Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Producing a key, Guffoon unlocked the door to the Private Gardens and admitted Mirko. “Mind the ha-ha, sir; it can take the unwary by surprise.”

  Mirko picked his way carefully forward; ending this eventful day sprawling with a sprained ankle among the ha-has was not an ideal outcome. He was distracted by a woman’s throaty giggle in the near distance.

  “Don’t! Not here!” she laughed; a voice Mirko found familiar. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

  Out of the dark and straight into Mirko cannoned the figure: to his astonishment he saw it was Larien. Immediately behind her bounded a man who put an arm around her waist and bore her to the ground. Drallenkoop!

  “Larien — what on — Larien!”

  Larien looked up and struggled to her feet, brushing moss and twigs from her dress. “Mirko! I — what are you doing here — I don’t — I can’t —”

  Drallenkoop raised himself from the ground with less embarrassment. “Captain Ascalon,” he said with a bow. “Welcome to Darklings. As you will observe, I am presently engaged.”

  Mirko was stunned into silence by this intimate scene between Larien and Drallenkoop. Larien herself was looking down at her shoes and clearly unwilling to make any further observations. Drallenkoop, on the other hand, appeared to be relishing the situation.

  “You appear bewildered, captain. I will do what I can to resolve your perplexity.”

  “I — you — Larien — I hardly know where to start.”

  “Sit awhile,” said Drallenkoop with a smile, gesturing towards a bench made of finely wrought iron. “We will not address at this instant the reasons for your presence in the House Drall Private Garden.”

  Mirko swallowed. “My apologies for intruding, Drallenkoop. I am — taken aback — to see the terms of intimacy between Larien and yourself, inasmuch as I had come to think of myself as enjoying a certain status in her affections.”

  Drallenkoop suppressed a grin with an effort. “And so you did, captain. Larien, would you like to tell Ascalon the exact nature of your relationship?”

  Larien turned a pleading eye to Drallenkoop. “Don’t do this, Drallen. Can’t we just leave it?”

  “Oh no, indeed, that would be no fun at all, none whatsoever. And I am sure a man of Ascalon’s stamp would prefer the painful truth to miserable evasions. Am I not right, captain?”

  “I don’t pretend to understand what you’re talking about, Drallenkoop. In general I prefer truth to lies, but I don’t expect to get it from either of you.”

  “Larien,” said Drallenkoop in a gentle voice. “Are you not going to tell Ascalon that you were my mistress from the outset? That your intimacy existed only through my express instructions? No? Ah well, I appear to have done so anyway.”

  Mirko sat back on the bench with a sigh. Larien was looking in as opposite a direction as possible. “Is this true, Larien?” he asked.

  Still looking away, she uttered a single sob, scarcely intelligible. “Yes.”

  “Why? What possible motive could you have?”

  Larien sank to the ground, pulled her knees up to her face and rocked gently.

  “It looks as if I’ll have to tell you myself,” said Drallenkoop, pacing slowly back and forth. “House Drall has good reason to hate and fear the House of Bartazan. It has always been to my father’s advantage to have sources within Bartazan’s household: I have no doubt he does the same with us. Larien has long been dear to me, and almost as important, a key source of information inside Formello.”

  Mirko stared blankly up at Drallenkoop.

  “I always paid you the compliment of treating you as a serious rival,” Drallenkoop continued. “Bartazan’s galleys had long been a joke on the water, crewed by buffoons like Liudas and Orstas. The arrival of a competent Garganet officer was always likely to bring about an improvement, and naturally I instructed Larien to become as close to you as necessary to exercise an influence over your conduct. In this — “ he glanced at the still mute and rocking Larien “— she proved less than wholly successful. Despite telling me weekly that you had contracted an overwhelming passion for her, she was unable to make you appreciate the calamity for Paladria that a victory for Serendipity would represent — and for you as well.”

  “There was no ‘overwhelming passion’,” said Mirko in a thick voice.

  Drallenkoop shrugged. “It’s all one. Larien proved ineffective; largely, I suspect, because she yielded her favours too easily for you to prize them.”

  “Drallen!” shrieked Larien. “How can you say that! You — you were the one who told me to do whatever I needed to! You pimp, you hypocrite!”

  Mirko looked at Drallenkoop out of one eye. “She has a point. You have prostituted your own mistress to win a galley-race that most observers would have backed you to win comfortably anyway.”

  Drallenkoop shook his head. “You don’t understand Paladria. If there was one chance in a hundred that you would win, I had to choke it off. I was quite happy to sacrifice Larien for that; the consequences of Bartazan becoming Peremptor would be indescribably dire for my family.”

  Mirko turned to Larien. “Do you hold yourself so cheap?”

  “Mirko — I — you don’t understand. How I hate Bartazan — and I never ever expected to like you…”

  Drallenkoop stepped across and bent over Larien, reaching down to tilt her chin up. Looking into her face, he said:

  “Don’t try that one on Ascalon. I imagine he is too intelligent to fall for such adolescent drivel; but in case not, you might care to inform him how you characterised his lovemaking?”

  Larien shrank back to lie flat on the ground. “Don’t! Don’t don’t don’t!”

  “What were the words? They made something of an impact on me at the time. ‘Mechanical’, ‘perfunctory’, ‘inept’ all featured, as I remembered. ‘The tenderness and spontaneity of a clockwork toy’. How we laughed!”

  From her supine position Larien sprang at Drallenkoop’s face. “I hate you! I gave you everything, and you won’t even leave me my dignity!”

  Drallenkoop easily pinioned her wrists in one large strong hand. “You are overwrought,” he said, shaking his head. “You owe Ascalon nothing; indeed he has had what might be termed a ‘free ride’ on a smarter pacer than he might otherwise have commanded.”

  With a sudden twist Larien broke free and dashed across to Mirko’s bench. She sank to her knees in front of him. “Please, Mirko! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I’ve been so stupid.”

  Mirko stared at her in astonishment. “ ‘Sorry’? Do you really think that helps?”

  “No — no, of course not. There’s nothing I can do to change the past. But you have to believe me when I say my feelings were real — in the end, anyway.”

  Mirko continued to stare at her. Larien reached out and took his hand in both of hers.

  “Mirko, we can go away from here tonight, we can forget any of this ever happened.”

  Drallenkoop stepped smartly forward and dragged her away. “You don’t have to play up to him any more. Your use as a honey-trap is over.”

  She span in a fury. “I’m not ‘playing up’. I should have seen you for the selfish, scheming, manipulative sneakbill you were long ago. You never cared about me; all you wanted was to win races and spite my uncle. Well, it’s taken me a long time, but I’ve woken up now.”

  Drallenkoop tried to smile but ended up with a sneer. “It’s too late to play the abused innocent now, Larien. You wanted to spite Bartazan as much as I did; you never once protested about the things I asked you to do. Now, say goodbye to Ascalon, and go back to my apartments. Jaspian will prepare you a sleeping draught.”

  Larien slowly pulled herself up to her full height. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m going home, Drallenkoop. I never want to see or speak to you again. Mirko, I know I’ve hurt you deeply, but if you want to come with me…”

  Mirko looked at her for a long silent moment. Her dignity and her reputation in ruins, she still looked bea
utiful and defiant. For a moment he toyed with the idea. Something that Catzen had said rang in his head: Even now, I could tell you things about her you might not want to hear. Catzen had known all this, and she hadn’t told him. Was she as duplicitous as Larien? She had shown herself adept at holding information back in the past. He didn’t know where he stood with either of them. He had a moment of clarity: Larien, headstrong, wayward, unpredictable; Catzen, involute, reserved, wary. Each was damaged, hurt by a world which took without giving. For Larien, underneath the anger he felt pity but no more; for Catzen, he suddenly realised, his feelings were infinitely richer and deeper. Maybe without this sudden, startling, dramatic disillusionment with Larien he would never have realised it, but the revelation was none the less unequivocal for all that. Larien was a child, Catzen a woman.

  “Larien,” he said gently. “This can never happen. Never. I don’t trust you and I can never care about you. Get away — from Darklings and from Paladria, if you’ll follow my advice.”

  Larien looked at the ground, her eyes full in the moonlight. She bit her lip and turned without a word, running from the garden with quick light desperate steps.

  Drallenkoop leaned against a bulbir tree staring ahead. With a seeming effort he brought himself under control. “Well,” he said dryly.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, Drallenkoop. I’ll do my talking out on the water.”

  Drallenkoop permitted himself a crooked smile. “If that’s how you want it,” he said. “You won’t win, and even if you did, you wouldn’t profit from it. If you think I’m untrustworthy, there is scarcely a credible description for Bartazan.”

  Mirko shrugged. “I’m not winning for Bartazan; I’m winning for me.”

  “Have it your own way. You’ve never beaten Dragonchaser yet, and you’ll not do so next week. Anyway, why are you at Darklings? Did you want to see me?”

  “No. I was on my way to call upon the Lady Catzendralle.”

  Drallenkoop uttered a shriek of laughter. “Crazy Catzen? What conceivable reason could you have?”

  “I am not about to make you my confidant, Drallenkoop.”

  Drallenkoop turned to the Proper Guffoon who had been seeking to evade notice in the shadows. “Guffoon, since I assume you were escorting Captain Ascalon to the Lady Catzendralle’s apartments through my private gardens, kindly finish your errand. Then you may consider yourself discharged without a character. And if you ever mention what you’ve seen tonight, rest assured I will kill you. You know that is neither bluff nor bravado.”

  Guffoon’s head sank mournfully. Opposition was futile, and with a subdued gesture he beckoned Mirko to follow him. Drallenkoop remained, leaning against the manzipar tree and staring into the middle distance.

  CHAPTER 27

  S

  oon they reached the edge of the Private Garden; Guffoon unlocked the gate and ushered Mirko through. A series of white single-storey villas were displayed before them surrounding a spacious terracotta courtyard punctuated with tall green broad-leaved plants.

  “Please wait here, sir,” said the Proper Guffoon, “while I announce your presence to the Lady Catzendralle.”

  Mirko seated himself on an intricately carved wooden bench while Guffoon attempted to summon Catzendralle. The hour was not particularly late but there was no sign of movement within. Eventually Catzendralle issued from the villa in a state of some dishevelment, her hair hastily dragged into a shapeless bunch, a dark cloak thrown over what looked suspiciously like pyjamas.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve woken you,” said Mirko, rising hesitantly from his bench.

  “What are you doing here? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Catzendralle hissed with a noticeable lack of cordiality.

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  Catzendralle pursed her lips. “Your actions at least have the virtue of directness; but I am sure your business could have been transacted through our usual means.”

  “I felt otherwise,” said Mirko. “Someone tried to burn Serendipity tonight; it was sheer luck that they got Morvellos Devil instead.”

  “This is no surprise,” said Catzendralle with a reflective nod. “I have been warning you all summer that you have been making enemies. The event is hardly worth disturbing my night’s rest for — or the lunacy of presenting yourself at Darklings. What if Koopendrall or Drallenkoop had seen you?”

  “Drallenkoop did,” said Mirko flatly. “Once he managed to wrest his attention away from Larien.”

  “Ah.”

  “ ‘Ah’? I assume you knew about them?”

  “Come inside,” she said. “We’ll talk about the fire, and about Larien — if you insist on asking.”

  “Believe me, I do,” said Mirko, following her inside the villa. At her invitation he seated himself on a simple couch, looking round at the unostentatious but clearly expensive furnishings.

  “I did warn you about her, Mirko. I told you not to get too attached to her.”

  “As it turns out,” said Mirko, “I didn’t get too attached, although I only realised that tonight. But things would have been much simpler if you’d told me she was Drallenkoop’s mistress. I suppose you couldn’t, though, not without compromising House Drall’s intelligence operation.”

  Catzendralle wordlessly placed a goblet of red wine on the occasional table at Mirko’s side, and took a sip of her own wine.

  “It isn’t quite that simple,” she said. “It isn’t good practice to tell agents more than they need to know, and I couldn’t afford to have Larien know that I was on to her. And part of me wanted you to decide for yourself that she wasn’t for you,” she continued, gazing downwards and looking at Mirko from under her eyelids.

  Mirko found this ploy artificial and sighed. “We can talk about Larien later,” he said with an effort. “For now, I want to know who tried to set light to my galley.”

  Catzendralle looked back up with a smile. “Someone who doesn’t like you — which doesn’t much narrow the field — and someone not very intelligent, which probably doesn’t help much either. How difficult can it be to tell two galleys apart? They are painted different colours.”

  “Morvellos Devil was on our mooring; it was dark. The mistake was understandable.”

  “Maybe,” said Catzendralle, “but someone will be most vexed that their plan has failed.”

  “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me who ‘someone’ is.”

  “I understand you had a somewhat unfriendly communication from Covarc Resardas.”

  “True. But why would he threaten if he was intending to act? He hadn’t had time to see if his warning would have any effect. If he’d been going to burn us, he’d have just done it.”

  Catzendralle sat down and crossed her legs. “That makes sense, but it doesn’t get you any closer to the truth.”

  “I saw Vaidmantas at the docks. He looked shocked and displeased when I told him it was Morvellos Devil on fire and not us.”

  “Vaidmantas? You think Giedrus ordered this?”

  “You were the one who pointed him out as a potential enemy in the first place.”

  Catzendralle ran a finger round the rim of her goblet. “I don’t think it’s Giedrus. He may have known what was going on, but I don’t think he organised it.”

  “Why not? What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

  “Mirko, believe me, it wasn’t Giedrus.”

  “You have sources close to him, I take it? Can’t you ask them?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Just take my word for it.”

  Mirko shrugged. “If that’s how it has to be. But think about where it takes us. I discount the Animaxianites and marginal malcontents like Liudas. That only leaves your people.”

  Catzendralle’s complexion lost a little of its flush. “My people?”

  “House Drall. Don’t tell me you don’t run their intelligence work, or that House Drall doesn’t have a prime motive for wanting Serendipity out of the Margariad.”

  Catzendra
lle looked over to a tapestry displaying a giant dragon in cloth-of-gold, her face expressionless. “How did we get here?” she asked quietly.

  Mirko leaned forward. “Just tell me, Catzen. Tell me that your intelligence network tried to burn my galley.”

  “Don’t, Mirko, don’t…” A tear ran down one cheek.

  “I’ve seen enough hysterics and waterworks for one night, Catzen. I just want the truth now.”

  She blinked back her tears and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “If I’d wanted to burn Serendipity, it wouldn’t be Morvellos Devil ablaze now,” she said with a soft smile.

  Mirko rose abruptly from the seat. “Catzen, the time for lies is over. I am no longer docile.”

  Catzendralle stood too and put her hand on Mirko’s forearm. “Sit down,” she said. “You’re right, there’s no point in any more lies.”

  Mirko sat down wordlessly. He had no inclination to help her out. Ten minutes ago I thought I loved you, he said to himself.

  “Your theory is not unreasonable,” she said. “But it’s based on one false assumption: that I would want to work for House Drall.”

  “And why should you not?”

  “I have no cause to love Koopendrall, or his father before him,” she said. “They spent most of my teenage years trying to marry me off to a series of unsuitable men. When I showed a mind of my own they made things as difficult for me as they could. I wouldn’t work for them — but more pertinently, they would never imagine I have the capacities to be useful to them.”

  “So — who — ?”

  “Do remember me telling you about my uncle Addacatzen? The one who used to take me galley-racing?”

  “Of course. Although you didn’t tell me what happened to him.”

  Catzendralle looked away. “I see you found out anyway. It was one of the reasons I’ve worried about the risks you took and the enemies you’ve made: I could — and still can — see you ending up the same way.”