Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  He awoke with a start, unaware of how long he had slept. The sun which streamed through his chamber window in the morning was long gone; but there were none of the sounds of revelry downstairs which he associated with the evening. Rubbing his eyes, he surmised it was mid or late afternoon, and after briefly washing himself from the ewer in his wash-closet, he made his way back downstairs, feeling much refreshed.

  “You look much better,” said Panduletta with a smile. “Late night?”

  Mirko chuckled. “You might say that,” he replied. “Did you hear about the fire?”

  Panduletta poured herself a mug of ale and another for Mirko. “They say it was Serendipity should have been burned.”

  “Apparently so,” said Mirko, drinking deep with relish from his mug. “They have arrested that lout Orstas.”

  Panduletta shook her head in wonderment. “A bad lot, through and through.”

  Mirko laughed. “If I had any doubts as to his guilt, the ineptitude of the operation would have dispelled them.”

  “He’s waited a long time to get his revenge,” said Panduletta. “Do you think he was working by himself?”

  Mirko looked at her suspiciously. The speculation was most apposite: what if she were an informant, for Giedrus or Bartazan or who knew who else? What’s happening to me? he thought. What possible cause do I have to be suspicious of Panduletta?

  She seemed to divine something of his thoughts. “Maybe I shouldn’t be asking; it was indiscreet.”

  Mirko shrugged. “I am perhaps over-sensitive — I’m sure you understand.”

  With a smile to himself, Mirko realised that Catzen would probably approve of this suspicion. After all, the great houses must have informants all over the city. A dockside tavernmistress would hear all sorts of gossip, especially if she lodged a galley-master. Perhaps he was learning after all.

  “I forgot to mention,” she said. “There’s a message for you.”

  She reached behind the counter and pulled out a single sheet, folded in half and sealed with a complex mark. Mirko quickly broke the seal and read:

  ‘G’

  Do not go out once you have read this. If you care for me, please believe me that you are in immediate danger. Wait here and I will come for you this evening.

  ‘N’

  Mirko could not resist a smile. Catzen could never resist the melodramatic, and the use of code initials seemed overdone in the light of their recent intimacy. Still, that was Catzen…

  “Let me guess,” said Panduletta. “Your new lady friend.”

  Mirko affected not to understand. Panduletta was becoming shrewd of late.

  Mirko spent the remainder of the afternoon in his chambers studying his sea-charts. As an exercise in race-planning it was largely redundant; he had sailed every wave of the race route many times over, and while the winds and currents could always combine in surprising ways, there was little new he could learn from the charts. Nonetheless the charts with their annotations and current markings soothed his uneasiness. He was no espionage agent, and in truth had no real interest in which of the two rascals vying for election were successful. He wanted to be out on the water, with Serendipity responding to his will. He had commanded larger galleys in Garganet, but he had never felt as connected with a boat as he did with Serendipity. The crew were polished and drilled, they trusted his judgement and they wanted to row for him. Even Florian, cynical, suspicious and mistrustful, seemed to have realised that Mirko represented his best hope of freedom; and he had the makings of an excellent helm.

  He stretched himself out on his bed and looked at the irregularly-finished ceiling, noticing for the first time a small bird’s nest tucked away at the back of the eaves. He thought — for the first time since he had left Darklings — of Catzen. The topic was usually a fruitless one. He had at least clarified his own feelings for her, but he was little clearer about the strength of hers. Her assertions about the previous occasions on which she had rescued him from harm could not be substantiated, and he could scarcely apply to Giedrus for verification of her claim to run his intelligence network. But he realised that he did trust her; and he thought that soon she would decide that she trusted him. The question of the ‘second secret’ continued to pluck at his unconscious, but he was becoming adept at silencing its naggings.

  He had no idea how long he had been staring into space when he heard a knock at his door. Twilight had begun to fall as he mused.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “ ‘N’ — Panduletta sent me up.”

  “Come in,” said Mirko, rising from his bed.

  Catzen opened the door and walked slowly in, her boots echoing on the floorboards. Mirko realised with a shock that he was nervous. What if she regretted last night? Juvenile to worry about such things…

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, running one hand through his hair.

  Catzen smiled. “A mug of wine wouldn’t go amiss either,” she said as she settled into the couch.

  “As it happens I have an unfinished flagon here,” he said, pouring a draught into a nearby mug. “It’s hardly the Waterside’s best, I’m afraid. I forget that I have money these days.”

  As she drank from the mug — crudely painted with a satyr performing an unmistakably lewd act upon a maiden before an audience of fawns, Mirko noticed with belated delicacy — he took the opportunity to inspect her more closely. He wondered how he could ever have thought her anything other than beautiful. She lacked Larien’s now insipid perfection, admittedly, but her face attested to abundant strength and character. The lines around her eyes would prevent her passing for the first flush of womanhood, but they showed the experiences etched into her soul, the events which had made her the way she was. And since he liked her as she was, those lines were part of her beauty. He would never previously have thought vulnerability among her attributes, but when he looked into her eyes he caught a hint of the woman behind the cynical practicality she normally showed the world.

  His scrutiny presently became noticeable. “What are you looking at?” she asked suspiciously.

  Mirko gave an embarrassed smile. “Since I’m not cross-eyed, I must be looking at you; not unreasonable in the circumstances.”

  Catzen pursed her lips. “Now is not the time for sentimentality,” she said. “I have had an eventful day that bears directly on both of our safeties.”

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. Catzen seemed ill-disposed to continue the previous night’s familiarities. She topped up her mug from the flagon on the table.

  “I hardly know where to start,” she said. “I take it you know that Orstas was apprehended for the arson?”

  “Yes, Florian told me.”

  “I doubt that you know he’s died in the Peremptor’s custody.”

  Mirko said nothing, which Catzen correctly interpreted as assent.

  “I went to see Giedrus: not an easy thing to arrange this close to the Election, but you can imagine that he will always see me. I asked him outright about last night, and he told me that Orstas was guilty. Then I asked if I could speak to Orstas, only to learn he had gone mad and been clubbed down by his guards, with fatal consequences.”

  “It is wrong to take satisfaction in anyone’s death, but…”

  “As usual, you miss the important nuances.”

  Mirko raised his eyebrows. “Enlighten me, then…”

  “I am accustomed to think of myself as the source of all of Giedrus’ plots and plans. But Orstas was arrested almost instantly, which can imply two things: he was framed rapidly, or Giedrus knew of his involvement. Either of those eventualities would normally require my involvement; but I knew nothing.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Not uncontrollably so.”

  “You always did have a negligent nose for danger,” she said with a half-smile. “Why would Giedrus suddenly cut me out of a plot as important as this?”

  Mirko, pre-occupied in looking at the curve of Ca
tzen’s cheek, could formulate no immediate cogent response.

  “Doesn’t it suggest a lack of trust?” she continued. “Giedrus has chosen to transact his confidential business through another party. That means my position is not as secure as I’d thought; and your safety depends on me.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Mirko with asperity. “I have commanded Garganet warcraft before. I can look after myself.”

  Catzen shook her head wonderingly. “Your perception of the political currents in this city are approximately those of an eight-year old child; and you don’t seem to realise it. Giedrus has always represented a threat to you from the moment you started to look like you could win the Margariad. Animaxian knows I told him it was nonsense for long enough, but no-one in Paladria sees you as anything but a potential race-winner now.”

  “Is now the time to tell you that Bartazan knows I was at Darklings last night?”

  Catzen’s head came up sharply. “This is not a poor attempt at humour?”

  “I take it this is no laughing matter.”

  Catzen wrapped a stray tendril of hair around her finger. “In principle it’s no great shock that Bartazan has sources inside Darklings. He certainly has not infiltrated the household itself. Neither can he know about Larien and Drallenkoop, so his source cannot be particularly well-placed. But if you were seen at my villa…”

  “Relax. Drink your wine.”

  “Don’t try and soothe me. Understand now that both of our lives are in danger.”

  “I’ve become used to that possibility; and I think I’ve uncovered another secret agent.”

  Catzen laughed, a response Mirko did not find flattering, although it showed off her neat white teeth and brought a becoming colour to her cheeks.

  “Go on then,” she said.

  “Panduletta was asking some perceptive and well-informed questions about Orstas and the fire. For a tavern-mistress and occasional brothel-keeper she seemed to know more than I’d expect.”

  Catzen rose from her seat and kissed Mirko’s forehead. “Away from the galleys you notice nothing at all, do you?”

  Mirko frowned. “Thank you for the kiss, but I’m not clear as to the thrust of your remark.”

  “Since you became master of Serendipity you have given the slaves markedly more liberty, especially the two Garganets.”

  “And?”

  “Do you really not know that Florian is conducting an amour with Panduletta?”

  “But she has no teeth!”

  Catzen looked away to avoid laughing. “She has a few,” she said eventually. “And she is woman of considerable personal force. Add in Florian’s enforced celibacy over the past few years and there is nothing in any way surprising about the matter.”

  “How long have you known?” asked Mirko incredulously.

  “As long as it’s been happening — about six weeks, if you’re interested.”

  Mirko shook his head in wonderment. “I thought she was Bartazan’s agent — or yours.”

  “If you must know, I approached her — through an intermediary, of course — and she turned me down. She thinks too highly of her honour to sell it.”

  “Unlike me,” said Mirko ruefully, remembering the alacrity with which he had accepted ‘N’s valut when they were offered. “Who is Trajian sleeping with? The Lady Inuela?”

  Catzen grinned. “Nothing quite so ambitious. He has been making do with the more expensive waterfront doxies — trading on both your name and your credit, if my sources are to be believed.”

  Mirko frowned. “You always tell me more than I can readily absorb, Catzen.”

  “Come and sit on the couch with me. The reason everything comes as such a surprise to you is because you think the world is as straightforward as you are. And yet you are conducting the most extraordinary and daring espionage campaign imaginable and you don’t see it as remarkable.”

  “Are you engaged this evening?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Underneath this crippling naivety there must be some reason you like me. I’m intending to remind you what it is…”

  The next day, after considerable blandishment from Catzen, Mirko moved his quarters from the Waterside to Formello. Bartazan, although surprised by this request for sanctuary, assented readily enough; he realised that to have his galley-master prey to footpads and assassins the week before the Margariad was a risk that he need not run. Serendipity’s crew remained immured within Urmaleškas, and Mirko made his way to the docks for practice escorted by troops from Bartazan’s heavily armed militia.

  Mirko found it demeaning to take such precautions — and Florian looked askance when he arrived flanked by his escort each morning — but Catzen had been insistent. “I can’t tell you everyone that’s after you,” she said, “but I can speak with reasonable authority for Giedrus’ operation. It is not improbable that he will try to kill you. Be prudent, if only to humour me.”

  The path of least resistance commended itself to Mirko; and after all Catzen was often right. Nonetheless, lodging at Formello was not without its petty irritations. The family quarters tended towards the austere, and guest-chambers were even more spartan. Mirko ate with the more respectable servants, such as Kintautas, and found both fare and company lacking in savour. On the positive side, though, at least such lowly surroundings spared him the embarrassment of encountering Larien.

  Events were not to bear out this hope. On the third night of his residence, he was interrupted in his chambers as he practised his rapier drills with a tilt-dolly he had cozened from the Captain of the Guards over dice the previous evening.

  “Can I come in?” asked Larien’s voice softly from the door.

  “If you must,” said Mirko, stamping and lunging at the dolly with full vigour.

  “You may want to put that sword down,” she said. “Otherwise you might run me through.”

  Mirko halted his evolutions and sheathed the rapier. “There are those who’d say you deserved it.”

  “Mirko, please; I’ve come to apologise and see if there’s anything I can do to set things to rights.”

  Wiping his forehead with a cloth, he said: “I imagine this will be a short visit. ‘I’m sorry’ is two words, and there are no amends I require of you.”

  “At least look at me,” said Larien in a beseeching tone.

  Mirko flopped into his unyielding chair and glanced across at her. Her hair was polished to its brightest auburn sheen, drawn up to reveal her neck, only a few artless strands escaping. She had the wit, Mirko noticed, not to flaunt herself in any obviously coquettish fashion; her dress, though well-cut and of good fabric, made the imagination do more work than the eyes. Her deep blue eyes gained lustre from the tears which appeared to be held in check with difficulty.

  “I’m listening,” said Mirko levelly. “Since you invited yourself no doubt you have prepared a speech of some sort.”

  Larien bit her lip and looked at the ceiling. “You aren’t going out of your way to make this easy; I suppose there’s no reason you should. I just want you to know how terribly sorry I am for the way things have turned out. At first it didn’t seem so bad; Drallen — Drallen asked me to make sure you noticed me, to try and make friends with you. That wasn’t too difficult; you were nice to be friends with.”

  This was accompanied by a shy smile. Mirko remained stony-faced. “Drallen wanted me to tell him what you said, of course, whether you thought you could win, how you were getting on with my uncle, that sort of thing. I couldn’t see any harm in that.”

  “All the time, I take it, you were sleeping with Drallenkoop?”

  Larien wiped a single tear from her cheek. “Of course — I love — loved — him. I was only flirting with you at the start; I thought we both understood that.”

  Mirko said nothing.

  “It started to become more difficult as Serendipity’s results improved. You began to think you could win, and so did I. You were so unhappy at the start, whether you realised it or not; then I
could see you growing in energy and confidence.” She lowered her voice. “It was exciting for me to be part of it.”

  “All you seemed to want to do was convince me either that I couldn’t win or to throw the race if I could.”

  “What else could I do?” she asked plaintively. “My loyalty had to be to Drallen. If you could have accepted coming an honourable second everything would have been alright.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘honourable second’ in galley racing. And none of that would excuse your wantonness.”

  “ ‘Wantonness’ !” cried Larien with the first heat she had displayed. “If it had been a man doing it, no-one would have said anything about it.”

  “You were implying there was some feeling on your part,” said Mirko. “I didn’t imagine the feelings in question were for Drallenkoop!”

  “Mirko! There were feelings! They were real, and they were for you!”

  Mirko tilted his head to one side. “This is touching, if belated,” he said with lips which barely moved. “No doubt it’s convenient for you to think that now: Drallenkoop is disgusted with you anyway, and it stops you seeming a trollop in your own eyes.”

  Larien twisted her head away from Mirko’s gaze. “The last time someone called me a trollop,” she said quietly, “you called him out. Now you’re saying it yourself.”

  Mirko shrugged. “Inisse was just picking a fight. It was never about you. Not everything is.”

  “Can you forgive me?” she said, only barely under control.

  “It’s a matter of no consequence,” he said brusquely. “If it makes you feel better to be forgiven, then yes, I forgive you.”

  Larien turned for the door. “I never thought you could be so graceless, Mirko,” she said sadly.

  “And I never thought you could be such a harlot. I assume that concludes your business.”

  Larien put her head in her hands and wept without reservation. “Goodbye, Mirko,” she said, raising her head. “One day you will realise that I really did care about you.”