by Tim Stretton
Mirko laughed. “Men always think they follow an age of heroes; their own deeds they think are not worth accounting — but the next generation will look at them in awe. There will be lads in the crowd this year who look at some marvellous manoeuvre — maybe even one you pull off — and their hearts will be fired to take to the galleys themselves.”
“No, no, no. If you’d ever seen Addacatzen or Barviluna, you’d know the meaning of a great master.”
“Addacatzen I’ve heard of.”
“Ah yes, he was the skipper of Griselda and latterly Sunrise. His galleys didn’t have the sheer speed of Dragonchaser, but Addacatzen understood racing. In a crowded fleet he could always find the gap, and his lateen was always angled to the wind. A mystery he only won the race three times.”
“Why was that?”
“House Drall — well, I’m sure you know all the stories about House Drall. They can hardly take an active part in politics in the city, not with their history. As a result much of their energy goes into the galleys instead. Addacatzen was a popular galley-master, the Drallenkoop of his day, if you like. Unwisely, he allowed his name to be associated with a political faction — our Peremptor Giedrus was one of the coming men, too, and they were part of the same affinity. Anyway, Addacatzen ended up in a gutter with his throat cut. A galley-master can be an influential man, and there were plenty of people who worried about his influence. If only he’d stuck to the racing…”
Mirko smiled uneasily. “People have said the same to me. Between ourselves, I’ve been bribed and threatened to race badly.”
“Ha! A successful galley-master will always make enemies, although as long as he knows his place he’s usually safe enough. Drallenkoop, for instance: he’s made it clear his ambitions are limited to the water. No one will touch him.”
“The fact that at the moment he stands between Paladria and ‘Peremptor Bartazan’ wouldn’t be in any way a factor?”
Lammerkin permitted himself a small smile. “For a fact, there aren’t too many people would be keen to see Bartazan elected. No doubt that’s why you’re attracting so much hostility. But I’m sure Bartazan will look after you.”
Mirko looked down into his mug. The exact nature of the ‘looking after’ Bartazan might bestow was a permanent concern. Catzendralle, as ever, had been right to suggest he had few friends whichever way the Margariad turned out.
Lammerkin called for another jug of Widdershins, but before Panduletta could bring it, Florian burst into the tavern.
“Mirko! Quickly! There’s a fire at the docks! Serendipity is ablaze!”
Mirko and Lammerkin jumped to their feet. “Call the Constables!” cried Lammerkin. “Not a moment to lose!”
Mirko rushed out into the street, his head spinning. Galleys didn’t just ‘catch fire’. Resardas’ threat flashed into his head: I warn you in a spirit of friendly counsel that unscrupulous persons may adopt unscrupulous courses. Resardas himself might soon be learning the meaning of the word ‘unscrupulous’.
The pall of smoke against the clear night sky was plainly visible. Whatever was ablaze, the flames must have taken hold with alacrity. Mirko cursed; this close to the race the chances of constructing an new galley were negligible. If Serendipity could not be saved, the Margariad was lost. Under such circumstances, the probability of securing his salary arrears from Bartazan was not promising; and his use as an agent to Catzendralle would also be at an end. He set his mouth. Whatever it took, he would find out who had crossed him.
As he neared the Jurbarkas Docks the crowds began to thicken. There was nothing like a calamity to bring folk out on to the streets. Ill-favoured faces turned in vexation as he tried to force his way through.
“What’s your hurry, fellow?” grunted one loutish person.
“My galley’s on fire!” cried Mirko.
“It’s Ascalon!” went up the cry. “Make way there for Captain Ascalon!”
Although the night was clear, the smoke made it difficult for to see in detail what was happening. Gouts of flame twenty feet high leapt into the air, tendrils of fire snaking out erratically as they were caught by the sea-breeze. Dockhands ambled around ineffectually with buckets of sea-water, tossing them in the vague direction of the flames, to no effect.
“Come on there!” called Mirko in desperation. “Show some urgency! There’s a galley on fire! Florian, to the barracks — get the crew here!”
Florian dashed back into the crowd; in the other direction strode Mindaugas, Dragonchaser’s overseer, and a sturdy band of her crew.
“Mindaugas!” called Mirko in relief. “Thank Animaxian you’re here — we might save Serendipity yet!”
Mindaugas allowed a wondering glance to settle on Mirko. “Are you insane, Ascalon? We berth next to you — do think we’re risking the flames spreading? Men — cast off and away!”
Mirko looked on astonishment as Dragonchaser’s virtually complete crew rushed into the smoke — not to extinguish the blaze, but to move Dragonchaser out of the way. This was Paladrian galley-racing.
With a curse Mirko plunged into the smoke behind them; if no-one else would lift a finger, he at least would fight to the end. He rushed past Dragonchaser’s berth to the adjacent mooring with its legend Private — Serendipity, of Bartazan House. He stopped with a caw of laughter and recognition, choking on smoke as he did so.
The flames gained in intensity as they ignited the tightly furled lateen sail at the top of the mast; the varnished fabric went up like kindling. With it went the galley’s hopes of racing again this year, for there was no chance at all that the blaze could be extinguished.
“Ascalon!” shouted a voice in his ear. “Get back —there’s nothing you can do now.”
Mirko turned and saw Vaidmantas, an officer of the Peremptor’s Constables with whom he was all too familiar. Nodding he allowed Vaidmantas to escort him back down the jetty.
Vaidmantas leaned against the sea-wall. “A bad business.”
Mirko assented with a weary nod. “Passions run high in this game, it seems.”
“You don’t see any way it could have been accidental, then?”
“Galleys are made of wood; wood can catch fire easily enough. But on a deserted jetty late at night? No, I think we can assume a deliberate act here.”
Vaidmantas nodded and smoothed his uniform. “We have spoken often enough for you to avoid offence at my observation that you have a fair quota of enemies.”
Mirko rubbed his chin. “Where should we begin? As you well know, Minalgas Inisse and the Animaxianites have shown a marked animosity in the past, although their Hierophant claims that is all in the past now. Then again, both Orstas and Liudas left Serendipity in ways that to a petty or vindictive mind require a counterblow. You might also be interested in a conversation I had with Covarc Resardas yesterday, and no doubt a little ingenuity might come up with further candidates, some closer to Coverciano than others.”
Vaidmantas frowned. “The latter point is clearly misconceived. The Peremptor dispenses justice, rather than dispensing with it.”
“A subtle distinction,” said Mirko with a slight inclination of his head.
“The dispensation of justice, by its nature, has subjectivities and quirks of perception. To fail to act for this reason would lead to paralysis and indecision; and eventually the collapse of law.”
“I am sure you have more pressing calls, Vaidmantas, than to debate the abstractions of statecraft with galley-masters.”
Vaidmantas laughed and bowed. “Indeed I have, captain: such as discovering immediately and with full rigour the persons who have criminally enflamed your galley.”
He turned and made to walk away.
“Vaidmantas! If you are about to conduct such an investigation, you should start with the essential facts correct. It’s not Serendipity that’s on fire: it’s Morvellos Devil, with whom we exchanged berths this afternoon.” Even in the orange reflections of the blazing galley, the draining of Vaidmantas’ complexion was all t
oo apparent to Mirko. “Good luck with your investigations, sir.”
He ran over to where Florian was approaching with Serendipity’s crew. “It’s not us that’s on fire — it’s Morvellos Devil. Remember, we lent them our berth.”
Florian laughed. “Something of a wasted journey, then.”
Mirko remembered his earlier scorn for Mindaugas and smiled. “Certainly not. Someone wanted to see us on fire tonight. Find Serendipity, get the crew aboard, and make for the open sea. I wouldn’t like to see any more ‘accidents’ tonight.”
Florian grinned. “Aye aye! Are you not coming yourself?”
“I have some investigations to make ashore — and I trust Vaidmantas about as far as I can see him in this smoke. I’ll be back at the barracks tomorrow morning: training for tomorrow is cancelled!”
He sprang off into the crowd. He had a feeling that Catzendralle would be able to shed some light on this mysterious affair — if she could persuaded to tell all she knew.
CHAPTER 26
A
way from the docks the streets were quiet and Mirko secured the services of a covered rattlejack without difficulty.
“Do you know the residence of the Lady Catzendralle?”
The driver, with a dark saturnine face and a great beak of a nose, sniffed thoughtfully. “She lives at Darklings, the House Drall estate.”
“Take me there — and smartly.”
“This rattlejack knows but one speed, having but a single pacer to draw it. You may call it ‘smartly’, you may call it ‘tardy’, but our speed never varies.”
Mirko sighed. He could do without a philosopher at the reins, but the rattlejack trade seemed to attract them. The pacer set off at its regulation speed —which to Mirko was closer to ‘tardy’ than ‘smartly’ — and picked its way across the cobbles and into the low hills where many of the Electors made their estates, leaving the Old Town falling away behind.
Mirko had never realised that Catzendralle lived on the family estate, although as a genteel spinster relation it seemed an obvious arrangement. It occurred to him that she would be vexed to see him at her home; but then she should have given him sufficient information to obviate the need for the visit. He wasn’t entirely sure of the terms on which they had parted, and this also made him unsure of his welcome. He had been on the verge of lurching into emotionalism, which had taken him by surprise, and if she had encouraged him he certainly would have done. But, as so often, when presented with a potential intimacy, she had withdrawn into irony and defensiveness.
He looked up as the houses started to thin out. A wood of high manzipar trees loomed on the left. “We’re here”, said the driver. “This is Darklings.”
“I don’t see any estate.”
“That’s why it’s called Darklings. Do you think Koopendrall is keen to have every idle sightseer in Paladria riding a rattlejack past his house? That path in the woods leads you where you want to go. I take it you have an appointment?”
“Of a sort,” said Mirko.
“I’ll wait here. You won’t be long if you don’t have an appointment, and I could do with the fare for the return journey.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mirko, pressing a valut-piece into his hand. “Don’t blame me if you’re here all night.”
“The fee is one valut twenty.”
Mirko shrugged. “Consider the twenty minim deduction a loquacity tax,” he said before striding off into the manzipar wood.
Darklings was set well into the wood. House Drall clearly valued its privacy. After some five minutes of stumbling along the gloomy path, Mirko found himself at a clearing in front of a building — or more accurately, a complex of buildings — adorned with fanciful towers and cupolas: Darklings. A wall of white marble surrounded the whole, with a single gate visible. In the absence of any other alternatives, Mirko stepped towards it, smoothing his attire as he did so. He was still in the clothes he had worn on the water this morning, not his smartest even when clean. Now, water-stained and smelling of smoke, even Mirko was conscious that he did not cut the most impressive figure.
Standing before the gates Mirko found himself confronted by an unusual apparatus. A large white placard read:
This is Darklings
The seat of House Drall
Please pull the tassel appropriate to your status
Affixed to the placard were several coloured ropes, each labelled to facilitate identification:
Peremptor or his Representative
Electors of Paladria or their Representatives
Persons of Gentility
Citizens and Free Men
Tradesmen calling by Appointment
Tradesmen, Other
Ruffians and Vagabonds
Mirko found this a curious system. While the job of Koopendrall’s staff might be simplified were Ruffians and Vagabonds to announce themselves in this way, it seemed to him that the truly villainous would in all probability have the guile to pull a different tassel. Mirko wondered which tassel represented his own status. He suppressed the strong temptation to pull ‘ruffian’ and settled after a short deliberation on ‘Persons of Gentility’.
A bell of clear timbre rang quietly in the distance, and hesitant footsteps could be heard on the other side of the gate. “Who calls on House Drall at this hour?” came a querulous voice.
“A ‘Person of Gentility’, by definition. Kindly open the gate so we may discuss my business in greater detail.”
A lock turned and the heavy gate swung back. Mirko saw a tall stooping figure of advanced years and exaggerated dignity; he had seen similar retainers at Formello; they seemed to be a necessary adjunct to the modish Elector.
“Please state your business, sir,” said the functionary with a bow. “This statement should include a full explanation of your reasons for presenting yourself in disguise.”
“Disguise?”
“Your apparel is by no means consistent with the status of gentility. I assume that you therefore adopt the habilments of a dock worker for reasons of concealment.”
“My name is Captain Mirko Ascalon, master of the galley Serendipity, owned by the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House.”
“Ah! All is now clear. You should more correctly have pulled the red tassel marked ‘Electors of Paladria and their Representatives’ since your status derives from your employment rather than your person. You would be astonished how frequently visitors pull the wrong tassel.”
Mirko smiled sympathetically. “A frustration and an inconvenience, to be sure. Now, may I gain admittance?”
“I can state with assurance that my Lord Drallenkoop is engaged this evening, while the Elector Koopendrall is conducting an evening reception for the Kestrel Hawk Breeders’ Association. I will see if I can secure your invitation, although in truth I am not sanguine.”
“You need not inconvenience yourself,” said Mirko politely. “My business is with the Lady Catzendralle.”
The functionary shook his head in puzzlement. “Lady Catzendralle? Are you certain? My lady lives a quiet life and receives few visitors without an appointment; yet my schedule shows that you do not have one, sir.”
“My invitation was of the sort which might be described as ‘open’: my lady requested me to present myself at my own convenience, a time which is now upon us.”
“Hmmm,” — this with a scratch of a thinly-covered pate — “this is somewhat irregular. You say that my lady explicitly invited you to wait on her at home?”
“There can be no conceivable misunderstanding on this score.”
“Very well, very well. Guffoon, step here if you please!”
A servant smartly liveried in House Drall red and gold stepped forward, a proud dragon embroidered on his chest. “The Proper Guffoon at your service, sir!”
“Guffoon, please conduct Captain Ascalon to the apartments of the Lady Catzendralle with good haste. Do not be tempted by short-cuts or seeming expeditiousnesses.”
“Naturally not, sir. Please foll
ow me, Captain.”
The Proper Guffoon set off with a brisk pace down a corridor with a vast vaulted ceiling. “The Lady Catzendralle, sir?”
Mirko wondered at the acuity of the Proper Guffoon’s short-term memory. “Just so.”
“House Drall protocol demands that I escort you through the Nexus Room at the centre of Darklings. However, my lady’s apartments are on the periphery of the estate and would require us to double back upon ourselves. In all candour this represents tediousness and inconvenience for us both; no doubt you would prefer to step across through the gardens to take a more direct route.”
This was accompanied with a smile of such astonishing vacuity that Mirko was taken aback. It seemed that House Drall had some difficulty in attracting servants of an appropriate calibre. He wondered why they did not employ slaves, as did the House of Bartazan.
“Very well,” he said. “I am quite content to follow the most rapid route.”
“Excellent!” said the Proper Guffoon with enthusiasm. “I am sure you will find the gardens to your taste.”
Guffoon led them out into a discreetly lit parkland, broken up with shrubbery and benches. The effect was less formal and structured than Coverciano, but pleasantly relaxing nonetheless. Folk strolled in small groups and particularly in couples.
“This is the Public Gardens, sir, available for the recreation of all members of the household. If we step this way, we may take a short-cut through the family’s Private Gardens.”
Even Mirko found this idea lacking in punctilio; but since any adverse consequences would be laid at the Proper Guffoon’s door, he saw no reason to demur.
“Look out, sir!” called Guffoon as the approached the Private Gardens; a couple were engaged in adventurous act of outdoor intimacy and Guffoon was forced to step awkwardly over them. Mirko essayed a neater side-step. “Unsavoury,” said Guffoon, “but these things will happen.”
