Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  “My remark contained neither humour nor falsehood. Meet your new helm.”

  “Mirko! This is idiocy! The crew won’t row for a woman, and Bartazan won’t —”

  They were interrupted by a roar from behind them. “Bartazan won’t what?” cried the Elector himself. “I asked to be informed the moment you arrived at Urmaleškas; I leave important political considerations to speak to you; and I find you contending with your one reliable Quarterman; and for reasons beyond my comprehension in consort with one of the Elector Koopendrall’s kinswomen.”

  “I notice,” said Trajian, as Catzen curtsied to Bartazan, “that you have brought Liudas with you.”

  Liudas gave a sheepish grin and looked nervously from Trajian to Mirko, neither of whom acknowledged him.

  Bartazan scowled and mopped his forehead in the rising heat. His heavy Azure robes were not ideally suited to the conditions; neither was the cap of Sey battlecat pelt. “I imagined you might have difficulty in securing a competent helm after our conversation yesterday and the unfortunate accident befalling Florian; consequently I am most grateful that young Liudas has agreed to put the past behind him and reassume his former condition.”

  Trajian shook his head in wonderment; Catzen stared absently into space.

  “My Lord, Liudas, I am grateful to you both,” said Mirko. “I am sorry that either of you should have been put to unnecessary inconvenience; however, the position of helm is already filled to my satisfaction, and I see no reason to alter my dispositions at this late stage.”

  Bartazan blinked heavily; Liudas studied his lacy cuffs with great care.

  “May I ask who is more suitable for the office than an Elector’s son of exemplary character and directly relevant experience?” asked Bartazan.

  Mirko wondered exactly how Liudas might be said to possess an exemplary character since all five persons present knew he had been caught practising the capital crimes of the Old Craft; but this was not the time to pursue such enquiries.

  “I believe the Lady Catzendralle is little if any inferior in birth or breeding to the Noble Liudas; and while her experience of the galleys is less current, this is surely outweighed by her competence at the discipline.”

  Bartazan looked at Mirko in utter astonishment. The term ‘dumbfounded’ had never had literal application in Mirko’s experience, but on this occasion Bartazan seemed to have lost all power of speech. After staring silently into Mirko’s face for perhaps ten seconds, he uttered a curious staccato cachinnating laugh.

  “You are joking, of course.”

  Trajian contented himself with a covert smile.

  “No, my lord. The Lady Catzendralle will be at the helm this afternoon.”

  Bartazan reddened to an extent which caused Mirko to feel an imminent apoplexy threatened. “You are aware that the Lady is intimately related to both the Elector Koopendrall — by any measure an enemy of mine — and his son Drallenkoop, who skippers Dragonchaser this afternoon?”

  “My research would have been negligent not to have uncovered these facts, my lord.”

  Bartazan nodded slowly. Mirko noticed that Trajian was trying not to laugh. Catzen was expressionless and wandered a few feet away; Liudas had found a loose thread in his cuff and was pre-occupied in worrying at it.

  “So,” continued Bartazan in his forensic analysis, “these facts did not lead you to disqualify her candidature?”

  “No, my lord. You will remember from yesterday’s conversation that the list of immediately available candidates was not extensive. I had become friendly with my lady and she assured me that she did not regard her connections as germane.”

  “Hmm… and you took her word for this?”

  “Her views coincided with my own judgment. The choice appeared to lie between her, Liudas, or various helms unemployed for good reason. I chose the one candidate not tarnished by previous failure or manifest incapacity.”

  “By this token,” growled Bartazan, again losing patience, “I might have taken the role myself, since my experience and instances of failure both equal zero.”

  “My lord! Had I known you were interested in the position, I can guarantee I would have interviewed you.”

  Bartazan’s head snapped back. “Guards!” he called. Four heavily-armed retainers stepped forward. “This renegade scoundrel’s insolence grows too much to bear. Take him to the waterside immediately; drown him well, and then beat him soundly.”

  Mirko forbore from pointing out the major illogicality of this approach. The guards looked uncertain, then moved hesitantly forward. Catzen sprang into the narrowing gap.

  “Mirko!” she said. “What can you be thinking of to taunt an Elector this way? I didn’t agree to be your helm so that you could goad Bartazan! I want to win the Margariad, and I won’t do that with you floating in the docks!”

  Bartazan held up his hand and the guards stopped their advance.

  “Noble Elector,” said Catzen, stepping close to Bartazan. “Our Houses have not enjoyed the most cordial relations over the years; but can you not set this aside for the afternoon? My dearest wish has been to race the Margariad; this I place higher than loyalty to a House which you must be aware has not treated me well.”

  Bartazan rubbed his chin. “My lady,” he said. “Your anomalous status within House Drall is not, of course, unknown to me; and I confess there would be a certain amusement value in discommoding Koopendrall in this way. But the joke would be on me if the ineptitude of your performance cost me the race and the Election.”

  “My lord,” said Catzen with her eyes alight, “believe me when I tell you that my uncle Addacatzen said I was the best helm of my age, man or woman, he had ever seen. I am a little rusty but I believe I am more than a match for Liudas — and so does Captain Ascalon.”

  Bartazan turned to look at Mirko with an unwavering stare. “Do you seriously contend that the Lady Catzendralle will helm more competently than the Noble Liudas?”

  “Yes, my lord. It is that simple.”

  “Trajian!” barked Bartazan. “I am not accustomed to seeking counsel from slaves: nonetheless, if you have an observation, now is the time to make it.”

  “The crew will not row if Liudas is at the helm. I am not sure how they will respond to the Lady Catzendralle, but if Ascalon asks it, they’ll do it — I think.”

  Bartazan’s eyes narrowed. “Once again, you leave me no option. Lady Catzendralle: welcome aboard Serendipity. Ascalon, do not let me down. I understand that the Peremptor has taken a dislike to you: if he is still Peremptor at sundown, then it will be a race as to which of us finds you first. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Bartazan adjusted his furred hat on his head, turned with slightly hurried dignity and swept from the barracks. Mirko remembered at last to exhale. Liudas skipped behind Bartazan, addressing a series of comments which the Elector found it politic to ignore.

  “Well, my lady,” said Trajian, “you are a cool one, and no mistake. If you can steer as well, we might be in with a chance.”

  Catzen inclined her head and winked. “Shall we meet the crew, Trajian?”

  “Step this way, my lady!”

  The crew was assembled on the sandy courtyard of Urmaleškas, some sprawling on the ground, others tense and alert. Mirko was conscious that a test awaited; it was not certain that they would accept a female helm, especially when she was Drallenkoop’s cousin.

  “Trajian!” he called. “Where are those liveries?”

  Skaidrys appeared with the spare garments, shirts patterned in Azure chequer; most conspicuously the uniform of the House of Bartazan.

  “You expect me to wear that?” asked Catzen in surprise. “Azure chequer — and at least two sizes too big for me?”

  Mirko pulled off his own travel-stained white shirt and slipped on the Azure version. “How badly do you want to helm Serendipity — which is after all Bartazan’s galley?”

  Catzen gave her head a rueful shake. “I suppose I could hard
ly have gone back to Darklings after this anyway; Azure chequer will hardly exacerbate my already grave offences against the House.”

  “Good,” said Mirko with a smile of satisfaction. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You expect me to change in front of the crew?” she asked with some asperity. “You have become indifferent to the sight of my breasts all too rapidly if you are so willing to expose them to the world.”

  “Catzen! I — There is a stores hut over there.”

  With a raised eyebrow and a look of scorn, Catzen swept away to the hut, emerging shortly thereafter in little better humour. The Azure chequer hung loosely from her frame, the sleeves rolled back upon themselves to allow her hands free movement. Mirko managed to control his expression, but Trajian found himself beset by a smirk which earned him a questioning look from Catzen.

  “I think we should introduce you to the crew,” said Mirko hastily; harmony would not be advanced by a quarrel between his helm and First Quarterman over the fit of Catzen’s clothes.

  He leapt to the stage at the front of the courtyard, extending his hand to Catzen and hauling her aloft.

  “Gentlemen!” he called. “If Animaxian is with us, we will all be free men by the end of today. Most unusually in human affairs, your fates lie in your own hands; row with the skill, vigour and passion you have shown in recent weeks, and all will be well.”

  There was some half-hearted applause from the crew.

  “You have all trusted me so far, and events have gone according to plan. You must continue to trust me for a few more hours. Is there any man here who does not trust my judgement? Speak now!”

  Thirty-three faces looked back at him. None demurred.

  “You will be aware of the misfortune which has befallen our friend and colleague Florian; his injuries, while no longer life-threatening, debar his participation in today’s race. It has therefore been necessary to secure another helm; and I am glad to introduce you to the Lady Catzendralle, who has been kind enough to help us in this regard.”

  Catzen smiled and bobbed her head; her hair swung with becoming grace.

  Silence met the announcement. After a pause, Jenx called out: “She’s a woman!”

  “I am glad to see that falcx has not addled your wits any more than strictly necessary, Jenx. Do you have further insights?”

  “How can she helm?”

  “In broadly the same way as a man — she pulls the helm bar in the direction she intends the galley to travel.”

  Jenx scratched at his close-cropped head. “Much remains to be understood.”

  “Indeed it does, Jenx, and an explanation would take us well beyond the start of the race. Let me ask you: would you rather race under the Lady Catzendralle — for whom I vouch personally — or Ipolitas Liudas, who even now is the preferred choice of the Elector Bartazan?”

  Mirko had hoped this would clinch the matter with a universal roar of acclamation, but instead the crew began to mutter among themselves. Eventually one of the older hands, Querency, asked tentatively:

  “My lady, did you once helm the galley Sunrise of that great master, Addacatzen?”

  “Only in practice,” said Catzen primly. “But the sea remains the sea, whether practice or race.”

  “I remember you, for I rowed with Addacatzen before Koopendrall sold me to Bartazan. You were a fine young girl, and had a great talent.”

  Catzen permitted herself a modest inclination of the head.

  “Give us the Lady!” called out Querency. “Shipmates, this is the helm for us! No to Liudas! Hail the Lady Catzendralle!”

  Querency was not, in Mirko’s opinion, one of the more energetic or dynamic rowers; nonetheless he carried an indubitable air of authority among the crew, and slowly they picked up the chant: “Catzendralle! Catzendralle! Catzendralle!”

  Catzen held her head high; Mirko sighed with relief; they had accepted her, for whatever capricious and subjective reasons. He realised with a start that he still didn’t know if she could helm or not; her only testimonials came from herself, a circumstance which admitted of potential bias. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  CHAPTER 35

  T

  he journey from Urmaleškas to the docks — no more than two hundred yards — was one that would live in Mirko’s memory for years. The crew formed up into a column, resplendent in newly-donned Azure chequer; and at their head marched Mirko and Catzen. She had transcended the ill-fit of her uniform, and to Mirko’s admittedly subjective gaze she was the most thrilling and beautiful figure in the universe. The sun brought out the gold in her hair, and excitement and tension made her eyes sparkle like stars shining out of the blackest night.

  The route was lined with supporters of Bartazan, the Azure banners making a second sea to either side of them. Rousing cheers followed them every step of the way; Catzen surreptitiously squeezed his hand: “We can do this. We are going to win! Thank you for trusting me.”

  Mirko felt it would be inappropriate to mention that her prime recommendation for the job was not being Liudas; she was a woman of many unusual talents, and it was not out of the question that being able to helm a racing galley was among them.

  Eventually the crowds melted away as Peremptor’s Guards delineated the area set aside for the competitors on the waterfront. As the Serendipity procession entered the arena, the herald apprised the crowd of events.

  “Here, citizens, we have the officers and crew of that noble galley, Serendipity, outfitted by the munificent Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House. How proudly they march in their Azure livery. Serendipity is captained and overseen by the illustrious flower of the Garganet navy, Mirko Ascalon; while in a late change her helm will be taken by the Lady Catzendralle of House Drall. How refreshing to see house rivalries set aside in the pursuit of galley-racing excellence! Let’s hear your appreciation for Serendipity!”

  The crowd buzzed rather than roared; clearly the presence of Catzen crowded out every other sensation.

  Drallenkoop, who already had his crew aboard Dragonchaser, sauntered across. His outfit of red breeches and a gold shirt, while in keeping with the colours of House Drall, seemed to Mirko to slant towards vulgarity. The gold cap, topped with a long red strut-cock plume, also appeared to place aesthetics before utility.

  Mirko bowed. He could think of nothing to say which would not be either fatuous or provocative; possibly both.

  Drallenkoop appeared to feel no such constraints.

  “Cousin Catzendralle! I had heard of your bizarre folly, and imagined it a feverish rumour. You seriously intend to take the helm of Bartazan’s galley?”

  Catzen stared unblinkingly back. “You see me here in Azure. Is there any other explanation?”

  “You realise the consequences if Bartazan wins?”

  Catzen allowed herself a slow smile. “You acknowledge the possibility? I consider that an important psychological advantage. I myself am not contemplating defeat.”

  Drallenkoop shook his head. “Catzendralle, this really is a game to you… but it’s not a game, is it? Where is the amusement of seeing Bartazan Peremptor? Come now, leave this aside and Ascalon without a helm. My father will be delighted! What good work you have done!”

  Catzen put a finger under Drallenkoop’s chin. “You prostituted Larien to try and keep Serendipity from winning; and told yourself you were doing it for House Drall. Let me tell you, Drallenkoop, you are a coward and a bully, a self-deluding braggart. Today you’re going to face a galley which hasn’t talked itself into defeat before the race starts. And believe me, after what I’ve suffered from House Drall, from your father and from you, beating you will be the greatest moment of my life. See you at the finish.”

  Drallenkoop’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever think of returning to Darklings. I am planning to stable the goats in your quarters tonight. You are cast off from House Drall forever.”

  Catzen gave a bitter smile. “In truth I’ve been cast off for a good many years now. If you’ll excuse
me, I have a galley to prepare.”

  She turned with measured haste and made her way to where the Quartermen were settling the crew into their berths.

  Drallenkoop spoke quietly to Mirko. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ascalon. There aren’t many men who’ve come off better from making a bargain with my cousin.”

  “We’ll see, Drallenkoop; maybe at the finish, maybe before.”

  Drallenkoop shrugged. “You’ve dug your own grave with your prick,” he said. “You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last.”

  Mirko walked away towards Serendipity, leaving Drallenkoop to conduct his business as he chose. He looked up into the Electors’ stand: Bartazan had taken his seat and exuded a relaxed gravity; next to him the Lady Inuela looked bored and distrait; and with a shock he saw next to her Larien, her face completely expressionless. She had been unwise at best, certainly duplicitous, but she was clearly suffering for her actions. He was glad they had parted on terms as good as was reasonable. That part of his life was past.

  With a rueful smile he set his shoulders and climbed aboard Serendipity. He formed an immediately favourable impression of the crew’s morale, and Catzen gave him a grin of relaxed focus. He stepped into overseer’s cockpit and quickly checked on Jenx; although the falcx he habitually took made it easier for him to keep the rhythm, an overdose would promote sluggishness or even somnolence. All appeared to be well and he called out:

  “Jenx, beat Four if you please! Beat Four.”

  Jenx beat the required tempo and Serendipity edged slowly towards the start line. The wind, no more than a fresh breeze, bellied the big lateen sail: it would be behind them in the long initial pull up to the Morvellos Lighthouse; and as the current would be with them too, the first leg of the race would take place at speed. The pull back down towards the Hanspar would be opposite: into the wind and against the current. Weaker galleys such as Kestrel would be certain to drop out of contention at this point. Conditions would get slightly easier from here; although the next leg from the Hanspar to The Sorcerers was against the current, the wind would be coming across the port bow until they reached The Sorcerers themselves. In the endless tactical discussions with Florian and Trajian at the Waterside, they had agreed that only serious contenders would remain at the head of the field at this stage: Dragonchaser for certain, Excelsior on recent form, and possibly Animaxian’s Glory. Mirko had felt even then that he would have to go around The Sorcerers in first place to entertain hopes of winning; and with a helm as rusty as Catzen this surely remained a necessity.