues.”
“Although I do not own Dragonchaser, naturally I take a keen interest in her performances. Tell me, do you genuinely believe you have a chance of winning the Margariad? Do you —”
Koopendrall was interrupted by the arrival of four Peremptor’s Constables, led by Vaidmantas. Bowing to the gentlefolk, the officer addressed Mirko:
“Good evening, Captain Ascalon.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I will have to ask you to come with us. This is a matter of some seriousness.”
“You will see that I am engaged with my Lord Koopendrall. Can your business not wait?”
Vaidmantas looked mildly apologetic and a trifle embarrassed. “Sir, in view of the gravity of the accusations, that is not possible. I imagine you will prefer to accompany us under conditions of dignity rather than force us to use restraint.”
“ ‘Gravity’? ‘Accusation?’”
“This will be more expeditious if you accompany us. Possibly a misunderstanding has occurred.”
Mirko turned to the assembled company. “My lords and ladies, please excuse me; I believe the Peremptor’s Constables have arrested me.”
“No!” cried Larien, who had been stunned into silence. “Do you know who I am? You cannot take my uncle’s galley-master.”
“I do know who you are, my lady. Under the circumstances your intercession is futile — possibly worse than futile.”
“Mirko!”
“Larien, just find your uncle and tell him what’s happened.”
In silence the Constables led Mirko back into the palace, well away from the banqueting area.
“This will be your residence for the immediate future,” said Vaidmantas, conducting Mirko to a cell of spartan but relatively unthreatening appearance. “Among my other duties I deal with espionage against the Peremptor: in this context there are various matters we should discuss. Please divest yourself of any weaponry.”
Mirko silently removed his dagger and handed it to Vaidmantas.
“Thank you. Now, let us sit and consider the charges laid against you.”
“I would find that more straightforward if I knew what they were.”
“I have received an allegation that you have been intriguing against the Peremptor on behalf of the Elector Bartazan. In addition your name has been mentioned in connection with the death of Bartazan’s slave-master Padizan.”
“The allegations are false. I now intend to leave.”
Vaidmantas gave a soft chuckle. “Sadly the Peremptor’s justice does not operate in quite this fashion. Two scenarios present themselves: firstly, you may answer my questions in such a way as to convince me of your innocence, a remote but conceivable outcome; or you remain in custody until arraignment, trial and inevitable conviction.”
“It is three days to The Sorcerers Regatta. I can hardly oversee Serendipity from Coverciano.”
“Your enthusiasm does you credit. Hard as it may be to believe, however, there are more important things in Paladria than galley-racing. You will remain here until you leave — an observation more profound than it appears.”
“Who has accused me? What evidence do they adduce?”
“I am scarcely likely to share the name of my source.”
“Let us assume your informant is associated with House Drall. How convenient it would be for me to be incarcerated at the time of an important regatta, just when I am about to inflict a significant defeat on Dragonchaser. Am I near the mark?”
Vaidmantas pursed his lips. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Look, Vaidmantas, what exactly am I supposed to have done?”
“Murdered Padizan. Intrigued against the Peremptor.”
“Both allegations are absurd.”
“In my experience both the innocent and the guilty make much the same point.”
“What do I need to do to get out of here?”
“For now, that option is not available to you. We will speak again tomorrow.”
“Am I allowed visitors?”
“You may require someone to bring you food and clothes.”
“I demand to speak to Bartazan.”
“Not a wise choice. You are, in any case, expressly prohibited from all contact with all members of the House of Bartazan.”
Mirko pondered his situation. The person most able to help him would be Catzendralle, but he suspected she would not be eager to become involved in the affair. On the other hand, as it seemed likely that allegations had originated within House Drall, she might well be able to resolve the misunderstanding. After all, whatever offences he were guilty of, the murder of Padizan and intriguing for Bartazan were not among them.
“In that case, please convey a message to the Lady Catzendralle that I am here and would like to see her.”
Vaidmantas stroked his chin. “The Lady Catzendralle?”
“Yes. She is here tonight.”
“You pick the most curious friends. I will arrange for someone to contact her.”
With that, Vaidmantas turned and left the room, making sure to take Mirko’s dagger with him.
As the door was locked Mirko composed himself for rest on the straw mattress which constituted his bed. It seemed likely he would be here for some time, and fretfulness would not make the time pass faster. Who could have done this to him, and why?
House Drall certainly seemed the likeliest culprits. Although Drallenkoop hadn’t seemed concerned, there was a widespread feeling that Serendipity might challenge Dragonchaser in the next races. With a stand-in overseer next week, that now seemed unlikely. Then again, Catzendralle had made it clear that there were many vested interests who wanted to see Serendipity fail, starting with Giedrus himself. Since it was Giedrus’ own constables who had arrested him, this possibility could not be discounted.
