Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

“Inadvertently, although if you want the truth I always imagined I was working for House Drall, for all the difference it made.”

  “Vaidmantas said that Catzendralle was Giedrus’ agent too and that the pair of you had been conspiring against Bartazan.”

  Mirko nodded.

  “I won’t ask why, if that’s true, you won the race today that will secure his Election. Anyway, as you can imagine, Bartazan was furious. Vaidmantas is to be Captain of the Constables, and you and Catzendralle are to be arrested after the banquet tonight. Bartazan doesn’t think he’s strong enough to get away with killing Catzendralle, but you will be hanging on a gibbet by tomorrow morning. ‘A terrible warning of the price of treachery to the House of Bartazan’ was how he put it.”

  Mirko thought of Padizan; he knew Larien was too. “My options would appear to be limited.”

  “You must disappear, and take Catzendralle with you if you care about her.”

  Mirko frowned. “It isn’t quite that simple.”

  Larien’s face fell. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Mirko gave a wry smile. “Could you blame me if I didn’t?”

  “No. But I am telling the truth this time. How could I know what I knew if I wasn’t telling the truth?”

  “There are many ways of finding out things you aren’t supposed to know, believe me. I’ve learned some myself recently. But I can’t see what motive you’d have for lying. I believe you, all right.”

  “Then why don’t you just go?”

  “I need to be at the Banquet tonight. It’s the only hope I have of freeing my crew.”

  Larien gave a laugh of sheer exasperation. “You think Bartazan will keep his word? After all this time dealing with him?”

  “I think I may be able to strike a deal with him. The chances may not be good, but I couldn’t live with my conscience if I didn’t try.”

  Larien got up and walked over to the door. “I’m going to go now; if I don’t I’m going to make a fool of myself again. You are the most perverse, obstinate man I’ve ever met; and it will break my heart if anything happens to you. Goodbye, Mirko.”

  She dashed through the door before her self-control was lost completely. Mirko, as ever, was affected by her strong emotion, but he had made his choice where she was concerned. He had to believe it was the right one. More important now was to work out how he and Catzen were going to survive tonight.

  CHAPTER 37

  M

  irko went out into the courtyard to await the return of Catzen and Skaidrys. The latter was swiftly dispatched on a further series of errands while Mirko apprised Catzen of his afternoon conference as they walked around the high defensive walls of the barracks.

  Catzen turned her attention away from dissatisfaction with her attire; Panduletta was several inches taller with more pronounced curves, and the effect of the red dress she had finally borrowed was not altogether flattering, despite hasty work with pins and needles.

  “The sensible thing to do,” she said, “as you well know, is for the pair of us to disappear now. If we slip out across the Flats, we can be in the hills before anyone knows we’re gone. Or there are places we can lie low until we can take passage on a trade galley.”

  Mirko leant against the crenellations and looked out into the bay. “It would, as you say, be ‘sensible’. It would also condemn a group of men to whom I owe loyalty to a lifetime of continued slavery.”

  Catzen took his hand. “We could even just sail off in Serendipity, although that approach seems fraught with unnecessary risk.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” said Mirko with a slight smile. “But we sprung a leak in the collision with Dragonchaser. We aren’t seaworthy until it’s repaired. Isn’t there some Old Craft remedy you can work?”

  “You know the Old Craft doesn’t work like that. My gift is Voyeurant, and that is waning. I used the Craft yesterday; to use it again so soon would kill me, or worse.”

  “Then I see no alternative. We have to go to the Banquet, and we have to convince Bartazan that I am the only man who can deliver him the City’s Fleet.”

  Catzen sighed and smiled. “I knew it would be that way.”

  “Catzen, you don’t have to do this, you know. If you want to run or hide, I won’t ever hold it against you.”

  “You need me to negotiate with Bartazan. It will be beneath the Peremptor’s dignity to bandy terms with you. Mirko, we are together on this — and everything.”

  Mirko squeezed her hand.

  “How did you feel when you saw Larien?” she asked.

  “I hardly know what to say. I can never forget that she once had some real hold on my affections, and she is good at manipulating that. I’m glad I don’t have to see her again. When I’m with her it’s easy to believe that I’ve wronged her, and all that intriguing and deception with Drallenkoop was just an unfortunate mistake. All smoke and mirrors, of course, but exhilarating… she is the greatest actress of all, because she believes it.”

  Catzen smiled. “You do her an injustice; her feelings for you are real enough.”

  “Maybe. But she is mutable, prey to whatever strong personality is close by. I could never trust her.”

  “No? She could deliver you to Bartazan at any time: that looks like trust to me.”

  “The wise man trusts only to himself. I’m prepared for a certain amount of — unpleasantness — this evening. I wouldn’t entrust my safety to Larien, and certainly not yours.”

  The sun was sinking ever lower in the Paladrian evening, the sunset casting orange and maroon fancies against the gathering clouds; the time of the Election Banquet was drawing close. Mirko had selected his attire with care, not just with aesthetics in mind, but also freedom of movement. Who knew when he might have to run or fight tonight? Mirko walked over to Trajian, clarified certain contingent instructions, then took Catzen’s arm and led her out of the temporary sanctuary of Urmaleškas.

  The Election Banquet, arranged by the Elector Algimantas, was taking place in a giant pavilion of forest-green erected in the central plaza – the same place, Mirko thought sardonically, where he had witnessed the hanging of Larkas Laman and Clovildas Cloon. On this occasion the gibbets had been removed from the platform. The public location was deliberate. Algimantas, Bartazan’s ally, had chosen a venue hemmed in by the populace — a populace which would be likely to vent strong displeasure if the Electors’ votes did not accord with their wishes. In front of the pavilion, facing out to sea, was a wooden platform along which the Electors walked to make, in public, their choice for the next Peremptor of Paladria. At one end of the platform was an exit from the pavilion; at the other, two flag-poles. One pole carried an indigo flag with the woe-fish sigil of the House of Bartazan; the other, flapping languidly, was powder-blue field with a yellow star representing House Luz. Each Elector advanced the flag of his preferred candidate one notch up the pole. The first to reach a twenty-sixth notch was the flag of the Peremptor.

  But first came a banquet of six courses, although Mirko for one had little appetite even as they walked up towards the entrance of the pavilion. Peremptor’s Constables lined the approach, as might be expected in the circumstances.

  Catzen squeezed his hand. “Relax,” she said. “We aren’t meant to die tonight.”

  Mirko remembered that her gift for precognition had never been strong and retained doubts, but he returned her pressure with a smile. “Of course not. Together we can do anything.”

  Two Constables stepped towards them at the entrance. Mirko’s heart pounded and his mouth dried.

  “Good evening, sir, madam. Your names, if you please.”

  “Mirko Ascalon and the Lady Catzendralle of House Drall; guests of the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House.”

  The Constable bowed. “This way, if you please.”

  They stepped inside the pavilion, subtly lit by a thousand lanthorns. Standing inside the entrance Mirko saw with a start Vaidmantas, the black of his uniform offset by the brillia
nt white of the sling around his shoulder. He smiled genially at Mirko and slowly drew a forefinger across his throat. Mirko merely nodded back.

  Bartazan had not felt the need to pack his table with a large number of guests. The Lady Inuela, managing to look simultaneously tense and bored, was at his side. Bartazan’s kinsfolk Lord Calaran and Lady Ysabel, and their adolescent son Balaran — Bartazan’s heir since Carnazan’s fall from grace — were of course present; and Larien, pale and taut, sat in a reverie of her own, ignoring the conversation of the well-bred nonentity she was seated with. Mirko was glad that she was too far away to permit free conversation.

  Mirko looked around as he took his seat for the other faces he might expect to be present. The table of House Drall was some distance away, and did not look disposed for merriment. Koopendrall wore his white Election robes with gloomy resignation; Drallenkoop had chosen to dress all in black and did not look disposed for conviviality. By no stretch of the imagination could he reflect upon a day in which he had suffered his first defeat in three years, seen his galley sunk from under him, and faced the prospect of his father’s enemy being elected Peremptor, with any form of equanimity.

  Nearby was the table of House Ipolitas. Liudas was present, resplendent in silver and green, but studiously avoided Mirko’s gaze. At the front of the pavilion was the table of House Luz, with Peremptor Giedrus at its head. Giedrus appeared calm and composed, especially considering the foreboding which must be in his heart. He felt Mirko’s glance and looked up appraisingly, shook his head ruefully and returned to his wine. A Peremptor had to weigh up the consequence of every different factor, and in Mirko he saw one he had misjudged. Mirko did not admire his morals, but his sangfroid deserved respect.

  As Mirko munched his way through the early courses it seemed to him that nobody was enjoying themselves. The occasion was too important to admit of any spontaneity or relaxation. Events were about to be arranged in potentially a new and dangerous configuration, and it was not just the Houses of Luz and Bartazan which had much at stake. Many of the Houses had more or less formal ties, and hopes and promises which depended on victory for the right candidate. A victory for Bartazan would mean a lucrative appointment for House Kiffen, leading to an advantageous marriage into House Zagramonte and corresponding woe for impoverished House Bierselyn. House Sey might prefer victory for Giedrus, whose animosity towards Kindry of House Io would ensure another period of obscurity for that traditional rival. And so it went; Mirko did not pretend to follow the details, but the web of vested interest and inter-relationship was plain to see. Plots and intrigues had come and gone, some withering, others coming to secret fruition; but Mirko had upset it all with a single galley race no-one had thought he could win — not until too late, at any event.

  After the third course — spit-roasted stag with involute tubers — which Mirko had found unpalatably dry, there was a break in proceedings to allow a series of stately dances. This was not a part of the evening Mirko had looked forward too, being unpractised in the world of pavanes and waltzes. While he tried to avoid embarrassing himself with the Lady Inuela, and even more importantly avoiding Larien’s gaze, he noticed with approval that Catzen had engaged Bartazan for the Circumamba, a slow tedious dance which took them all the way around the room at an extremely deliberate pace. A dance better fitted for secret negotiation could not have been devised.

  After the second round of dances the opportunity arose to change partners. Mirko, sweating from consciousness of his ineptitude rather than exertion, joined a fresh Catzen who had not even raised a flush in her cheeks.

  “May I?” he asked, with an ironic bow.

  Catzen extended her hand. “Honoured. But don’t tread on my hem — the stitching is coming loose. I do wish Panduletta had a less obviously buxom figure.”

  Mirko smiled and led Catzen across the floor to pass the Slumba, another exercise in moderation at which any approach to a jig would be firmly discouraged.

  “Well?” he asked, as they performed their stately evolutions.

  “He’s agreed — you’ll be Master of the City’s Fleet tomorrow.”

  “And do you believe him?”

  “Hard to say. He understands the advantages of the appointment. It’s a question of whether he feels he can indulge his animosity against you; and he’s too much the politician to be swayed by his emotions. It’s not completely safe, of course; but it’s the only option you have to get the slaves released.”

  Mirko said nothing.

  “And of course,” she said, “if he does intend to double-cross us, there isn’t much we can do about it. We’ll hardly be allowed to walk out of here if he intends a mischief against us.”

  “That’s not a reassuring assessment.”

  Catzen shrugged and pursed her lips. “You wanted to come here. You’re here. I’ve done my best.”

  Mirko gave his head a sideways twitch. “At least we have good seats for the Election.”

  He took Catzen’s arm and they returned to their table for the final three courses, ending with a marvellous assortment of Irlean cheeses and a sturdy full-bodied wine. Just at the point where Mirko was wondering when something was going to happen, the Elector Algimantas rose from his seat, ringing a small clear silver hand-bell to attract attention. Mirko looked across at Giedrus; even he seemed uneasy.

  “Electors, and guests of the Electors!” called Algimantas, squat and bald. “I have been charged by my peers with the arrangement of tonight’s climactic event — the final selection for the August Office. To whet our appetites for honourable strife, we have had the spectacle of a Margariad race which will long live in our minds. We are fortunate enough to have among us tonight not just the patron, but the master, of the illustrious winning galley, Serendipity: Bartazan of Bartazan House and the Worthy Ascalon. I see too among us the gallant former winner, the Noble Drallenkoop, and the sponsor of second-placed Excelsior, the young Lord Coolis of House Zagramonte.

  “But these exertions, of course, are merely the precursor to the real contest of the day, the Election of our new Peremptor. We have had already many speeches by and on behalf of our excellent candidates, Peremptor Giedrus of House Luz, and his challenger Bartazan of Bartazan House. Electors are men of sense, not swayed by trivial considerations, whim, or womanish inconsistency. I am sure we all know the directions of our individual votes; so let us cast them without further delay or theatricality.”

  Mirko could not suppress a grin at this very manifestation of theatricality; and what could be more melodramatic than the long slow walk across the Election Stage to advance a flag by no more than six inches?

  “By tradition the Peremptor signifies his preference first. Your August Dignity, would you care to make your selection?”

  Giedrus inclined his head, got up slowly from his seat and walked across to the stage. On the other side of the Election Stage, an expectant crowd filled the plaza. A rotten vegetable, and considerable jeering, were launched at the Peremptor: Constables went among the crowd to identify and eject the miscreant although not, Mirko noticed, at Vaidmantas’ order.

  Giedrus affected not to notice the vegetable — which after all had been cast with more enthusiasm than accuracy — and calmly hoisted the House Luz flag one notch aloft. For the first — and, Mirko suspected, the only — time, Giedrus was ahead.

  “Next,” cried Algimantas, “the House of Bartazan.”

  To patently orchestrated chanting, Bartazan made his procession across the stage, stopping to smile and wave. On reaching the flags, he affected to deliberate, at one point turning to the crowd for advice. What a snake, thought Mirko. Can’t he just win gracefully?

  Bartazan eventually came to the conclusion that a vote for the House of Bartazan best represented his will, moved the flag aloft and returned to his seat to even greater acclaim. As he dismounted the stage he permitted himself a thin smile at Vaidmantas, who seemed lost in a reverie of his own.

  “House Quisp!”, “House Chiess-Vervario!”, “
House Esterling!” — all raised the flag of Bartazan a further notch. There was a brief hiatus as House Drall was called: Koopendrall stepped forward with manifest contempt for the crowd, and with an unconcealed sneer raised the flag of Luz a notch. Order returned when successively Io, Kiffen and Zagramonte raised the flag of Bartazan.

  A brief rally was promised when Sey and Bierselyn both cast their votes for Luz, their traditional ally. This took Giedrus’ votes to four, while Bartazan could claim seven. Next came the notorious ‘Bastard House’, Hesse-Zagramonte, known as strong Luz allies. The crowd was displeased at what might represent a fifth vote for Giedrus, and surged towards the Election Stage. Vaidmantas languidly instructed Constables forward with a total lack of menace. Snarling faces strained forward; clutching arms reached for Udesse of Hesse-Zagramonte. Visibly intimidated, Udesse pulled aloft the flag of Bartazan to huge applause.

  “Can they do that?” Mirko quietly asked Catzen. “It’s obvious he wanted to vote for Giedrus.”

  Catzen gave him a wondering look. “That’s the whole point! Why do you think Bartazan and Algimantas chose the Election for today? It’s Serendipity and you they’re voting for, not Bartazan.”

  “I know,” sighed Mirko. “Now I understand why everyone was telling me to throw the race. I could have stopped this. And Giedrus is behaving so well.”

  Catzen touched his hand. “Don’t be fooled. Giedrus is every bit as corrupt as Bartazan, believe me; and if he’s behaving with dignity, courage in the face of defeat is an important Elector’s virtue. He’s just acting out his part in the play.”

  House Tichanet declared for Bartazan, as did Nool Ipolitas of House Ipolitas; his son Liudas’ humiliation at the hands of Bartazan’s galley-master counting not a jot in the end. It became a procession. With thirty-four of the fifty Electors having voted, Giedrus had nine votes — some of them the result of real courage — and Bartazan twenty-five. One more would see him Peremptor.

  Algimantas — who had yet to vote — called the next name: Deverello. The tall dyspeptic figure of Deverello of Deverello House, generally a moderate, stepped forward. Walking across the stage on hesitant — the uncharitable might even say inebriated — legs, he raised high the flag of Bartazan, which now sat atop its pole.