by Tim Stretton
Bartazan was red and sweating. “Ascalon! You have much to explain!”
Mirko frowned. “I thought my summary covered the important points. Florian is seriously inconvenienced. Abandon any hopes of him taking the helm tomorrow.”
“Now is not the time for flippancy, Ascalon. I want to know how one of my more valuable slaves was wandering the streets two days before the Margariad; and what steps you propose to take to retrieve the situation. And not in front of a slave,” he finished with a glower at Trajian.
Trajian rose and made to leave.
“A moment, Trajian,” said Mirko. “Your counsel may be valuable.”
“An Elector does not transact confidential business in front of his galley slaves!” said Bartazan, reddening still further. “Ascalon, you do not realise how dangerous I can be.”
“In the circumstances,” said Trajian with a bow to Bartazan, “I think matters would proceed more expeditiously without my counsel. Besides, I would like to look in on Florian.”
“Now,” said Bartazan, pacing the room with an alarming surfeit of nervous energy. “Why was Florian parading through the streets of this low part of town?”
“Would the answer help you, my lord? What’s done is done; Florian acted imprudently and we should leave the matter there. The important thing, as you imply, is that we take the most appropriate steps.”
“And these are?” said Bartazan with an access of calm. He folded his arms and stood a foot in front of Mirko.
“I am using my contacts in the galley-racing community to secure a replacement helm.”
“I take it you have not yet been successful?”
“This is hardly a situation where instant results are feasible.”
“It should come as no surprise to you that Paladria is not awash with unemployed Margariad-quality helms. Those helmsmen currently disengaged are generally so through their own incapacity.”
“Such as Liudas…”
“I was thinking of men such as Nexinger — the ‘Iron Snail’ – and Jukundas.”
“Jukundas — widely and justly known as ‘Old Addle-Pate’ – owed his brief spell of fame solely to your imprisonment of Animaxian’s Glory’s first-choice helm.”
“It is hardly just to include Liudas in this company.”
Mirko controlled himself with an effort. “We have trodden this path many times, my lord. Liudas is short of the quality necessary to helm a race-winning galley. I take it Nool Ipolitas’ vote is again uncertain.”
Bartazan’s face darkened. “By no means! Nool Ipolitas is well satisfied with the post I have offered him in my new administration. I merely suggest Liudas’ name as a man who is familiar with Serendipity and her crew.”
“The suggestion lacks the remotest approach to merit,” snapped Mirko, giving vent to his asperity. “For a start, you forget the circumstances under which he departed the galley: they are unlikely to make him look favourably on a return. More importantly, the crew know him for an incompetent: they do not trust him and they will not row well for him. My ‘desperation solution’ is better than that.”
“Outline, if you will,” said Bartazan icily, “the nature of your ‘desperation solution’.”
“Why, I will take the helm myself. I am qualified and trained in helmsmanship — if admittedly a little rusty — and I am as familiar with the waters as anyone. I have no great flair for the craft, but I feel sure I could perform better than Liudas.”
“This would leave vacant the position of overseer.”
“There is no alternative to appointing Trajian, a Garganet naval officer who commands respect among the crew. Admittedly, I would need to blood a new Quarterman, which I would prefer to avoid, but it will at least get us to the start line.”
Bartazan shook his head in wonderment. “Your negligence of status is staggering! First you appoint a slave as helmsman, an idea of barely credible lunacy which yielded predictably unfortunate results, and now you propose to have the slaves overseen by another slave! Where is the respect for degree and place essential to the smooth functioning of galley and city alike?”
“Garganet crews operate on a more egalitarian basis,” said Mirko, “and these are principles I have adopted — with some success — on Serendipity. The situation will not develop into the rabble you suggest.”
“Unacceptable!” said Bartazan firmly. “I will send Liudas tomorrow morning and all will be well. You would do well to return to Formello, since my town house Whitecroft cannot accommodate you. Alternatively you may mess in Urmaleškas tonight.”
“My plans are not fixed,” said Mirko. “I may return to Formello, with your leave.”
Bartazan sat heavily on Panduletta’s best couch. “I take it you realise this assault was no accident; and the involvement of the Peremptor’s Constables was no coincidence.”
“This aspect of the affair had not escaped me. Giedrus is determined to damage our performance.”
“Just so,” said Bartazan. “In the circumstances, the idea of you wandering the streets like Florian is surpassingly foolish. You are not go anywhere without an armed escort.”
Mirko nodded his head and Bartazan left, little mollified if at all, by the interview.
On Bartazan’s exit, Cambyryna came in with a letter. “This came while you were engaged with the Elector,” she said with a shy smile.
“Thank you,” said Mirko, looking at the envelope and seeing with disappointment that it was not Catzendralle’s handwriting. Impatiently he ripped it open.
Sir,
You do me a great honour by offering the post of helm aboard Serendipity to whichever of my helm Hellence or myself feels disposed to accept it. This offer would carry more sincerity if the proximity of the Margariad were more remote.
Regrettably neither Hellence nor I feel able to accept your generous offer. To nurture resentment is an ignoble characteristic, and I will therefore cite advanced age and weariness after a long season’s racing as the reason for our unwillingness to accept the engagement; rather than any potential animosity arising your meddling in politics you fail to understand, which led to the destruction of my own galley. It would be equally churlish to have reached the conclusion that I would prefer any galley on the water to win the Margariad before Serendipity. I will not, therefore, give utterance to any such sentiments I might hypothetically hold.
I remain your obedient servant,
Lammerkin, formerly of Morvellos Devil.
Mirko made to screw the letter up, thought better of it, and handed it to Cambyryna. “Please take this through to Trajian,” he said.
“Not good news, sir?”
“No, although scarcely unexpected.”
Cambyryna bobbed and left the room.
Mirko sat down with a frown. He had never expected either of the Morvellos Devil officers to be prepared to help; their resentment at him was unjustified but obscurely understandable. It created an unfortunate situation; there were no other competent helms at liberty; he recoiled from using men like the Iron Snail or Old Addle-Pate; and Liudas by any reckoning was little better than nothing. Whatever Bartazan said, he was going to have to take the helm himself, or withdraw Serendipity altogether. In the circumstances he thought Bartazan would accede; although it would not be wise to linger in Paladria if the gamble were unsuccessful.
CHAPTER 32
P
erhaps Catzen would have ideas, he thought. As if the thought of her had conjured her existence, he caught her level tones in the outer room. He snatched the door open.
“Catzen!” he called. “We have much to discuss.”
Catzendralle gave a half-smile. “I am not accustomed to being addressed by my familiar name in a dockside tavern,” she said. “Nonetheless, I agree with your assessment.”
Mirko looked at her more closely. Her normally sanguine complexion was pale and wan, the lines around her eyes incised more deeply than ever. He doubted that this was a suitable opening conversational gambit, and merely beckoned her into P
anduletta’s parlour with a sideways twist of his head.
Catzen sat on the couch formerly occupied by Bartazan and rested her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have not been sleeping well.”
“I imagine disquiet is the inevitable lot of the intelligencer,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “We need to act, not talk,” she said. “Your life is in immediate danger — more immediate than I had imagined. The best thing for you is to take a galley out of Paladria this morning; but since I suspect you won’t, at least you need to disappear until tomorrow morning.”
Mirko pursed his lips. “I’m not leaving now; but my conscience can accommodate a diplomatic disappearance — if it is as necessary as you say.”
“It is. I am all too familiar with what Giedrus is planning.”
Mirko walked across to the window and looked out across the bay.
“This is not the time for vague hints and evasions and ‘my sources tell me’, Catzen. You have to start being open with me; about everything.”
Catzen looked away and played with the mermaid ring on her finger. “ ‘Everything’ is a big word, Mirko. People who ask to know everything usually regret it.”
“For Animaxian’s sake, Catzen, this is not the time for games! I have been remarkably patient while you have arranged my life behind the scenes, getting me out of trouble that you’d got me into in the first place; telling me just enough that I’d do what you wanted but not enough to work things out for myself. You’re completely incapable of being open or straightforward about anything.”
“Is that what you really think?” asked Catzen quietly, still looking down. “I don’t go to bed with just anyone, you know.”
Mirko sighed in exasperation. “Even then you kept telling me it wasn’t for real, that there were things you needed to tell me that you didn’t trust me to hear. That’s not my idea of an open or straightforward relationship.”
“It wasn’t like that!” cried Catzen. “It’s not that I don’t trust you — it’s because I don’t want to lose you,” she said, dropping her voice. “I couldn’t bear to tell you everything, for you to know everything about me — and for it to repel you. I’m not good at closeness, Mirko, and I’ve spent so much time getting close to you….”
“Why should you repel me, Catzen? Don’t you think that because I care about you, I won’t reject you?”
She got up and walked across to the window and laid her head on Mirko’s shoulder. “You don’t know what I have to tell you,” she said. “Don’t make me.”
Mirko stared ahead at the Morvellos Lighthouse in the distance. Nothing would be easier than to put his arms around her and tell her everything was all right; but it would be easy for the wrong reasons, and it wouldn’t solve anything. This needed to be resolved before the race.
He put his hands on her arms and turned her to face him. “It won’t do, Catzen. It’s now or never.”
She looked unblinkingly into his eyes for an eternal second; Mirko held her gaze. She looked out to sea for a moment and nodded to herself.
“Then it’s now,” she said. “But remember, you wanted this.”
Mirko nodded. “How could I forget?”
“It would be better if we removed to a location less hazardous,” she said. “I wasn’t exaggerating about the danger. Giedrus — or more specifically, Vaidmantas — will kill you if he finds you. And if he finds me with you, he’ll kill me too.”
“This isn’t another stall?” asked Mirko.
She shook her head. “We have to go. If you have any instructions for your crew, now is the time to convey them.”
Mirko nodded, went out to speak to Trajian. “If I don’t come back for the race, you’re in charge,” he concluded.
“With no master and no helm,” said Trajian wryly. “The chances for glory are not promising.”
“Better hope I come back, then,” said Mirko. “And Trajian — be careful. Get into Urmaleškas and stay there.”
Catzen was looking out to sea when Mirko returned. “Let’s go,” he said buckling on his rapier. “Where are we going?”
Catzen led the way downstairs. “Coverciano,” she said with an unexpected chuckle.
“That would not seem to be the best place to avoid Giedrus’ men.”
“I can hardly take you to Darklings, for any number of reasons; and the road to Formello is most certainly watched. Giedrus doesn’t yet realise I am no longer in his service, either.”
Mirko was dubious, but Catzen had gained an access of energy and confidence.
“We will have to share my galumpher, I’m afraid,” she said, leaping into the front saddle. “You will have to take the rear end.”
The galumpher — a much larger animal than a lady would normally ride — appeared relatively docile, a relief to Mirko who was uncomfortable on anything sturdier than a pacer.
If it had not been for the constant worry that Vaidmantas’ men would come upon them, Mirko would have enjoyed the pleasant ride up the coastal road towards Coverciano. Vaidmantas would not attempt an outrage in so public a place; the disappearance of a troublesome and unconnected foreigner might attract little attention, but not that of an Elector’s cousin.
Coverciano soon loomed ahead, tranquil and relaxing. Catzen rode up to the gates and displayed an intricately-wrought trinket. The guard bowed and opened the gates. They were inside.
“What now?” asked Mirko.
“Have you forgotten my secret garden?” she said. She called over a groom and the galumpher was led away. “Let’s walk,” she said. “It’s not far. Try not to look so obviously shifty. Giedrus will not be strolling the grounds — he is far too busy.”
“Packing?” said Mirko with a smile.
Catzen laughed, for the first time he could remember in weeks. “Giedrus is not expecting to leave.”
They found themselves in the Orange Grove, and Catzen led them into the maze. Mirko walked past the entrance to the Secret Garden until Catzen gently pulled his sleeve back. The stepped through the concealed entrance. Mirko immediately felt a sense of calmness, and he felt Catzen relax beside him.
She took his hand and led him to a nearby seat swinging gently from a manzipar tree. “I always dreamed of telling you everything,” she said. “And I always wanted it to be here. Forgive me for stage-managing events,” she smiled.
“You seem much happier here,” he replied.
“This is my favourite place in the world,” she said. “It cannot be found by accident. It is so beautiful, and only I can come here — and now you, of course.”
“Autumn is coming to the Secret Garden,” said Mirko. “The leaves are starting to fall.”
“They will be gone tomorrow,” she said. “You remember that the Garden is subject to a spell of maintenance.”
Mirko watched a leaf spiral down from a high branch to land at Catzen’s feet. He leant forward to pick it up and gave it to her. “What will happen if you take it out of the garden? Will the maintenance spell still remove it?”
Catzen reached out for the leaf. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never tried it. It is so fragile — like feelings. We never know whether they will still be there tomorrow either.”
“It depends on the feelings,” said Mirko. “They can be delicate, tender, beyond naming or description: yet they may endure far longer than coarser, grosser passions. Sometimes the more you believe in them, the stronger they become.”
She took his hand again and looked long into his face. “I said I would trust you, and I will,” she said. “How much do you know about the Old Craft?”
Mirko gave a puzzled look. “Very little. I was surprised to learn that this garden existed — although of course everyone knows about the Morvellos Lighthouse.”
“There are two kinds of Old Craft,” she said. “The kind everyone thinks about when the Old Craft is mentioned is Operant. That’s the kind of craft that affects the physical world around us. It maintains the S
ecret Garden, lights the Morvellos Lighthouse; and of course it was Operant Craft that destroyed East Gammerling all those long centuries ago. Men decided that it could not safely be tolerated in our world, and they destroyed it utterly — or at least prevented its open use.”
Mirko said nothing. It was so like Catzen to give a history lesson to avoid talking about anything to do with her emotions.
“The other kind of Old Craft is known as Voyeurant. Voyeurant Craft does not affect the physical world; it can only observe it. The commonest form of that is called ‘clairvoyance’, the ability to see events occurring outside of the field of vision. Less common is precognition, the ability to foretell future events; and postcognition, which can see the past: hindsight with eyes.
“Facility in the Old Craft cannot be taught; a small number of people have a latent gift, which can be developed by diligence. Without the Latency, no amount of study will avail. The proscription of the Old Craft could not, of course, proscribe Latency itself. As many people could develop the Old Craft today as in the days of the Sorcerers of Gammerling.
“Latency in Voyeurant outnumbers Operant by as much as twenty to one; while Voyeurant is similarly preponderant among female Latents. Operant Latency is much more likely to be found among men. Ipolitas Liudas believed — utterly without foundation — that he was a Latent Operant. His innocence of the gift — or curse if you prefer — would not have saved him from burning, of course, which was why it was so easy for you to blackmail him.”
Mirko turned his head to look at her. “I’m beginning to form a suspicion as to how you know so much about this — about everything, in fact. This isn’t just assiduous research and good sources, is it?”
Catzen swallowed and reached out to touch Mirko’s face. “No it isn’t,” she said. “I have — or had — a fully developed Voyeurant Latency. I have practised the Old Craft, and it’s death on the pyre for me if anyone ever finds out.”
She continued to rest her hand against his cheek; Mirko couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. Catzen was a witch, outlawed by death across the centuries.
