Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Mirko had no enthusiasm to investigate the Garganet galley; her officers would be unlikely to give him any cordial reception, and their presence could easily unsettle both Florian and Trajian. But neither regarded themselves as slaves, or under his orders off the water, and both were already on their way to the galley.

  “Hallo there!” called out Florian. “What ship are you?”

  A face looked up from the deck. “We’re Spray, out of Garganet, if it’s any of your concern. And don’t mock our accent!”

  “He’s not mocking your accent,” said Mirko. “He’s Garganet, as are we all.”

  “Garganet, you say? What ship are you out of? I didn’t see another one here. We’ve trouble replacing our oars — these damned Paladrian ones are a foot shorter than ours.”

  Florian turned to Mirko with a malicious smile. “Well, Captain, what ship are we out of?”

  “That’s enough, Florian,” snapped Mirko, nettled. To the crewman he said, “You, fellow, where are your officers? Our business would be better transacted with them.”

  The crewman shrugged. He called out towards the stern, “Captain, there’s another Garganet ship here — here are their officers.”

  “Thank you, Gremio,” called an unseen figure, leaping ashore and approaching the others from behind. Tall and fair, with a negligent ease of manner, he said: “I’m Captain Bernat of the Spry, and glad to meet you.”

  Mirko turned slowly. “Bernat!”

  Bernat’s expression of frank good humour froze. “What kind of jest is this? I’m told there’s a Garganet vessel here and I find you? What Garganet vessel can you possibly command?”

  Mirko set his mouth. “Your crewman misunderstood, Bernat. He heard the accents and thought we were from a Garganet boat.”

  Florian interjected: “I take it you two are acquainted?”

  Trajian hissed at Florian to be quiet, but silence could not remove the smirk dominating Florian’s face.

  “You might say that, sir,” said Bernat. “I was the overseer on Dittrusig when the then Captain Ascalon ran away. I thought never to see him again; a situation to which I reconciled myself with the minimum of difficulty.”

  “I assure you, Bernat, the feeling was entirely mutual. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you got your own command,” said Mirko.

  “What it’s worth,” said Bernat, “is exactly nothing. Your good opinion has all the value of a stale fart. Now, do either you or your associates know anywhere we can get four custom-made oars?”

  “Annkin’s Yard on Queely’s Hard. I’ll get someone to take you over,” replied Mirko tonelessly.

  Bernat bowed slightly. “I am obliged to you. I also require provisions for my crew.”

  Soon after, a sullen Mirko found himself in the Waterside Tavern listening to increasingly elevated Florian expand on the ills of his situation while a sympathetic Bernat listened. Trajian, as was his habit, contented himself with the occasional pithy interjection. Eventually Bernat tired of Mirko’s indirect discomfiture and pursued a more direct tack.

  “How do you justify this, Ascalon? I understand that the disgrace of your court-martial will inevitably have soured your temper and lowered your standards, but to race second-rate galleys around a millpond with two Garganet slaves in your crew scarcely represents cause for pride.”

  Mirko looked into his mug and spoke slowly. “There is a limited range of options available to a cashiered Garganet officer. My work here is not as discreditable as you might think; the races are honest, the seamanship by and large good, and Florian and Trajian would be slaves regardless of whether or not they rowed on my galley. Crewing with me is their only real chance of freedom.”

  Bernat contented himself with a smile. “The best galley in Paladria would not extend an average Garganet boat. Paladrians don’t understand the sea.”

  “Maybe not, but they understand their own bay. You’d be surprised how well the best boats — Dragonchaser, say, or Excelsior — would perform against a Garganet vessel.”

  Bernat laughed. “You think one of these hick galleys would out-race Spray?”

  “You wouldn’t even beat us.”

  Bernat’s face lost its humour. “There are ways of proving that, Ascalon. When our oars are replaced — you might fancy a turn around the bay.”

  “Do you have money?”

  “Mirko!” hissed Trajian. “You don’t have to do this — and you shouldn’t.”

  “We’d win — or don’t you think so?” said Mirko.

  Trajian frowned for a moment. “Well, yes we would, the way we’ve been going. Any of the usual courses and we’d be a match.”

  Bernat looked around the faces and took a long pull of beer. “You, Florian, do you think so too?”

  Florian’s slate-coloured eyes were expressionless. “Since you ask, I do believe Serendipity, in waters her crew were familiar with, would out-run any Garganet galley of like size not accustomed to the waters.”

  “Well then,” said Bernat with a slow smile, “we have a wager. Can you cover a thousand valut?”

  “A thousand? I took you for a larger man than that,” said Mirko. “Double it and we have a race.”

  Bernat’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “Two thousand it is. Tell me when and where; Spray will be ready.” He stood and strode briskly across the crisp wooden floorboards of the tavern.

  Trajian turned towards Mirko. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Mirko laughed. “What can I lose? First of all, I think we’ll win on our own waters; and secondly I’m wagering Bartazan’s money. The race will be excellent practice for the Margariad.”

  Florian showed the beginnings of a smile. “Sometimes I almost admire you, Ascalon.”

  CHAPTER 23

  T

  hree days later Mirko made his way down to the Jurbarkas Docks where Serendipity was moored. It was the morning of the challenge with Spray, and he was surprised at the attention the race had attracted. He had viewed the affair as a private matter between himself and Bernat, but a crowd of decent size was already in attendance. They had seen two races already, with Dragonchaser comfortably outpacing Morvellos Devil around the Hanspar without needing to set any rhythm above Eight; while an encounter of desperate ineptitude between Kestrel and a lacklustre Animaxian’s Glory through the Sorcerers had resulted in an unconvincing win for the latter.

  As he walked through the competitors’ enclosure towards Serendipity, Mirko saw Drallenkoop and Larien engaged in animated conversation which appeared to lack all cordiality. He waved at Larien who returned a pained glance, while Drallenkoop scowled. Mirko had been aware that Larien cultivated Drallenkoop as a studied insult to her uncle, but today there seemed to be undercurrent of ill-feeling. Drallenkoop leaned towards Larien for emphasis; Larien extended her arm in Mirko’s direction with an expression of disgust, turning on her heel to walk towards him.

  “Larien!” called Drallenkoop. “My remarks are not concluded!!”

  “You can’t have your wine and drink it, Drallenkoop!” Larien shouted back over her shoulder. “You wanted this: now you’ve got it!”

  Mirko looked quizzically at her. “Are you all right, Larien?”

  Larien controlled herself with an effort. “I am now,” she said, her colour raised. “I was going to ask you a favour.”

  “Go ahead,” said Mirko, inclining his head sideways with a smile.

  “Take me out with you today. I want to be part of the race.”

  Mirko ran a hand through his hair. “Larien, this is a race. I need to win, and I can hardly justify the extra weight.”

  “Weight!” cried Larien, her colour rising again. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “Larien, don’t be so silly—”

  “Oh, and silly as well! Fat, stupid Larien, why would you ever want to have me on your boat, or in your bed?”

  “Larien! You are overwrought. I can’t have any weight on the boat that isn’t pulling an oar. I meant no insult.”

&nb
sp; “I turned down Drallenkoop so I could go out on the water with you, and you won’t even take me!”

  “You should have asked me first — and anyway, what exactly did you ‘turn down’ Drallenkoop from?”

  “Oh, not you as well! Drallenkoop doesn’t own me, and neither do you.”

  “For Animaxian’s sake, Larien, I never claimed to. You just never told me you were that friendly with him, that’s all.”

  “Are you jealous, Mirko? I’ve told you often enough, I socialise with Drallenkoop to annoy my uncle. Now he’s vexed because I’ve thrown him over to see you, and you are no better when you see me talking to him.”

  “You are irrational! I am interested in nothing beyond winning my race. If you prefer to spend the morning with Drallenkoop, be sure I will not detain you.”

  Larien set her mouth. “I’m coming with you. I’d prefer a voluntary invitation, but there are other ways.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Does my uncle know where your stake money for this race has come from? Or the size of the stake?”

  Mirko hesitated. “Of course.”

  “I think not. According to Kintautas this morning, Bartazan thinks this is a hundred valut race to settle a grudge between you and Spray’s captain. If he knew you’d put down 2,000 valut of his winnings I wouldn’t like to be on your deck.”

  “May I ask how you know? Challenge details are confidential between the captains and the galley association.”

  Larien smiled triumphantly. “No great difficulty when the Secretary of the Association has been trying to get inside my smallclothes since I was fourteen. A mixture of flirtation and blackmail can go a long way.”

  Mirko frowned. “This time, if you fall in, you drown. Understood?”

  Larien’s face lit up. “I didn’t fall in – I was knocked.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. “It’s no secret you are adept at blackmail yourself,” she said. “Liudas was reticent as to detail, but he hates you, whatever you did to him. I’m sure you and I can be more cordial.”

  Mirko shook his head with a rueful smile. “One day you will come to grief, Larien; but not today, I suspect. Come on.”

  The herald sounded the horn and the race was underway. Serendipity immediately launched into Tempo Eight, as he’d agreed with his officers before. The first battle was to reach the Hanspar ahead; if Serendipity went round that turn in second place, the race was as good as lost.

  The day was windless and the sea calm, the waves making only small white tips as they broke. Serendipity settled easily into her rhythm but Mirko was alarmed to see Spray easing gradually ahead.

  “Jenx! Go to Nine! Go to Nine!” he called, his first gamble of the race. Despite their improvement in form and confidence over the season, this was not a sustainable tempo for the crew. Nonetheless they responded with a crisp discipline which pleased him. Spray did not match Serendipity’s increase in tempo; Bernat was confident of reeling in any deficit over the remainder of the race.

  Pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity maintained the rapid tempo with an easy vigour. Slowly she pulled ahead of Spray. “Come on lads, keep it going!” called Jenx from the drum-pit. Trajian and Slovo, the two nearest Quartermen, smiled grimly and Slovo added an obscenity for good measure.

  The Hanspar rock approached and Larien, next to Mirko on the observation platform, squeezed his arm in excitement; Mirko, concentrating on the relative positions of the two galleys, scarcely noticed. “Florian! You’ve got room — take it steady!”

  Florian failed to acknowledge this obvious remark and pulled Serendipity into a gradual arc around the Hanspar, ensuring that he did not leave sufficient space for Spray to pass on the inside. The manoeuvre was executed with characteristically unobtrusive excellence, and as Serendipity straightened up to begin the pull towards the Morvellos, Mirko had time to watch Spray skirt around the Hanspar with a conservatively wide margin. He estimated that Serendipity had a lead of a single length — useful but not at this stage decisive. The long haul towards the Morvellos with the current behind the boats gave Spray every opportunity to narrow the gap.

  “Jenx! Go to Eight! Go to Eight!” he called. Tempo Nine had served its purpose in rounding the Hanspar ahead; but to attempt to sustain it any further would guarantee a collapse on the long home straight, against the strong current from the Morvellos to the Jurbarkas Docks.

  The galleys traded stroke for stroke as they continued their passage towards the Morvellos. There was little Mirko could do at this stage; the crew was rowing at its maximum sustainable tempo, there were no awkward currents or adverse winds, and he had time to look around him and take in the scene. He could hear Larien breathing fast next to him but he did not turn to look at her. Ahead lay the Morvellos Lighthouse with its colony of mermaids, as yet too small or hidden to be seen. The lighthouse stood proud against the sky, with the sea stretching endlessly to the horizon.

  “Captain!” called Florian, breaking his reverie. “Spray is making ground!”

  Mirko turned on the observation platform. Spray was still maintaining Tempo Eight, but her crew, professional rowers all, had a more powerful stroke and this advantage was bringing her gradually back on terms with Serendipity. Mirko looked ahead to the Morvellos: it was essential that Serendipity went round the lighthouse ahead; he knew that his tired crew would not be able to overtake the disciplined Garganets against the current if they fell behind. With the automatic reckoning which became second nature to galley-masters, he calculated that Spray would catch them a little before the lighthouse; although possibly not soon enough to pass as well. Mirko had now to decide whether to gamble on increasing the tempo once again.

  Pull-pull-pull. Serendipity’s rhythm was starting to become ragged; the crew, facing backwards, could see the now perceptible progress Spray was making. “Trajian! Slovo! Skaidrys! Ketchelon! Hold the tempo! Keep Eight!” Mirko called in desperation. Once a crew lost its rhythm, the discipline was difficult to reimpose. Trajian and Skaidrys were keeping to the stroke rate immaculately, and Trajian’s Quarter was so well drilled that they followed him. Skaidrys was keeping most of his Quarter to tempo, but Slovo and Ketchelon, the least experienced Quartermen, were exercising seemingly no influence over their own Quarters. Mirko shook his head quickly. Moving to Tempo Nine was out of the question; holding Eight was proving a challenge, and any attempt to increase the pace would cause disintegration.

  He jumped from the observation platform and stepped across to the helm. “We can’t go any faster,” he said briskly to Florian. “You’re going to have to make the turn of your life.”

  Florian gave a resigned shrug. “It’s not about technique, it’s about nerve,” he said. “Who dares go closer to the rocks? I can go in as close as you like for a short line — but you risk ripping the bottom out on the shoals. How badly do you want to win?”

  Mirko cursed. “I want to win the Margariad more than I want to beat Spray. I need a whole boat to do that.”

  “There you are then,” said Florian. “If Spray leaves me a gap I’ll take it; but I’ll not pretend there’s one if there isn’t.”

  “Be ready, and follow my instructions,” said Mirko sharply, climbing back to the observation platform. The Morvellos were no more than a minute’s rowing ahead, but Spray was now level, and on her observation platform Bernat looked across exultantly.

  “Florian! Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard!” cried Mirko.

  Florian complied instantly: this was standard Garganet procedure, to veer across into an opponent’s path to disrupt her rhythm. It was, in truth, a desperate expedient, but if it were even partly successful, Spray might be unable to recover in time to pass before the Morvellos.

  Almost instantly Spray had responded. As Serendipity swung abruptly to starboard, Spray steered to port, effectively entering the space left by Serendipity with no loss of rhythm. She surged ahead, and Mirko knew the ruse had failed utterly, had cost Serendipity ground rather than gaining it. Bernat had known the plo
y was coming and had been ready. Mirko’s mouth set into a grim expressionless line, but it was no time to brood: the lighthouse was upon them.

  “Florian! Watch Spray — look for the gap! Jenx, go to Nine! Go to Nine!”

  Mirko knew as well as Florian that there might not be a gap. If Bernat took a line close enough to the rocks, there would be no scope for a dash down the inside. It was also a gamble to increase the tempo to Nine: it meant that Serendipity could exploit a gap if it appeared — but it risked destabilising the crew and gave Florian less time to react to the shoals. Mirko knew that his only real hope lay in Bernat’s ignorance of the waters which might impel him to give the Morvellos a conservatively wide berth.

  “Mirko! Look — mermaids!” cried Larien excitedly.

  Mirko shot her a glance of annoyance for distracting him with sightseeing at such a moment — he could not even spare the time for a reproof — but he noticed the mermaids on the rocks at the foot of the lighthouse a short distance away, looking out at him with their striking blue eyes inscrutable.

  “Damn!” called Florian from the helm. “Look at Spray!”

  Mirko shared Florian’s sentiments. Spray, whether by fortune, good planning or a combination of the two, had adopted just about the best line possible as she swung around the rocks. Theoretically there was room to take a tighter inside line, but Mirko knew that to take it would tear the bottom out of Serendipity. The sea was calm, and the crew was unchained; conceivably some of them might avoid drowning or being dashed on the rocks. And Larien would drown for certain.

  Mirko shook his head at Florian, in case there had ever been a question or a doubt. The race was lost, for Serendipity would never make up the deficit against the current.

  Come in. Mirko, come in!

  Mirko looked around. No-one was saying anything. Mirko, our friend Mirko, come to us.

  The mermaids! Who else could it be? Mirko remembered that morning on the beach, when the mermaid had called inside his head for help.