by Tim Stretton
She stepped into the corridor and began to walk away. Mirko felt a terrible mixture of pity and guilt. However she had hurt him, he could not do this. He felt low, mean, vindictive: not the person he believed himself to be.
“Larien.”
She stopped and turned to look at him. “I do forgive you,” he said. “Genuinely forgive you. You were foolish rather than wicked. I can’t love you, Larien, if that’s what you want; and I’d find it difficult enough to be friends. But I don’t wish you ill. You will never be happy here; you should leave the city, go to Io or even Aylissia. You can have a new life there, away from the poison of Formello and Darklings.”
Larien stepped towards him, raised a hand to his face. “You are a good man, Mirko. I should never have gone along with what Drallen wanted, the snake. If we had met differently...”
“Maybe, Larien, maybe. We’ll never know.”
She kissed his cheek and walked slowly down the corridor. Mirko stared pensively after her, and returned to his chamber. He poured himself a goblet of wine and settled down to his thoughts.
CHAPTER 30
A
febrile atmosphere pervaded Paladria; the two greatest events in the calendar, the Margariad and the Election, were taking place on the same day; and no-one in the city could fail to understand that the events were connected. The Peremptor’s Constables were seen in greater than usual force, and Bartazan of Bartazan House made sure that he was visible in all parts of the city.
Mirko found the tenor of events oppressive, and spent as much time as possible on the water; either drilling Serendipity or, when the crew showed signs of tiredness, taking a small craft around the course with Florian and Trajian. He had not seen Larien since she had visited his chambers, and Catzendralle was also keeping herself out of the way, contenting herself with communicating by ciphered letter. It was the calm before the storm.
Drallenkoop, meanwhile, conducted himself with ostentatious confidence, drilling his crew no more than necessary, and whipping the populace to a pitch of hysteria. Mirko was in no doubt from his observations that Dragonchaser remained the most popular galley among the crowds, and the bookmakers still had her as a clear favourite ahead of Excelsior and Serendipity, who vied for second place.
Bartazan, meanwhile, became calmer as the day approached. Mirko found his new geniality alarming.
“Why should I worry?” Bartazan asked over a goblet of rich Estrian wine in his reception chamber. “I have the best galley-master and the votes of twenty-four Electors already in the bag.”
“Twenty-four is two fewer than you need,” observed Mirko superfluously. “You still need me to win.”
“And who says you won’t? Resardas is no longer taking bets on us. Drallenkoop is overconfident, and Dragonchaser’s performances have lacked the crispness of last year.”
“We still haven’t beaten them in a race that matters.”
“Such modesty is unlike you, Ascalon. I take a keen interest in galleys, and many professional seamen give me their opinions. Good judges think you will win.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Mirko, unsure why he was allowing the conversation to go here.
Bartazan chuckled. “Let’s not consider such irksome possibilities,” he said. “I am a man with a powerful destiny; and defeat for Serendipity would not allow its fulfilment. A wise-woman once told me I should be Peremptor…”
Mirko looked at him in surprise. “Old Craft nonsense! You can’t believe it, and it’s hardly safe to admit to hearing such drivel.”
Bartazan swirled his wine around his goblet. “It was many years ago now; the wise-woman is long dead, and the other things she told me have all come to pass. The Old Craft is gone from the surface of Paladria, and best that it should have done. But never think that it is buried deep. The Paladrians are a superstitious people, and the Old Craft is deep in their soul. You should realise that.”
“How so?”
Bartazan poured himself another goblet of wine. “I made it my business to find out how you got Liudas off my boat.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t worry. In the circumstances you were justified — Florian is clearly a superior helm — and the method was ingenious. I won’t pretend I’m not intrigued by how you found out a secret buried so deep even his father and I didn’t know it.”
“A galley-master — especially a rising one — commands considerable prestige,” said Mirko easily. “There are always people eager to do me a favour.”
Bartazan studied him through clear eyes. “Just make sure the price isn’t too high,” he said. “I happen to know you are not among the Peremptor’s favourites.”
Mirko shrugged. “I take that as a tribute to my unswerving professionalism.”
Bartazan raised his goblet high. “Here’s to professionalism.”
That afternoon Mirko drilled the crew one final time before the race. Tomorrow was set aside for rest; and when the sun rose after that, it would be race day. In the late afternoon sun Mirko felt a quiet assurance as Serendipity made its way around the Margariad course. Florian had grown in competence with every day; Mirko hoped not to have to thread the needle through The Sorcerers, but tucked away in his mind was a feeling that should it prove necessary, Florian could do it. The Quartermen, Trajian, Skaidrys, Slovo and Ketchelon, all had smoothly functioning Quarters, able to go up and down through the Tempos without jarring or loss of speed. Dragonchaser remained, as always, the boat to beat, but Mirko doubted that her crew was any smoother — or highly motivated, with freedom at stake — than Serendipity’s.
Barring unforeseen incidents — always a leap of faith in Paladria — and given a clean run, Mirko felt that Serendipity would beat Dragonchaser and all comers. He shivered: why did that idea frighten him? Granted, it would put Bartazan in Coverciano; but he was little if any worse than Giedrus: no, what worried him was the fear of dashed expectation. He had worked harder than ever before to turn a crew of dispirited slaves into a crew so polished and confident that they had beaten a Garganet naval vessel; he had risked his life, and his contrasting relationships with both Catzendralle and Larien, to get Serendipity to the position where she might contemplate victory. But what if, after all that, it did not happen? What if Dragonchaser or Excelsior were faster, or someone made a better job of arson next time? He would lose his bonus, of course, and Bartazan had threatened dire consequences in the event of defeat; but his unease was more fundamental, he realised. He had invested, for half a year, much of his essence in making Serendipity the galley he wanted it to be. Now he stood on the verge of achieving it, and he realised how much it meant to him, and correspondingly how much it would hurt to lose it. Stealthily he had allowed himself to hope. It was the hope which was so terrifying.
Practice finished and Serendipity was moored tight to the dock. A group of Bartazan’s militia stood by; the galley’s safety while she was docked was their responsibility and they took it seriously. Mirko doubted that Giedrus would risk another arson attempt, but prudence cost nothing.
The crew marched back to Urmaleškas in crisp formation, a far cry from the rabble they had been at the beginning of the summer. Mirko leaped onto a barrel as the crew went through its programme of stretches.
“Men!” he called. “That was our last practice: we are as good now as we will ever be. In two days’ time the Margariad will be over.”
“And we’ll be free men!” called Augenis.
“That is contingent,” said Florian dryly.
“Contingent upon us winning,” said Mirko in a firm voice. “And you should believe me when I say we have nothing to fear. Dragonchaser has become lazy and uncompetitive; Excelsior does not truly believe she can win. Our destiny is in our own hands!”
“And will Bartazan release us?” asked Skaidrys.
“He has no reason not to. If we win he will be Peremptor. He’ll be magnanimous to those who helped put him there.”
There was none of the grumbling that had formerly accompanied ta
lk of Bartazan’s success. The crew had no reason to love the Elector, but for better or worse they had accepted that their destinies and his were linked.
“There is no more preparation we can do. Rest tonight, eat well tomorrow. And don’t think I don’t know that some of you have slipped out of Urmaleškas at night; well, I want none of it this time.”
Florian and Trajian grinned discreetly at each other. He doubted they would follow the prohibition, but it hardly seemed worth causing conflict over. They were both reliable men, fully committed to victory. A good galley-master knew when to turn a blind eye.
“Does that apply to you, captain?” shouted Jenx.
“I can assure you I’ll be tucked up at Formello.”
“With Larien, I’ll wager,” muttered Jenx in an undertone so penetrating that no-one could fail to hear.
“A wager you would lose, Jenx. The Lady Larien… will be keeping her own company.”
From the crew came a laugh which mixed scepticism and affection. Mirko knew that the crew firmly believed that he was conducting a daring amour with Larien; and in the way of seamen, thought better of him for the fact.
The truth was different as Mirko rode back to Formello on Boodle. A cold cheerless chamber overlooking the gloomy wood was where he must spend the night. He had not seen Larien since their emotional interview in this chamber, for which he was grateful. Catzen was keeping out his way; despite her frequent ciphered letters he sensed she was withdrawing back into herself. She still had not taken the decision to commit herself to Mirko; that much was clear. With the race so close, he was happy to let the matter rest until it was over. At that point, everything would be resolved.
CHAPTER 31
R
ising early the next morning, Mirko found that there was a tang of autumn in the air for the first time. By tradition, the Margariad marked the end of summer, and autumn was running through its dress rehearsal exactly on schedule. Mirko had no real plans for the day, but already Formello, its walls brooding and its arrow-slits leering, had an oppressive feel. Bartazan was staying at his town house and Mirko was in no humour to linger around the castle.
He decided to ride down into town, and saddled up a skittish Boodle. Before he realised it, he found himself in the Old Town. It was a while since he stopped off at the Waterside, and he wanted to see Panduletta before the race. Afterwards, who knew, he might need to make his escape too quickly to have time for goodbyes.
The front door of the tavern was barred on the inside, a most unusual circumstance. It was early for drinking, but there was normally a good quantity of whelks available for breakfast. He wandered round into the rear courtyard, and found no signs of life. This was unparalleled.
“Panduletta!” he shouted. “Open up! It’s Mirko!”
There was silence and he called out again. Faint sounds of movement could be heard within.
“Who is it?”
Mirko frowned. “It’s me! Ascalon!”
There was a heavy sound of the bars being drawn back. One of the serving girls, Cambyryna, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and ran into the courtyard.
“Captain,” she said in visible distress, “there’s been a terrible assault!”
Mirko’s heart pounded. “Panduletta?”
“No, it’s Florian!”
Mirko’s heart sank as his stomach rose to meet it. “Florian! Is he…”
“My mistress has sent for the apothecary — but it looks grim.”
“Take me to them,” said Mirko briskly. “There’s not a moment to lose.”
Cambyryna escorted Mirko up the stairs to Panduletta’s private quarters.
“Is it the apothecary?” called Panduletta from within.
“No, mistress, it’s Captain Ascalon.”
Panduletta rushed across the room. “Mirko!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “He’s going to die!”
“Sit down,” said Mirko, leading her back into the room to a plush burgundy couch. “Let’s wait for the apothecary. Can you tell me what happened?”
Panduletta tried to compose herself. “He…he was coming to see me — before the race, you know. We are —”
“I know,” said Mirko gently. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me what happened.”
“They were waiting for him on the waterfront. When they saw him they fell upon him without warning, the dogs!”
“Who?”
“Florian said it was the Peremptor’s Constables but that can’t be right. They must have rescued him and he was confused.”
Mirko said nothing. Everything was beginning to take shape, and there was no reason to believe the Peremptor’s Constables were not the culprits.
“Four of them attacked him in the street,” she said. “He didn’t stand a chance, but he managed to force them back and made it to the door. Once he was inside they went away. I was going to call the Constables but Florian wouldn’t let me.”
Very wise, thought Mirko. “So he could walk when got here?”
Panduletta nodded. “He had been beaten around the head, and both of his arms were cut where he had tried to defend himself. I thought he was all right, although there was a lot of blood; and then he collapsed, and he hasn’t woken up again. I called the apothecary, he came and looked grave, and now he’s gone to prepare a tincture.”
“Can I see him?” asked Mirko. Panduletta’s complexion was the colour and texture of egg-shells. She took him into the inner chamber.
Florian lay under Panduletta’s coverlet. A bandage which had once been white wrapped his head, now stained with blood. Bandages also covered both arms, one of which was in a sling. Mirko concluded that the chances of him helming Serendipity tomorrow were not high.
“Florian?” he whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s Mirko.” But there was no response.
“What does the apothecary say?” he asked Panduletta.
“The apothecary says,” another figure, long of leg and brisk of voice, boomed as he entered the room, “that his chances are much better if you stand aside and let me do my job.”
Mirko surveyed the figure. “I take it you are the apothecary?”
The man rubbed his hands in evident satisfaction. “That I am, the Erudite Marijus at your service, elixirs for every occasion, love-philtres a speciality. I’ll perform a discounted consultation later for such a distinguished galley-master.”
Mirko looked sideways at the Erudite Marijus with distaste. Tall and bald, with a lower lip and stomach equally prominent, and a leer of self-satisfied self-centredness, Marijus did not inspire confidence. “You would please me more by attending to Florian first.”
Marijus bobbed his head. “Of course, of course. Head injuries are always tricky, very tricky. Luckily I have my Number Three tincture, which normally works to good effect. Sometimes it brings on a calenture, by nature of its ingredients,” he beamed, “but this rarely proves fatal, very rarely, hmmm.”
Mirko gave Panduletta a surreptitious side-glance to which she responded with a shrug.
“While you are applying the tincture,” said Mirko, “perhaps you could tell me the extent of Florian’s injuries.”
“One head injury, probably caused by a club or similar,” he said. “Deep cuts to the arms, inflicted with a light blade; and a broken collar bone. Minor — in the circumstances — contusions. Unless the head injuries are worse than they look, and as long as the cuts avoid infection, the prognosis is good.”
Mirko nodded. “He won’t be on your galley for a while, though,” continued Marijus thoughtfully. “The collar-bone alone will take weeks to heal.”
“I had gathered that,” said Mirko with some heat. “I have seen broken bones before.”
“Now, now,” said Marijus with a smile. “I understand your frustration, but let’s not take it out on the good apothecary, eh?”
Mirko held up a placatory hand. “My apologies, sir. Cambyryna, please would you fetch me paper and a stylus?”
Cambyryna went downstairs while Marijus
carried on administering his salves and remedies. Mirko doubted that they would prove efficacious — Marijus had all the hallmarks of a charlatan — but consoled himself with the thought that they were unlikely to do any harm either.
When Cambyryna returned Mirko excused himself and went into Panduletta’s private chamber to write a number of sensitive letters: to Catzendralle, in the hope that she might be able to offer useful advice; to Bartazan, with some trepidation; to Trajian, that nautical questions might be addressed with urgency. A final letter was addressed to Lammerkin, erstwhile master of Morvellos Devil. A series of runners was dispatched to deliver the correspondence on the instant.
Trajian, located at the nearby Urmaleškas, was the first to arrive, and Mirko swiftly briefed him on events. Trajian shook his head in woe and wonderment.
“Astonishing that someone should want us to lose so badly!” he said.
“Many people are keen to avoid the prospect of Bartazan in Coverciano. We can take it as a compliment that someone thought the best way of stopping us was to try and kill our helm.”
“They might as well have done,” said Trajian gloomily. “With a broken collar-bone Florian is in no position to advance our campaign. And I’d thought I’d be on my way home tomorrow.”
Mirko raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were his friend? You fall some way short of empathising with his sufferings.”
Trajian smiled ruefully. “A cool temperament is not a crime. If Florian had not sneaked out to see Panduletta last night, this would never have happened.”
“None of this finds us a new helm.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Trajian, hope in his eyes that Mirko had one last trick to pull off.
But Mirko merely shook his head. “Have you helmed?” he asked.
At this point the discussion was interrupted by loud shouts and curses. Mirko surmised, correctly, that Bartazan had arrived; not an interview he was relishing. The Elector stormed into the parlour where Mirko and Trajian were talking.
