by Tim Stretton
It’s safe. The tide is high, the rocks are low. You have room. Come in, come in.
It could only be the mermaids, unless Mirko was going mad. But in Garganet, mermaids had an evil reputation, calling to galleys, driving the crews mad and beguiling them to destruction against the rocks, for purposes that always remained obscure.
Mirko! You saved me, Mirko! Trust me, trust me! Come in, the tide is high, the rocks are low. Mirko, my friend Mirko, come in!
Before he realised what he was saying, Mirko called down to Florian: “Go inside! We have room! Inside, man!”
Florian looked up in bewilderment. “You know we don’t! You’ll gut us!”
“Helm, inside! Jenx, go to Ten! Ten!” he called with an exaltation of recklessness. The hairs on his arms stood erect, a chill swept over his skin. This was insane, it was suicide. But it would work.
“Helm! Do you hear me? Inside!”
At Tempo Ten Florian had either to comply or run into Spray’s stern. With no expression he swung the helm to starboard to bring Serendipity inside Spray’s line and unprecedentedly close to the lighthouse and its hidden shoals.
Easy, Mirko. Close enough to be safe.
“Straight, Florian. Close enough!”
Bernat looked back from his observation platform in astonishment. It seemed he had learned the best line from local racers — and he knew that Serendipity was too close. He dared not come inside himself or cut across Serendipity’s line for fear of gutting his own boat; and he cursed impotently as Serendipity slipped through on the inside.
The boats were close enough that Mirko could hear the bellowing from Spray’s officers. “Ten! Go to Ten!” yelled Bernat.
Mirko knew that neither boat could sustain Ten against the current for any length of time; but looking at the exultant faces of his crew, he knew it would be Spray who cracked first. They believed in the recklessly brilliant judgement of their captain, but more importantly, they believed again in themselves, the crew who had taken Serendipity through a gap that didn’t exist against the pride of the Garganet navy. Without allowing a hint of his triumph to reach his face, Mirko relaxed. Spray’s crew was broken; the race was won.
Mirko felt a pain in his arm; turning, he saw Larien had dug her fingers so deeply into him that she had drawn blood; and he hadn’t even noticed.
“How did you do that? How did you know?” she asked, her clear blue eyes alight. “You could have sunk us!” But there was no reproach in her tone or her eyes.
Mirko shook his head with a smile. “I could hardly explain,” he said. “Just enjoy this feeling. Who knows when it will come again?”
Larien looked away. “I don’t know if Drallenkoop is worried about you,” she said. “But he ought to be. You can beat Dragonchaser — and I never believed you.”
From experience Mirko sensed that the conversation was likely to turn into a plea from Larien that he throw the Margariad. “We will see, Larien,” he said. “That will be another race altogether.”
Larien looked back up into his face and smiled. “I never realised how much this meant,” she said. “ ‘Excitement’ is too pale a word for what we’ve had today. I should never have asked you to lose to spite Bartazan. I’m sorry, Mirko, I had never known what this felt like, what I was asking you. Forgive me, and win if you can,” she finished with an averted gaze.
“Oh, Larien,” he said with an hesitant laugh. “You can always surprise me.”
“I won’t kiss you then, since I’m sure you’re expecting it.”
“Save it until we get back,” said Mirko with an easier smile. “We still have a race to win.”
Larien contented herself with silence as Serendipity continued her triumphant pull against the current. Spray had seemingly given up any chance of victory and Mirko was able to savour the progress towards the finish line without fear that Serendipity might squander the race through folly, negligence or ill-chance. The gentle yawing of the galley prevented any sense of unreality becoming established, and by the time the victory horn was sounded, Spray was some eight lengths in the distance.
“Hooray! Hooray for Serendipity!” came the calls from the spectators’ area. “You showed the Garganets! Three cheers for Ascalon! Three cheers for Bartazan!”
Mirko allowed himself a grin at this last; since Bartazan had unwittingly provided the stake, he was entitled to share of the acclaim, or so Mirko reasoned. Larien appeared less amused, and shot him a minatory glance.
As the dockhands began to make Serendipity fast to her jetty, Spray arrived; Bernat did not look across. Mirko handed Larien down from the observation platform and stepped across to the overseer’s cockpit.
“Men!” he called. “We have won a mighty victory today! We have beaten a galley as good as any racing in Paladria this year. Drallenkoop must beware! Dragonchaser — look to your laurels! Well rowed, men! One more performance like this and you will all be free!”
“Animaxian bless you, sir!” shouted Skaidrys; Florian, sauntering up from the helm, contented himself with spitting noisily over the side. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” he said harshly to Mirko.
“I’m pleased with all of us — you included,” said Mirko levelly. “You helmed brilliantly today.”
“Don’t stroke my arse, Mirko. Something happened at the lighthouse and it had nothing to do with my helmsmanship. We’ll discuss it later — and you’ll get no ‘three cheers for Ascalon’ from me.”
“You might try smiling occasionally, Florian. We’ve beaten a good boat for the first time today: it doesn’t get much better than this.”
“Maybe not for you — a free man with 2,000 valut in his pouch. I’m as much a slave as I was this morning, and there’s no coins to bulge my pocket. You tell me why I should be smiling.”
Mirko shrugged. “Have it your own way, Florian. In a fortnight’s time you’ll be free. For now, I’ll stand you all the Widdershins you can drink at the Waterside.”
“See you there,” replied Florian, vaulting off the galley and striding through the acclaim of the crowd.
Mirko made a more measured disembarkation from Serendipity and stepped across to the Association booth to pick up his winnings. As custom dictated, Bernat was also present and looked displeased at being kept waiting. Mirko bowed.
“Well raced, Bernat. You were unlucky today.”
Bernat’s expression retained the inflexibility of Spray’s timbers. “I wish I could say ‘well raced’ to you; but we both know you beat us with a fool’s gamble. You could have sunk Serendipity with any stroke. We took the tightest straight line and you cut inside us.”
Mirko smiled. “Maybe we just know our own waters better.”
Bernat gave a half-smile. “It’s cost me 2,000 valut to learn that you’ve sunk so far that you’ll risk your galley and your crew to win a race. There’s no doubt who was the faster boat out there today.”
“The first boat to cross the line earns that title, and I believe there were eight lengths between us at the end.”
Bernat turned to the Race Secretary. “Are there any further formalities? I am eager to conclude my business.”
“Very well,” said the Secretary. “Bernat, these are your 2,000 valut. Observe that I hand them over to Mirko, along with his own 2,000 valut stake, making a total of 4,000 valut. Mirko, would you like me to apply this sum to Serendipity’s challenge account?”
“You may return the 2,000 stake to the account; the remaining 2,000 represents Bartazan’s down-payment on my salary which is currently in arrears.”
“Is that so?” cried a voice with impatient hauteur, stepping within the booth: none other than Bartazan of Bartazan House.
Mirko flushed. This had not formed a part of his plans. “My lord!”
“Did you think to conceal a transaction of this magnitude, with my money, from me?”
Bernat smirked. “A reasonable question.”
“Your galley has achieved a splendid victory today: celebration, or at least magnanimity, would be b
ecoming and appropriate responses.”
“ ‘Celebration’! You may celebrate, Ascalon, that I choose not to lay an action against you for attempting to defraud me of 2,000 valut; and praise my magnanimity in allowing you to retain command of Serendipity.”
Mirko laughed, for Bartazan had surely overplayed his hand. “My lord, if you feel you can attract a galley-master of equivalent stature this close to the Margariad, do not allow your loyalty to me to prevent you. Simply pay me my retainer and I will depart with good grace.”
Bartazan’s face began to mottle, never in Mirko’s experience a sign of congeniality. “I need twenty-six votes among the Electors to become Peremptor. I currently count on twenty-three, assuming that I still retain the support of Nool Ipolitas. Be assured that if I were confident of the other three, I would hang you from the gibbet at Formello, or have your throat cut in an alley.”
“Under the circumstances I might prefer to see Giedrus retain his incumbency.”
Bartazan took a step towards him. “Ascalon, you are a man I despise, a mercenary scoundrel preaching a hypocritical fantasy of egalitarianism. My association with you makes me a laughing stock. If I win the Margariad there will be less laughter. In truth, you are by no means fit for a high civic post; but be assured that I will pay your bonus on the understanding you depart immediately.”
“Naturally you will honour your promise to free the crew.”
Bartazan’s lower lip jutted in annoyance. “Do not vex me with trivialities. I have agreed to free them, and free them I shall. For now, hand over my 2,000 valut and I’ll say no more.”
With a sigh Mirko handed over his pouch. “I will be seeing them again when you pay me my victory bonus.”
Bartazan turned without response. “Larien!” he called to his anxious niece waiting nearby. “You are needed at Formello tonight: come with me now, and do not think to be consorting with riff-raff on the waterfront.”
Larien shot Mirko an apologetic smile and followed Bartazan to his carriage. Bernat smiled insolently as he lounged against the booth. “Mischance for you, Ascalon: no winnings, and no girl. Better fortune next time, eh?”
Mirko returned a smile of weary contempt. “Some things are worth much more than money, Bernat: and imagining you explaining to your father how you lost to a Paladrian slave galley skippered by a Garganet exile just happens to be one of them. Now, I assume you have no further business here: do not allow your magnanimity in defeat to detain you.”
CHAPTER 24
M
irko’s spirits were surprisingly undimmed by his encounter with Bartazan or the confiscation of his winnings; proceeds which, he had to admit, were not strictly his entitlement. He had achieved his aims: put Bernat in his place, and showed the racing fraternity that Serendipity was a galley to be taken seriously. He made his way to the Waterside Tavern with a light step, hailing Panduletta with a spring in his step as he called for beer.
Florian and Trajian were already ensconced in the corner with several empty mugs on the bench in front of them. Since neither of them possessed a single valut, Mirko suspected they were drinking at his expense; not, in the circumstances, an unreasonable act.
“Gentlemen! Good of you to wait for me!” he said.
Trajian shrugged; Florian said: “I am sure your prize money will allow you to stand a couple of crew members a drink.”
“Ha! If you want to see any of the prize money, apply to Bartazan. For now, the largesse is all mine.”
Florian raised his mug with an ironic flourish. “You may care to tell us exactly how you came to conceive your race-winning manoeuvre.”
A figure appeared from the shadows: “Equally you may not…”
“Catzend— ‘N’! How long have you been here?”
“I knew you’d be here eventually,” said Catzendralle with a weary smile. “I didn’t have long to wait.”
“Florian, Trajian, will you excuse us a moment?”
Trajian contented himself with a leer. Florian said, “What’s it worth not to tell Larien about your other lady friend?”
Mirko frowned. “It isn’t like that at all! ‘N’ is just—”
“ ‘Just!’ “ cried Catzendralle. “That wasn’t what you said last time,” she continued, sitting heavily on his lap and throwing her arms around his neck.
Mirko was at a loss for words. Catzendralle had been distinctly chilly in recent meetings; and even at the height of their intimacy she had shown no inclination to throw herself into his arms.
“Now then!” she said, nuzzling at his ear. “Aren’t you going to invite your colleagues to allow us a little privacy?”
The situation became ever more baffling. Fortunately Trajian rose from his seat, hauling Florian upright with him. “Don’t let us detain you, Mirko. You’ve earned an evening’s relaxation. Don’t be late for practice tomorrow!”
Florian drained his mug with a flourish. “I shan’t hurry back to the barracks. I assume your credit is good with the doxies as well as the taverns.”
Mirko was unable to respond as Catzendralle’s lips were firmly pressed against his. He was beginning to accommodate himself to the situation and kissed her back with growing vigour. Catzendralle pushed him away.
“Mirko! What are you doing!”
Mirko sat back in surprise. “Nothing you weren’t. Although your feelings come as a surprise.”
Catzendralle slipped off his lap and onto the bench beside him. “Like what? I was just getting rid of the other two so I could talk to you.”
“You take no pains to flatter me.”
“I was concerned you would give away my identity. I’d rather be taken for a tart than your paymistress.”
“Catzen, you ought to be more careful with people’s feelings.”
Catzendralle looked quizzically at him with her large brown eyes. “I thought you were only interested in Larien?”
“It’s not quite that simple, Catzen. Larien passes the time, and she has no serious designs on me.”
“You said you had become attached to her.”
“That was always your interpretation. I have to say I found kissing you more rewarding than I had expected.”
Catzendralle blushed, a sight Mirko felt he wanted to see more of. “I haven’t come here to flirt with you,” she said. “You owe me some information.”
“And you owe me some money.”
Catzendralle dropped a purse of coins on the bench. “This should settle your arrears, and a little more. But I’m expecting you to tell me how you managed to win today.”
“Some of us have the gift of galley-racing,” said Mirko airily. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Catzendralle’s eyebrows rose. “Even though I used to stand on the observation platform of my uncle’s galley?”
Mirko smiled complacently. “Going out on a galley does not make you an expert on racing, Catzen.”
“Not even when your uncle is Addacatzen and he let you take the helm?”
“Addacatzen?”
“He won the Margariad twice in Sunrise. He was the best galley-master House Drall ever produced until Drallenkoop. He knew how to race, and he knew the waters. You are underestimating me again.”
“Catzen! I was doing no such thing, although I never realised you had quite such a racing pedigree.”
“Of course not: you learn only what I tell you. But I know — know as someone who has steered the Morvellos — that there was no passage where you took one today. I also know that Spray took the best line available.”
“How do you know that? Bernat called a good line — but he doesn’t know the waters.”
“No, but he had local knowledge. He had the best charts in Paladria.”
“Oh yes?”
Catzendralle pointed to the pouch of coins. “Most certainly, since I sold him the information — the proceeds of which are sitting in front of you.”
Mirko took a long swig of Widdershins, conscious as he did so that he was being remarkably for
bearing. He set his mug down on the table.
“May I ask why you did so?” he asked with icy politeness.
Catzendralle smiled pleasantly. “Indeed you may. In no particular order of priority: I found myself short of money; I was keen to discomfit Bartazan by inflicting an expensive defeat on his galley; and I wanted to ensure that you lost.”
Mirko stared at the broad beams in the ceiling. “I scarcely know where to begin. I thought we were reaching an understanding; forget Larien, she’s a bored flirt. I took you for a person of greater depth, Catzen. I even thought you had an emotional attachment to me. And you sell Bernat the information you think will beat me?”
Catzen flushed crimson. “What are you saying? Mirko, you’re drunk! Emotional attachment!”
“I’m not drunk at all. I think — thought — that we were at least friends and that… but anyway, I was wrong, otherwise you wouldn’t have betrayed me to Bernat.”
“Forget Bernat!” cried Catzen in a passion. “I want to know about this ‘emotional attachment’.”
“And if you had proved yourself worthy I would have done. I was obviously wrong about you. Just tell me why you sold Bernat the charts.”
“Tell me about the attachment first.”
“There is no attachment. There was a sale. Now tell me!”
Catzen looked away. “I couldn’t have you winning. Not because of Bartazan; because I didn’t want you in danger. You still don’t know the risks you’re running,” she said quietly.
“You did it to help me?” asked Mirko, almost levelly.
“Essentially,” said Catzen, looking up with greater composure. “There are people who will try and kill you, Mirko. Believe me, because I know them.” She stared down at the table. “And I don’t want that to happen. I want you to stay alive.”
“It featured in my own plans,” said Mirko dryly.
Catzen looked up into Mirko’s face quickly, and then looked away again. “Perhaps we should set this aside for now. Please, just tell me what happened out there today. I need to know.”
Mirko set his mouth. “You need to decide whether you’re interested in me as spymistress ‘N’ or Catzen. As far as I can see, only ‘N’ needs to know, to find out where her scheme went awry.”
