by Tim Stretton
“Catzen! Hold your line! Hold your line!” he ordered. “Drallenkoop!” he bellowed into the gap between the galleys, “Back off! Out of our stream!”
Drallenkoop did not deign to respond. Instead of trying to avert a collision he was placing Dragonchaser ever more deliberately in the path of Serendipity. Mirko shrugged: his sharp prow was going to strike Drallenkoop’s bows. No doubt both galleys would be damaged, but Dragonchaser would surely come off worse. If that was how Drallenkoop wanted it…
“Jenx! Go to Ten! Go to Ten! Catzen, aim to strike amidships! We’ll sink her if we have to!”
Catzen set her jaw; Jenx beat the rhythm. The crew, who heard the order, howled in fury and pent-up frustration. Mirko thought that he wouldn’t want to be aboard Dragonchaser when Serendipity struck.
Too late Drallenkoop realised that Mirko was not going to back down as Raïdis had aboard Excelsior, but there was nothing he could do with his hard-won wisdom.
“Brace! Brace!” called Mirko with redundant emphasis; neither Catzen nor the crew could be in any doubt that a collision was coming. Oars splintered as Serendipity powered on; then a grinding, thudding, wrenching stop! as the two craft met. Mirko looked around, partly to survey the damage and partly to assess if Excelsior was near enough to be a threat; but she was still negotiating The Sorcerers, under renewed pressure from Animaxian’s Glory.
“Back out!” called Mirko. “Back and Three, get us clear!”
This was not a manoeuvre that Serendipity had practised in more than the most perfunctory fashion; going backwards was not a skill which normally proved useful in galley racing. As they moved back from Dragonchaser, Catzen intelligently used the helm to straighten in the most rapid time, and Serendipity was facing straight again.
“Jenx! Beat Eight! Let’s make sure we stay away from Excelsior!”
Mirko looked back over his shoulder; Excelsior was making rapid progress while Dragonchaser seemed to be listing alarmingly. The collision had clearly holed her below the waterline. Mirko was not inclined to go to her rescue, and as Excelsior streamed past, Raïdis made an unmistakable gesture which conveyed neither sympathy nor a willingness to lend assistance. Mirko wondered how many times Raïdis had relived that moment where he had sheered off to avoid a collision, and thrown away his best chance to beat his old rival. A degree of triumphalism seemed forgivable.
“Keep Eight!” called Mirko. The only chance of losing now was if Serendipity disintegrated completely. Excelsior had too much ground to make up against a Serendipity buoyed by the current to be able to close the gap without assistance from Serendipity herself. For two minutes the gap remained the same size; then Mirko felt that Serendipity was imperceptibly drawing away. The Margariad was won.
From the observation platform he looked down at Catzen, Catzen who had steered the galley with the most impeccable composure and skill. Her performance had never fallen below the highest standards, and on occasion she had aspired to brilliance. She smiled up at him, a dismissive gesture towards Excelsior showing that she too knew the race was won. There were various problems ashore to be dealt with, but these could wait — if not for long.
Mirko remembered for the rest of his life the long pull down the home straight. On the starboard bow was the Paladrian coast, and as they came closer and the crowds thickened, their cheers became audible. Partially obscured behind tall manzipar trees Mirko could discern Coverciano, which it seemed would have a new occupant tonight. Bartazan would have no cause to regret his gamble, although Mirko doubted that his appreciation would take any tangible form. He was pledged to redeem the crew and make Mirko Captain of the City’s Fleet; but Mirko was not sanguine about either prospect. But as the master of the Margariad-winner, he was a figure of importance and influence in his own right, and Bartazan would need to deal with him accordingly.
The buoys indicating the finish line hove into view. Excelsior was content to consolidate her second place, while Animaxian’s Glory was well clear in third. Dragonchaser was limping home, still listing. Her aim was to sink in shallow water rather than any meritorious finish.
“We’ve done it!” shouted Catzen. “We’ve done it, Mirko!”
“Jenx! Go to Nine! Go to Nine! Let’s win this in style.” And Serendipity surged through the finish line to the rapture of the crowd at Tempo Nine, winning the Margariad by a margin unparalleled in recent memory.
CHAPTER 36
T
he crew pulled Serendipity from the finish line to the docks at an easy and irregular rhythm; the time for discipline and martial tempo was past. The waterfront was packed with crowds waving banners of Bartazan Azure; all those who had championed the gold and scarlet of Dragonchaser held their peace, or maybe argued that their real allegiance had always been to the House of Bartazan anyway. No voices could be heard to decry the performance of Serendipity or her once-renegade master.
The name of Mirko was first on the lips of the crowd; but little behind was that of Bartazan. Mirko had come to know the Electors of Paladria for the sheep they were; there was no chance that they would do anything other than vote out Giedrus, probably in their droves. Vaidmantas would be changing his employer tonight.
As they rowed past the Elector’s stand, Mirko gave a salute to Bartazan, who gave an unprecedentedly warm gesture in response. He stood at the helm, his arm around Catzen, who nestled into his side with only the most dilatory attention to steering the galley. He noticed that Larien had disappeared from Bartazan’s box; Mirko’s victory had represented the death of so many of her hopes, as she had feared. He was not surprised she had chosen to absent herself.
Dockside labourers vied with each other to moor Serendipity soundly to the very jetty where not so long ago Orstas had tried to set light to her. Now Orstas was dead and his scheme for revenge, so easily fed by Vaidmantas, had come to naught. But Vaidmantas was still at large, and still a threat.
Mirko jumped from Serendipity onto the jetty, pausing to raise an arm in the air to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. He turned to help Catzen from the deck, and they stood, hand in hand, as the crew disembarked. While they waited, Bartazan of Bartazan House appeared.
“Ascalon!” he cried, throwing his arms around Mirko, and even embracing Catzen. “You vindicate my judgement!”
“You knew we would,” said Mirko. “Otherwise your conduct in allowing me to sack your overseer and your helm, and agreeing to release your slaves, would be completely inexplicable.”
“A degree of pessimism is always cautionary for a man in my position,” said Bartazan. “But I knew your qualities — good and bad — and always believed you could beat Dragonchaser. I notice she has sunk in the harbour, which adds an extra gilding to an already most memorable day.”
“Drallenkoop authored his own demise. I spare him no sympathy.”
“Very good!” beamed Bartazan, straightening his cap which had knocked askew during the course of his celebrations. “Sentimentality is a weakness we cannot afford in public life.”
“You will remember too, my lord, your necessary pledge to redeem the indentures of the crew.”
“I did notice the first time you mentioned it; it is both unsubtle and inelegant to draw my attention to the matter a second time.”
Mirko gave a rueful cluck. “Nonetheless the situation must be resolved sooner or later, and best done before the press of business becomes too irksome.”
“Your loyalty to your crew — albeit a crew of slaves — is to your credit, and no doubt an important factor in the harmony of today’s victory; but this is an administrative detail, and one that will be better resolved tonight, or even tomorrow, when the necessary papers are to hand. There are formalities to attend to in freeing slaves, you know.”
Catzen nudged Mirko, who knew better than to push. Bartazan would only become truculent and obstinate. The evening revelries, flushed with wine, or the morning after, flushed with magnanimity, would have to do instead. Mirko nodded and smiled.
“Good,” sai
d Bartazan. “You are not going to mar our triumph with petty wranglings. As you are aware, the Election takes place at sundown tonight, and I would like to invite you to be my guest for the ceremony. Such events are always attended by the families of Electors and those of good character they ask to join them. On this occasion I would be honoured by your company. My Lady Catzendralle, your performance today was impeccable — and I confess something of a surprise. You are of course invited to the Election by right under the House Drall banner, but I suspect you to be neither welcome nor comfortable in such company. Please do me the honour of attending the Election with Captain Ascalon as my guest.”
Catzen bowed. “The honour would be mine, my lord. I have already had a memorable day which I would much like to continue.”
Bartazan returned the bow, and shook Mirko’s hand. “Excellent! I will see you both tonight for what I hope will be a similarly triumphant occasion. Today will have an entire chapter in the annals of the House of Bartazan!”
He swept away, followed by his entourage. The crowd chanted “Bartazan! Bartazan! Peremptor Bartazan!”
Mirko smiled ruefully and shook his head. “He has played a clever game,” he said to Catzen. “I wouldn’t like to be in Giedrus’ shoes tonight.”
Catzen gave him a wondering look. “Now is not the time to worry about Giedrus, who after all has proved not to be worth my loyalty. Our own position — and especially yours — is quite precarious enough without sparing attention for others.”
“You didn’t take Bartazan’s remarks at face value, then?”
“He needs you, for tonight at least. You are the most popular man in the city today, and an open breach with you is the last thing he needs. Once he has secured his Election the situation becomes different. I assume you still intend to secure the slaves’ freedom?”
“Catzen! How could you think otherwise?”
Catzen shrugged. “It would have made things easier if you had been prepared to sacrifice them, but I understand why you won’t. I am just unused to seeing affairs directed by principle, and it may take me a while to come to terms with it.”
“What would happen — for the sake of argument — if I stood up at the Electoral Banquet and said that I refused to endorse Bartazan unless he fulfilled our compact?”
“He’d be Peremptor anyway — Electors’ votes aren’t swayed by people of your class — and you’d be dead within thirty minutes. And the slaves would stay slaves.”
Mirko ran his hands through his hair. “What choices do I have?”
“Realistically, you need to show Bartazan that you’re no threat to him. There is one way — only one way — that you might even be able to help him.”
“Yes?” said Mirko cautiously.
Catzen walked over to the sea-wall and sat down looking out into the bay and the foreshore where Dragonchaser lay half-submerged in six feet of water.
“Bartazan offered you the position ‘Master of the City’s Fleet’ .”
“How did you — sorry, that was an unintelligent question.”
Catzen smiled and toyed with the dragon ring she wore on her little finger. “I assume you thought this was a reward for services rendered.”
“And one he never intended to fulfill.”
“It isn’t that simple. Firstly, the post is no sinecure, especially with Bartazan as Peremptor. The City Fleet is not an impressive force, particularly by Garganet standards; and the Fleet has, by tradition, a strong allegiance to House Luz. It has no such allegiance — especially among the officers — to the House of Bartazan.”
“So?”
“Bartazan, Peremptor or not, cannot count on the unquestioning loyalty of the Fleet. Most of the Captains are related either to House Luz or its allies such as Tichanet or Chiess-Vervario. Bartazan would prefer the post to go to someone who will command respect among the seamen and not, I imagine, one of his own kinsmen. It is by no means out of the question that he may yet offer you the post. It would neutralise the Luz sympathies of the officers if you could appeal over their heads to the loyalty of the seamen.”
Mirko looked at her. “Is this practical?”
“If I made it clear to him during the course of the evening that you were prepared to accept the honour under certain strictly defined conditions, then I think we might be able to reach an agreement. It means you carry on working for Bartazan, which I cannot imagine is a prospect you relish; but you may see your crew released.”
He stroked her cheek. “And what about you, Catzen? You can never go back to Darklings, and surely you don’t want to become one of Bartazan’s party?”
“Mirko, let me worry about myself. In my trade you have to be a survivor, and I’ll accommodate myself to however circumstances array themselves.”
Mirko nodded. “Catzen, whatever happens, it happens to both of us. You know that, don’t you?”
She leaned forward to kiss him. “I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t. I never wanted to share my destiny with anyone before; but you and I will live and die together.”
Mirko couldn’t help smiling at her serious expression. “Live, surely! We have plenty to do yet.”
“You’re right, and if we’re going to the Election Banquet we can’t reasonably attend in our galley clothes. Do you think Panduletta will have anything spare? I am not disposed to return to Darklings to collect my wardrobe.”
“Trajian! Skaidrys!” called Mirko, and the two Quartermen unwillingly left the ribald songs they had been conducting since they had come ashore. “Trajian, I need you to undertake some important commissions for me; Skaidrys, would you kindly escort the Lady Catzendralle to the Waterside and wait for her while she arranges certain events with Mistress Panduletta. And Trajian – make sure the men stay sober. I may need them to have their wits about them tonight.”
“Am I to take it we are still slaves?”
Mirko frowned. “I have Bartazan to deal with here. Trust me to arrange the best outcome for us all.”
Trajian gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. You’ve been honest so far.”
Mirko added to Skaidrys’ burdens by setting out a list of his own wardrobe requirements to be collected from the Waterside. Trajian was apprised more extensively of his duties, and Mirko took himself back to Urmaleškas to rest and briefly refresh himself. The sun was already low in the sky and it would not be long until the Electors’ Banquet, not an event he viewed with confidence.
He let himself into the store-room at the barracks and settled down on a packing crate to be alone with his thoughts. The day had already proved eventful, and whatever happened he had done what he set out to. Against all the odds, Serendipity had won the Margariad! He had inherited a crew of underfed and uninterested slaves supervised by brutal and incompetent officers; and in three months he had turned them into the best galley in Paladria, one which would stand comparison with Garganet standards. But more than that, he had rekindled his appetite for life. He had taken on the job for money, and been prepared to resign over the size of his bonus. Now he realised that he hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t raised the matter with Bartazan. The race itself, and the challenge, had been enough. And at long last he and Catzen had recognised and acted on their feelings for each other. If only they could survive tonight, there was every reason for optimism.
The light in the store-room was dim, and he was surprised by a scraping in the shadows. “Who’s there?” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry if I startled you — it’s me,” said Larien.
“Hello,” said Mirko, who judged a neutral tone the most appropriate. “How did you know I was here?”
“I followed you after the race.”
Mirko nodded to avoid saying anything. He looked off into the middle distance. Larien held her hands awkwardly.
“Well done,” she said. “On the race, I mean. You were right all along.”
Mirko gave a frosty smile. “I can’t imagine the outcome gave you much satisfaction.”
“For what it�
�s worth, I’m glad you sank Dragonchaser. Drallenkoop and I — we are no longer friends.”
“‘For what it’s worth’, the loss is all on his side. You should have taken my advice, left Paladria.”
“I’m booked on the packet for Taratanallos tomorrow lunchtime. I cannot stand to stay here with my uncle as Peremptor.”
She sat down softly on the packing case next to Mirko.
“Is it true that you and Catzendralle are —”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Mirko. Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
She sat quietly for a minute. “I didn’t just come to say goodbye.”
“I wondered.”
“Are you going to the Election Banquet tonight?”
“Yes.”
“My uncle plans to kill you.”
Mirko sat upright and looked at her. “Is this more than speculation?”
“Before the end of the race I slipped away; I could not bear to watch Bartazan’s triumph. I was sitting behind the arras in our Retiring Room when Bartazan came in; he didn’t realise I was there.”
“And?”
“That officer of the Constables, the one with his shoulder in a sling —”
“—Vaidmantas.”
“Yes, that’s him. He seemed to have been working for my uncle all along. He came in and told my uncle that you had been working for Giedrus.”
She paused, Mirko said nothing.
“Is that true?” she asked.