by Tim Stretton
Suddenly Drallenkoop must have swung the helm across. Dragonchaser slewed into Excelsior’s line, completely blocking her run. Raïdis at her helm had two choices: plough into Dragonchaser’s side — a collision which would probably harm Dragonchaser more — or veer off, losing speed and line. He chose the latter option, for whatever reason. Excelsior narrowly missed Dragonchaser, but was virtually stationary. Dragonchaser continued across the current, and used her speed to swing herself back round into position. While Excelsior struggled to build her rhythm up to racing speed, Dragonchaser streaked away. The race was hers.
Serendipity put in a strong finish. Liudas again botched The Sorcerers, this time grazing Basile-Orario on the way past, but Morvellos Devil in third place was tiring rapidly, and Serendipity passed her on the way down the home run. A third place finish was not discreditable but, Bartazan aside, he doubted that anyone else would even notice where they’d finished. The story was all about Dragonchaser and Excelsior today; Drallenkoop would have some explaining to do.
Serendipity had finished only a minute or so behind the two winning boats, and they were both making fast to the jetty when she arrived. The crew of Excelsior were jeering and catcalling across to Dragonchaser, which was taking no notice. Leaving Mindaugas to superintend his slaves, Drallenkoop leapt ashore to a mixture of cheers and jeers from the crowds, which were kept well back from the jetties. Smiling, he ran over to the race officials to hand in his race medallion to signify victory. Turning to acknowledge the crowd, he found his way barred by Raïdis, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
“You dog, Drallenkoop: you baulked us.”
Drallenkoop laughed in his face. “That’s all part of racing. You should learn to race if you want to play with the grown-ups.”
“Grown-ups settle their differences like men, Elector’s boy,” said Raïdis, pulling his sword half from its sheath. “Or perhaps you’d rather apologise?”
Mirko had jumped from Serendipity and tried to intervene. “That’s enough, Raïdis, tempers run high on the water.”
Raïdis looked at him in scorn. “You saw what he did — unless you were too far behind. We had the speed of him out of The Sorcerers, and he swung across us. That’s not racing — not the way I was brought up to it, anyway.”
Drallenkoop said: “You want to finish taking that sword out? I’m ready for you. Mindaugas! Bring my blade.”
Mindaugas hastened from Dragonchaser carrying Drallenkoop’s duelling sword. “Now then,” Drallenkoop said, strapping it on, “Do you want to make something of this? Or not?”
Raïdis whipped his blade out and held it upright in front of him. “I await your pleasure, my lord.” Haïdis had stepped alongside to act as his brother’s second, while Mindaugas was in position for Drallenkoop.
Drallenkoop took a step back and adopted the duelling pose. “At you now!” he cried, and surged forward. Mirko, as a Garganet necessarily a keen swordsman, watched intently; it was too late to interfere now.
Raïdis was the more attacking swordsman; Drallenkoop was content to parry and give ground where necessary. His sallies were less frequent but more dangerous. Raïdis was bold and determined, but his defence was not strong: twice with consecutive feint-lunge combinations he was nearly breached.
The jetty was not a good place to fight, too narrow to allow a full range of movement. Both fighters were forced to keep one eye on their position less they stumble into the sea. Drallenkoop began to fight more aggressively; little by little he was wearing his opponent down. Confident of victory, he began to flourish and showboat, enraging Raïdis still further; still he was not quick enough to respond. Drallenkoop manoeuvred him close to the edge of the jetty, forcing him back against a mooring post. Desperately Raïdis kicked out, catching a surprised Drallenkoop on the wrist; backing up, he stumbled, and Raïdis was upon him. He stood over him with his rapier.
“Yield!” he called. Drallenkoop tried to roll away but Raïdis kicked him back into position. “Yield or die!”
Three Peremptor’s Constables rushed through, their black cloaks trailing. “Enough!” the lead man — Mirko saw it was Vaidmantas — called. “Break it up now!”
“Yield!” cried Raïdis in desperation.
Vaidmantas had his sword out, and he stood poised at Raïdis. “I said enough, on the Peremptor’s warrant.”
“But — “
“Put up your sword, Raïdis. This is a regatta, not a tourney.”
Drallenkoop got to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes while Raïdis complained to Vaidmantas. “You had no right to do that. That was a fair duel with seconds; you should have let it run its course. You waited until I’d won and then stopped it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vaidmantas. “It was not a true duel; neither of you specified ‘death or blood’. Without that you offend the Peremptor’s peace. Think yourself lucky I don’t arrest the pair of you; it’s only because it’s regatta day I don’t.”
Drallenkoop bowed ironically to Raïdis. “Thank you for the sport,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a trophy to collect.” He turned to walk back towards the crowds and the presentation area on the main Esplanade. Raïdis spat onto the jetty, and Drallenkoop found his way blocked by Haïdis.
“Don’t think you won today, Drall,” said Haïdis in a level voice. “Not the race, and certainly not the duel.”
“There was no duel. You heard the Constable.”
“No?” said Haïdis with his dead lilac eyes. “Perhaps you’d like a more properly constituted one. ‘Death or blood’ — your choice, Elector’s boy.” He held Drallenkoop’s gaze.
Drallenkoop’s lip twitched. “I fight my duels on the water,” he said, and walked off to the Esplanade. Haïdis was not a man to laugh but the narrow smile he turned Drallenkoop contained more than sufficient mockery.
The trophy was presented from a specially constructed dais designed to afford all spectators the best view. A herald announced Drallenkoop: “Three times winner of the Margariad, and today a third win in The Sorcerers Regatta! Let’s hear your cheers for the noble Drallenkoop!”
But instead the noise from the crowd was a lusty booing, interspersed with catcalls. “Drallenkoop cheat! Drallenkoop cheat!” went the chant. Drallenkoop smiled, held the trophy aloft, and made his way over to the House Drall enclosure. Mirko looked across into the scarlet and gold pavilion, and caught a brief glimpse of Catzendralle through the entrance. He smiled briefly and nodded, but she did not respond. He wondered what she had made of the day.
The festivities had started on the Esplanade, with the drinks booths beginning to do better trade than the food stalls. Mirko was as yet in no mood for revelry, and walked back over to the jetty where Liudas was forming the crew into ranks. He broke off at Mirko’s approach.
“I’m sorry, Ascalon,” he said. “I didn’t steer well today.”
Mirko shook his head. “Let’s not talk about this now, Liudas. Tomorrow, when we’ve all had a chance to think, will be better.”
“What’s to say? I made a mistake —”
“ — two mistakes, to be more precise —”
“—and I’m sorry.”
“This is the real world, Liudas. Saying sorry doesn’t make everything all right.”
“I don’t know what more I can say.” His mouth drooped.
“‘I resign’.”
Mirko thought he was going to cry. “I won’t resign!” he said defiantly. “I’ll practice and I’ll get better. We just need some more drills.”
Mirko sighed. “We’ve done nothing but drill for three months. Your performance has improved from woeful to inept; and you save your worst for races.”
Liudas stuck his chin out. “I’m not resigning and you can’t sack me: my father —”
“—is the Elector Nool Ipolitas, yes, I know. If you don’t have the decency to resign, I won’t sack you.”
“Only because you can’t.”
“That’s enough, Liudas. Go home — I don’t
want to see you at Coverciano tonight.”
Liudas shrugged and walked off to continue arraying the slaves for the march back to Urmaleškas . He turned his head and said “I’ll go home — but you won’t keep me off Serendipity. Don’t even try.”
Mirko leaned against the mooring post and sighed. Today the crew had promised to be Dragonchaser’s equal; but as long as Liudas remained at the helm that counted for nothing. He would have to try and persuade Bartazan that it might be worth sacrificing a vote sometimes …
CHAPTER 20
L
ater that evening Mirko made his way to Coverciano for the customary regatta soirée. He had missed the main banquet, but since he had little appetite this did not concern him as much as it would normally have done. Larien looked sullen in one corner, paying only the most desultory attention to Lady Inuela’s conversation. Bartazan was talking earnestly to several men, including the Electors Nool Ipolitas and Norvydas. Neither Larien nor Bartazan looked promising subjects for conversation, but he knew that duty compelled him to approach Bartazan, at least.
“Good evening, my lord,” he said as he walked across the room.
Bartazan turned him a look of surprising cordiality. “Ascalon! What a day’s racing we’ve had today!”
“Indeed we have, my lord. I’m only sorry that Serendipity was so far off the pace.”
Bartazan waved the apology away. “Pah! The slaves raced well today — if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate miscalculation we might even have won.”
Since Liudas’ father was present Mirko judged it imprudent to analyse the ‘miscalculation’ any further, and merely nodded.
“But,” continued Bartazan, “to hear a crowd booing Drallenkoop! That was a pleasant moment, indeed.”
Nool Ipolitas nodded and Norvydas smiled. A third man with a flushed face and stark green eyes said: “It can only do you good in the election should Drallenkoop lose a little of his lustre.”
“Well said, my Lord Romualdas. I have hopes, I have hopes,” said Bartazan, draining his goblet.
“Those hopes remain some way short of fulfilment,” said Mirko. “We do not have the quality on the boat to ensure success.”
Bartazan frowned. “My lords, will you excuse us a moment?” he said, drawing Mirko aside. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” he said. “Nool Ipolitas is no fool; impugning his son in this company does not help me.”
“My lord, let me be candid —”
Bartazan pursed his lips. “Your candour is unnecessary. I assume you are going to ask me to sack Liudas.”
Mirko inclined his head. “Yes. He is nothing more than a liability.”
“We have had this conversation before, Ascalon. I need Nool Ipolitas’ vote, and the three he commands. I might secure Romualdas’ anyway by offering him Larien, but I cannot afford to offend such an influential man as Ipolitas. It’s not even as if you can supply a helm who knows the waters well enough to do any better.”
“My lord, with a decent helm I can beat Dragonchaser! You won’t need to worry about Nool Ipolitas!”
Bartazan’s eyes clouded. “Let me be candid with you for a change, Ascalon. I have two strategies to win the Election. The Margariad is the second of them. Anything can happen on the water; there are no guarantees, even for the best boats. Electors are different; votes can be guaranteed, by all kinds of methods. At the moment, I count myself behind Giedrus, but the gap closes every day. One or two more Electors will tip the balance. I’d like you to win the Margariad for me; but you’ll need to do it yourself.”
Mirko bowed. “Unlike many folk, I welcome plain speaking. Your position is amply clear. I thought you had more courage.”
He turned and walked off to see Larien. If there was scope for the evening to get worse, Larien probably provided it.
“My Lady Inuela, my Lady Larien — may I join you?”
“Of course, captain,” said Inuela, bringing a smirk to Larien’s face. “Larien and I were just discussing today’s extraordinary events.”
“Yes, third place for us was extraordinary, if not wholly unprecedented,” said Mirko with a smile.
Inuela started. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
“Mirko is sporting with you, aunt,” said Larien. “He knows exactly what you mean.”
Lady Inuela scowled. “With a lord like mine, one becomes slow to recognise humour.”
“I did say you couldn’t win, Mirko,” said Larien with a penetrating look.
“That didn’t stop me trying, my lady. I finished with my honour intact, not a claim every master could make today.”
“So you think Drallenkoop forfeited his honour today?” asked Inuela.
“His conduct on the water was sharp practice, to say the least; his behaviour on the jetty afterwards was craven.”
Larien flushed. “You are calling Drallenkoop a coward?”
“It’s no part of duelling to be rescued by the Constables when you’re losing.”
“It surprises me to hear to you talk of cowardice in breaking off an engagement, captain.”
Mirko’s face froze. “You forget yourself, my lady.”
“Larien, what are you talking about?” asked Inuela. “You seem to have upset Captain Ascalon to no purpose.”
Larien flushed even redder. “Leave it, aunt. I said something I shouldn’t have done.”
“So did I,” said Mirko. “But not today.”
“Oh, why can’t I hold my tongue?” cried Larien. “I’ve wanted to see you all week, Mirko, and not to insult you. Please, I’m sorry.”
Mirko shook his head quickly. “Larien, it’s been a long day. I don’t want to quarrel with you too.”
“Then we’re friends again?” she said breathlessly.
“I suppose so.”
“Aunt, please excuse us — there’s something I’d like to show Mirko in the Velvet Garden.”
Inuela paused with a knowing look. “Of course — I had promised to talk to the Elector Mempersink anyway.”
Larien took Mirko’s arm and led him out into the gardens. As they walked through the fragrant bowers, she said: “Hot tempers run in the Bartazan line, I’m afraid. I should never have argued with you in the first place, and I certainly shouldn’t have said what I did earlier.”
“It’s past now,” said Mirko. “We should just accept that there are some things we can’t agree on. When the racing season is finished affairs will be that much simpler.”
“What will you do afterwards?” Her large blue eyes looked deep into his.
“In truth, I haven’t decided. Your uncle says he’ll make me Master of the City’s Fleet if he wins the Election — a promise I am hardly building my future around. But I can’t go back to Garganet. Galleys are all I know, so I may stay here and see if I can get another engagement for next year.”
Larien smiled. “I’d like it if you did stay. Did you know that Drallenkoop’s overseer Mindaugas is retiring after this season? I’m sure that Drallenkoop would take you on as overseer without a second thought. That would be marvellous — you’d be in the best galley and Drallenkoop is a most liberal master.”
“I am sure Drallenkoop already has a lengthy list of candidates for such a prestigious position; besides which, I am not sure his opinion of me is as high as all that.”
“Oh no! he speaks highly of you.”
“You have great insight into Drallenkoop’s thoughts,” laughed Mirko. “Are you sure you are not attributing him your own wishes?”
“The world of the Electors is a small one. I am not ignorant of what goes on in House Drall.”
“Anyway,” said Mirko, “if I worked for Drallenkoop you would hardly be able to be friendly with me as you are now.”
“We’ll see,” she said, showing her strong white teeth. “Once Bartazan loses the Election he can never stand again — it will be his third defeat. His influence will leach overnight.”
“Larien, I’m pleased we’ve cleared up our misundersta
ndings. I have to transact some business now — perhaps I might call on you tomorrow?”
“I’d be delighted,” said Larien. “I’m at the townhouse for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Don’t forget,” she said, looking back over her shoulder as she walked away.
Mirko summoned a servant, paper and pen, and composed a brief note, reflecting as he did so on the novelty of parting from Larien on good terms. He could not remember the last time he had done so.
Finishing his note, he sent the servant away to deliver it. Trusting to his sense of direction, he made his way into the Labyrinth. Soon he found the concealed entrance to the Secret Garden and settled down to wait for Catzendralle, wondering how she would react to being summoned in this way.
The sun was declining in the west, casting much of the garden in shade, but one corner still enjoyed full sunlight, and Mirko took up station on a secluded seat, enjoying the cool fresh smell of the manzipar trees. If this was the effect the Old Craft could have, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Mirko had lost track of time in the stillness of the Secret Garden by the time the foliage gave way to reveal Catzendralle with her quick clever movements. He raised a leisurely hand to attract her attention. Catzendralle smiled and came over to sit beside him on the bench. She was dressed in a russet dress which managed to be simultaneously demure and alluring; it seemed she generally took more care with her attire when she visited Coverciano.
“Thank you for coming, my lady.”
Catzendralle smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “You don’t have to call me that. My name is Catzendralle, and my friends call me Catzen.”
“Friends?”
She frowned. “I do have some.”
“That wasn’t what I meant — I was just surprised at the implicit invitation to count myself among them. Previously you’ve been at pains to remind me I’m the hired help.”
“Don’t be so Garganet, Mirko. I’m inviting you to call me Catzen. It’s up to you whether you do or not.”
