by Tim Stretton
Catzen drained her mug angrily. “If you’re going to play games I’m going. Whatever you might think, I want to make sure nothing happens to you. That sounds more like Catzen than ‘N’ to me. But if you can’t see that, I’m not wasting time trying to convince you.”
“Catzen, don’t — “
She wrapped her cloak around herself and stepped from the saloon without a backward glance, her head bowed. Mirko stared for a moment into his mug. If he went after her, he was her tool forever; but if he let her go — well, that had its disadvantages too.
He reached into his pocket for a valut-piece. Flipping it into the air, he thought: if it comes down galley up, I’ll follow her; if it’s the Peremptor, I stay here. The coin dropped to the table, rolled erratically towards Catzen’s empty mug, which it struck to fall and lie flat. Dragging it back towards him, he saw Giedrus’ stern face staring up at him. He shrugged; the mug had retarded its true motion, he thought, knocking it to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he saw Giedrus again. What kind of man entrusts his destiny to the toss of a coin anyway?
With a shrug he stepped briskly from the table towards the exit Catzen had left. She could not have gone far, and would scarcely be difficult to find.
Locating Catzen proved even easier than he had expected, since she was waiting almost immediately outside the door, staring out to the moonlit sea from the waterfront.
“You didn’t get far,” said Mirko with a frown.
“No.”
“It’s almost as if …”
“Not ‘almost’. I was waiting for you; I knew you’d follow me.”
Mirko sighed. “How?”
Catzen shook her head with the beginnings of a grin. “Will you ever learn not to ask me that? In this case, the answer is simple; women develop the skill early. It’s like archery; the more you practice, the better you get.”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Men in general do not present a great challenge to the perception. You are easier than most because you’re more honest than most.”
A wooden railing fenced off the waterfront from the sea, and Mirko went to lean against it. “You have this curious habit, Catzen, of blurring insult and compliment in such a way that I can’t tell which is which.”
She came and leant against the railing so close to him that her arm rested touching his. “Your difficulty is that you try to make a distinction. Sometimes a remark is just a remark.”
He looked across at her. “What happened at the Morvellos today — you might not believe it.”
“Like I said, I have you down as honest. Try me.”
“It was the mermaids…”
In the moonlight it was difficult to tell, but Mirko thought she had lost something of her colour.
“Go on.”
“They called to me — in my head. They called me in.”
Catzen shook her head. “There’s not one man in a hundred that the mermaids talk to — and not one in a hundred of those that they don’t mean harm. Don’t you have them in Garganet?”
“Yes, yes we do. They have much the same reputation there, and they’ve never tried to talking to me there.”
“Has one ever talked to you before?”
“No — no, that’s wrong. Once, on the beach here. Two fishermen were tormenting one they’d captured. They clearly planned worse mischiefs still. I was still bitter about everything, and I have to admit that I didn’t care. Then she called to me in my head, pleaded with me to help her. So I sent them packing with my sword at their arses. It was not an occasion of any great consequence. But the voice in my head today, it said: ‘You saved me’, so maybe it was of consequence after all.”
“Mirko, you have the most extraordinary skill of sailing through events unscathed. How could you believe the mermaids would guide you through safely?”
“I just knew they would. And they did.”
They leaned silently against the rail for a period. Mirko was conscious of the warmth of her arm against his, her body heat leaching out through her cloak. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she stared out to sea; the moonlight softened her features, gave them a cast of the innocence and optimism they might have had when she was young. He sensed, underneath her competence and cynicism, a vulnerability and loneliness; or was he just projecting his own feelings on to her? He felt himself drawn powerfully to her, an affinity which made his attraction to Larien seem a thing of coarse sensuality.
Catzen smiled and pushed herself back from the railing. “Don’t even think about kissing me.”
“I wasn’t — well—”
“Remember how predictable I’ve found your conduct tonight.”
Mirko ran a hand through his hair. “Catzen, you were the one who was so keen for me to talk about feelings with you earlier.”
She shrugged, her dark eyes unfathomable in the gloom of the night. “The fresh air has sharpened my wits. When you know what your feelings are, I might let you tell me.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
She laughed and skipped back a pace. “One day you will stop asking me ‘how’ — or perhaps not. For now: be honest with yourself about how you feel about Larien. When you really can tell me that you don’t care for her — then you can talk to me.”
Mirko continued to look out to sea. “You’ve been telling me all this time not to get too attached to her — for motives I hesitate to speculate — and now I tell you I’m not, you don’t believe me.”
She stepped back towards him and laid her hand on his forearm. “My motives were not as discreditable as you might imagine. And even now, I could tell you things about her you might not want to hear; but I won’t because I’m neither spiteful nor a tittle-tattle. Whatever you decide about Larien has to come from your heart.”
“I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on in your mind, Catzen.”
“You don’t have to. Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I can’t live with my conscience if I don’t. One of the reasons I warned you off her was because I thought she’d break your heart; I didn’t think she was sincere about you. Well, that was wrong. She isn’t the innocent you think she is; but she does care for you; and if you want her, I imagine she’d be yours without too much difficulty.”
“How—”
Smiling, she shook her head. “ ‘How’ again? These are my conclusions: she cares about you; she won’t make you happy; and Bartazan will kill you if he thinks she’s seriously attached to you. How you act on that information is your choice.”
Mirko laughed as he looked into her face. “You have a compelling way of putting things.”
“If you loved her you wouldn’t care about Bartazan. You are pig-headed enough where the Margariad is concerned; excessive prudence over your personal safety is not one of your faults… although I wish it were. Goodnight, Mirko: remember what I’ve said.”
“And sorry about selling the charts?” asked Mirko as she walked away, but her black-cloaked back was already all but invisible.
He turned and started to walk back towards the tavern; as he did so he noticed three men, cloaked and hooded, walking in his direction. Automatically his hand dropped to his rapier hilt. Catzen was right that he had few friends around Paladria.
“Ascalon?” said the man in the centre of the three; Mirko recognised his face but could not put a name to it.
He nodded briskly. “Kindly state your business briefly. The day, as you might imagine, has been draining.”
A flicker of a smile crossed the other man’s face. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to deal with you briskly, sir. My name is Resardas, Covarc Resardas. My business is in the nature of speculative transactions.”
“A bookmaker? I know where I’ve seen you now. What odds are you offering on Serendipity for the Margariad?”
Resardas’ mouth drooped. “I am no longer taking bets on Serendipity, since you ask. This morning you might have got six for one.”
“No longer taking be
ts? Am I to take it you consider our victory a certainty?”
“I am not a patient man, Ascalon. If Serendipity wins the Margariad I am, if not ruined, markedly inconvenienced.”
Mirko looked around the waterfront. It was utterly deserted. In Paladria people often disappeared in such circumstances.
“I should have thought this was part and parcel of your business,” he replied. “Can you not bet on Serendipity against other bookmakers – Gintas, perhaps?”
Resardas grimaced. “Gintas, keen to secure a greater share of the market, is not prepared to accept my bet. The expedient you suggest is closed to me.”
Mirko shrugged. “Can you not use a trusted intermediary?”
Resardas clucked impatiently. “I did not intercept you to ask for a solution. I merely warn you in a spirit of friendly counsel that unscrupulous persons may adopt unscrupulous courses.”
“Fortunate, in that case,” said Mirko with a nonchalance he did not feel, “that we are all persons of high scruple here.”
He turned his back on the trio and walked back towards the tavern, his shoulders tense with anticipation. But neither Resardas nor his henchmen moved, and Mirko made his way unmolested to the sanctuary of the inn.
CHAPTER 25
M
irko’s inclination to give the crew the next day off was tempered by the bleary eyes and pale complexions which presented themselves before him at roll-call at Urmaleškas the next morning. He could understand and forgive Florian and Trajian, who had been drinking at the Waterside at his expense; Jenx could be excused on the grounds of reaction to yesterday’s dose of falcx. But the remainder of the crew, in slave quarters, could have had no legitimate access to alcohol. In the circumstances, it was necessary to make an example, and Serendipity took to the water for a morning of strenuous practice.
The sun was unusually bright for the late season, and the glare reflected off the calm sea to the discomfort of those members of the crew nursing sore heads. The practice drills were perfunctory, and after an hour Mirko gave up and brought the crew back, on an impulse circling via the Morvellos. The other galleys out on the water were conducting inshore drills, with the exception of Excelsior, far away over towards the Sorcerers. As Serendipity approached the Morvellos, however, Mirko noticed Morvellos Devil practising her approaches to the lighthouse. It was an inevitable consequence of yesterday’s exploits, he supposed, that other galley-masters might now want to determine a new optimum route around the rocks.
Morvellos Devil was experimenting with a line which even Mirko felt was rash. Several mermaids disported themselves on the rocks, taking seemingly no interest in either Serendipity or Morvellos Devil. There were no voices in Mirko’s head today, and scant recognition from the mermaids.
The master of Morvellos Devil, Lammerkin, caught sight of Serendipity and saluted Mirko airily. She had just completed a perilously close pass of the rocks and Lammerkin seemed pleased with himself. The wind was blowing from the west and Morvellos Devil’s lime-coloured lateen sail billowed. Jenx and Florian were both of the opinion that a storm would soon arrive: the sky had begun to darken ominously. Mirko signalled Jenx to beat Seven and Serendipity moved away from Morvellos Devil, which appeared intent on one more pass of the rocks.
Morvellos Devil raised her tempo to Eight to pass the largely uninterested crew of Serendipity, before adopting her previous course close to the rocks. Insanity! thought Mirko, with the wind freshening and pushing the galley closer to the rocks, and the course inadvisable at the best of times. It was difficult to judge, but Morvellos Devil seemed to be approaching even closer to the rocks than Serendipity had done yesterday.
She appeared to have executed the manoeuvre successfully when an erratic gust of wind filled the lateen, pushing her towards the rocks. There was a terrible grinding sound; this was not a glancing blow of the oars; Morvellos Devil had hit the rocks with her hull — and at speed.
Mirko jumped from the observation platform to the overseer’s cockpit. “Port side only! Port wheel, port wheel!” he called. “Jenx! Make Nine!” He knew there was a limit to what Serendipity could do, especially if Morvellos Devil’s crew were chained; but he could not leave her to sink.
Meanwhile Morvellos Devil was backing furiously in an attempt to wedge herself off the rocks. Lammerkin was screeching madly but there was little evidence of constructive thought; if Morvellos Devil were holed she might be better off on the rocks until Serendipity could reach her. Mirko had no way of communicating this information, and merely instructed the crew to make tempo Ten. Morvellos Devil had recovered some discipline, making a strong pull off the rocks and into the wind, with Lammerkin having sufficient presence of mind to order the lateen reefed.
Soon Serendipity was close enough to hail. “Lammerkin! Hold your position! Hold your position! We will tow you off!”
“We’re sinking!” called Lammerkin.
Mirko found this credible; already there was a distinct list to Morvellos Devil’s hull. Augenis and Slovo threw stout ropes across the gaps and made Morvellos Devil fast to Serendipity’s stern. To return Morvellos Devil safely to the docks was not going to be an easy procedure: if her crew could row in synchrony with Serendipity, the effort would be much eased; but if they panicked at the thought of rowing a sinking vessel, all was lost.
“Florian,” said Mirko. “Jump across to Morvellos Devil and take over. If she looks like she’s going to sink, cut her adrift: I’m not having her take us down with her. But most of all, make sure she rows with us.”
Florian gave a curt nod and leapt with practised agility across the gap between the boats. Lammerkin and Florian between them soon managed to restore some sort of order — at least crewmen were not running up and down the gangways — and Morvellos Devil began to add her strength to Serendipity’s.
In the circumstances tempo Four was the greatest Mirko felt able to sustain, but some kind of running repairs aboard Morvellos Devil had arrested her gradual tilting and, while she sat low and crooked in the water, she no longer appeared to be in immediate danger of sinking. Mirko caught sight of Florian leaping about with great energy, followed by two or three crewmen; they had stripped the furled lateen from the mast and appeared to have constructed some kind of improvised plug for the hole below the waterline.
The Jurbarkas Docks hove into view; it looked like the Morvellos Devil was going to get home without sinking. Florian leaped back across the gap.
“The plug has slowed down the leak, but she’s badly holed. Our berth is nearer — tow her to ours and we’ll take hers.”
Mirko nodded; it would be ironic if Morvellos Devil were to sink within sight of the shore. Serendipity towed her to the berth earmarked for herself, unfastened the tow-rope. Dock hands who had been observing events from the shore quickly made Morvellos Devil fast to the jetty and helped the crew ashore, while Serendipity continued to the berth used by Morvellos Devil in happier times.
By the time Serendipity was made fast and Mirko had disembarked, Lammerkin was waiting. “Ascalon!” he said. “Thank you — your officers and crew saved us.” He shook Mirko’s hand with gusto.
Mirko shook his head ruefully. “What were you thinking of, Lammerkin? The Morvellos deserve more respect than that.”
“You weren’t saying that yesterday,” said Lammerkin mildly.
Mirko grinned. Lammerkin was right; the difference between reckless foolhardiness and brilliant audacity was immeasurably slight. He could hardly ask if Lammerkin had been called in by the mermaids, although if they had done so they had done him no favours.
“Come on, let’s go and have a drink while the galley-wrights get to work on Morvellos Devil. You won’t be going out again today and neither will I.”
Lammerkin readily assented to this proposition, and the pair soon found themselves ensconced at the Waterside. Not normally the most expansive of men, Lammerkin was today in a voluble mood. Morvellos Devil had twice finished second in the Margariad — the last time four years ago wi
th Lammerkin as master — and his observations were often to the point.
“Your best chance of beating Dragonchaser is the fact that she has never been under pressure until this year. Drallenkoop has won three years running by ever-increasing margins. You saw how rattled crew and master were in the Sorcerers, when Excelsior ran her close. Drallenkoop is a brilliant helm, none better at the spectacular turn; he knows with instinctive skill the best line for both the Sorcerers and the Morvellos. But those turns are much easier when you have a clear run. Dragonchaser’s real strength is the speed of her crew over flat water: she hits the turns ahead. A fast boat will always beat a good helm.”
Mirko sipped at his third mug of Widdershins and nodded. “What do you do if one boat has the fastest crew and the best helm?”
“It rarely happens. Drallenkoop may like to think he’s the best helm, but he isn’t: Minalgas Inisse is better, but his crew is too slow for it to do him any good. Oh, Drallenkoop has the potential, and his turn through the Sorcerers to win the Margariad three years ago was breathtaking; but he’s had so little competition recently that he hasn’t maintained that standard. Drallenkoop is a great galley-master, but not for his helming: it’s for getting every last iota out of his crew. You have something of the same, but your crew isn’t as good.”
Mirko normally found this kind of conversation uninteresting, but today he was in the mood to hear more about the great race he had set his sights on winning.
“How many Margariads have you raced, Lammerkin?”
“Ha! This will be my fourteenth, with one second place and two fourths to my credit. Morvellos Devil is a sound enough boat, but Lord Garlin cannot afford slaves good enough to challenge the best boats. This year I thought we had a decent chance of second, but Excelsior has come on better than expected, and of course Serendipity has surpassed all expectations. I’ll be happy with third; and worse than fourth and Garlin will be looking for a new master next year. You may not think it to look at me, but I could have been a great galley-master with a little luck. I have always had Hellence at my helm; and we’ve both become more cautious with the years. The mighty galley-masters of my youth are all gone now, but the truth is I was never good enough to step into the breach. Drallenkoop aside, none of today’s masters are anything like the quality we used to see.”
