Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Mirko smiled. “Your curiosity need run no further. Gentlemen, please meet your new helm, the Gentle Florian.”

  Florian sat back in his seat, spreading his arms. “This is a signal honour, Ascalon, and one I do not merit.”

  “Do not affect modesty, Florian. You have helmed competently enough in Liudas’ absences. You are the best — and effectively the only — candidate for the role.”

  “That is unfortunate, since I decline.”

  Mirko’s jaw sagged. “ ‘Decline’? You are a — no, but why should you turn it down?”

  “As you so nearly said, I’m a slave. I’ll do it if you make me, but you’ll be wishing you had Liudas back. As you said, I’m the only candidate: I think that gives me quite a strong bargaining position, don’t you?”

  Mirko stared.

  “So, do you want to hear my conditions?”

  “Conditions?”

  “You need me; to secure my agreement, you have to give me what I want. Is that so hard?”

  Mirko set his jaw. “It depends what you want.”

  “Freedom.”

  “What? You want your release?”

  “Is that so surprising? Did you think I intended to stay a slave forever?”

  “But —”

  “So, I’ll do it if you give me my freedom. And the others, of course.”

  “The others?”

  “The rest of the crew. As soon as the race is over, we all walk free. What’s the difficulty? We aren’t your slaves.”

  “Exactly! Even if I agreed to this lunacy, you’d still need Bartazan to agree too.”

  “‘Lunacy’ ?” asked Trajian quietly. “Where’s the lunacy in wanting our freedom?”

  “Jenx, Skaidrys: do they speak for you too?”

  Jenx said: “They speak for the whole crew. Freedom after the race, and we’ll win it for you. Otherwise…”

  “This is mutiny!”

  Trajian said: “Not entirely. You can insist Florian helms, you can insist we row. And we’ll all do what we’re told. But when it comes to it, you won’t win. Be reasonable, Mirko: it’s no skin off your nose.”

  Mirko sighed and drained his mug. “I can tell you now, Bartazan won’t agree: in fact, he’ll probably have you flayed. Let me offer you a deal instead, not too far from what you want — and one Bartazan just might agree to.”

  “We’re listening,” said Trajian. “We do trust you.”

  “Up to a point,” interjected Jenx.

  “You get your freedom — if we win. Bartazan won’t need you then; he’ll be too busy being Peremptor to worry about Serendipity,” said Mirko.

  “No,” said Florian. “Freedom — unconditionally.”

  “Florian,” said Trajian. “I think we should take it. Mirko’s right — Bartazan won’t accept anything less. If we hold out, we’ll end up with nothing.”

  Florian shot Trajian a piercing look. “Jenx?”

  Jenx shrugged. “You know Bartazan. He won’t free us if we lose. Don’t you think we can win?”

  “Skaidrys?”

  “I never expected a chance of freedom anyway. I’ve been a slave fifteen years. I say we take the captain’s deal and row like we’ve never rowed before.”

  Florian shrugged. “Looks like I’m outvoted. We’ll do it. If you get Bartazan’s word that he’ll free us if we win, I’ll helm Serendipity, and the others will row you to glory.”

  Mirko nodded. “We win together or we lose together. Just like Garganet.”

  Florian pursed his lips. “If that’s how you like to think of it.”

  “I’ll see Bartazan tonight. If he concedes, we’ll go from there. For now, back to the Urmaleškas.”

  That night Bartazan of Bartazan House was entertaining at Formello. Mirko rode up the long mountain road on Boodle in a pensive humour. Given that by now he should have learned of Liudas’ resignation, the conference promised to be an uncomfortable one. As luck would have it, Bartazan was disengaged that evening, and Kintautas led him to a comfortable parlour to await the Elector’s pleasure. He sipped on a pleasant wine which, to a palate refined by a summer of society banquets, still seemed to him several notches below the highest standards.

  Eventually Kintautas reappeared to announce that Bartazan was free, and conducted him up the wide stone stairs towards the private apartments. Looking back down the stairs, Mirko caught sight of a cloaked figure leaving the main hall — a man he had seen somewhere before. He frowned; this man was presumably one of Bartazan’s agents, and ‘N’ would want to know about it.

  Kintautas conducted Mirko to the suite of rooms where once he had hidden under the bed. Bartazan was not such a dignified character as he liked to appear, Mirko remembered with a smile.

  Bartazan rose from his seat and gave Mirko a stiff bow. “Ascalon.”

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Please, sit. We have much to discuss. Kintautas, some wine.”

  Mirko seated himself on an unyielding couch while Kintautas attended to refreshments.

  “Much has happened since our last meeting, Ascalon. You may be able to explain certain events to me.”

  Mirko took his goblet and looked reflectively into it. “You refer to…?”

  Bartazan frowned. “I am too occupied to waste time fencing with you, Ascalon. This evening Liudas came to me and resigned from Serendipity.”

  “He intimated his intentions to me. Candidly, the move is to everyone’s benefit. I am freed of a largely inept helm; Liudas is at liberty to adopt pursuits more suited to his talents; and your chances of winning the Margariad are greatly enhanced. We should drink a toast.”

  Bartazan failed to raise his goblet. “Ipolitas Liudas had wanted to helm a racing galley since he was seven years old. His father asked me to allow him to do so, and I was happy to oblige. Nool Ipolitas, an influential man, naturally came to look upon me as a friend.”

  “It was a generous act, to be sure, to forfeit any chance of success on the water to gratify a friend’s son’s childish impulse. I hope he was suitably grateful.”

  “Are you sporting with me, Ascalon? Nool Ipolitas controls three, possibly four, Electors’ votes. As long as Liudas was in the galley, those votes were mine. Now, how do I assure myself of his continued friendship? He may feel his honour compromised by his son’s demotion.”

  “A question for a man of state to resolve, indeed. My own view is that his honour was more compromised by his son’s worthless performances on the boat. You might suggest that circumstances are now more to his credit.”

  “Ascalon, did you have anything to do with Liudas’ resignation?”

  “Me? How could I? I wanted you to sack him, but I could hardly induce him to resign.”

  Bartazan narrowed his eyes. “In my spheres of interest, Ascalon, I quickly become attuned to lies. I’m hearing one now.”

  Mirko shrugged. “Liudas is off the boat. That helps you win the Margariad. Rejoice in your good fortune. I assume you attempted to persuade him to stay?”

  “Of course. I even threatened to visit his father. He only became more agitated. Whoever had put the idea into his head had done a thorough job.”

  Mirko smiled. “Since you blame me, at least you can accord me the credit for professionalism.”

  Bartazan shook his head and set his goblet down with a careful gesture. “I don’t know why you persist in antagonising me, Ascalon. You are utterly dependent on my patronage.”

  “‘Antagonising’ is not wholly the right word. Garganets are not given to sycophancy, and we judge situations on their merits. My — let’s call it latitude — comes from the fact that I intend to win the Margariad, and I believe I can do so. That entitles me to a certain degree of respect.”

  “I take it you intend to helm Serendipity yourself?”

  “I could do the job, but I know too little of the currents, and have forgotten too much of the helmsman’s disciplines to excel. Florian will take the helm.”

  “A slave!” Bartazan exclaimed.
“You intend to helm my galley with a slave!”

  “He’s the best man available. He knows the waters, he can take orders, and he can steer. Do you object?”

  “The galley of Bartazan of Bartazan House, helmed by a slave and overseen by a renegade! Can you imagine how the Electors will laugh? My prestige will be materially damaged!”

  “Ignoring your inaccurate characterisation of myself as a ‘renegade’, I would observe that your prestige will be materially heightened by the Margariad victor’s laurel. And if you don’t want Serendipity helmed by a slave, free Florian before the race.”

  “A freedman! Are you mad? Your concepts reek of lunacy. I was warned of your egalitarianism and other mental instabilities before I hired you; I imagined the reports exaggerated. Do you have any further follies to suggest?”

  “I suspect that you will characterise my incentives to the crew as ‘follies’, at the very least.”

  “‘Incentives’?”

  “It had occurred to me that the crew would row with greater commitment if they had a more direct stake on victory.”

  “I plan to feast them to the limits of their gullets in the event of success.”

  “My scheme was somewhat more radical. In truth, I intended to offer the men their freedom.”

  “What!” cried Bartazan at huge volume. “Free the whole crew! My name would be a laughing stock across the city! A man who could not compel obedience from his slaves and had to barter their freedom instead. Bartazan of Bartazan House to bargain with his slaves! My reports were if anything understated: your doctrines would bring the city to its knees. I should have you whipped!”

  Mirko calmly sipped at his wine. “I have no doctrine; I am the most pragmatic of men. In this case, to offer the men their freedom would elicit a small but potentially decisive improvement in performance. You lose nothing: if we fail to win, the crew remain slaves; if we do win, you will be Peremptor, and a gesture of magnanimity will become you. No doubt many of the crew would sign on to row for wages anyway; they know nothing different. The ones who would leave are most likely malcontents whom you’d be better off without.”

  The dangerous purple flush which had swept across Bartazan’s face had subsided, to be replaced by an expression of everyday ill-humour. “You are a rogue with no respect for place or custom; a man of my stamp is soiled by the association. You cheat me of my helm and jeopardise votes among the Electors. You propose to overturn the natural order and release my slaves. Why, why, should I not have you whipped?”

  “Because I’ll win you the Margariad; and a ‘man of your stamp’ generally recognises a useful tool when he has one. Now, do you agree to my suggestion?”

  “Very well,” said Bartazan with an approach to a sigh. “Against my better judgement, I will support you. Bartazan is nothing if not a gambler; I have wagered on you, and I’ll cover my bet. But Ascalon —”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t fail me. Paladria will be no safe place for you if you do.”

  Mirko inclined his head. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, my lord. You back my judgement, and so do I. Good night, my lord.”

  Mirko stepped briskly from the room before Bartazan could respond. His heart was pounding. To treat the Elector in such a cavalier manner was not a comfortable pursuit: Bartazan was thin-skinned, vindictive and resentful. But a more measured approach would not have borne fruit. He had agreed, however reluctantly. Cordiality was of less importance.

  Seized by a sudden impulse, he turned aside and made his way to Larien’s apartments, knocking firmly at the door.

  “Who is it?” came the voice from inside. “I am bathing.”

  “It’s Mirko. I’ve just been with your uncle.”

  “A moment! I will be with you immediately.”

  Larien was as good as her word, opening the door covered only by a large Azure towel which did not appear securely fixed to her person. “You surprised me — come in.”

  The steam from her bath had caused strands of her hair to clump together, and her complexion had an unusually high colour. Mirko thought she looked utterly delightful.

  “Don’t just stand their like some mooncalf,” she said. “I’ve invited you in once. What more do you want? No towel?”

  Mirko smiled. “Perhaps we can save that for later,” he said as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

  Larien seated herself on the couch. Mirko said: “Don’t you want to get dressed?”

  She paused for a moment. “On balance, I think not. Provided you don’t object, of course.”

  Mirko suppressed a leer. “I can bear the present circumstances with fortitude.”

  “Let’s have a drink. I seem to remember Televen wine is to your taste.” She got up from the couch and swept past Mirko in a cloud of fresh scent. “I’ve had a letter from Carnazan. He’s in Garganet.”

  Mirko sat up. “Really? Where?”

  “The Patron’s Dockyards. Somehow he’s persuaded them to build an experimental hot-air craft.”

  Mirko laughed. “You can get anything built in Garganet if you have the money. Either he took some with him, or he’s convinced someone his ideas have merit. In truth, the folk of Garganet are avid for innovation.”

  “One day, Mirko, one day he will prove them all wrong. He’ll come back and be the Elector and all will be well.”

  “I understood Bartazan had disinherited him.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Mirko remembered that Catzen had told him, not something he felt able to admit to. “I imagined it was common knowledge. He’s chosen that pustulous youth we met at Coverciano, hasn’t he?”

  “Balaran, yes.”

  “Curious, I thought. If I understand, the boy is no blood relation.”

  “Not curious if you understand my uncle. He has no interest in family or posterity. All he wants is power and status. He certainly feels no family feeling for Carnazan or myself. Carnazan has slighted him in public; Bartazan has returned the favour. He appears strong and decisive and his enemies fear him the more.”

  “I now appear strong and decisive too,” said Mirko. “I’ve finessed Liudas off the boat and made Bartazan agree to free the crew if he wins.”

  Larien’s hand went to her throat. “You are insane! He will kill you! He cannot brook opposition.”

  “On the contrary, he respects strong opinions and conviction. He can’t prove I dealt with Liudas, and I’ve made him see reason over the slaves. I still believe I can win the Margariad, and I’ve made him believe it too.”

  “There’s only one problem with that,” she said. “Now you will have to win it, or his rage will be terrible.”

  Mirko shrugged. “I’ll win. Believe me. Dragonchaser has been lucky in recent weeks. Excelsior should certainly have beaten her in The Sorcerers.”

  Larien leaned into him; the towel seemed even more precariously affixed than before. “I shouldn’t worry about you,” she said. “But I do.”

  “You needn’t,” he smiled. “I’m a big boy.”

  Larien raised her eyebrows. “Are you now? Shall we test the truth of your assertions?” Her towel finally gave up its unequal struggle to cover her, and sank with measured dignity to the floor; but Mirko, his attention already elsewhere, failed to notice …

  CHAPTER 22

  T

  he next few weeks subsequently merged into a seamless pattern in Mirko’s memory, with events taking on a leisurely equilibrium. There was an interval between the Sorcerers and the Margariad known as the Challenges, in which galley-masters wagered amounts of varying size for head to head races. Mirko threw Serendipity enthusiastically into this programme, while ensuring he avoided races against either Dragonchaser or Excelsior, the only two boats he regarded as dangers. Morvellos Devil was beaten twice over the Sorcerers course and once around the Morvellos Lighthouse — although the mermaids were not on this occasion in evidence — and Animaxian’s Glory was satisfyingly trounced on consecutive days around the Sorcerer
s.

  Mirko did not attach excessive significance to these victories over inferior opposition, but the value of such ascendancy was manifest in the morale of the crew, and particularly in the performance of Florian at the helm. While Mirko felt it would be an exaggeration to regard Florian as actively enthusiastic, his conduct was marked by a dour professionalism.

  A further benefit of the Challenges was the revenue Serendipity accrued for Bartazan. After a fortnight, Serendipity remained unbeaten with a profit of 6,000 valut; an outcome which appeared to reconcile the Elector to Mirko’s sharp practice in removing Liudas. Larien remained sportive and affectionate, if prone to occasional fits of gloom which Mirko found it best to ignore. Catzendralle alone seemed dissatisfied; Mirko was spending so much time on the water that his opportunities for gaining intelligence from within Bartazan’s household were curtailed. She appeared to be growing in her conviction that Serendipity might win the Margariad, which also contributed to her frequent pettishness. In addition she was also several weeks in arrears with his douceur, which he was able to overlook all the while he enjoyed a percentage of the proceeds from the Challenge races.

  Mirko was not of a temperament to expect events to run smoothly for any significant uninterrupted period, and his pessimism found itself confirmed one morning after Serendipity had performed well in unseasonably stormy conditions around the Morvellos Lighthouse, leaving Kestrel trailing in her wake.

  As was his habit after a victory, Mirko was making his way to the Waterside Tavern with his lieutenants Florian and Trajian, when Trajian exclaimed:

  “Look! In the docks — a Black Ship!”

  Mirko looked across and saw the unmistakable sight of a black Garganet galley, seemingly damaged in the storm — a most unusual sight this far south.

  “Do you recognise her?” asked Trajian.

  “No,” said Mirko. “She’s clearly a thirty-two, a scout boat, but her pennon’s gone.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Florian briskly, setting off towards the vessel. “She must have come in while we were on the water. No doubt some of her crew are still about.”