DRAGONCHASER

Also by Tim Stretton

The Zael Inheritance

The Dog of the North

The Last Free City

DRAGONCHASER

Tim Stretton

Published by

Thirst eDitions Fiction

www.dragonchaser.net

First edition September 2005

Copyright © Tim Stretton 2005

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Set in Palatino Linotype

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

for Sue and Danielle

Many readers have helped to make this book what it is. My thanks to everyone who read and commented on the drafts or sent their encouragement. Special thanks are due to Paul Rhoads and Steve Sherman for their varied assistance above and beyond the call of duty.

CHAPTER 1

One morning, Mirko, taking his customary early-morning stroll along the beach, found his attention captured by an uncommon scene. Two fishermen, unusually smart in shirts of red with a gold dragon at the chest, were hauling a large object in a net up the shingle. Stepping back out of sight with an instinctive caution, he saw that the ‘object’ was in fact a mermaid. Such sights were rare in Mirko’s home realm of Garganet – where indeed mermaids had a reputation for duplicity – but less so here in Paladria, where a colony lodged on the rocks at the base of the Morvellos Lighthouse. ‘Never trust a mermaid’, the saying went in Garganet: by popular belief they lured mariners to destruction on hidden rocks. In this case, though, the circumstances seemed somewhat different: the mermaid was clearly at the mercy of the two fishermen.

Mirko surveyed the men with disfavour. They appeared to be preparing to molest the mermaid, at the very least. He had noticed a lack of refinement among the Paladrians before now; but even by their usual standards, this conduct appeared indelicate.

He turned away. This really was none of his affair, and he had seen injustices enough without needing to become involved in this one. Help me! sounded a voice in his head, and more insistently, Please! Help me! Was it the mermaid or his conscience? With a sigh he dropped his hand to his sword-hilt and stepped forward.

“Enough!” he called. “Let her go.”

One of the fishermen turned around to face Mirko, while the other pinioned the mermaid to the shingle.

“What’s it to you?” demanded the first, swarthy, truculent and bristling.

“Let the mermaid go,” said Mirko calmly. “I can’t let you assault her.”

The fisherman sneered. “And are you going to stop me?”

Mirko pulled his rapier from his sheath. “It looks very much like it.”

Neither fisherman was armed, and they exchanged looks which suggested they recognised the futility of resistance.

“Why shouldn’t we have her?” demanded the second. “She was caught in our nets, fair and square. It’s the law of the sea.”

Mirko knew of no custom which allowed casual rape of woman or mermaid. He took a step forward and pressed his sword-point against the man’s throat. His companion, seeking to catch Mirko by surprise, lunged forward at Mirko’s flank. The strategy, which would have been obvious to a child, ended in embarrassing failure as Mirko, with a scarcely discernible twitch, spitted the man in the side – a wound likely to prove no worse than uncomfortable. He sank to the ground, red seeping through the hand pressed against the wound.

The second man stood and circled warily. Mirko casually feinted with his sword. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the mermaid edging her way down the beach with a kind of dragging crawl; she was not made for the land. Mirko kept his sword pointed at the fisherman until the mermaid had safely re-entered the water. Swimming out twenty feet or so, she seemed content to watch the proceedings from a distance.

The fisherman eyed Mirko steadily. “So what now?”

Mirko shook his head. “Take your friend. You’ve had a day every bit as memorable as you’d hoped. Be off with the pair of you.”

The fisherman said nothing. He helped his comrade to his feet, slipped an arm around his waist, and together they made their way back off up the shore, bereft of both mermaid and any legitimate catch they might have made.

Mirko walked down towards the waves gently lapping at the beach. The early morning mist obscured the Morvellos lighthouse. She stared wordlessly back at him, only her head and shoulders above the waterline.

“Are you all right?” called Mirko. “Do you need anything?”

But the mermaid made no response. She plunged beneath the surface, and Mirko could see only the wake of her tail as she swam back out to sea. Thank you said a voice in his head. Maybe the mermaids really could communicate in this way. A thought ran through his head: mermaids always repay their debts. He was not sure whether the mermaid herself had thought this, or whether it was another piece of Garganet folk-wisdom he had recalled. Since he was scarcely in a position to deliver an account to ‘The Mermaids, c/o Morvellos Lighthouse’, the question was not one of more than academic relevance.

The Waterside Tavern, down near the docks of Paladria Old Town, was not by and large the haunt of exclusive society. Its clientele consisted largely of dockhands and seamen awaiting their next excursion; gender parity was maintained by a fleet of portside doxies, mostly past the first flush of youth. However, the wine was cheap, if vinegary; victuals were in the main wholesome, especially if weevils and like insects were treated as nutritious protein rather than infestation. Meat was usually available, and few felt compelled to observe that rat or dog were seldom served at the best tables.

It was not the environment that Mirko, once accustomed to better things, would have chosen to occupy his leisure hours had circumstances permitted otherwise. However, funds were short and there were many worse establishments; additionally he had an arrangement with several of the doxies whereby he prevented molestation from the more boisterous patrons, in return for a small retainer. Those guests of the establishment who created difficulty when the time came to settle their score might also make Mirko’s acquaintance.

He caught the eye of Panduletta, the widow who owned the tavern, with a rueful smile. The years had been kind to Panduletta — excepting only her teeth — and Mirko was grateful for the employment, although he did not envisage a lasting career at the Waterside. It kept his muscles in trim and allowed an outlet for any belligerence he might feel; but it was hard to conceive of any enduring satisfaction in these surroundings.

The circumstances of Mirko’s departure from Garganet still rankled, and he left with resentments and frustrations which were not easily resolved. In the meantime, he was content to fill his purse where he could, so long as he remained near the sea.

Mirko did not find himself in the mood for meaningful activity for the remainder of the day, and the evening found him nursing another mug of small beer as he dealt with his correspondence at a quiet bench in the Waterside. His habits were regular and well-known, and it was not unusual for prospective employers to approach him at this hour. He was not, therefore, surprised to find a figure standing before him as he concluded his final letter. He looked up at the man. Even in the dim light of the tavern, his visitor’s attire fitted him for a higher place in society. A cloak was a rarity in the Waterside; the cerise silk shirt which it only partly covered was even more remarkable.

Noting Mirko’s attention, the man approached him with a crisp bow. He sported a neat brown beard at his chin, which glistened with fastidious grooming.

“Captain Mirko Ascalon? I am the Noble Ipolitas Liudas, and I represent an important principal — the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House, with whom you are no doubt familiar.”

Mirko gestured negligently to a nearby vacant bench. “The term ‘captain’ is not strictly appropriate. It pertains to my previous employment in the Garganet navy and is not portable.”

Liudas acknowledged the point with an indifferent wave. “The Elector is familiar with the details of your career. He would like to employ you to undertake some technical advice on galley management. Present yourself at the Jurbarkas Dock tomorrow at sunrise, before the vessel Serendipity. Funds will be provided.”

Mirko raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Will you take a glass of ale, my friend?” He was conscious that his words were a touch slurred, a circumstance which would be unlikely to increase his stature with the patrician Liudas.

“My compliments to you, sir, but no thank-you,” replied Liudas. “Important affairs compel me; you need only follow your instructions.”

Mirko was largely immune to surprise. Various maritime commissions had come his way in the few months he had been resident in Paladria. Already he felt the situation threatened complexities and frustrations: patricians in the main expected much and returned little. But the word ‘funds’ had an undeniable allure to one in his circumstances, and after all, he had nothing else planned.

The next morning Mirko arrived at the rendezvous in good time, and looked over the galley Serendipity, designed for ornament rather than warfare. Galley racing was a popular pastime in Paladria. Rich men – usually Electors – owned the galleys, and the populace cheered its favourites. Plenty of money changed hands. Why shouldn’t Mirko’s experience secure some of it?

Serendipity appeared a well-constructed vessel; Mirko’s practised eye detected none of the immediate signs of neglect or shoddy workmanship. With a good crew and crisp handling, she would race with vigour and enterprise. The broad blue lateen sail appeared new and of decent quality. In its centre was a representation of a woe-fish, the emblem of the House of Bartazan.

Mirko, engrossed in his examination of the vessel, did not notice the two men approaching. Turning at the sound of footsteps he saw Ipolitas Liudas, and another figure, richly-dressed if without the flamboyance affected by Liudas. This, he surmised, was Bartazan of Bartazan House, and he bowed with measured courtesy. Liudas laughed.

“This is Overseer Orstas,” he said quickly. “He controls the slaves, and will be glad to see the respect you give him.”

Orstas, a young man, handsome and dynamic with a dimpled chin, favoured Mirko with a smirk without returning his bow. “The famous Captain Ascalon. So you’re the man to lick Serendipity into shape. This I must see.”

“My duties are not yet determined,” he said. “I imagine they may extend to oversight of the overseer.”

Orstas laughed. “I think not. The overseer is the most important man on the galley. Your role will, I suspect, be largely advisory.”

He broke off to bow low to a new arrival, dressed in workaday clothes — a loose white shirt and navy trousers. To exact such obeisance from Orstas, this must be Bartazan of Bartazan House. Mirko engaged in a rapid scrutiny. The Elector was a powerful figure, robust and well-nourished and something above average height. His hair, receding at the temples, was black streaked with silver. He was an imposing figure — not a man to be taken lightly; nor, Mirko suspected, one to be trusted.

“Bartazan of Bartazan,” said the new arrival, with an airy salute. “You must be Ascalon.”

Mirko bowed and touched his sword hilt. “At your service, my lord.”

“Serendipity is as good a racing galley as we have on the ocean. We’ll take her out this morning and I’ll explain my requirements. “

Under largely unheeded encouragement from Liudas, a shambling group of thirty or so slaves, generally lackadaisical and dressed only in culottes and sandals, made its way to the dock. They stepped spiritlessly across the gangplank and took up familiar stations at the oars. One of the slaves, smaller and sparer than the rest, carried a large drum and he set up towards the galley’s stern.

Orstas sat next to the man, while Liudas stepped aboard and took the helm. Bartazan motioned to Mirko and the pair climbed to an observation platform some six feet above the deck.

Orstas motioned to the drummer, who struck up a slow loud beat. The rowers began to move in time with the beat and Serendipity moved steadily away from the dock and onto the open water. The low sun dappled the calm sea, and Mirko felt again the satisfaction which came with being on the waves. Bartazan clapped him on the shoulder.

“This is the life, eh, captain? Nothing like a the pull of the oars and the smell of the brine.”

“It’s not quite what I’m used to,” said Mirko. “Serendipity is a racing galley, much less solid than the Garganet vessels I was in. And I’m still not sure of the nature of our association. Or how much you’re going to pay me.”

Bartazan laughed with a false heartiness. “I admire directness — up to a point. I have two ambitions; one is relevant to our business and the other is not. Have you heard of —”

Bartazan was interrupted by a grinding of oars; a lack of synchronisation between two rowers at the back of the boat had caused them to become entangled. Orstas roared in outrage, whipped a cudgel from his belt, and stepped forward to belabour the miscreants, seasoning the punishment with his curses.

Bartazan called out: “Orstas, what are you at? The overseer is meant to oversee the crew. Why do they make such basic mistakes?”

“They are lazy and incompetent,” called back Orstas. “They just don’t want to row. I’ll show ‘em the snib!”

Bartazan ignored Orstas’ justification and scowled. “Useless. Idle overfed lumps. They should be working at the smelter. As I was saying — are you familiar with the Margariad?”

“A galley-race…”

“Rather say, the galley-race. In Paladria we love our races — and the Margariad is the biggest of all. The man who wins it nets a fortune; and he’s never forgotten. I’ve never won the Margariad. Twelve times I’ve entered. Once I was second; once I was third.”

The grinding of oars — again followed by strokes of the snib — punctuated the conversation once more. Mirko wondered what the other crews must be like to finish behind Serendipity.

Bartazan caught some of Mirko’s thought. “This is the worst crew I’ve ever had. Orstas is a good overseer, not too soft, and Liudas helms well enough. But the crew just doesn’t have it. They all have sea experience — that’s why I bought them — and a couple are even Garganet. But as a crew they’re worse than useless. Serendipity is a marvellous boat — I’ve always used her in the Margariad. But I can’t get close to Dragonchaser — that’s Drallenkoop’s galley. He’s won it the past three years, and he helms himself.”

Bartazan gripped Mirko’s arm. “I want to win the Margariad! And it must be this year. I don’t have the time to lick this crew into shape myself — the life of an Elector is hard. But you could do it.”

Mirko thought for a second. “I may suggest some improvements to technique and training; I don’t know how far behind Dragonchaser you are. No guarantees — but pay me enough and I’ll have a go.”

Bartazan’s eyes narrowed. “Certain things should be clear. I am Bartazan of Bartazan House — Elector today and who knows, Peremptor tomorrow. I don’t haggle with a cashiered skipper and pimp.”

“I didn’t ask for the job and I don’t especially want it. I’m sure you can pick up any number of Garganet officers at the click of your fingers. Perhaps one of these would better suit your requirements. “

Bartazan scratched his chin. “Avarice is an unappealing characteristic. It’s convenient to use you but not essential. If you’ll take 4,000 valut as a retainer and another 4,000 for winning the Margariad, the job’s yours. I only negotiate with my peers; take it or leave it.”

Mirko considered. It would take diligence — and many arguments — to make this crew viable. 4,000 valut was a decent sum but probably not commensurate with the necessary effort; and while 8,000 clearly was more attractive, the extra 4,000 would scarcely discommode Bartazan once he had the prize money for winning the race. Still, his current circumstances, while not destitute, fell short of affluence, and for a variety of reasons acceptance seemed the best response.

“I’ll tell you when we’re back ashore,” he said. “For now I want to watch the crew and the water.”

An hour and a half later the Jurbarkas Dock came back in to view. Mirko had enjoyed the quiet rhythm of the sea, although Orstas’ frequent blows and curses had upset his concentration, and Liudas’ helmsmanship had been erratic at times.

“Well,” said Bartazan. “Certain rustiness aside, and apathy among the slaves, I felt a degree of encouragement in today’s display. What is your own assessment?”

“May I speak candidly?”

Bartazan of Bartazan House frowned. “Candour is by no means the virtue the common mind believes it.”

“I cannot recommend the improvements you require without a forthright assessment of current shortcomings,” said Mirko.

“Very well,” said Bartazan with poor grace. “A brief overview of inefficiencies can do little harm.”

“I would start by noting that the level of punishment used by Orstas is both morally and practically deficient. No crew, free or slave, will respond favourably to such treatment. When we consider that the crew is clearly malnourished, denied sufficient rest—”

“Enough!” cried Bartazan. “Your comments go well beyond candour into the realm of personal abuse! In excoriating my overseer there is a clear implication that the judgement of his employer is likewise questionable.”

Mirko shrugged. “You employ me to recommend improvements. In truth there are many apparent to the most casual inspection, and many more necessary if Serendipity is to rival Dragonchaser.”

“That may be,” said Bartazan of Bartazan House with significant emphasis, “but they are of no concern to you; you may consider yourself discharged with immediate effect.”

“I doubt we could have established a productive relationship in any event,” said Mirko. “Your insensitivity to constructive criticism is equally likely to bar you from high political office.”

Serendipity returned to the dock in silence. At an adjacent jetty another racing galley was docked, painted a striking scarlet and gold. The sail was dyed a deep red with a golden dragon at its centre, and the prow was carved into the head of a dragon. This, then, was Dragonchaser. Mirko vaulted from Serendipity and wandered across to scrutinise the vessel in more detail, his back ostentatiously to Bartazan of Bartazan House.

Down the gangplank of Dragonchaser came two men in earnest conversation. The younger, stripped to the waist in the hot midday sun, called over to Bartazan.

“Good morning, my lord! How goes it?”

Bartazan bowed infinitesimally. “Well, thank you, my lord Drallenkoop. Calm seas and strong strokes to you.”

Mirko uttered a caw of laughter ignored by both men. Drallenkoop appeared to take Bartazan’s claim at face value, but evinced no real interest in Serendipity’s performance. He returned to his conversation with the older man, whom Mirko took to be Dragonchaser’s overseer.

Orstas disembarked the slaves in generally poor array. Bartazan and Liudas boarded a waiting open carriage drawn by two fine striders, which smartly made off towards Paladria New Town. Orstas mounted a strider of his own and took the slaves off in another direction. None spared Mirko any attention.

Dragonchaser’s slaves, meanwhile, were disembarking in more disciplined order. While there was no levity, they appeared in high morale and well-nourished. Drallenkoop, noting Mirko’s presence, made his way over. He was a man of early maturity, with short fair hair, a trim and tanned torso, and an air of negligent confidence. His clear blue eyes, delicate nose and crooked smile suggested a natural leader, flexible and resolute: a formidable commander of a racing galley.

“Well, fellow,” he called. “How do you like Dragonchaser? A bit of an improvement on Serendipity, eh?”

Mirko smiled. “The boat itself looks little different,” he said. “Your slaves are better disciplined and better nourished. Given a decent overseer and three months I imagine Serendipity might be a match for you.”

Drallenkoop laughed. “Maybe you’re right; maybe you’re not. But I know Orstas — the worst overseer in the city. Maybe you’re his replacement?”

“I have no association with Serendipity. The Elector asked me aboard for some informal observations, which I made. Further involvement is unlikely.”

Drallenkoop laughed again. “I know who you are now! They said Bartazan was going to recruit some Garganet renegade, and now I’ve placed your accent. I take it Bartazan’s conditions didn’t suit.”

Mirko flushed. “ ‘Renegade’ is not a term I recognise in that context. I used to be with the Garganet navy; now I’m not.”

Drallenkoop made a mollificatory gesture. “My apologies, sir. Garganets are known for their mettlesome spirit. I like you already, since you seem to have discommoded Bartazan. My father detests him above all men. Bartazan is set on becoming Peremptor this summer — and that means ruin for my family. All the more reason to beat him in the Margariad.”

“Paladrian politics are not something I follow closely.”

Drallenkoop took a long pull of water from a hide bottle, and passed it across to Mirko, who realised he was thirsty.

“It’s surprisingly simple,” said Drallenkoop as Mirko drank. “The Peremptor is the ruler of Paladria. His powers are virtually unlimited, and every five years the Electors meet to choose one of their number to fill the post. Bartazan of Bartazan House naturally aspires to this high estate. Twice already he’s allowed his name to go forward; twice he’s been rejected. Once more and he’s not allowed to stand again. Bartazan thinks, with good reason, that if he wins the Margariad his popularity will be so high among the people that the Electors won’t dare to oppose him. There’s a long rivalry between our families; my father, Koopendrall, is an Elector but commands little support. If Bartazan wins, he’ll destroy Koopendrall.”

“Not an attractive character.”

Drallenkoop laughed again. “He needs to win the Margariad first. You saw them out there this morning. I may not win this year; but Serendipity won’t beat me.”

CHAPTER 2

A week later Mirko made his way up a steep and winding path leading to cliffs above the Bay of Paladria. Behind him were the flatlands leading to Io and Theris: before stretched the full expanse of the Bay of Paladria, its smooth surface punctuated by the reaching rocks which made up the obstacles for the Margariad. This morning was the Morvellos regatta, the first race of spring. All of the main contenders for the Margariad would be in action, and Mirko was interested to see them in action from a high vantage point. The cliff-top was almost deserted.

Mirko had become interested in the racing calendar and recognised several of the galleys jostling around the start line. Most conspicuous was Dragonchaser with her red and gold paint. Serendipity, chequered in dark and light blue, was some distance off: other notable craft were Animaxian’s Glory, green and white; Morvellos Devil, twice second in the Margariad; and Excelsior, proud in silver and purple, and tipped to make a strong impact.

The sound of a powerful horn indicated the start of the race: Mirko pulled out an eyeglass. Dragonchaser was baulked by Morvellos Devil at the start, and it was Excelsior who moved away most smartly, surprisingly followed by Serendipity. For ten minutes or so the two lead galleys duelled at the head of the field. Dragonchaser finally shook off the attentions of Morvellos Devil, but remained well behind the leaders, tucked in fourth place. Serendipity appeared to increase her speed in an attempt to pull around Excelsior. Just as she seemed to be on the verge of pulling ahead, two oars became entangled. The helm, presumably Liudas, attempted to steer clear of Excelsior to allow Serendipity to recover; but instead she swung wildly towards the lead boat. Serendipity’s port bank of oars enmeshed Excelsior’s, and both boats lost impetus. Animaxian’s Glory and Dragonchaser, with much stronger momentum, bore down; Dragonchaser in particular made ground with astonishing vigour.

By the time Excelsior and Serendipity had disengaged, Dragonchaser had streaked past. Visibly demotivated, Serendipity slipped back through the field. Excelsior made a game effort to catch Dragonchaser, but it was futile. Dragonchaser won by half a minute, with Animaxian’s Glory well back in third. Serendipity trailed in seventh of the eight boats.

Mirko watched the race to its end, shaking his head ruefully at Serendipity’s ineptitude. While the money would have been useful, he doubted that the kind of improvements Bartazan had required were possible. He would have to carry on with his casual activities at the Waterside; it was probably for the best that he had no more to do with the galleys. It reminded him too much of what he had lost.

He walked back down towards the Old Town. The Plaza was thronged with crowds, for today was a double festival: not only the Morvellos regatta, but hanging day. The twin entertainments and copious beer had generated a carnival atmosphere among the crowd.

Mirko disliked public hangings. While justice on occasion demanded a dire penalty, its infliction in public pandered to a baseness in the spectators which he could not approve. In Garganet such matters were dealt with behind closed doors.

Only three felons were scheduled for despatch today: an infanticide, a poisoner, and a man condemned for a form of sacrilege Mirko had difficulty understanding. All were shackled together in an open rattlejack, where they had ridden in company with six Peremptor’s Constables and the hangman.

The crowd set up a hooting as the poisoner was led towards the platform, where the gibbets were erected at a good elevation to facilitate viewing. The prisoner cowered low as the noose was set around his neck.

“Larkas Laman,” said the Sergeant of the Constables sonorously, “you have been adjudged guilty of the heinous crime of extinguishing your wife – ”

“As we all would if we could!” called one wag from the crowd, to general hilarity.

“ – using toadstools garnered for that purpose. Your guilt is unquestioned. Do you have a final message of repentance or edification, that others might not share your fate?”

Larkas Laman seemed unwilling to draw general conclusions from his circumstances. “I am innocent!” he called. “There were no toadstools! Her mother laid an information against me, but poor Melsifar was always of sickly disposition.”

The Sergeant was attuned through long practice to the tenor of condemned folks’ final speeches. Protestations of innocence were common, if futile, and provided neither entertainment nor enlightenment. He nodded at the hangman, who pulled on a theatrically large lever. A trap-door opened, Larkas Laman dropped a foot with his conclusions unfinished, to kick and jerk on the end of the rope. The crowd cheered this satisfactory outcome.

Next was brought forward the schismatic Clovildas Cloon. Unlike Larkas Laman, he spoke long and fervently, ignoring questions of guilt and innocence, instead justifying his acts. Mirko was no clearer as to the nature of his offence at the end of the peroration, but he recognised a fanatic. Clovildas Cloon appeared to welcome martyrdom, and at the end of the speech commanded the hangman to pull the lever “that I might the sooner begin my eternal blessings.”

The crowd had enjoyed this spirited defiance of mortality – even if, to Mirko’s eyes, religious feeling was not in great evidence – and the opening of the trap door was greeted with applause. There appeared to be little difference between the twitching bodies of Larkas Laman and Clovildas Cloon: might the latter’s eternal blessings be deferred, or even apocryphal?

The final execution brought a grim horror to Mirko’s stomach. A girl of no more than sixteen was adjudged to have smothered her new-born daughter. Even the crowd appeared subdued at the thought of a young and comely girl meeting such a horrid fate.

The Sergeant of the Constables could not allow himself to be swayed by sentimentality. “Ausra Seltaras, the Peremptor has found that, brought to bed of an unwanted child, you did murder her to prevent your condition becoming known. For this wicked deed only death can result. Whatever your final thoughts, will you not share them?”

Ausra Seltaras set up a great shriek as the noose was placed around her neck. “No! No! I did not kill her! Oh, have mercy! Please, good sirs!”

The crowd booed lustily. The infamy of infanticide outweighed the pitiability of the perpetrator, and now with clear conscience they could demand justice. Mirko felt revulsion more for the crowd than the murderess. What benefit was served by hanging a terrified girl in public?

“Have you no last observations?” asked the Sergeant, scanning the crowd as he did so. “Then it seems events must proceed.”

From the crowd came a cry: “A moment, good Sergeant!”

At the side of the platform a man stepped forth. His black uniform and four-cornered hat marked him out as a high officer of the Peremptor’s Constables. “I have here a communication from the Peremptor himself. Kindly delay matters an instant!”

The officer stepped up on to the platform and handed the Sergeant the letter. With the rope still around Ausra Seltaras’ neck, he paused to read it aloud.

I, Peremptor Giedrus of the City and Peremptorate of Paladria, have given my personal attention to the case of the infanticide Ausra Seltaras. Be it known that in the light of her youth, and certain doubts pertaining to the circumstances of the crime, I rescind the sentence of death. Ausra Seltaras, you are free from the Peremptor’s justice. I decree a payment of one hundred valut in compensation for your sufferings.

By order of the Peremptor.

As the noose was removed from an uncomprehending Ausra Seltaras’ neck, the crowd began a mighty cheering. A minute ago they had howled for her death: now they celebrated her reprieve. Mirko was disgusted by the charade. What if the pardon had been for Larkas Laman or Clovildas Cloon? Too late for either. Events had clearly been stage-managed, the messenger awaiting the last possible moment before stepping forth. Entertainment had been provided for all, and no harm done – except for poor Ausra Seltaras, compensated with a few paltry coins for an unnecessary ordeal. Was she guilty or innocent? That seemed to be the least of anyone’s worries. The Paladrians were a cruel and frivolous people.

His mood of gloom continued into the evening. It was a quiet night at the Waterside. The doxies were out on the waterfront soliciting trade from the revellers enjoying the race festivities. The stale odour of the tavern offended him more than usual, and he took himself outside for some sea air. With wry amusement he saw advancing towards him none other than Ipolitas Liudas.

Liudas was as richly dressed as ever, but his spirits seemed subdued. Mirko remembered with the start of a smile that Liudas had been Serendipity’s helm that afternoon, and had not performed with any particular credit. His turn around the Morvellos Lighthouse had been particularly inept.

“Ascalon,” he said. “The Elector would like to see you. Tomorrow evening. At Formello.”

“Formello?”

“His Lordship’s estate in the hills. I am not favoured with his confidence: however it seems unlikely he has any desire to be acquainted with you socially; therefore you may surmise he desires to discuss a business arrangement with you.”

“Perhaps he requires a new helm for Serendipity.”

Liudas sniffed. “I’ll collect you at six bars tomorrow. Be ready, and be presentable. There are likely to be persons of quality present.”

CHAPTER 3

The next evening Mirko found himself accompanying Liudas aboard a rattlejack pulled by two galumphers along a well-maintained road up into the hills above Paladria. Mirko had selected a simple outfit of coat, shirt and breeches in black with a silver stock and belt. The garments, while not discreditable, were unlikely to commend him to the best society.

Liudas, in a better humour tonight, was more gaudily attired. His coat, with tails of impractically extravagant length, was canary yellow, creating a brave contrast with his orange shirt and deep green pantaloons. His shoes carried an affected curl at the toes.

Bartazan clearly intended to reopen negotiations with him to take Serendipity in hand. Mirko found himself oddly indifferent. If Bartazan was willing to meet his price, well and good; if not he was no worse off. So resolving, he settled himself back in the rattlejack to enjoy the scenery. Liudas seemed to consider conversation beneath his dignity, and Mirko breathed deeply of the clean woodland air, crisp and sharp at this altitude above the city.

Eventually a looming castle came into view. The structure radiated no great warmth of spirit, but evinced an austere grandeur. Liudas became alert.

“This,” he said loftily, “is Formello, the Elector’s private estate. Tonight he holds a grand soirée, at which several Electors and their families will be present. There will also be a number of important persons from the racing world. I cannot imagine the Elector will favour you greatly with his notice.”

“You paint an impressive picture. Naturally I wonder how I come to have earned an invitation — and indeed it seems you must be a person of greater distinction than your popinjay manner would suggest.”

Liudas chose not to respond, unless silence could itself be considered a response. Mirko was free to concentrate on the approach to Formello. Seemingly it had been designed originally with defence in mind, with great crenellated walls rising above a denuded approach. Anyone wishing to assault Formello would not do so by surprise.

The rattlejack came to a halt and the driver gave his hand to Liudas, who climbed down gingerly, his freedom of movement hampered by the tightness of his garments and the impracticality of his footwear. Mirko vaulted to the ground rather than submit to such indignity. A pair of footmen, faintly ludicrous in powdered wigs, issued from Formello and bowed low to Liudas and Mirko.

Liudas leaned forward and spoke quietly to Mirko: “Remember — this is Formello, where events may go with more punctilio than you expect. Avoid obtruding yourself on the notice of the Electors, and you may acquit yourself without obvious buffoonery. Wait patiently until the Elector chooses to transact his business with you. Do not drink to excess; you will embarrass yourself and more importantly the Elector: even in an indirect sense myself.

“You will see many women, the majority of whom will be rather comelier than you are accustomed to. Be assured that your attire would be sufficient to repel the lowliest of them, even before your uncouth manner. In this context any lewdness, familiarity or flirtation would be not merely unwelcome, but unutterably jejune.”

“You suggest, then, that I should stand quietly in the corner, trying to avoid the notice of all society, until the Elector remembers why he invited me?”

“In essence, yes.”

“I am puzzled as to how the Elector will be able to find such an invisible person among his guests under these circumstances.”

“Pah! There is no helping some folk. Drink, belch, fart and rut as the mood takes you. It is all one to me.”

The footmen silently escorted Mirko and Liudas across a long courtyard to the entrance into the main hall. From the inside came the music of hautboys, sober and dignified. Stepping inside, Mirko saw a large hall furnished in some luxury: damask-covered divans, rich hangings and tapestries were arrayed liberally around the hall. A waiter in the Bartazan livery of dark and light blue — the ‘Azure’ — handed Mirko a silver goblet filled with a sensuous red wine. With a wink at Liudas, he quaffed a handsome measure. The rich warmth soothed his throat; this was better than the Waterside could offer.

To his surprise, Bartazan of Bartazan House appeared almost immediately. He wore a coat of rich blue trimmed with a battlecat collar, silver breeches and a starched white shirt and soft white stock. To Mirko the effect seemed overdone, but he inwardly acknowledged that he was by no means an expert in these areas.

Bartazan of Bartazan House bowed to a fractional extent, making one gesture encompass both Mirko and Liudas. “Captain Ascalon! Welcome to Formello, which I hope pleases you.”

“It is undoubtedly imposing. In truth it is not an honour I had been expecting.”

Bartazan laughed. “Never let us be too certain. Hasty words were spoken when last we met. There are subjects I would explore with you later; for now I have guests to attend to. My fellow Electors will not be neglected. Allow me to introduce you to persons I hope you will find engaging. Liudas, perhaps you will attend to Captain Ascalon’s comfort.”

Liudas bowed without enthusiasm. With a hand on Mirko’s elbow, Bartazan steered him to a less crowded corner of the hall, where conviviality already seemed to have full rein. Liudas appeared displeased, but Mirko, who had no desire to hobnob with the Electors, found the turn of events more satisfactory.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Bartazan urbanely, “allow me to introduce Mirko Ascalon, formerly of the Garganet navy. This is his first visit to Formello and I am sure you will make him welcome.”

Mirko bowed to the company.

“Firstly,” said Bartazan, “I am pleased to introduce Carnazan, my nephew and – in the distant future, so I hope! – my heir. I am sure you will have much to discuss, as Carnazan has many interesting theories and ingenuities.”

Carnazan smiled absently and nodded at Mirko. He was slightly taller than the average, his red hair cut with no particular attention.

“These,” continued Bartazan, “are the famous brothers Raïdis and Haïdis. Raïdis helms Excelsior, while Haïdis is her overseer.”

Mirko bowed. “I saw you this afternoon — I thought you unfortunate. You might well have beaten Dragonchaser.”

Raïdis, tall and saturnine, shrugged. “If you saw the incident, you will appreciate there is little I can say, since both the owner and the helm of Serendipity are present. It would be undiplomatic to apportion blame for the collision while I am a guest at Formello.”

Mirko laughed. “You need not do so, since I had already formed my own opinion. Liudas, what do you say?”

Liudas sniffed. “Collisions are a part of racing. Raïdis need only to have kept his boat clear to have forged ahead. It is futile to blame Serendipity.”

Haïdis, almost identical to his brother but with an impenetrable gravity, merely looked at Liudas, who directed his attention elsewhere. Haïdis would make a strange overseer, thought Mirko; not a flogger like Orstas, but at least as intimidating. He doubted that Excelsior’s fine performance had been a fluke.

“Now allow me to introduce my niece, Larien,” said Bartazan, as a startlingly attractive young woman sauntered across. She closely resembled Carnazan. Her copper hair was artlessly gathered at the nape of her neck, and her dark blue dress, tight to the waist and flaring below, set off her warm complexion and figure to advantage. She held out her hand.

“I am charmed to meet you, sir,” she said. “I adore the races, and I would very much like to hear your views of the Morvellos Regatta later.”

Mirko bowed, although he could not remember if he had already done so. “I would be honoured to do so, my lady.”

“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “You need not concern yourself with flattering the prospects of Serendipity. She may be my uncle’s galley but her chances of any success this season are minimal.”

Bartazan did not appear favourably impressed with Larien’s artlessness. Quickly he steered Mirko away.

“Finally, may I present my wife Lady Inuela, who has lent her patronage to that noble galley traduced by my niece.”

Lady Inuela smiled and nodded her head to Mirko. Her dark hair spiralled in unruly curls, and her small black eyes locked in Mirko with minatory intentness. The word ‘virago’ instantly sprang to mind.

“Captain Ascalon will find much to discuss with you,” said Bartazan. “Captain, my wife is an abolitionist, a position I believe you also espouse.”

With that Bartazan was gone, leaving Mirko to clarify his position on slave-holding to the wife of a slave-holder; hardly a hospitable act.

Lady Inuela looked up at Mirko, her suspicious eyes narrowing still further. “Are you really an abolitionist?”

Mirko smiled airily. “I would not make such a claim. I made a remark to your husband that the condition of the slaves was a factor in the galley’s poor performance in sea trials.”

“I understand,” she said, “that in Garganet galleys are crewed by free men.”

“That’s true,” said Mirko. “In Paladria there seems to be a feeling that a free man is debased by pulling in oar; in Garganet he’s ennobled by it. But we use our galleys to fight, not to race; and we still have our slaves — just not quite so many.”

Inuela said: “I consider slavery a debasement of man’s condition; but my views carry little weight in Formello.”

“Or anywhere else, for that matter,” interjected Larien with a smile at Mirko. “Certain ideas are simply too — recherché — to gain serious consideration.”

Inuela flushed at her niece’s outspokenness and gave her a look of clear dislike. For a fact, Mirko thought, her views bordered on the absurd: how could any society function without slaves? Who would do the work? Nonetheless, Larien showed little respect for her aunt.

“Larien, my dear, there is something in what you say. Your own ideas, of course, are noted for their conventionality.”

Larien flushed. “You will have Captain Ascalon believing me staid, my lady.”

“At least until he speaks to anyone who has the slightest acquaintance with your behaviour. I am sorry to say your uncle has on more than one occasion characterised you as ‘wayward’. Fortunately I have been on hand to moderate his opinion.”

“I am grateful, I am sure, my lady, for any interventions you may have made on my behalf, particularly those which have an existence outside of your imagination,” said Larien.

“Well!” cried Lady Inuela. “I’m sure I’ve tried only to help, and if it weren’t for my voice of caution he would have packed you off to Io long before now – “

Larien opened her mouth to interject; Inuela held up her hand.

“ – because he’s certainly been tempted. I don’t expect any thanks, and a good job too, but a certain amount of respect would be nice. Your uncle has done nothing but pamper and cosset you since your father died, and all you do is mope around Formello and disappear for days on end.”

Larien said, sotto voce, “Is it any wonder, with you for company?” as she looked across at Mirko. “Captain,” she said in a louder voice, “I understand the Garganet enjoy a reputation for gallantry. Would you be good enough to escort me outside for some fresh air?”

“Delighted, my lady,” said Mirko, who had no wish to watch a catfight. He offered Larien his arm and the pair strolled into the courtyard, where Larien casually opened an unbolted sally-port. Emerging, they stepped along a pleasant gravelled path to arrive at an ornamental lake.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Larien with a laugh. “Formello is a gloomy enough place at the best of times, and my aunt is one of the gloomiest features of it. I must have appeared terribly crass the way I spoke to her.”

Mirko grinned himself. “For a fact, she seems something of a termagant. No doubt anyone’s patience would become strained at times.

Larien sat on an intricately worked iron bench, beckoning Mirko to join her. Tucking a stray lock of copper hair behind her ear, she said: “In fairness I should acknowledge she doesn’t have an easy life. She was given away by her family, House Linnoc, to seal an alliance with the House of Bartazan, and my uncle will scarcely be an indulgent husband. She has become shrewish and bitter, and thinks to take it out on my own high spirits – or ‘waywardness’, as she prefers to characterise it.”

Mirko smiled. Larien had an engaging way about her. He was quite happy to sit and listen.

“I shouldn’t be boring you with my own troubles. Your own concerns must be pressing enough, if my uncle has taken you up. Anything to do with that galley of his means trouble.”

“You need not concern yourself unduly, my lady. I have dealt with rogues before, and Bartazan not the worst.”

Larien swung her blue eyes to look into Mirko’s. “I have only just met you, captain, and your welfare should be no concern of mine. But you should be aware that Bartazan is a dangerous man. He is quick of thought, subtle of execution, ruthless of action. Do not underestimate him, and do not cross him.”

Mirko finished his wine. “You don’t seem to like your family,” he said dryly.

“Don’t think that,” she said. “The only person I think of as family is my brother Carnazan, who is too unworldly and impractical for his own good. I love him more than anything. But I have no other family: my mother died of puerperal fever, my father of grief. Neither Bartazan nor Inuela has ever cared for me: my uncle’s only interest is to marry me off for political advantage, a strategy I counter by displays of ‘waywardness’. Any Elector of good standing would be wary of taking me on.”

“But Carnazan is Bartazan’s heir.”

“He cares no more for Bartazan than I do, but he escapes into his dreamworlds. My brother is prey to enthusiasms,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Some are foolish, some profound. Sometimes he alights on an idea with potential, but he has also posited wind-powered rattlejacks and alchemical converters, both of which have occupied him in the past. The alchemical converter, in particular, smacked more strongly of the Old Craft than was prudent.”

“You appear strongly attached to him,” said Mirko.

“My attachments are few,” said Larien. “But where I care, I care deeply.”

Mirko could think of nothing to say; consequently he held his counsel. After a short silence, Larien said:

“I understand my uncle wants to offer you a job. Make sure you milk him for everything; better still, go your way in peace. Few men emerge from their dealings with Bartazan of Bartazan House in profit.”

“He has not formally offered my any position yet.”

“He will, he will. He is desperate to win the Margariad; it would change his reputation overnight.”

“Maybe he will win — with or without me.”

Larien looked up sharply. “Never! Have you not seen Dragonchaser? The swiftest galley ever built, and the best helm in Drallenkoop! He is an Elector’s son and he helms his own galley! What other man in his position would be so careless of his status? No-one will beat Dragonchaser this year; Excelsior is a good boat, but not in Dragonchaser’s class; while Serendipity will do well to avoid last place. My aunt will be mortified, and no more than she deserves.”

With that she sprang to her feet with mercurial energy, and dashed away. Mirko shook his head and slowly followed. Soon after re-entering the festivities a retainer appeared with a request from Lord Bartazan for a private conference.

The next morning, Mirko rose early in the guest chamber on an upper floor of Formello where he had passed a generally restful night. By and large Liudas would have been satisfied with his conduct: he had neither eaten nor drunk to excess, had engaged in a mild flirtation only with Lady Larien, and less than none with Lady Inuela. Taking advantage of quill and paper, he set himself to write a letter, using a cipher known only to himself and one other person.

‘N’,

You will be gratified to learn that the recent oversights which have affected your cause have largely been remedied. Last night I was a guest of Lord Bartazan at Formello where, as you predicted, he renewed his offer of employment. In accordance with your instructions I held out for what I considered to be appropriate terms: a 6,000 valut retainer, half payable in advance, with a further 12,000 valut payable upon victory in the Margariad. Needless to say, I do not expect to collect this latter sum; pursuant to our agreement, therefore, I will submit an account for this amount in the event that Serendipity does not win the Margariad.

I agreed to begin sea trials immediately, although Bartazan has not yet acceded to any of my proposals. With his existing crew, helm and overseer he can have no hope of winning the Margariad; even at her best, her level of performance is well below Excelsior, Morvellos Devil, Animaxian’s Glory, and of course Dragonchaser.

I was unable to implement your further instructions. While a number of Electors were present — most notably Chiess-Vervario, Algimantas, Baltazaras and Gerdvilas — I was not introduced to this section of the company and am unable to form an impression as to their voting intentions in any election this summer.

Since I am writing from Formello itself I will not tarry longer; please send the money to the usual address and I will respond in the normal way.

My respects to your Ladyship,

‘G’

Mirko sealed and addressed the envelope with satisfaction; soon he would expect to feel the chink of gold in his pocket, and obtained with minimal effort.

CHAPTER 4

Some days later Mirko sat with Bartazan of Bartazan House, inconspicuous in dock labourer’s garb, in a tavern of reasonable quality. Mirko, who had been afloat with Serendipity for three hours in the morning, drank deeply of his beer between mouthfuls of hot pickled shellfish. Bartazan waited patiently for Mirko to finish his meal before beginning his questions.

“You have had almost a week to assess the situation. What is your appraisal?”

Mirko paused for a moment. Candour had not been successful previously; for various reasons he could not afford to be discharged again. On the other hand, there were few positive conclusions that could be drawn from Serendipity’s performance to date.

“My inclination would be stress the improvements which might be made, rather than to dwell on deficiencies encountered to date. I might easily set out a programme of reforms which would generate a significant improvement.”

“Continue.”

“The first problem concerns the condition of the crew. Frankly their diet is inadequate to the efforts they are required to undertake. Their performance would be further improved by sufficient rest in appropriate surroundings. My programme would therefore encompass the following: food of the standard you provide your militia; no more than four hours’ sea time per day, plus a further half hour’s weight training; and a transfer away from Formello to a location more local to the docks.”

“This appears a significant package of reforms!”

“It by no means constitutes the sum of my recommendations. I would further add —”

Bartazan set his tankard down with a thump. “That is sufficient — more than sufficient — for an initial programme. I must think long and hard about the advisability of such steps. Remember, I am a man of consequence in Paladria. What would become of my reputation if it became known that I was pampering my slaves?”

“My fairly innocuous suggestions would do no more than bring their condition into line with those owned by Drallenkoop; his reputation appears augmented by the success of Dragonchaser.”

Bartazan frowned. “Drallenkoop does not aspire to high political office. He need not concern himself with the opinions of the Electors.”

“The choice is yours, my lord. Without, at the minimum, the improvements I suggest, there is no chance at all of Serendipity performing creditably, let alone beating Dragonchaser. My retainer will be payable regardless, but I am keen also to secure my victory bonus.”

Bartazan shook his head quickly. “Very well. I will instruct Orstas to make the necessary arrangements.”

Once Bartazan left, Mirko felt fairly well satisfied. Both Orstas and Liudas lacked the skills and temperaments necessary for their positions; but if the slaves were better fed and rested their morale would improve, and with it their performances. Conceivably in such a case overseer and helm might also acquit themselves more respectably.

While he reflected over another mug of beer at the rough wooden bench, Mirko felt a presence sit quietly beside him. Looking across, he saw ‘N’, a dark-grey cloak covering a brown ‘slave-girl’ style blouse and black boots and breeches — eccentric garb. Mirko had never known what to make of her; her address was undoubtedly that of a gentlewoman; she was handsome without striking beauty, and perhaps four or five years past the bloom of youth. They had met twice previously, and Mirko was no nearer knowing who she was or who she represented. Her slight stature gave her an air of vulnerability which Mirko suspected was illusory.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Long enough,” smiled ‘N’. “I thought it best not to interrupt your conversation with the Elector.”

“You are considerate,” said Mirko. “I wonder too if he might have recognised you.”

‘N’ smoothed a hair back from her forehead. “Wonder is your entitlement, although there’s no money it: whereas if you follow my instructions, you could find yourself yet more enriched.”

“Go on,” said Mirko, taking another pull at his beer.

At ‘N’s instruction they repaired to an ill-lit corner booth. Strands of ‘N’s sun-bleached hair caught the weak light, but half of her face was occluded by shadow. Not for the first time, Mirko suspected she enjoyed these intrigues for their own sake.

“Now,” she said. “You have one mildly hazardous engagement, and one potentially enjoyable one. And you’re getting paid. I can’t see a great deal for you to complain about.”

“What’s the job?”

“Firstly, I need you to go back to Formello.” She unfolded paper and slipped it across to him. “That’s a map of the castle.” She indicated several locations. “In this room Bartazan keeps his ‘special’ correspondence. There is one letter in which he and Chiess-Vervario discuss methods for suppressing a certain person. Both Bartazan and Chiess-Vervario would be discommoded were this information to become public knowledge — to the corresponding enjoyment of those who would relish their discomfiture.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I just do,” said ‘N’ with a disarming smile. “It’s my job to know things. In this case it’s yours to find them out. More detailed instructions are encrypted here,” and she passed a small envelope across.

“You mentioned another assignment.”

“Ah, yes!” said ‘N’, and permitted herself a light laugh. “How did you like Larien?”

Mirko paused for thought. “All in all, she created a favourable impression.”

“What if I told you that she was keen to make your further acquaintance?”

“In truth, I appeared to make little impact on her. We had a brief stroll outside, primarily to vex Lady Inuela, and I learned she does not regard the House of Bartazan with any affection; but I detected no signs of overt interest.”

“She would be delighted to see you again.”

Mirko shook his head. “You are a strange woman, ‘N’. You talk large, and in the main your observations prove to be accurate; but how you find out these things …”

‘N’ pursed her lips with something of the asperity she employed when Mirko fished too obviously for information. “I have many informants. I work for a powerful sponsor. Finding things out is easy; you ask someone who knows the answer. You should try it.”

“So if I asked you how you knew Larien wanted to see more of me?”

“I wouldn’t tell you, of course. You have to be more subtle sometimes. You’d have to ask something else; I’d evade answering that question, but give away the answer to what you’re really interested in. Candidly, men rarely have that kind of finesse, and you appear no different.”

Mirko raised his eyebrows.

“Now, you have your instructions: get me that correspondence, and pay a call on Larien. You may even save yourself rattlejack fare if you combine the two errands.”

Stepping briskly from the booth, ‘N’ was gone, leaving Mirko as confused as normal after their meetings.

The next morning Mirko made his way to Formello to supervise the transport of the slaves to Urmaleškas, the town barracks employed by Bartazan for his private militia. Satisfied that Orstas appeared to have the task in hand, he decided that he had a suitable occasion to pay a call on Larien, much as he doubted the advisability of ‘N’s advice. Hailing a rattlejack from the waterfront, he used the journey to compose himself for the tasks ahead.

To his surprise Larien appeared almost immediately he had presented himself to Kintautas, Bartazan’s factotum. Attired today in a light brown dress which nicely set off her hair and complexion, she greeted Mirko with every appearance of cordiality.

“Captain Ascalon! How good of you to leave your administrations to call upon me. Please, refresh yourself!” she said, handing over a goblet of a pale cool wine which Mirko found heady but not unpleasant.

“I enjoyed our conversation on my last visit to Formello,” he said as the pair walked down a shady path towards the back of the estate. “I thought I might chance to call upon you.”

Larien smiled to reveal charming dimples. “Lord Bartazan will have been sorry to miss you; and I will take care not to announce you to Lady Inuela.”

Mirko was surprised at Larien’s cordiality. Perhaps she really did entertain a partiality for him; one she must have confided to someone else, for ‘N’ to have come by her information. Mirko saw no harm in responding warmly.

“My lady,” he said. “My previous experience of Formello was all too fleeting. I would be honoured if a trusted servant, or even Kintautas, could give me a tour of the building.”

“Kintautas!” she exclaimed in a high clear voice. “I will show you myself! Let us begin immediately.”

For the next hour or so Larien conducted Mirko around the cool splendour of Formello, pointing out towers, gatehouses, stables, kitchens. Mirko was quickly able to orient himself to ‘N’s map, and tried to formulate a plan to gain access to Bartazan’s private apartments, high in the Adamantine Tower. Secure behind two levels of fortification, it seemed unlikely that there would be extensive security.

“Are your own apartments nearby?” asked Mirko, hoping to avoid the leer which sometimes marred his countenance in such circumstances.

“Why yes they are!” laughed Larien. “All of the ‘family’ live in the Adamantine Tower. Let me show you!”

Larien was undeniably an attractive woman. Her pale blue eyes sparkled with barely suppressed vitality. Mirko’s experience of the intelligencers’ trade was limited; but he had rarely imagined it to be so easy or so pleasurable. While to a certain extent it was possible to attribute his success to date to strong mental powers and innate charm, Mirko felt that events were moving with a suspicious facility. He would need to question ‘N’ more closely the next time they met.

Larien’s apartments were furnished with a largely understated good taste, the furniture well-designed and constructed, and wall-hangings of quiet distinction blending into the background. The terracotta and ochre shades of the fabrics created a soothing ambience. One intricate tapestry depicted a galley race; the profile and colouring of Dragonchaser were discernible, but most of the other craft were indistinguishable.

“A present from Koopendrall to my uncle,” laughed Larien. “Drallenkoop had just won the Margariad for the first time and Koopendrall commissioned a series of these tapestries, showing Dragonchaser trouncing all comers. They were presented to vanquished rivals: this one I rescued from the dung-heap.”

“Was not your uncle vexed at your conduct?”

“Why, yes he was, since you ask. Since this was the main point of the episode from my point of view, I was well satisfied. In time I came also to like the tapestry, which is exquisite. Look at the detail with which the artist has rendered Dragonchaser’s slaves! It was an expensive act of bravado from Koopendrall.”

“I hope I am not impertinent in suggesting that your life here cannot be an unalloyed pleasure. Neither the lord nor lady of the house appears to afford you much comfort.”

Larien smiled. “You are not impertinent, since I volunteered as much to you on our last meeting. I develop my own expedients for improving my condition.”

“Such as provoking Lord Bartazan and Lady Inuela at every opportunity.”

“That, of course,” she laughed. “You will also have noticed the sally-port I leave unlocked to slip into the gardens. There is another in the outer wall, which allows me to leave Formello unnoticed at will. I can roam the forest or step down into Paladria as the mood takes me. No-one notices I am gone.”

“No doubt Bartazan would be vexed to learn you so carelessly compromise the castle’s security,” said Mirko with a smile – thinking as he did so that 'N' might be interested to learn this information.

Larien gave a scornful laugh. “Bartazan is negligent! Formello is an imposing fortress, but unless Paladria is at war no-one will attack it. He employs the minimum – indeed, less than the minimum – number of guards, and they are rarely drilled with the necessary vigour.”

Mirko had not expected Larien to provide such information so casually. “Why is such slackness permitted?”

“You must understand,” said Larien, “that an Elector is not a military leader. Bartazan’s concern is to cut a fine figure among his peers: it is in this light you should view Formello. Add also that my uncle is most notoriously niggardly, and spends many valut on his informants, and all is explained.”

“You still do not paint an engaging picture of your life at Formello.”

“I often spend time among the servants. Such carelessness of place displeases my uncle, and the servants are merry folk when the mood takes them. Sometimes I visit old Padizan, the slave-master.”

Mirko had met Padizan on various occasions when seeking better slaves for Serendipity. He had formed no high opinion of his capacities.

Larien divined something of his thought. “He is not the most vigorous of persons,” she said with a smile. “I know that he sleeps every night away when he should be on watch at the slave pens. But he was kind to me when I was a child, and he enjoys my visits. And of course, if he knows I am likely to be on hand, he resists the temptation to neglect or even mistreat the slaves.”

“I wonder how the servants respond to a great lady in their midst,” said Mirko. “Are they not inhibited?”

Larien laughed her high laugh. “I am no ‘great lady’, captain! There are fifty Electors in Paladria, and I am simply the orphan niece of one of them. Some of the servants are more pleased to see me than others. Stoggo the kitchen-lad, for instance, always welcomes my approach: Master Ninkin, who superintends him, is less gratified. The reasons are simple: Ninkin loads punishments upon poor foolish Stoggo mercilessly, and is forced to desist on my arrival.”

Mirko smiled at the thought of Larien protecting a lack-witted kitchen boy from petty tyranny. At this moment Kintautas appeared with a pregnant cough.

“Excuse me, my lady. The Noble Ipolitas Liudas presents his compliments and begs to remind you of your appointment.”

Larien’s mouth drooped in displeasure. “I confess to overlooking my obligation. Kintautas, please convey my apologies to Liudas and tell him I will join him directly in my uncle’s parlour.”

Kintautas bowed and went his way. Larien smiled apologetically. “I am sorry — I had asked Liudas to call on me to discuss some clothing, and I had forgotten. If you care to wait here, I will be no longer than an hour; feel free to refresh yourself, or sample my collection of books.”

Mirko bowed. “Please do not let me detain you! I am happy to relax in such congenial surroundings.”

Engaging as Larien’s company had been, Mirko felt that her absence represented an excellent opportunity to satisfy his other objective. ‘N’s instructions had guaranteed that Bartazan would be from home, and Mirko stepped briskly down the corridor and through the arras into Bartazan’s private quarters.

Mirko was surprised by the comparative austerity with which the apartment was furnished. This was clearly a place of work rather than relaxation. One chair, sturdy but scarcely luxurious, faced a solid unpretentious wooden desk. Two walls were lined with unimposing wooden cabinets, the location of Bartazan’s compromising papers. Mirko knew that the item he required would be filed under ‘C’ for ‘Chiess-Vervario’, and so it proved. He extracted an item and swiftly scanned it to ensure it was the right document:

Under the Grand Seal of Bartazan

At Formello

The 14th Day of Maio, Second Peremptorate of Giedrus, Fourth Year

My Lord Chiess-Vervario,

I am pleased to report that the person who has so vexed you has been apprehended and now finds himself my guest at Formello. I perform this favour as a token of the great esteem in which I hold the House and Electorate of Chiess-Vervario, and no reward is necessary.

Naturally I appreciate that any whisper of this deed, or the release of a certain person into society, would cause considerable embarrassment to me, and of course to yourself. In retaining his custody I thereby insure us both against censure. I am sure you will be conscious of this minor sacrifice at the appropriate time.

I remain your steadfast friend,

Of Bartazan House, Bartazan

This was clearly the right document: while it hardly meant ruin for Bartazan, his standing with the Electors would not be enhanced by the illegal incarceration of prisoners in his dungeons. Mirko wondered who the ‘certain person’ was; presumably a person of consequence for the matter to be worth ‘N’s attention. Regardless, she would be well pleased.

Mirko heard a sound behind him; immediately he dived into the nearest room, which as luck would have it, proved to be a bed-chamber. Crouching behind Bartazan’s couch with a distinct lack of dignity, he saw two sets of male ankles move past and into a reception chamber. From here Mirko could hear all that occurred but see nothing.

“So,” said a voice Mirko recognised as Bartazan’s, “what do you have to report?”

“The Animaxianites continue to search with vigour,” said the second voice, cool and relaxed. “They suspect Chiess-Vervario of complicity in the deed. Soon, I think, they will conclude that Chiess-Vervario has had him killed. At no stage has the potential involvement of the House of Bartazan been mooted.”

“Good, very good,” said Bartazan. “You have done well, and as long as we hold such a powerful counter, Chiess-Vervario’s vote is secure. What of the other Electors?”

“Giedrus remains assured of seventeen votes from his adherents, such as Norvydas, and those implacably opposed to yourself, such as Koopendrall. Those naturally of your party amount perhaps to twelve, and if we add in Chiess-Vervario and Baltazaras we arrive at fourteen. I cannot imagine Algimantas supporting Giedrus under the circumstances, which brings us to fifteen. That makes thirty-two votes essentially decided, with sixteen remaining. Of those you require ten. It’s still in the balance.”

“Is it not? Is it not?” asked Bartazan softly. “If we win the Margariad, the waverers will have to back me; they will not stand against the people. If not, we may have to unearth a few secrets … Tell me, how does Ascalon shape up?”

“He will win no prizes for harmony. Orstas loathes him, Liudas thinks him a buffoon. I see no discernible improvement in the sea trial performance. The Hanspar Regatta is tomorrow and we will learn more then.”

“I tell you,” said Bartazan, “Ascalon may yet surprise you. He was an exceptional commander in Garganet.”

“Maybe,” said the second voice. “But if I were you I’d try to get those votes before the Margariad.”

“Thank you again for your efforts. Kintautas will have something for you on your way out.”

The second man left the room, leaving Bartazan alone. Mirko hoped he would soon move, since he was becoming uncomfortably cramped. Unfortunately, Bartazan stepped across, pulled a bell-cord, and came into the bed-chamber itself. Mirko, wedged into a corner, could see only a ceiling painted with martial scenes.

Mirko recognised the voice of Kintautas, who presumably had been on hand nearby to give Bartazan’s informant his douceur.

“My lord?”

“Ah, Kintautas! Do you have the Menstrual Register to hand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ansifer, Culyrama, Locapeste: which of these is not currently inconvenienced?”

“Both Ansifer and Locapeste are available for your requirements, my lord.”

“Good, good! Send up Ansifer, no wait — send up both! I find myself in the mood for diversion tonight.”

Mirko, who might also have welcomed diversion, did not welcome the guise it was likely to assume. Nonetheless, he doubted that he possessed the sang-froid simply to emerge from his concealment and saunter from the chamber. Bartazan, after all, was his employer, and was unlikely to take a positive view of Mirko’s espionage. ‘N’s instructions had been insufficiently precise regarding such situations. No doubt she would enjoin him to fall back on his natural resource.

Bartazan settled himself back on his couch to await the arrival of Ansifer and Locapeste. Mirko eased himself by inches under the couch, so that he would no longer be visible to anyone walking around the room. Shortly two sets of ankles appeared in his vision, both trim and evidently female; Mirko hoped that they would make short work of easing Bartazan’s lusts.

The period that followed remained in Mirko’s memory as an ineradicable nightmare of infamy. The pounding of the couch immediately above him, the shrieks of ecstasy, the groans of satiation, all forced themselves into his consciousness with a grotesque vigour. Just when all seemed completed, Bartazan rose from his couch and chased Ansifer and Locapeste around the room with renewed energy. Mirko hoped that neither would think to feign concealment under the couch; he doubted he could find a conversational gambit adequate to the situation.

Fortunately Bartazan was able to subdue his playmates without need for under-couch frolics. After his late flourish, Bartazan dismissed Ansifer and Locapeste, and soon fell into a deep and audible sleep. Mirko admired his stamina: rest was well earned. Moving slowly and quietly he left the apartments, and made his way back to Larien’s.

Mirko was not surprised to find that Larien had returned during his absence. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I became restive in your absence and explored a little.”

“Well,” said Larien, “I forgive you this time. Would you like to stay awhile?”

Mirko might normally have been happy to explore the notion in more detail, but his recent experience under Bartazan’s couch had dampened his ardour. With a polite excuse and fulsome thanks for Larien’s hospitality, he made his way to the main gate and, desperate for exercise, walked down the long hill to Paladria Old Town.

CHAPTER 5

The next morning Mirko sent a brief note to ‘N’ outlining his progress to date. No doubt she would soon be keen to see him, and almost certainly provide more money. It was also the day of the Hanspar Regatta, the first test of the racing season for Serendipity under Mirko’s tutelage.

Mirko made his way to Urmaleškas, Bartazan’s private barracks on the outskirts of the Old Town. Liudas was already present, and Orstas soon was on hand to shackle the slaves.

“Orstas!” called Mirko with some asperity. “There will be no shackling today! The crew will march down to the docks as close to free men as we can contrive it.”

Orstas flushed red, and not only from the already powerful morning sun. “As long as I can use the snib.”

“You only demean yourself by beating the men. I want to see none of it today.”

“It’s the overseer who’s blamed if they row badly.”

“Beating them doesn’t make them row any better.”

Liudas strolled across. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said lightly. “Can you not set aside your philosophical differences for today?”

Orstas spat into the sand of the compound. Mirko shook his head in seeming wonder.

“You two,” said Mirko. “Go down to the dock and check that the hands are setting the galley up correctly. I’ll bring the crew down myself.”

Liudas and Orstas set off with ill-grace, Orstas appearing particularly vexed. Mirko leaped onto a refectory table.

“Men!” he called out to the assembled crew. “Today you row in an important race. Bartazan, Orstas, Liudas, myself: we can do nothing. The performance of Serendipity is down to you! There will be no shackles and I expect to see less beating. In arranging such conditions I have tried to safeguard your welfare; if you row badly, you make a fool of me, and make it easier for them to shackle you next time. Row well and the concessions we have achieved will be renewed.”

One of the slaves, a one-eyed rogue named Augenis, called out:

“Why should we care? We’re slaves and we’ll die slaves! What do we care who wins?”

“Here’s one reason,” replied Mirko. “Serendipity will soon be a prime galley. Those of you who don’t row with enthusiasm will find Bartazan sells you to less liberal owners, or gelds you to guard his seraglio. Neither prospect is appealing.”

Another man, a captured Garganet officer called Florian, also had objections. “Why should we listen to you, Ascalon? You were stripped of your rank at home, and should never have charge of seamen again! We don’t want to row for you and we don’t want to row for Bartazan.”

“Florian, we are in Paladria now. We are a racing galley, not a warship. All we have is our pride in our performance. We’re racing for ourselves, not Bartazan.”

The men muttered among themselves. Those who had been born slaves — the minority — seemed puzzled by their unshackling. The former free men appeared, by and large, to stand taller with their irons off. Mirko was cautiously optimistic.

“Quartermen!” he called. “Form your quarters, and follow me to the dock. We’ve a regatta to win!”

Privately Mirko’s opinion as he walked to the dock was that victory was out of the question. The men still had not built up their strength, despite the improved diet and training. More importantly, Orstas remained an appalling overseer, with brutality his only recourse. So far Bartazan had refused to replace him, but sooner or later he would need to do so. Liudas, while willing enough, lacked the instincts of a truly sound helm. His replacement was not so urgent as Orstas’; however an experienced helm would surely add to Serendipity’s competitiveness.

These reflections occupied Mirko all the way to the docks. The approach to the galley was already thronged with an enthusiastic crowd. The most popular boat was clearly Dragonchaser, with many of the crowd waving red and gold flags, or curious effigies of Drallenkoop. Animaxian’s Glory was popular, reasonably enough, among the eccentrically-dressed acolytes of the sea-god Animaxian. Mirko was surprised to see a sizeable group bedecked in the Azure chanting the name of Serendipity. What if she started winning? Did Bartazan employed retainers to cheer Serendipity on?

Away from the main throng was an enclosure raised on stilts affording a prime view of the bay where dignitaries watched the races. At the summit was the Peremptor’s Box, and today it seemed Peremptor Giedrus was in attendance. Mirko didn’t know whether the Peremptor was an aficionado; as ruler of Paladria, by custom he did not maintain a galley.

Mirko made his way towards the enclosure; he had not had the chance to discuss progress with Bartazan in recent days and was keen to play down the Elector’s expectations.

Bartazan was at the steps at the foot of the enclosure, in keen conversation with a florid man of early middle-age. Bartazan shook hands with the man and then caught sight of Mirko.

“Captain Ascalon! A grand day for a race!”

“Good day, my lord! The conditions do appear promising. I hope Serendipity performs creditably.”

“Hope?” said Bartazan with a frown. “Hope is for those who lack any more rational basis for success. I have heard of your new training measures and have high expectations!”

“It might be prudent, my lord, to remember that it is early in the season, and Serendipity does not start from a position of strength. My aims are focused on the Margariad; a good performance today would be a welcome bonus.”

“Since you have just seen me place 100 valut on Serendipity to win at odds of twelve to one, my expectations run higher than ‘a good performance’.”

Mirko was saved from further hectoring by the arrival of Carnazan and Larien to take their places in Bartazan’s box. They exchanged formal if not cordial greetings with their uncle; both seemed in elevated spirits, especially Larien, who surreptitiously squeezed Mirko’s arm.

“Ascalon!” she cried. “You cannot imagine how much I adore these days — the sun, the crowds, the galleys! Serendipity looks so smart in the Azure, and look at Dragonchaser — how hard she will be to beat! And they say Excelsior has been training well too!”

“Enough!” laughed Carnazan. “Ascalon will need to compose his wits before the race, not listen to your prattle! I take it you’ll be aboard today?”

“Oh yes,” said Mirko. “Strictly there’s no need for me, but Orstas is even worse when I’m not there, and I hope to steady Liudas’ judgement. I’ll learn more on the water than on the quay.”

“We won’t keep you then,” he said. “The galleys will be moving out soon.”

Mirko made his way through to the jetty, moving past the rival boats as he did so. Excelsior, lilac and silver, was first, with an unfavourable inside draw which meant she would need to fight her way past the other boats to get a clear run. He nodded a greeting to Raïdis and Haïdis as they superintended their slaves.

He saw Morvellos Devil with her distinctive orange and yellow livery, with a mermaid pennon streaming from her stern; Kestrel, privately owned and helmed by Daumantas, a wealthy merchant; and of course Dragonchaser, also hampered by an unfavourable draw. Drallenkoop, already aboard, did not look worried. His white pantaloons made a contrast with his sun-tanned torso as he lounged at the helm. His overseer, Mindaugas, appeared no more concerned. Alone of all the boats, Dragonchaser faced the race with no apparent trepidation. Drallenkoop raised his arm to Mirko in airy salute and called out something he did not hear against the cheers of the crowd; Mirko waved back.

The penultimate galley on the quay was Serendipity, making an exceptionally favourable draw. The Hanspar was in no sense a tactical race; the galleys pulled out against a strong current for ten minutes or so until they reached the Hanspar Rock; rounding the rock, they then pulled for the finish line, largely with the current. A boat with a good draw, such as Serendipity or Animaxian’s Glory, was in a strong position, since the other boats had to pass the leader against the current. Mirko’s tactics were simple; he intended to run flat out into the current from the base of his favourable draw; Dragonchaser and Excelsior had ground to make up, and if he could get to the Rock ahead of them, they might never close the gap.

Mirko surveyed his own crew. Liudas was pale and sweating; this was real racing. Orstas’ jaw was clenched, determination oozing from every pore. Jenx, the slave-drummer, chewed on what Mirko suspected was a narcotic weed; he needed to have an absolute sense of rhythm, and if it took falcx to achieve sufficient detachment, Mirko wasn’t going to complain.

A great gong sounded and the crowd redoubled their cheers. Serendipity started to move away, Jenx beating the rhythm ‘Seven’.

“Orstas!” called down Mirko from the observation platform, “beat Nine!”

Orstas nodded and mouthed an order to Jenx, who increased his rhythm. Serendipity perceptibly gained speed. Liudas pulled the helm around to starboard to bring her dangerously close to Animaxian’s Glory, who had had the most favourable draw. The manoeuvre appeared to unsettle Animaxian’s Glory, who attempted to pick up her speed. The result was a clash of oars which cost momentum, and Serendipity streaked past. The race was thirty seconds old, and Serendipity was in the lead!

Animaxian’s Glory had been badly affected by her fouling, and slewed round to the port side, blocking the boats in third and fourth. Mirko could not believe their luck; Serendipity was in the lead and all the pursuing boats would have to move around the now virtually stationary Animaxian’s Glory.

“Orstas! Keep Nine!” he called. The greater the lead Serendipity could open up now, the more disheartened the pursuit would become.

The crew, he noted, seemed comfortable enough with Nine — not a rate to maintain for a long race, but for a well-trained crew with good morale, sustainable in the short term. Orstas shouted out periodic curses but no more; Liudas was required to do nothing more than steer in a straight line; and Mirko was able to draw breath, and enjoy the steady pull-pull-pull from the crew.

Soon Mirko sensed from the crew that Nine was too fast and pulled the rhythm back down to Eight. He looked back over his shoulder, and to his dismay saw that Dragonchaser was the second-placed galley, with Excelsior in third. These skilful and well-trained crews had found it easiest to get around Animaxian’s Glory, now way back down the field.

Mirko counted Dragonchaser’s strokes; it looked as though she was sustaining Nine. This was hardly surprising; Dragonchaser was the best for good reason, her crew strong, fit and well-nourished. At this rate, though, Serendipity would reach the Rock first.

Liudas and Orstas had noticed Dragonchaser making ground. Orstas looked up, expecting the call for Nine, but Mirko shook his head. He called down to Liudas: “Prepare to turn!” and Liudas nodded grimly.

The crew of Dragonchaser had set up a great howl, a plangent tone which raised the hackles on Mirko’s neck. If it was meant to unsettle, it was certainly effective.

“Liudas, careful now! Steady turn, you have time!”

Liudas had not judged the approach well. Serendipity was moving towards the Rock on too flat a trajectory, making a shorter line, but requiring a tighter, more technical turn. The crew, their backs to the direction of the galley, maintained their rhythm. Liudas realised that his approach was too close, but rather than pulling wider and losing time, gambled on being able to make the turn smartly enough to whip around.

It was a manoeuvre that would have taxed an experienced helm, and it was too much for Liudas. Grrrch! The lead starboard oar caught the rock, snapped clean in half; the hull followed with an alarming thud.

“Starboard oars! Push off! Push off!” cried Mirko. “Liudas — hard to port, hard to port!”

Liudas waved the helm ineffectually while the crew did what they could to push Serendipity back away from the rock. Orstas liberally applied the snib, despite Mirko’s instructions to the contrary.

Eventually Serendipity was back in the main stream, albeit virtually stationary. Dragonchaser, who had executed the turn perfectly, slid past at Nine, and while Serendipity was realigning herself Excelsior moved past too, Raïdis giving a cheery wave.

Serendipity, with one starboard oar broken, another badly cracked, and the hull leaking, was in no position to make up the ground, even if Orstas had applied himself to encouragement rather than brutality. Fortunately the current was now in her favour, and while Dragonchaser and Excelsior streaked away, only Morvellos Devil made serious inroads into the remainder of the gap.

Orstas affected not to hear Mirko’s calls from the observation platform, and instructed Jenx to set a ludicrous Nine rhythm. Given the speed at which she had rowed the first leg, and the damage she had sustained, this was the height of optimism. Inevitably several of the crew fell short of the rhythm, leading to fouling and erratic course. Liudas, a dejected figure in his Azure livery, was unable to correct such veering. Orstas became steadily more enraged, roaming the deck beating any rower who dropped below the Nine.

Morvellos Devil, rowing Eight but with a full complement of oars and a more sustainable rhythm, passed Serendipity with a great cheer just before the finish line. Zigzagging wildly, Serendipity crossed the line in fourth place to a good ovation. Mirko would have settled for the result beforehand, but the race should have been won. Both Liudas and Orstas had revealed significant defects.

Orstas appeared to place the blame elsewhere. He dragged Skaidrys, the unlucky oarsman who had been snapped on the Rock, from his seat as Serendipity moved alongside the jetty.

“You cost us the race! You cost us the race! If we’d gone round the Rock first we’d have won!”

“How could I tell? I was facing backwards!” replied Skaidrys with some spirit.

“Bastard slave-son of a pox-whore!” yelled Orstas. “No slave talks back to me!”

He struck Skaidrys full in the face with the snib, opening a wound from cheek to jaw. Skaidrys fell senseless to the deck, which was insufficient to check Orstas’ rage. Again and again he beat the prone figure.

Mirko leaped from the platform. “Orstas!” he said, voice quiet but eyes blazing. “Enough! More than enough!”

Orstas looked up and spat, then raised his arm for another strike at Skaidrys. At the top of his stroke, Mirko held his wrist and took the snib, which he then brought down on Orstas’ shoulders. Orstas toppled over in sheer astonishment. Mirko hauled him up by his Azure shirt, which he then ripped off. He administered three smart blows to Orstas’ bare back. Orstas, too stunned to respond, simply stared. Mirko grasped Orstas’ waistband firmly.

“Orstas,” he said loudly enough for the whole galley to hear. “You are a disgrace, not just to the position of overseer, but to the condition of man. Consider yourself discharged — on the instant!”

With this Mirko pitched Orstas over the side of Serendipity and into the dock in front of the watching masses. After some ineffectual splashing, a dockhand held out a pole and Orstas was hauled to safety.

The crowd, at first stunned into silence, set up a great chant. “Serendipity! Serendipity! Serendipity!” If part of Mirko’s job was to boost Bartazan’s popularity with the masses, it seemed he had earned his money today.

He jumped nimbly off the galley and walked off into the crowd. A woman in black bumped against him, and Mirko turned to apologise. It was ‘N’. “I imagine Bartazan will want to talk to you tonight. So do I. Come to the Waterside when you’re through with the Elector,” she said, and was gone.

Bartazan proved elusive, and it was not until early that evening that Mirko found him. The Peremptor traditionally held a banquet at his grace and favour palace Coverciano after the major regattas, to which Electors, gentlefolk and crew were invited; naturally the guest-list did not include the slaves.

Coverciano was a palace in some contrast to Formello; it occupied sprawling grounds on the outskirts of the city, a two-storey structure of white stone, surrounded by luxuriant gardens concealing artfully disguised grottoes, groves and glades. It was a place designed for warfare covert rather than overt.

Mirko presented himself at the main entrance, where Constables in Peremptor’s black scrutinised his credentials before conducting him to a cool high chamber. Immediately Mirko saw Bartazan in conversation with another Elector, one of those who had been present on his visit to Formello. Before he could make his presence known, Carnazan approached him with a bound.

“Mirko! Good to see you! You were unlucky today.”

Mirko gave a grim smile. “Hello, Carnazan. I hope your uncle takes the same view, although as I caught him wagering on the result beforehand, somehow I doubt it.”

Before Carnazan could respond, two voices called out:

“Mirko!”

“Ascalon!”

The first was Larien, and Mirko responded with a cheery wave; before registering that the second voice was Bartazan’s. He immediately set his countenance to gloomy.

“When you have finished ogling my niece, captain, perhaps I might have a word?”

“Of course, my lord.” Mirko could not repress the image of Bartazan’s ankles chasing Ansifer and Locapeste round his bedchamber and failed in his attempt to subdue a smirk.

“I fail to see the source of your amusement, captain. Serendipity, or should I say you, threw away the best chance of victory I have had for two years. Join me immediately in the ante-chamber!” said Bartazan, indicating the adjoining room.

Unfortunately the room was already occupied by Raïdis and Haïdis of Excelsior; they were engaged in earnest conversation with the hapless Liudas, who appeared not to have borne his error with fortitude. His flushed face, dishevelled garments and inane smirk indicated an excessive acquaintance with Coverciano’s wine.

Bartazan bowed without warmth to Raïdis and Haïdis. Raïdis grinned back with something marginally short of insolence. “My lord.”

“Gentlemen, would you be so good as to give us privacy? I am keen to discuss events with Ascalon and Liudas.”

Raïdis uttered a hoot of laughter. “No doubt you are, my lord. My only surprise is that overseer Orstas is not here to add his own contribution — perhaps with the snib.”

Bartazan sniffed with probably unaffected hauteur. “Be that as it may, I require the use of this chamber. You will oblige me by quitting it immediately.”

“I’m sure I would,” said Raïdis, “if my intent were to oblige you in the first place. Since I feel no such urge, I think I will remain here. What do you say, Haïdis?”

“Yes.”

Bartazan glowered. Neither by temperament nor by station was he a man who brooked insolence or dissent.

“Ascalon! Liudas! Leave the room to these louts. If we must transact our business outside we shall.”

“Well said, my lord!” cried Liudas, only to be silenced by a terrible frown.

Mirko and Liudas followed Bartazan through an archway into a pleasant garden, where liveried footmen served spiced red wine and piquant savoury larks. Liudas reached out for a goblet, but desisted when Mirko shook his head. Mirko felt that the interview would prove difficult enough, without Liudas any drunker than he already was.

“Well, Captain Ascalon,” said Bartazan as he seated himself on a bench. “I would be interested to hear your observations on the race and its immediate aftermath.”

“All in all, my lord,” began Mirko. “I detected cautious grounds for encouragement. The crew’s physical strength has clearly improved, and under more sympathetic oversight, the raggedness which marred the latter part of the race could have been avoided.”

“You apportion the blame for the fiasco solely to the absent Orstas, then?” asked Bartazan as he crunched into a lark.

“I would not use the term ‘fiasco’ at all,” said Mirko. “Certainly not in the context of a fourth-placed finish which exceeded all expectations.”

“Enough!” cried Bartazan in rising displeasure, nearly choking on his lark. “Approaching the Rock you had the race won! From here, fourth place is a travesty, an abortion, a —”

Mirko interjected smoothly, “Approaching the Rock we were under considerable pressure from Dragonchaser, a galley plainly able to sustain a higher tempo. Our only hope of winning was to go round ahead, and Liudas took a gamble to see we did. It failed, but a more conservative approach would have been no more successful, I think.”

Bartazan looked unconvinced by Mirko’s analysis.

“You might also care to explain the unorthodox circumstances under which my overseer disembarked Serendipity.”

“The situation is essentially straightforward,” said Mirko as he took a sip of his wine, nodding in appreciation. “You will remember that I had previously alluded to significant defects in Orstas’ performance: in the event these defects became even more manifest that I had suspected, and I was left with no recourse but to discharge him on the spot. Since his abilities were so negligible, I can only assume you had employed him as a favour to friend or creditor; and I apologise for any embarrassment arising.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Bartazan was speechless. While he attempted to formulate a suitable reply, a figure crashed through the undergrowth: Orstas, if possible even drunker than Liudas.

“I hear you, Ascalon!” he cried. “ ‘Discharged!’ I was employed by my lord Bartazan, and only he can discharge me!”

“Orstas!” said Liudas placatingly. “Perhaps we can discuss this under less fraught circumstances.”

In a single movement Orstas turned and landed a flawless punch on Liudas’ nose, with a consequent eruption of blood. Liudas lay on his back in the flower-bed, looking stupidly up at his assailant.

Orstas stood over him, veins standing out from his forehead, alcoholic fumes reeking from his person. “If it wasn’t for you, pansy-boy, none of this would have happened! If you’d only managed to get round the Rock, I’d not have had to push the slaves so hard. And then that whoreson Ascalon would —”

“That’s enough, Orstas,” said Mirko, guiding him away from Liudas, whose efforts to rise were proving ineffectual.

Orstas shook off Mirko’s arm and squared up to him. “You caught me off guard today, pimp. Perhaps now we’ll see who’s the better man — if you dare.”

Mirko laughed in open contempt. Orstas was taller and broader, but while the drink might dull his pain, it would also have destroyed his reflexes. And he doubted strongly that Orstas was used to fighting anyone who might hit back.

Goaded, Orstas launched a long right hand at Mirko’s chin. Mirko swayed out of the way, feinted with his own right hand, and tripped Orstas into the flower-bed, where he sprawled alongside Liudas, with no greater dignity.

Crawling to his feet, he rose to face Bartazan, who had been watching the proceedings in stunned silence, a lark halfway to his mouth.

“My lord,” said Orstas. “I am your loyal overseer. I do not take orders from Ascalon, and most certainly he does not discharge me.”

Mirko said: “For once Orstas and I agree. He does not take orders from me — in fact he disobeyed my order to go to Tempo Eight this afternoon. And, regrettably, neither do I discharge him. You have a choice to make, my lord.”

Bartazan’s pale blue eyes were cold. Mirko did not think he was a sentimental man.

“Constables!” he called, and two Peremptor’s men appeared with amazing facility. “Escort the Gentle Orstas from the premises if you please. He no longer carries the status of overseer, and as such represents a gatecrasher.”

Orstas gave an incoherent bellow as the two guards frog-marched him from the scene. Looking back over his shoulder, he called: “I won’t forget this — either of you!”

Mirko had already turned away. He gave his hand to Liudas and pulled him upright from his botanical bed. “Go home, Liudas,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Dabbing at his nose, Liudas left with what dignity he could manage. At least, thought Mirko, he was leaving without an involuntary escort.

Bartazan and Mirko were alone in the garden.

“Do not think to dictate my policy, Ascalon,” said Bartazan. “In effect you gave me an ultimatum over Orstas. Remember who is the Elector here.”

“My lord,” said Mirko. “It had become essential that Orstas be discharged; plainly you had reached the same conclusion, or you would not have done so. If you want to moralise after the event, of course you may. The fact is that you’ve greatly helped your chances today.”

Bartazan sniffed. “You now have the problem of finding a new overseer.”

“I intend to take on the role myself.”

“Can you handle slaves?” Bartazan asked sceptically.

“I can handle seamen. Two of the crew are Garganet officers. I can hardly do worse than Orstas, at any rate.”

Bartazan pursed his lips. “What next? Don’t expect me to get rid of Liudas too.”

“We both know Liudas isn’t up to the job. The Hanspar isn’t a difficult race to steer; it only has one turn and he botched that.”

“Liudas’ father is a client of mine — the Elector Nool Ipolitas, on whose vote I will depend in the election. I can hardly dispense with his son under those circumstances.”

“I thought if you won the Margariad you didn’t need to worry about cheeseparing votes.”

“Ha! There you have me!” barked Bartazan with an unexpected laugh. “If you could guarantee me victory with the right helm, of course Liudas would be out on his ear.”

“I can guarantee you victory under those circumstances,” said Mirko with a slight smile. Bartazan looked around sharply.

“It’s simple,” said Mirko. “Get me Drallenkoop, and I’ll win you the Margariad!”

“You never know when to stop, Ascalon! Since I assume you have no constructive suggestions to make on this score, Liudas remains. Presumably you can teach him some of the rudiments of steering.”

Mirko shrugged, emptying his goblet. “What I can’t teach him is how not to panic when Dragonchaser’s coming up on his outside. The best he can aspire to is competence; élan will always be beyond him.”

Bartazan had no answer. After a pause, he said: “Be honest, Ascalon. How did we really do today? Might we have won?”

Mirko paused and turned to face Bartazan. “We did better than I thought we would; but we had all the luck going and still came fourth. We had a good draw when Dragonchaser and Excelsior didn’t; and Animaxian’s Glory blocked the field so effectively that we should have been away and clear. And it wasn’t enough. Make no mistake, even if we’d got round the Rock first, Dragonchaser would still have caught us. We’d have held off Morvellos Devil and maybe Excelsior. For this early in the season, we didn’t do too badly; but we are nowhere near Dragonchaser.”

Bartazan nodded slowly. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, there are several Electors I need to flatter.”

He turned and walked back towards the palace. Mirko waited a few minutes, and then set off to find Larien.

CHAPTER 6

By the time Mirko had returned to the banqueting hall, Larien was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was surprised to find himself approached by Drallenkoop. Mirko inclined his head. “Well raced today, sir.”

Drallenkoop waved the compliment away. “It was no sort of race at all. Animaxian’s Glory ruined it as a spectacle; Jukundas should be suspended for such idiocy.”

“If you thought Animaxian’s helmsman was bad …”

Drallenkoop laughed, reaching for a goblet of fire-wine. “Admittedly Liudas did not enjoy the best of races — an event which can hardly have surprised you.”

“It’s hard to helm a tired crew, especially under pressure from a faster boat. Liudas was not as culpable as they make out.”

“You hardly need to spar with me, Ascalon. I know a helming error when I see one; I’ve even made a few myself. You didn’t race badly today, though.”

“Candidly, Serendipity performed above expectations; given certain reforms I want to implement, we may yet be competitive this season.”

“Well said, sir!” cried Larien, who had approached from some place of concealment. “I enjoyed the race today. I’m sure we’ll see better performances later in the season — maybe even in the Margariad!”

Mirko smiled. “You are too kind, my lady. I hope Serendipity can repay your faith — and of course your uncle’s.”

Drallenkoop drained his goblet with a flourish. He was the kind of man, though Mirko, who would hold his drink well. “I’ll bid you good night — my father has promised his friends I will be on hand to recount the day’s story. My lady; Ascalon.” He bowed and went on his way.

Mirko found himself alone with Larien, a state which excited conflicting emotions. ‘N’, for whatever purposes of her own, had enjoined him to make the most of Larien’s company; and for a fact he felt his heart beating faster.

Larien took his arm. “Shall we take a turn around the gardens, Mirko? Coverciano has many secret places to enjoy.”

“I’d be delighted, my lady.”

“Mirko, as a Garganet there is no compulsion on you to refer to me as ‘my lady’. An Elector’s niece is only important to a Paladrian. It would be so much nicer if you called me ‘Larien’.”

Mirko couldn’t remember ever inviting to Larien to use his first name; he did not feel inclined to object.

As they walked through a secluded bower away from the main hall, Mirko appraised Larien from the corner of his eye. What was it Liudas had said before his first visit to Formello? ‘Women rather comelier than you are accustomed to’? He might have been a disastrous helm, but it seemed he had a hidden talent for understatement.

“I’m sure you’re thinking what a terrible frump I look,” said Larien. “Men as quiet as you are usually thinking something to my detriment.”

“If they are so quiet, how do you know what they are thinking?”

Larien laughed her clear high laugh. “All I do is fish harmlessly for a compliment, and you tyrannise my speech.”

“If you’d wanted to know what I thought of your gown, you need only have asked,” smiled Mirko. “I will volunteer my opinion that the sublime quality of the fabric is matched only by the beauty of its wearer.”

Larien laughed again and touched her throat. “So you are a courtier after all! Liudas himself could not have summoned such aplomb.”

“In truth,” said Mirko, “it is a skill I have had little opportunity to develop or practice. I find that your person …inspires … such flights.”

“I begin to think, Mirko,” she said with a widening smile, “that there is more to you than meets the eye. You have even managed to hold your own with my uncle so far.”

“Bartazan’s aims are simple and straightforward, if largely unrealistic. Dealing with such transparent motivations is by no means difficult. I confess to more perplexity when called upon to entertain a charming and beautiful woman of mysterious potentials.”

“Why Mirko! I believe you are making love to me!”

Mirko flushed. Larien was far too mercurial to be dealt with safely. Not for the first time, he wished ‘N’ had told him everything she knew.

“I am simply practising the skills that it seems are such an important part of Paladrian society.”

Larien leaned towards him, and Mirko caught a delicate scent of perfume. “So you do not in fact find me the most fascinating woman of your acquaintance?”

“I … I don’t recall making any such —”

“Oh, Mirko, you showed so much promise in the ways of the courtier. I had hoped to be able to discuss fine fabrics and puppies, as I do with Liudas. But it seems you are just not suited to such things; evidently I will have to find some other use for you.”

Mirko felt that he did well to suppress a leer at this point. “My talents are by and large limited to nautical matters — and even in that area they are finite.”

Larien looked up into his eyes, her cheeks flushed with the wine. “You raced well today, Mirko. Liudas and Orstas are worse than useless. Given such clods you did well.”

Mirko shrugged. “We win or lose together — except Orstas, in the future.”

“You will do well this year — as long as you don’t think you can beat Drallenkoop.”

Mirko turned sharply. “I thought you were supposed to be encouraging me.”

Larien slipped her arm into his as they walked. “And so I am, dear Mirko. Dragonchaser is far and away the best galley that has ever raced: Drallenkoop is a peerless helm, and he has good, strong slaves. If you measure your success against Dragonchaser, you will always be disappointed. Accept that your goals must be more modest, and you can still take satisfaction from the year.”

“Your uncle has employed me specifically to win the Margariad. Much of my reward is dependent on doing so. And what kind of man would I be to accept defeat after two races of the season?”

“Mirko, please believe me when I say I am thinking of you. I’d happily see my uncle come in last every race this year — but I am wishing you do well. Just don’t set your sights too high; it will only end in cruel disappointment.”

“Are we still talking about galleys?”

Larien disengaged her arm and turned away, looking down. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation. I need to find my brother. I will see you soon.”

With that she was gone, leaving Mirko staring into the manzipar trees in the middle distance.

Mirko found that he had little further appetite for the Peremptor’s Regatta Banquet; in addition he remembered that he was supposed to meet ‘N’ at the Waterside. Without so much as a glance at the other guests, he walked back out through the main hall and set off for the Old Town.

At the Waterside nothing had changed. ‘N’ was nowhere to be seen; even taking into account her remarkable powers of concealment, it seemed that he had been stood up. He grimaced; he had enough good information to have expected a decent pouch of coin.

“Panduletta,” he called, “a mug of Widdershins, if you please.”

“On the house,” she said as she filled a battered pewter vessel. “Your fame has brought in a lot of customers in tonight.”

“We only came fourth.”

“Not that — you thrashed Orstas! In this part of town you need never pay for a drink again. Every week he’s down on the docks, going with the girls and never paying — and rough with it. Thinking about it, it’s not just drinks you don’t need to pay for …”

Mirko laughed.

“Don’t get too cosy, hero,” said a voice in his ear. It was, of course, ‘N’. She had timed her arrival with exactitude. Tonight she wore a long black cloak completely covering all her other garments, although the night was some way short of cold. “Get me some beer; I’ll be in the corner.”

Panduletta filled another mug. “Too snooty for you,” she said.

“If she was ‘for me’ I’d agree with you,” replied Mirko. “She’s just someone I’m doing business with.” He passed over a coin to pay for ‘N’s beer.

By the time Mirko reached the corner booth ‘N’ had arranged herself artfully in maximum shadow. Her dark eyes were all but invisible.

“Do you have anything for me?”

Mirko reached out the letter he had concealed on his person. “You’ll find this is what you want — and I’ve learned more.”

He outlined the previous evening’s events, giving full weight to Bartazan’s bedchamber lubricities. ‘N’ laughed in unaffected mirth; this was a new ‘N’ he had not seen before.

“You’ve done well,” she said. “I don’t know who the man reporting to Bartazan was; the evidence would suggest a member of Giedrus’ household. Now if we could find out who that conspirator was, we’d have yet another lever.”

She swigged at her beer and threw her hood back. Her hair was clean and seemingly scented. “And what about the lovely Larien? I was right about her, wasn’t I?”

“Up to a point,” admitted Mirko. “She has been cordial — much more than cordial — both yesterday and today. How much is play and how much real I wouldn’t care to speculate.”

‘N’ smiled. “Why speculate at all? Just take events at face value.”

“It’s not quite that simple. Tonight I seemed to go too far, although I don’t entirely know what I did. She is profoundly — disorienting, I suppose.”

“It may be that the word you’re looking for is ‘female’. Do you like her?”

Mirko sighed and took a long swill of beer. “ ‘Like’ doesn’t seem to come into it. She doesn’t inspire such commonplace emotions. She is fascinating, alluring, beautiful of course; but I get no sense of her as a person. She loves galley racing and her brother; she appears to hate her uncle. Other than that, her preferences are wholly inscrutable.”

“She appears to have engaged your — attention. She’ll have you drooling like Liudas at this rate.”

“It’s not like that at all with Liudas!” said Mirko heatedly. “She thinks he’s a — “

‘N’ laughed. “Mirko! I am joking — up to a point. It does no harm to flirt with her a bit, you know. As long as you’re careful.”

To Mirko the observation admitted of more than one interpretation. This time he decided to let it pass.

“I suppose you want paying,” she said.

“That is the basis of our arrangement.”

‘N’ reached a pouch out of her cloak. “There’ll be more next time. By the way, I assume your remark about a bonus for not winning the Margariad was a jocularity.”

“Why should it be? You want me to stop Serendipity winning; in doing so I lose 12,000 valut — an amount which would get me a nice estate in the Emmenrule.”

‘N’ leaned back in her hard seat and laughed. “The fact that you cannot win is neither here nor there, I suppose?”

“What makes you think I can’t? I’ve got rid of Orstas, which is a good start.”

“If there’s one thing I know about, it’s galley racing — it’s in my blood. Serendipity has no chance at all of winning the Margariad. Your slaves are weaker than Drallenkoop’s, and Liudas is not a competent helm. Add in Drallenkoop’s peerless knowledge of the tides and currents, and you are not in the same race.”

Mirko frowned, although the analysis substantially coincided with his own. “In that case, ‘N’, why are you bothering to pay me at all?”

“I really don’t need to tell you anything.”

“I tend to work better when I’m trusted.”

“You’re hired help.”

Mirko flinched. “I’m a Garganet officer, not some periwigged waiter.”

“Were a Garganet officer; there’s a distinction.”

Mirko stood up angrily. “Tell me what you like, as long as you pay me. Nothing could reinforce my degraded estate more than having to take insolence from you.”

“I’m sorry, Ascalon. I meant no disrespect.” Mirko sat down heavily. “One day perhaps you’ll tell me about — why you left Garganet,” she said.

“I can’t imagine you don’t know,” snapped Mirko. “Your research is normally assiduous.”

‘N’ brushed a stray hair out of her eye with a characteristic gesture. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to quarrel. You have undertaken your assignments effectively so far. But I am playing for high stakes.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Mirko said: “I can’t imagine your job is easy — or why you do it.”

“I’ll tell you a little of the background,” she said leaning forward, “so you can see why I need you.”

“Go on.”

“It won’t surprise you to know that a large number of people don’t want Bartazan to win the election. That starts with Giedrus, the current Peremptor, of course; takes in those factions among the Electors who could expect to be suppressed, such as Drallenkoop’s father Koopendrall; those loyal by interest to Giedrus such as Norvydas; but also comprises various vested interests in the city. Suppose you held the tax-collection monopoly like Vilgaudas? You wouldn’t be keen to see Bartazan come to power and redistribute the monopolies.”

“True.”

“Let’s just say that I work for someone who would be materially inconvenienced by ‘Peremptor Bartazan’. Bartazan’s hopes of victory depend on one of two contingencies. The first, and essentially least problematical, is to win the Margariad. His popularity in the city would soar; many of the Electors are swayed by such things; others would be genuinely impressed if Serendipity won. In what promises to be a close election, a victory in the Margariad would bring him into port. Surely you knew that?”

“Yes, Bartazan and others have made the same point.”

“I’ve explained that Dragonchaser’s eminence makes such a strategy impractical, although he loses nothing by trying it.”

“I am surprised Bartazan does not consider sabotaging Dragonchaser.”

“The ploy would be transparent; neither would it work. He would lose to Excelsior or Morvellos Devil instead. So that leaves the political angle. Bartazan’s ‘secret source’ appears to believe that Giedrus currently holds a majority; an analysis with which I concur. He will attempt to bribe, flatter or otherwise suborn the remaining votes. You can tell me his plots and ploys. As Serendipity’s trainer, and a foreigner, you are both close to the centre of events and above — or rather beneath — suspicion.”

“Thank you,” said Mirko. “If you’d told me all that at the beginning we need never have quarrelled.”

‘N’ smiled and drained her mug. “Get me another of these,” she said, “and we’re friends again. Keep your eyes open, and soon I may have another job for you.”

CHAPTER 7

The next morning was market day in the Old Town. Mirko found himself with the unusual luxury of gold in his purse, and decided to repair various deficiencies in his attire before attending to training in the afternoon. A breakfast of hot fried whelks bought from a seafront stall made his mood even sunnier. Around the docks many people nodded cordially: galley-racers were always popular, and one who had trounced his overseer was a celebrity.

Galley-racing seemed to involve an inordinate amount of banqueting, and Mirko was keen that neither his own lustre nor that of Serendipity should be tarnished by shabby garments. Larien, too, would no doubt prefer to see him in more modish garb.

The booth of Evaldas, “Appareliste to the Electors”, seemed to offer the most satisfactory range of stuffs, although prices were by no means economical.

“Sir, may I help you?” asked an elderly man with a tall auburn wig which would have appeared unwise on a courtier many years younger.

“I am looking — at relatively modest expense — to create a wardrobe which will allow me to mix in decent society without embarrassment.”

“Since I am Evaldas, you have begun your programme the right way. First, we must establish two essential parameters: what you consider to be ‘decent society’; and a quantitative assessment of ‘modest expense’.”

Mirko flipped the last whelk from his portion into the air and caught it in his mouth. “My two most recent social functions were a soirée at Formello and last night’s banquet at Coverciano. ‘Modest expense’ comprehends a sum which does not provoke me into pitching you into the docks, as I did to my overseer yesterday.”

Evaldas’ eyebrows advanced up his forehead. “You must, then, be the gallant Captain Ascalon!”

“I no longer use the term ‘captain’, but – yes.”

“You can be assured of my best attention, sir,” said Evaldas as he flapped away two assistants who had descended in competitive obsequiousness.

Mirko had not realised quite how much was involved in selecting a new wardrobe. Evaldas provided a ready fund of advice, but his tastes ran towards the flamboyant, and Mirko was frequently obliged to check his enthusiasm.

“We will save time,” said Mirko, “if we rule out of consideration immediately all shoes with curled toes. Frills, ruffs and fancies of all sorts can also be disregarded. I am not excessively vain, and require a style of address which implies sober, respectable competence rather than giddy preening.”

Evaldas pursed his lips, absentmindedly adjusting his wig which had slipped from the level. “Your views are unorthodox. In good society one does not generally wish to convey the impression of having arrived straight from the plough or the docks.”

“I did not notice Drallenkoop in pumps or glitter-britches last night.”

Evaldas sniffed disdainfully, an effect somewhat undermined by the hawking cough which followed. “My lord Drallenkoop achieves his success in society through his racing prowess. Were he judged on the quality of his wardrobe no doubt his status would be very different.”

“Evaldas, I do not imagine that my own status will ever rest on my garments. Simply array me in good quality apparel which emphasises timelessness over modishness.”

With a sigh Evaldas pulled out a measure and began to chart Mirko’s dimensions. Some while later Mirko left with Evaldas having drawn up the patterns for a suite of garments which largely met his requirements: two pairs of good leather boots, two pairs of breeches (one black and one white), a scarlet frock coat with gold frogging (about which Mirko retained considerable reservations), a more sober plum and umber coat, and another which cleverly incorporated the Azure of Bartazan House. Evaldas had also provided a range of extravagant neckerchiefs as well as some honest white shirts. Mirko had drawn the line at perfumed white gloves despite Evaldas’ blandishments. Haggling had been minimal; a further reference to Orstas had been sufficient to extract what seemed a competitive price.

Time was limited for patronage of the other stalls. Mirko invested in a moderately expensive bracelet for Larien and, on a capricious impulse, a pewter mug for ‘N’ since she seemed to enjoy drinking at his expense. He also bought a Neidel dagger, the black hilt exquisitely chased with golden filigree.

Mirko had time only to snatch a half-loaf of bread and a mug of beer for his lunch before setting off for afternoon training at the Urmaleškas barracks. He arrived to find the slaves lounging around under the negligent supervision of a temporary overseer from Bartazan’s household. Liudas, no doubt nursing his injuries or a hangover, was not in evidence.

Mirko discharged Bartazan’s functionary and addressed the men on the sandy drill compound.

“You will notice that neither Orstas nor Liudas is among us today. Following an incident at Coverciano last night, I can confirm that Orstas has been discharged and no longer represents the House of Bartazan in any capacity. Liudas sustained an injury at the same function and has been excused duty today.”

A cheer went up from the majority of the men. Mirko noticed that neither of the Garganets, Florian and Trajian, joined in with the general applause. Whatever Mirko did, he would always be a renegade with these two. It was an unsatisfactory situation; both were good rowers and influential among the crew.

Trajian called out: “Who is our new overseer?”

“The post is currently vacant. In the interim I will undertake the duties of the post myself. Augenis, you will put the men through the physical routines this afternoon. Skaidrys, Florian, Trajian, Jenx: you are excused training this afternoon, since I wish to discuss race tactics with you.”

The four slaves in question raised themselves with little enthusiasm.

“Skaidrys,” called Mirko. “How long is it since you drank good beer?”

Skaidrys considered for a moment. “Five years or so, I’d say. My lord Bartazan decreed a festival when the Lady Inuela fell pregnant — not that it did any good, of course.”

“Today, then, is your lucky day. We will wander into the Old Town and ponder over a mug or two.”

Skaidrys and Jenx appeared heartened by this news; although in the case of Jenx this was purely relative, since the falcx he had taken yesterday had the effect of depressing his spirits today. Neither Florian nor Trajian appeared seduced by the prospect of beer. Sullenly they pulled on their Azure shirts and set off for the town.

Their moods improved as they walked unshackled through the Old Town. By the time they had arrived at the Waterside they were at least no longer displaying overt hostility.

“Panduletta!” called Mirko on entering the tavern. “Five mugs of Widdershins, if you please.” Panduletta’s young son, who answered to no name more grandiose than ‘Boy’, brought the mugs over, and Mirko said nothing while the crewmen quaffed their first draughts. Even Florian and Trajian appeared impressed.

“There are things we need to discuss,” said Mirko after a decent pause. “The four of you are the most influential crewmen, both on and off the boat. If we’re going to win the Margariad, I need your help; both to establish a winning strategy, and to carry the rest of them along.”

Trajian smilingly shook his head. “Do you seriously believe we can win?”

“Of course. What can Drallenkoop do that we can’t?”

Florian raised a didactic finger. “Firstly, he can steer accurately. Secondly, draw on the experience of winning. Thirdly, call on the complete loyalty of his crew. None of those observations applies to Serendipity.”

Trajian smirked; Skaidrys and Jenx concentrated on their beer.

Mirko signalled for more beer. “Let us leave aside the question of helmsmanship for now. If only experienced winners could ever win, Dragonchaser would win the Margariad for the next thousand years; a contingency I find remote. If we race better than Dragonchaser, we will beat her.”

Florian shrugged. “Point three?”

“You suggest that Bartazan fails to command the same commitment from his crew as Drallenkoop?”

“Not just Bartazan. The crew are no more keen to row for you; while Dragonchaser’s overseer Mindaugas is popular among the men.”

“The crew seemed happy enough when I discharged Orstas yesterday. The only ones who don’t want to row for me are you and Trajian. The others recognise the better and fairer treatment they’ve had since I’ve been involved.”

“If that was so obvious,” said Trajian, “you wouldn’t be needing to belabour the point now.”

“Skaidrys, Jenx: your views would be of interest here.”

Jenx, feeling the unaccustomed effect of beer piled upon yesterday’s falcx, exclaimed aloud. “For a fact Orstas was a miserable bastard. But all I do is beat the rhythm. I can do that for you or for Orstas.”

“Skaidrys?”

Skaidrys was not by and large the most elastic of intellects. He spoke rarely, but his opinion was generally respected.

“Here’s how it is for me, captain,” he said, as Mirko, Florian and Trajian all winced at his use of the title. “You’ve treated us more fairly since you’ve come aboard. We’ve had better food, better rest, better conditions; and last night they were fairly singing your praises for the way you dealt with Orstas. But when it comes down to it, suppose we do improve, pull it off, win the Margariad: who benefits? Me? No, I just get to carry on rowing, the same as ever, until I get too old. Then it’s general service or the smithy. You? You’ll probably get some kind of bonus, enough for you to go off and forget about us. But it’s Bartazan who really wins: he’ll be Peremptor, he’ll have won the Margariad, and he’ll think it’s all down to him. It won’t help any of us. Deep down, sir, the men would rather Drallenkoop won the race than Bartazan.”

“Thank you, Skaidrys. I respect your honesty. Do the rest of you agree?”

“I don’t care,” said Jenx.

Florian said, “Drallenkoop’s a slave-owner just as much as Bartazan. He doesn’t deserve to win any more than anyone else. They say he treats his slaves humanely; well, he shouldn’t have slaves in the first place, so it’s no great credit. Naturally I hate Bartazan, a man who claims he owns me; and it’s no secret that it’s a dishonour for me to serve under you.”

“Trajian?”

Trajian’s grey eyes focused on the ceiling. “Florian perhaps puts it more strongly than I would have, but essentially our views are the same.”

Mirko drained his mug and called for some pickled herring.

“Our goals would not appear to coincide,” he said. “I am employed by Bartazan to win the Margariad, an objective you seem to consider at best trivial, at worst misguided. I have a small number of options. One is that I say to Bartazan: ‘This crew is intractable; no matter how I drill them they lack the will to improve. In all honour I must resign my post and allow you to select a new candidate.’ The other option is that I convince you, by whatever means, that your better interests are served by making a serious effort. Does this seem a reasonable analysis?”

Trajian nodded. Florian shrugged.

“The first option is the one that occasions me the least inconvenience. I lose some of my fee, but I am saved the vexations of working with clay. For you, however, I suspect it is the least satisfactory outcome. Who will Bartazan select to superintend affairs? It’s unlikely to be someone with views as liberal as mine: inevitably you will be tyrannised and your condition will be as bad, or worse, as before I took over.”

Florian shook his head. “We stick with you so that our servitude will be a more comfortable indignity.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“The analysis is not entirely persuasive.”

“The four of you, unanimously, must decide here and now that you will back me. Otherwise I go to Bartazan this evening; tomorrow you may find Orstas your overseer.”

Skaidrys spoke. “I’ll row for you.”

Jenx: “I’ll beat for you.”

Florian and Trajian were silent. Finally Trajian said:

“After the race — can you get a message to Garganet? To say where we are.”

“I guarantee it.”

“Then I’m with you. I have to believe my family would get me out if they knew I was here.”

“Florian: it’s all down to you.”

Florian spat on the floor, attracting a scowl from Panduletta.

“I will row with full vigour; I will not intrigue against you; but my heart’s core remains my own. That’s my best offer.”

Mirko sighed. It would have to do. “That’s good enough for me, Florian. I know you will keep your word. Now, I have prepared some charts …”

It was rather later in the afternoon that Mirko and the crew emerged into the sunlight. Unusually for so late in the day, the market-place was still crowded. On the dais in the plaza normally reserved for political addresses stood a commanding figure in purple robes: a Public Declamator.

“ — and I present to you the following information, warranted accurate by the Elector Koopendrall! The following letter was sent by the Elector Bartazan to the Elector Chiess-Vervario:

Under the Grand Seal of Bartazan

At Formello

The 14th Day of Maio, Second Peremptorate of Giedrus, Fourth Year

My Lord Chiess-Vervario,

I am pleased to report that the person who has so vexed you has been apprehended…

Mirko did not need to listen further. His companions, however, were rapt, along with the crowd. The Public Declamator continued in his well-modulated tones. When he had finished the letter, he paused briefly.

“The Elector Koopendrall appends a commentary to this information, which I read as follows:

“The foregoing correspondence shows a great conspiracy against the state of Paladria. Bartazan, an Elector who aspires to the August Office, has immured in his private dungeons at Formello the person of Minalgas Inisse, the lover of the Elector Chiess-Vervario’s daughter Ratzendila; in so doing he hopes to secure Chiess-Vervario’s vote in the forthcoming Election. People of Paladria, I, Koopendrall ask you: can this be tolerated?”

The crowd was silent while it digested the information, the significance of which was largely lost on Mirko. As he looked quizzically at Florian, the crowd erupted into chants of ‘No!’, ‘Down with Bartazan!’ and ‘Koopendrall for Peremptor’.

Florian said: “Minalgas Inisse used to helm Animaxian’s Glory; at the same time he romanced the Elector Chiess-Vervario’s daughter — a circumstance which made Inisse tremendously popular with the crowd and Chiess-Vervario something of a laughing stock among the Electors, since Inisse was of no great pedigree. Then Inisse disappeared and —”

“Florian!” called Skaidrys in alarm. The crowd around them had started to mutter alarmingly.

“Azure! Azure! They’re Bartazan’s men!” cried one of the mob. Mirko realised that in their distinctive liveries their allegiance was clearly identifiable. “After them! Give ‘em a beating!”

“Run!” shouted Jenx, setting off at a canter. Any chance of talking their way out of this one was gone as the crowd surged after Jenx.

“Make for the Urmaleškas!” cried Mirko.

Mirko was fortunate that his knowledge of the Old Town’s byways was extensive. Quickly he plunged down a side alley, whose narrowness encumbered the pursuing mass. They seemed all but clear when Skaidrys, not the nimblest of men, stumbled over a pail of night-soil, sending a foul stinking mass across the street. The mob was on Skaidrys before he could rise. Mirko was grateful for the dagger he had bought that morning; drawing quickly, he stabbed the first assailant in the side. The man gave a sigh and sank to the ground. The mob stepped back when they saw what had happened.

Trajian and Florian stepped up to Mirko’s shoulder, followed by Jenx. Skaidrys leapt to his feet and joined his comrades.

“The first man to step forward dies!” called Mirko. “We are going about our business in peace; turn and go!”

The mob suffered from a lack of leadership; now it was forced to think, indecision was the result. Mirko began to hope. From the crowd a man stepped forward, poorly nourished but with wild eyes.

“There are five of you!” he shouted. “There are five hundred of us!”

“You have only one life to waste, fellow! Be assured you will die first!”

Mirko felt this advice should have proved placatory, but the man let out a great roar. “Die, Bartazan dogs!” and he surged forward, followed by his peers.

Mirko lashed out with his knife and the man fell; Skaidrys buffeted the next and stunned him; Florian dragged down a rope which had been supporting laundry, which confused the mob as the leaders became entangled in sheets and undergarments.

“Run!” called Florian and once again they were off; but the Urmaleškas was far away.

“Make for the tavern!” called Mirko, and with pursuit hot on their heels they emerged onto the dock-front. From an upper window at the Waterside a bow sang and the lead pursuer fell, an arrow in his throat. Instantly the bow was redrawn and another man fell dead. The mob stopped; Mirko and his comrades gained the sanctuary of the tavern. Panduletta immediately barred the door.

“Mirko!” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes — for now,” said Mirko with a reasonable approximation of calm.

“I’ve sent Boy to fetch the Peremptor’s Constables — they’ll disperse the crowd.”

“Good work! Who’s the archer? He’s a deadly shot.”

“ ‘He’ is your lady friend — the snooty one. She told me she could shoot, and I didn’t believe her. And I still don’t know how she knew she’d have to.”

Mirko laughed. “There isn’t much she doesn’t know about. Now, while we wait, how about a few mugs of Widdershins?”

Panduletta brought over the beer. “You were brave today,” said Trajian to Mirko.

“I used to skipper a Garganet galley,” sighed Mirko. “Whatever you think, that’s no job for a coward or a weakling.”

“Maybe there’s more to it all than meets the eye,” said Trajian. Florian ostentatiously looked away; Skaidrys and Jenx appeared uninterested.

“Maybe there is, Trajian. The matter is of no consequence.”

Trajian shrugged.

Mirko called over to Panduletta. “Where is our friend?”

“She gave instructions that you go up and see her once you remembered to ask about her — alone.”

Mirko smiled. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mirko made his way up a deeply unsafe set of stairs, narrow and uneven. He knocked at the room where he judged ‘N’ must be and entered without waiting for an answer.

‘N’ stood by the window, a small bow negligently held in one hand. She turned at Mirko’s approach, her dark eyes sparkling. “Ascalon,” she said. “You had a narrow escape.”

“I noticed. Your archery is surprisingly proficient.”

“We all have hidden talents; and I practise.”

Mirko sat on the grimy pallet which passed for the bed. “I’m grateful for your intervention.”

‘N’ made an airy gesture. “I got you into trouble in the first place; anyone in the Azure when that letter came out was likely to be unpopular. I just made sure I knew where you were when the Public Declamator started.”

“That’s almost sentimental of you, ‘N’”

‘N’ laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself — I’ve invested my time and somebody else’s money to get you where you are. I’d hate to start again. Add in the fact that you’re shaping up promisingly — it’s self-interest.”

“I’m glad we understand that,” said Mirko, suppressing a grin. “And what about this ‘somebody else’? Right now, Koopendrall looks a good bet.”

“You still have much to learn,” said ‘N’. “Just because Koopendrall laid a deposition with the Public Declamator doesn’t mean I work for him. Koopendrall doesn’t mind having his name associated with a statement like that — but that need not suggest he was behind the espionage.”

“What about Minalgas Inisse?”

“I wouldn’t give a price on him surviving the night. He was a useful hostage, securing Chiess-Vervario’s vote. Now that his presence is known, Bartazan has no need to keep him alive.”

“You don’t seem worried.”

“People die. He should have known better.”

“Better than what?”

“Sleeping with an Elector’s daughter, if you really want to know. There are some things you don’t do.”

“You’re encouraging me to sleep with an Elector’s niece.”

“That’s different - you’re getting paid.”

Mirko shook his head. “At times you are almost likeable, ‘N’; and then you say something like that.”

‘N’ flushed. “You’re getting paid twice, in fact. You don’t care who’s paying you to spy on Bartazan; you cannot moralise to me.”

“Is that what you think?” demanded Mirko, nettled. “You really needn’t have bothered saving my life if I’m so mercenary. I’m finished with you, ‘N’. Keep your gold; I’m going back to Serendipity and we’re going to win the Margariad. And before then I’m going to surprise you.”

“Mirko! Don’t be such a —”

But Mirko was already on his way down the stairs.

“Florian! Trajian! Skaidrys! Jenx! We have work to do! Panduletta, get us some old clothes, if you please.”

“What is this?” asked Florian.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” said Mirko. “It’s a long story.”

CHAPTER 8

Three hours later the five men stood at the base of Formello’s imposing walls. All had swords, which would mean death for the slaves if they were caught: Mirko, theoretically at least, as a free man would be exempt from such a penalty. He was not eager, however, to argue the niceties with Bartazan should events run awry.

Cloaked in the dark, their faces concealed by dominoes, they were inconspicuous against even the most alert watchers; and as Mirko had noted on his previous visits, the guards were more noteworthy for the brilliance of their uniforms than their perceptions.

As they huddled down against the base of the walls for concealment, Florian said: “You are dependent on the quality of your informant. If you are misinformed, we cannot even enter Formello – or worse, we may enter and find conditions are not as you were told.”

“A degree of risk is inevitable in such an enterprise,” said Mirko sharply. “If the possibility of danger alarms you, you may return to the barracks.”

Florian scowled. “There is no merit in foolhardiness for its own sake. The scheme you have outlined is contingent on the accuracy of your information. I would have arranged affairs differently.”

“You are no position to arrange affairs at all. If you wish you may stand lookout.”

“I think not. I prefer you where I can see you.”

With an urgent whisper Skaidrys interjected. “Shh! Someone is on the walls.”

Looking up, Mirko saw he was correct. Even in the wan moonlight, the red livery of a castle guard was evident. He had not expected patrols of the outer walls – they had been deserted when he had been in this part of the castle with Larien.

The guard stepped to the edge of the wall above them and peered out into the night. Mirko surreptitiously drew his cloak around him. What is he looking for?

Perplexity was resolved when the guard fumbled at his breeches and, shortly thereafter, launched a stream of urine from the castle walls: he had merely been looking for a place to relieve himself. Unfortunately the trajectory of his relief ended directly upon Trajian’s head; he jerked aside in disgust but was unable to move away for fear of alerting the guard.

Once the guard had moved away Trajian hissed a range of complaints to a largely unsympathetic Mirko, who was comforted that the event had no more sinister import.

“Now,” he said, “the outer walls of Formello have sixteen sally-ports. We can be sure that the Ninth Port is unlocked.”

He stepped quickly and quietly across to the sally-port and gently turned the round metal handle. The door remained immovable.

“Let me,” said Jenx, always deft and dextrous. But he was no more successful: the sally-port remained obstinate, bolted on the inside.

Florian looked at Mirko with a scornful expression. Trajian said: “Where is the map?” and Mirko passed it across. Stepping back from the wall, Trajian pointed up at a tower on the inner set of walls. “Which tower is that?”

Mirko searched his memory. “That’s the Seraglio Tower: you can see the bars across the windows.”

“Then this is the Eighth Port,” said Trajian, pointing out the locations on the map. “The Ninth Port is this way.”

Mirko grinned ruefully. His vexation with ‘N’ was impeding his judgement. He walked along to the next sally-port. To his relief the door swung open. Thank you, Larien.

The five slipped in to the outer ward. Mirko was reliant on his previous observations that vigilance was limited inside the walls: Bartazan did not know that Larien left sally-ports in each wall unbolted, and did not conceive of rogues roaming the inner precincts at will.

“Remember,” said Mirko. “Only Jenx and Skaidrys are to speak to anyone inside Formello. Our Garganet accents are too distinctive.”

The good fortune of finding the sally-port unlocked was partly offset by its location. They were close to the Adamantine Tower, housing the quarters of Bartazan and his family, but diagonally opposite the Azure Tower, home of the dungeons. Mirko decided to slip past the Seraglio Tower, on past the Servants’ Tower before securing entry to the River Gatehouse. This was one of the dangerous moments of the plan, but once they were inside, access to the Azure Tower would be relatively easy.

Crouching close to the ground the intruders moved past the Seraglio Tower, not without glances of regret from the slaves, for whom female company was a long-forgotten luxury. As they approached the Servants’ Tower, Mirko heard footsteps and they pressed back against the wall. The figure went directly to the door, and as he opened it the light from within illuminated his face: Mirko saw distinctly the features of Bartazan’s factotum Kintautas. If he had only looked to his right he must surely have seen the intruders: the dominoes covering their faces would not have counteracted suspicion. The dominoes hampered Mirko from assessing his companions’ expressions, but Jenx’s grin had a nervous intensity: he forbore from mentioning that the dangerous parts of the enterprise had yet to begin.

As they crept past the Servants’ Tower – Mirko was confident that Kintautas’ inspection of the lower servants would be meticulous, and that he would not soon re-emerge – they saw before them the River Gatehouse. With its barbican and solid walls, this was where the bulk of Bartazan’s guards would be stationed. The trespassers’ only advantage was that visitors could be expected to approach over the Henderbridge and through the gate in the outer wall: the guards would be no more likely than Bartazan to suspect activity from within the castle.

Florian’s eyes looked out at Mirko from behind his domino, given extra intensity by the black cloth surrounding them. This was the part of the plan about which Florian had been the most sceptical. Mirko nodded to Skaidrys.

Although the burliest of rowers, Skaidrys had a naturally high voice, and now he forced it into an unnatural falsetto.

“Oh help me!” he called, in passable female tones. “Oh, outrage in the Servants’ Tower! Come now! Oh! Oh!”

A guard emerged from the barbican. “Who’s there?”

“Oh! Come quickly! Such a mischief! Such lewdness!”

“Back to your quarters!” called the guard. “What do I care?”

Hidden at the base of the wall, Mirko could see the guard, but he was too far away to be overpowered.

“Oh no!” cried Skaidrys from the shadows. “I couldn’t possibly! Must I call for the factotum?”

Another guard issued from the barbican. “Faltus, can you not shut that wench up! My nap is disturbed!”

Faltus stepped toward Skaidrys’ voice. “A pox on you, woman! We don’t care to be disturbed by your vapours! Do I have to chastise you myself?”

Mirko grinned at the man’s lack of gallantry, as he stepped from the darkness, slipped a cloth bag over his head and buffeted him into insensibility. Florian and Trajian stepped forth to administer the same treatment to his colleague.

Skaidrys continued his hooting, to further imprecations from within the barbican. Finally two more guards came out threatening to redefine ‘lewdness’ if silence were not immediately reimposed. The Garganets dealt with them in the same way as before. Skaidrys’ entreaties now drew no response, and Mirko surmised that the entire guard was incapacitated. Bartazan was slack indeed, to insist on a night-watch of only four men in the River Gatehouse. But retainers were expensive, and who would think to assault the fastness of Formello?

After securing the guards with gags and stout cord, the intruders stepped through the portal into the gatehouse, which was as empty as they had hoped. Mirko was encouraged by the laxness of the watch: Bartazan deployed more guards during the day, when they would impress visitors with their crisp uniforms, than at night when there was no prestige to be gained.

Mirko led his men along the corridor connecting the gatehouse to the Azure Tower. ‘N’s map indicated the location of the dungeons within the tower, and they found the cells without difficulty. In an antechamber in front of the cell area sat two guards, idly chatting over the remains of their supper. Torches flickered low in sconces around the wall. Mirko had hoped that the evening would pass without violence, but four guards had already been subdued by force, and there was nothing for it but a further dose for the two cell-men.

Mirko nodded at Trajian and Skaidrys, who leapt forward with quiet certainty. Skaidrys struck the first guard with a mighty fist; the second slumped to the hilt of Trajian’s sword.

“Jenx, Trajian: keep watch here,” said Mirko. “Fetch us if either of them stirs. Jenx, hand me the keys.”

Mirko, Florian and Skaidrys made their way down the corridor, opening the cell doors as they came to them. Some contained instruments of horrid purpose: these gave off an aura all but tangible. Most were empty; a few contained wretches in various stages of emaciation. Skaidrys studied each man carefully, shaking his head each time. “He’s not here. I’ve seen him on the water often enough.”

Mirko paused in thought as he considered his options. “Where else can he be?”

“Dead,” said Florian.

“Already? Even Bartazan would stop at cold steel when he will have to account for his actions. Remember, everyone knows he’s here.”

“I have other ideas,” said Florian. “Formello is reputed to have a series of oubliettes. Where better to hide a secret prisoner?” He turned to the man chained to the wall. “Are there any other cells? Any other prisoners away from this corridor?”

The man croaked, tongue swollen in a parched mouth, an infirmity with which Florian appeared to have little sympathy. “Did you hear me?” he hissed, shaking the man by the ragged shirt.

“Downstairs,” gasped the man. “There’s a trapdoor at the end of the corridor. They say there’s a special prisoner down there.”

“Yes!” exulted Florian, his eyes gleaming behind the domino. “Of course!”

“Thank you,” said Mirko. “I can’t release you as things stand; but if I’m successful Bartazan will find it difficult to maintain his dungeons.”

The man stared glassily ahead as Mirko, Florian and Skaidrys left the cell. Reaching the end of the corridor, they found the trapdoor carelessly concealed under some rough matting. Impatiently Skaidrys tried the keys, until the last one turned the lock. Mirko gingerly lifted the trapdoor; beneath was a gloom too profound for sight.

Skaidrys held his torch over the opening and peered down into the darkness. Below was an oubliette, a squalid pit which gave off a noisome odour of damp and worse; in the corner sat a figure in filthy garments, evidently discommoded by the light.

“Who are you?” the prisoner called up in a cracked voice.

“If you are Minalgas Inisse,” called Skaidrys softly, “we are your deliverers.”

Inisse stood up creakily and moved towards the centre of the cell. “That will suffice for now,” he said, his voice growing in power. “Kindly let down a rope and we will leave on the instant.”

Stepping back from the oubliette’s entrance so that Inisse would not hear his voice, Florian looked at Mirko. “You have the rope?”

“I used it to tie the guards in the gatehouse.”

Florian smirked. “So how do we raise Inisse from his cell?”

“Go and get the guards’ breeches. We can improvise rope of our own.”

Florian made his way back up the corridor and soon had shredded the breeches to make a serviceable line; Mirko dropped into the hole, made a loop under Inisse’s arms, and watched while Florian and Skaidrys hauled him aloft. At a signal from Mirko, Skaidrys went back to the antechamber to ensure the guards’ docility, Jenx coming back in the opposite direction.

Mirko looked around the oubliette with a shudder. There was no light in the room, and the unwholesome damp odour was all-pervasive. Inisse appeared surprisingly robust after eight weeks’ incarceration. No doubt his faith in the sea-god Animaxian had proved sustaining. With a peremptory gesture he called on Florian and Jenx to pull him from the pit.

Inisse looked around him as if the concept of freedom were an abstraction whose realisation he could not comprehend. “You have my gratitude, sirs. Do we now intend to depart?”

“For various reasons,” said Jenx, “you will spend one more night in Formello. Conditions will be less onerous, and you will be on hand to see Bartazan’s dismay tomorrow.”

“I have additional reason for gratitude,” said Inisse. “Will you now tell me your names?”

“That will not be possible,” replied Jenx. “We would not have our deeds widely known; there may be inconvenience at a later date. You must accept us as men of good will.”

Skaidrys and Trajian returned, dragging the two unconscious guards to the end of the corridor and, with a quiet smile to himself, Skaidrys dropped them into the oubliette, taking care to lock the door, before repositioning the mat.

The company made their way up the stairs from the dungeons towards the Slaves’ Tower. Mirko was hopeful that in the small hours they would meet none of the castle’s inhabitants: with Inisse among their number there were few, if any, legitimate explanations for their presence. They moved slowly through corridors, past the stables and towards the now deserted kitchens. At length they came to a door at the base of the Slaves’ Tower. Mirko peered in and, as he’d expected, saw only the slave-master Padizan, fast asleep with a half-empty flagon of wine beside him, the keys to the slave quarters on the table in front of him. Here, as in the matter of the sally-ports, Larien had been accurate in her information.

He nodded to Jenx. With the skill of a former cut-purse, he moved on noiseless feet and abstracted the keys. He opened the door to the slave quarters and beckoned Inisse to him. The door swung shut behind them, and several minutes later Jenx emerged alone. He glided back across to his companions. Mirko beckoned them down another corridor, in the direction of the Kitchen Tower.

“He would have preferred to accompany us,” said Jenx.

“Our identities must have become known,” said Mirko. “Bartazan would regard himself justified in discontinuing my employment in such circumstances.”

Florian chuckled. “I would be more concerned about him discontinuing your life. Where Bartazan is slighted, he is quick to take vengeance.”

“He must first catch us.”

A voice rang out down the corridor. “Hoy there! Who is abroad at this hour!”

Mirko cursed his inattention. “Stoggo the kitchen-boy!” he called. “Master Ninkin requires me to scrub the turnips before sunrise.”

“I heard voices,” called his inquisitor. “Who is with you?”

“I was singing to myself, sir, to keep the chill off. Pray do not detain me further, for there are many turnips and but one Stoggo.”

The voice called back querulously: “Cannot you go about your business in peace, lad? There is little enough peace in Formello without high-spirited loons at all hours of the night. In addition, your singing lacked both timbre and melody.”

“Your pardon, sir. I will use greater decorum in future.”

“Hmm,” said the voice, before shuffling off the way it had come.

Mirko released his breath in a great sigh. How nearly they had been undone by a moment’s carelessness!

None of the party spoke again as Mirko guided them out of the gate at the base of the Kitchen Tower – where no sounds of turnip-scrubbing could be discerned – and through the darkness to the Ninth Port, where they had entered an eventful hour before. As they stepped through the sally-port and out of Formello, the first shafts of sunlight peeked over the horizon on the Bay of Paladria. Mirko ripped his domino off and set off for the trail down into the town with his companions at his back. What would ‘N’ make of tonight’s work?

CHAPTER 9

The next morning a detachment of forty Peremptor’s Constables, ten mounted on fine striders, presented themselves at the River Gate before Formello with a polite but firm demand to search the Slaves’ Tower. Kintautas temporised in the absence of the Elector, who had stayed in Paladria on business; but to no avail. The Lieutenant of the Constables offered the persuasive argument of his thirty-nine comrades and the force of the Peremptor’s writ.

A search of the Slaves’ Tower revealed that while twenty-one slaves were shown on the roster, twenty-two were in residence. The Constables conducted a roll-call, and the figure left over at the end was swiftly identified as Minalgas Inisse, formerly the helm of the galley Animaxian’s Glory, missing since the previous autumn. Kintautas was unable to give a satisfactory account of Inisse’s presence, while the captain of the guard declined to offer an explanation.

Minalgas Inisse was conveyed in a rattlejack commandeered for the purpose to the Temple of Animaxian, where he was restored to the custody of his brethren. The Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House was arraigned by the Lieutenant of the Constables on charges of kidnap, false imprisonment and, since Inisse was an Adept of Animaxian’s Mysteries, sacrilege. This bill of charges, while by no means negligible, was not sufficient to deprive the Elector of his liberty. On payment of a bail of 1,000 valut and the Pledge of Good Conduct given by the Elector Nool Ipolitas, Bartazan was allowed to go his way, while a date for his Inquisition was set.

The events of the morning directly compromised Mirko’s plans for the day. En route from the Urmaleškas to the Jurbarkas docks to conduct sea-trials, the crew found themselves stoned by an unruly mob, and required an escort of Constables to conduct them back to the barracks. Mirko was not dissatisfied to miss sea-trials, since he had enjoyed little sleep, but he sensed that his actions of the previous night had wider ramifications than he had planned.

Once the mob dispersed, Mirko made his way to the Waterside tavern, where the talk was all of the night’s extraordinary activities.

“Who could have carried out such an act?” asked one man wonderingly of Mirko.

Mirko shook his head. “The ways of the Paladrians always surprise me. I fail to understand all aspects of the affair.”

Panduletta joined the conversation as she strolled past with a tray of beer. “For a fact, Bartazan is a rogue, to imprison poor Inisse, who had never harmed him at all — with apologies to you Mirko, as Bartazan’s man.”

Mirko made a deprecatory gesture. “I would never present the Elector as a model of rectitude; and indeed he does not employ me to do so. I merely look after his galley.”

“No doubt he would expect a more spirited defence from his servants,” said a quiet sardonic voice: ‘N’.

“Ah,” said Mirko, unable to think of any response more cogent.

“I think we need to have a chat,” she said. “Panduletta, beer — plenty of it — and whelks, a triple portion if you please. Ascalon, this way.”

Mirko made his way to the corner booth invariably preferred by ‘N’.

“Well,” she said. “I assume you want to share something with me.” Her eyes had the beginning of dark circles underneath and her cheeks had an unusual flush.

“Why?” asked Mirko. “If you remember, I broke off my connections with you yesterday; and you’re the one who came looking for me.”

‘N’ nodded her thanks as Panduletta brought over the beer and whelks.

“Don’t think to play with me, Ascalon: I am more powerful — and more dangerous — than you have ever imagined. I want to know what you had to do with Inisse’s release.”

Mirko leant back in his wooden chair, which creaked in protest.

“If you want the truth, your callousness about Inisse vexed me. The letter that you caused to be published made his life worth nothing; and then you had the audacity to call me mercenary! I saved his life, and I don’t want anything for it.”

‘N’ shook her head in silent wonderment. “Do you know how long we scheme and plot? How precisely we calculate our moves and effects? It was time that the world knew Bartazan had incarcerated Inisse: that didn’t mean it was time for him to be arraigned!”

“I can’t see it does your principal any harm.”

“We are not yet ready to move against Bartazan! His fury will be terrible; he will turn every stone to see who has betrayed him — and you are not the only false servant he has. What were you thinking of, to act independently?”

Mirko sucked a whelk from its shell. “You forget that I no longer work for you. I acted as a concerned citizen.”

“As it turns out,” said ‘N’ with an approach to a smile, “you haven’t done badly at all. It was a bold stroke, and can only hurt Bartazan’s popularity; it may even cost him a couple of Elector’s votes, although I doubt it. He may be unsettled by such an obvious strike, and he may respond precipitately. You’ve shown courage and resourcefulness, if very little sense.”

Mirko smiled dryly. “Is that an approach to a compliment?”

“Don’t be so prickly, Ascalon. Our contretemps last night was a misunderstanding; more than ever I want someone capable inside Bartazan’s household. Here’s gold for your work with Inisse.”

“I didn’t do it for the money. My associates are slaves and unable to use their own shares.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“Candidly? It was a demonstration. Nothing more complicated than that — a demonstration that a Garganet officer is impelled by higher motives than you give me credit for.”

‘N’ looked across into Mirko’s eyes, her own expression inscrutable. “You didn’t have to,” she said. “If I thought you were for sale I’d never have worked with you — I might not be able to keep up with the bidding. I knew what I was getting and you haven’t surprised me. There’s a difference between needing money and being ruled by it.”

“Why do you always have to pretend to have foreseen everything? Omniscience is for the gods.”

‘N’ took a long swallow of her beer. “I don’t like surprises,” she said. “Among intelligencers, surprises and death are kissing cousins: it’s a consideration that promotes planning and reflection. Now, tell me every detail about last night. I may be able to help you.”

Half an hour later, beer, whelks and story were finished. ‘N’ sat silent in thought for a minute. “You showed considerable élan; took no more risks than necessary; and enjoyed a little luck. Do you think you can evade suspicion?”

“Why should Bartazan suspect me? He can see the progress I’m making with Serendipity.”

‘N’s face seemed flushed from the beer. “Here’s why. I was greatly amused by your resourcefulness in becoming Stoggo the kitchen-lad: but might it not be surprising to anyone who thinks to ask that he had a Garganet accent? Of course, no-one may ask, but I would not stake my life – or yours – on it ”

Mirko cursed under his breath. “I don’t even know who was prowling the corridors.”

“Not Master Ninkin, for certain,” said 'N' with a smile. “Luckily, I can remedy matters. It will be necessary to divert suspicion elsewhere.”

“‘N’! Don’t allow an innocent man to be punished on my account.”

‘N’ smiled. “I won’t have to. Be at the Plaza at sundown and you’ll see.”

Mirko had not seen Larien since the Hanspar Regatta Ball. He was therefore gratified on returning to his lodgings to find she had sent him an invitation to meet her at Garrion Cove at noon. Since a launch for Serendipity was out of the question, he made his way to the secluded dunes where Bartazan and his family occasionally relaxed.

Walking down the cliff path to the sand, Mirko saw Larien, her legs tucked under her on a rug designed to keep the sand from her clothes. On seeing Mirko’s approach she smiled and called him over.

“I’ve brought a picnic,” she said. “It can’t go to waste.”

“How did you know I’d come?” Mirko asked. “Serendipity might have been out on the water.”

Larien laughed, her teeth white and even. “I looked out from the Azure Tower this morning with my spyglass,” she said. “There wasn’t a single galley on the water.”

Mirko thought he knew the reason why.

“You must help me eat all this,” she continued. “My aunt was not in favour of my bringing such a large hamper.”

Mirko found this option preferable to facing Bartazan for any number of reasons. “I’d be delighted to share your repast, my lady.”

Larien beamed. “Look what I have here, Mirko: cold roast fowls, red salad, Minchu morsels, and some Televen wine. I’ve even brought goblets!”

“Just the thing,” said Mirko, hungry despite the whelks and beer he had consumed for breakfast.

Larien poured two glasses of the rich cool wine. “Be careful,” she said. “Televen is stronger than it tastes.”

Mirko savoured his first glass, which had a subtle fresh tang. They sat in companionable silence awhile sharing a cold fowl.

At last Larien said: “How are you finding my uncle?”

“In truth, he does not seem as bad as I’d been led to believe. He was almost understanding about the Hanspar, and required remarkably little persuasion to agree to sack Orstas.”

Larien looked into his face. “Don’t ever make the mistake of trusting him, Mirko. All the while you are useful to him, he will assume a reasonable approach; but once that’s past, don’t ever expect a favour. And this morning’s business with Minalgas Inisse will enrage him beyond measure.”

Mirko wasn’t sure how to respond to the topic of Inisse, although there was no way Larien could know of his involvement. He wondered whether the investigations would reveal the unlocked sally-ports and curtail Larien’s freedom: it could not be helped.

“Did you know he was there?” he asked.

“Oh, not at all,” said Larien. “I knew he had dungeons, of course; if I’d thought about it, I’d even have guessed he put people in them, or why have them? But why hold Inisse? It’s Chiess-Vervario who had the grudge. Now, of course, it makes sense: just one more vote for Peremptor Bartazan.”

“Do you think he will win?”

“I’d like to say ‘no’, but I know how duplicitous he can be. I wonder how many other votes he’s suborned one way or another. He won’t win the Margariad, of course — forgive me! — but he could yet force the Electors by other means.”

“Would it be so bad if he did win? Is Giedrus any better?”

Larien’s eyes kindled. “Anything would be better —”

“What have I said?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how many grudges Bartazan holds. He does not have a forgiving disposition. The whole of House Drall, not to mention Inisse, any number of political rivals: they’d all have to go into exile or be killed. I’ll take Giedrus without any qualm: at least he’s already settled his scores. Here, have a Minchu morsel.”

Eventually the picnic was finished. Mirko, who had taken several goblets of the Televen wine, felt sleepy; Larien was preternaturally alert.

“Can I ask you something?” she said as Mirko reclined on the blanket.

“You just did.”

Her eyes twinkled. “You know what I mean. I’d like to do something wildly unconventional, which will amuse both of us and vex my uncle.”

Mirko sat back up abruptly. “You begin to interest me,” he said with a smile. Suddenly he didn’t feel so sleepy.

“Next week is the day for formal nominations for the Peremptorate elections. Did you know that?”

“No. In truth I’d never thought about it.”

“Every five years the Peremptor holds a Grand Ball at Coverciano. All the Electors and their families are invited. Any Elector who can call upon the support of five others may challenge the Peremptor. Next Wednesday is the Ball. I’m Bartazan’s niece, so I’m invited.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’? What does that mean?”

“It means I’d like to come with you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I recall you’ve been sniffy about the difference in our status before.”

“You’re actually very eligible,” she said with a slight smile. “Garganet naval officer, galley-master, handsome in a grim way …”

“Sometimes — no, most of the time — I don’t understand you, Larien. This is one of those occasions.”

“Why make things more complicated than they are? I like your company, you seem to like mine, the Grand Ball is coming up, and I’d rather have you as an escort than some political crony of my uncle’s. At the very least the food is good.”

Mirko thought for a second. ‘N’ had told him to stay close to Larien; the event might provide some useful information for her; and he was essentially unconcerned with Bartazan’s good opinion.

“Very well,” he said. “I’d be delighted. Who else will I know?”

“There’s my uncle, of course, although I doubt you’ll be getting too much of his attention. Carnazan will be there as long as he remembers to show up. There won’t be many galley-men, I’m afraid, although Drallenkoop will be there as Koopendrall’s son, and Liudas of course.”

“I’m sure I’ll find plenty to entertain me,” smiled Mirko. “What are you doing this evening?”

“Mirko! You lead me to suspect your motives!”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” laughed Mirko. “I thought with your taste for seeing your uncle discomfited you might enjoy an event I understand is taking place in the Plaza at sundown.”

“Now you do have my attention,” Larien replied. “But how do you propose we occupy ourselves in the interim?”

By the time Mirko and Larien had made their way back from the secluded cove, sunset was nearly upon them. Larien had hidden her auburn hair under a loose cowl to avoid the scandal of an Elector’s niece consorting with riff-raff in a low part of town.

‘N’ had evidently used her time assiduously, for the Plaza was crowded and expectant. With theatrical precision, on the instant of the sun’s setting a herald in the gold and scarlet of House Drall stepped out onto the central dais, lit by two retainers with torches.

“Now hear me all!” he called. “I am Forendan, the herald of my lord Koopendrall! Tonight will be unfolded for you a tale of woe, intrigue and heroism. Every man among you will have heard of the terrible and unlawful imprisonment of Minalgas Inisse, Adept of the Mysteries of Animaxian!”

The crowd muttered. Bartazan’s acts were still fresh in their mind.

“Only last night, an act of personal bravery and conviction proud led to the release of this noble man! Minalgas Inisse was immured within the deepest and darkest dungeons of Formello, the mountain fastness of the Ilkmeister Bartazan.”

“Grrr!”, “Down with Bartazan!”, “Bring him out!”

“One man showed the courage of his conscience: learning of Minalgas Inisse’s imprisonment, he resolved to free him! His intrepid spirit deserves our adulation!”

Again the crowd responded to Forendan’s prompts. Mirko was frankly baffled. ‘N’ had been intended to preserve his anonymity, rather than laud his deeds to the sky. Next to him, Larien snuggled into his side; she was enjoying the day.

“Do you want to see the man who saved Minalgas Inisse?” called Forendan.

“Yes!”, “Yes!”, “Bring him on!”

“Behold, then, the man!”

From the base of the dais a figure was pulled up, richly adorned in cloth of gold. Mirko looked on in astonishment: it was none other than Padizan, the overseer of the slave pens!

“My friends,” continued Forendan, “meet if you will the Gentle Padizan, formerly slave master with Ilkmeister Bartazan!”

Mirko gasped in sheer amazement with the rest of the crowd, although for not entirely similar reasons. The audacity of ‘N’ was beyond all reason.

“Sir Padizan, tell us, if you will, of the release of Minalgas Inisse.”

Padizan, not in Mirko’s experience the most forthcoming or assured of men, cleared his throat.

“I, the Gentle Padizan, speak to you,” he said in a voice slurred by drink. “Last night, when all good men slept, I descended to the deepest dungeons of Formello. Unarmed, I fought with guards and beat them into dormancy. I pulled the Noble Minalgas Inisse from his gloomy pit, and concealed him in my slave pens. I sent immediately for the Constables before the alarm could be raised. I asked no boon for my deed, which represented its own reward. Nonetheless, I give thanks to those friends of Minalgas Inisse who have furnished me with a small competence to compensate me for the position with the Elector Bartazan which circumstances have compelled me to leave at short notice.”

Padizan continued in this self-aggrandising strain for some little time, growing in bombast as he declined in coherence. The crowd appeared not to care; Padizan’s act had rescued the popular Inisse and paid back Bartazan for his arrogance.

Mirko realised what ‘N’ had done; by some means she had had Padizan spirited out of Formello and bribed to claim responsibility for the deed. Bartazan would need to pursue his inquiries no further and Padizan was anyway beyond the reach of further interrogation — implicitly, if not explicitly, under Koopendrall’s protection. Mirko laughed aloud.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Larien.

“I was enjoying the ironies of the event. No doubt you too derive a certain amount of amusement from the developments.”

“I would never have imagined Padizan to be so audacious.”

“No doubt the lure of valut played a part. Many folk would pay well for such a moment.”

“No doubt,” said Larien. “Do you really live around here?”

“Why yes,” said Mirko. “Perhaps you’d like to visit the tavern where I spend much of my time?”

“Why not?” said Larien in high spirits. “I don’t believe I’ve ever visited a dockside tavern.”

CHAPTER 10

The next morning Mirko, after seeing Larien to a rattlejack, made his way to the Urmaleškas. It seemed a long time since he had been out on the water. This morning a significant workout would be necessary. He was pleased on entering the barracks to see that Liudas was present and eager for the fray. He was conducting an exercise regime with the slaves, who responded with dutiful if unenthusiastic compliance.

Mirko caught Florian’s eye as he went through his stretches, but it seemed Florian had returned to recalcitrant mode; he looked away without acknowledgement. Mirko sighed; he supposed he could see Florian’s point: companion in arms one day, slave the next.

“Quartermen!” he called. “Form your sections, prepare to march!”

The four Quartermen, Florian, Skaidrys, Trajian and a sneering swarthy man named Slovo, drew up their men into order and led the way down to the Jurbarkas Docks. Dragonchaser was already out on the water, and Excelsior was just casting off. Morvellos Devil was preparing to sail, while Animaxian’s Glory lay dormant: no doubt the surprise return of their helm had driven practice from their minds.

“Right!” said Mirko. “Today we to restore our honour. Bartazan may be in disgrace; but Serendipity is not! You see Dragonchaser?”

“Yes, captain!” said Skaidrys.

“Today, we will catch and pass her.”

“But she has a quarter mile on us!”

“That’s why we’re going to teach her a lesson. Jenx, beat Eight!”

Jenx grinned. “Aye, aye, sir!”

“Quartermen, I need you to keep the rhythm. The rest of you, just follow your Quarterman. Come on now, Eight is easy!”

Pull-pull-pull-pull. Pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity settled into an easy unforced rhythm. The bay was choppy with an unruly wind, and white spray coursed over the bow, soaking the men. Pull-pull-pull-pull. Dragonchaser, clearly not operating at full speed, came ever closer into view.

“Jenx! Beat Nine!”

Pull-pull-pull-pull-pull. Pull-pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity gained ever more speed, the waves cresting against the bow, sending up spurts of foam. Dragonchaser realised that Serendipity was testing her; Drallenkoop, at the helm, looked back over his shoulder and laughed.

“Come on, if you can!” he called back.

“They’re mocking us!” shouted Mirko to the crew. “Quartermen, keep the rhythm there. Come on, let’s beat them to the Hanspar!”

Kestrel, exercising nearby, eased out of the way. “Strong strokes, Serendipity,” shouted Daumantas, her helm and owner. “Catch her and pass her! Come on! Come on!”

“Trajian! Trajian!” shouted Mirko. “Keep Nine, for Animaxian’s sake! I thought you wanted to see home! Florian, you look ragged! Dragonchaser ahead!”

Astonishingly, Serendipity pulled alongside Dragonchaser. Drallenkoop, at the helm, had little to do in a straight line race, and instead interfered with the instructions of the overseer, Mindaugas: “Ten! Go to Ten! We can’t let them beat us!”

Mirko knew that, however motivated Serendipity was today, she had neither the skill nor the energy to maintain Ten rhythm. If Dragonchaser could pull this off, Serendipity was beaten.

“Jenx! Keep Nine! They’ll crack. Florian, Slovo, keep the rhythm there!”

Then, for the first time in Mirko’s experience, Dragonchaser faltered. The unusual and punishing Ten rhythm had proved too much for her. The forward starboard quarter cracked first, losing any semblance of control. The bow swung around, coming across the wind and the current.

Mindaugas was quick to react. “Stop and Nine! Stop and Nine!” he called, and the error was almost immediately rectified. But Serendipity was past and running clear for the Hanspar.

“Keep it going! Keep it going! We have her!”

And so it proved. In less than a minute Serendipity was past the Hanspar rock ahead of Dragonchaser. Mirko was not disposed to push his luck by testing Liudas’ helmsmanship, or the crew’s stamina, for the pull back to shore.

“All stop, lads! Take a breather! Superb rowing, boys! We’ve beaten Dragonchaser today!”

Spontaneously the crew stood in their seats and to look back at Dragonchaser: behind them, and trailing in their wake! When had Serendipity last outsprinted Dragonchaser? No-one could remember. Mirko did not fool himself that this was equivalent to victory in a race; Dragonchaser had not geared up for maximum effort until too late, no steering had been required, and the sprint had been nothing like race distance. But Dragonchaser was beatable, and they had proved it today; and arguably they had shown Serendipity was faster in a straight line; and if Dragonchaser were put under pressure she could not sustain Ten.

“Back to shore! That’s enough for today. Jenx, beat Six.”

The news of Dragonchaser’s eclipse was swiftly spread among the racing community, where it excited wildly different emotions, but never indifference. One Elector, high in his mountain fastness, grinned in wolfish triumph and raised a goblet to his galley-master; another, in the town on business, stopped in sheer disbelief, before setting the subject aside until he could make further enquiries. Two women of different temperaments also learned the news: one cursing aloud in sheerest outrage; the other, surprised and some way short of delighted, nonetheless smiled to herself and wondered whether she had underestimated the Garganet after all.

Mirko returned to the Waterside in the evening to find that the morning’s news had preceded him. Bartazan, whose popularity had reached a new low with Padizan’s confession, now found himself revered for owning such a formidable galley. Mirko found two notes awaiting him; he turned first to the one bearing the seal of Bartazan House:

Ascalon,

I was gratified by what I learned of Serendipity’s recent performance, and I attribute the improvements to the methods you have employed. Insofar as I will be meeting the Elector Koopendrall and his son at the Peremptor’s Grand Ball next week, I consider the timing to be most opportune. You will oblige me by waiting upon me at Formello at your soonest convenience.

Of Bartazan House, Bartazan.

Mirko tried to read between the lines for any inference of a bonus, but without success.

He recognised the handwriting on the second letter, and he was not surprised on opening it. He took it to his room and quickly deciphered it.

‘G’,

You have surprised me in many ways in recent days. Your rescue of Minalgas Inisse, while rash and in many ways foolhardy, showed a praiseworthy sense of justice, and the unexpectedly strong showing of Serendipity this morning shocked many seasoned observers of the galley-races.

It is possible you have endangered yourself more by the second act than the first; and probable that you do not even realise it. It is important I see you as soon as possible. While it is melodramatic to suggest that your life is in danger, you are becoming involved in affairs you do not understand.

I cannot see you this evening, but I will meet you on the cliffs overlooking The Sorcerers at seven bars tomorrow.

‘N’

Mirko could not repress a smile at ‘N’s characteristic overstatement. For her, no act was without ramifications in secret policy and covert strategies. There was something endearing about her deadly seriousness — and, of course, the gold she commanded. There was nothing to be done tonight, and instead he went about selecting appropriate apparel from the parcels Evaldas had sent him.

He debated the merits of the plum and umber coat, which offended his sensibilities the least, and the scarlet frock coat, which struck him as something Liudas might wear. In the end, he decided to save plum and umber for the Grand Ball, and chose scarlet for his visit to Formello.

Stepping out onto the waterfront he looked around for a rattlejack, only to find himself approached by a pair of squat ruffians. The scarlet coat had done nothing but mark him out as a dandy. His hand dropped to his rapier; before he knew it, one of the rogues was pinned against the wall with steel against his throat. The second was disappearing along the dockside at speed.

“Go!” called Mirko. “Be grateful I’m in a hurry and don’t care to wait for the Constables.”

As he settled back into the rattlejack he started to wonder. Was it more than coincidence that the ruffians had accosted him the instant he had appeared? What had ‘N’ written? ‘It is melodramatic to suggest your life is in danger’. That was not the same as saying it wasn’t in danger. Was such involution an everyday part of the secret agent’s life? It was a pensive Mirko who disembarked the rattlejack at the Henderbridge.

Inside the Banquet Hall, Mirko found himself distinguished immediately by Bartazan.

“Ascalon!” said the Elector with marked cordiality. “My lords, this is my noble galley-master who bloodied Drallenkoop’s nose. Captain, allow me to present the Electors Algimantas, Baltazaras, Gerdvilas and Chiess-Vervario.”

Mirko bowed to the Electors, somewhat surprised to be introduced. It seemed he had become an electoral asset. Mirko noticed Chiess-Vervario, a dyspeptic bald figure; no doubt one Bartazan was keen to conciliate, since the Minalgas Inisse affair had been injurious to his reputation. The Electors did not seem to be overwhelmed by Mirko’s presence; Baltazaras appeared more interested in the contents of his goblet, while Gerdvilas’ attention was focused on examining matter recently voided from his nose. Mirko wondered how secure Bartazan was of their votes.

Looking around Mirko also saw Larien and Carnazan, and resolved to quit the Electors’ society as soon as possible. Fortunately Kintautas soon banged the great gong to signal dinner, and Mirko found himself seated towards the foot of the Great Table Heldegrin, away from the Electors, but adjacent to Larien and opposite Carnazan. Nearby sat Liudas. Before the food was served, Bartazan cleared his throat and stood up.

“My family and my honoured guests,” he said. “I am grateful to you all for joining me at Formello tonight. It has not been a good week for the House of Bartazan.”

A self-deprecating smile and pause drew mainly polite laughter from the table. Larien remained stony-faced while Carnazan, after all the heir of Bartazan, simply appeared disapproving. Mirko was sorry he could not see Chiess-Vervario’s face; he did not give the impression of a man to laugh at his own misfortunes.

“Nonetheless,” Bartazan continued, “I am not of a temper to be daunted. My arraignment by Giedrus’ lackeys is a matter of no consequence, an act of politically-motivated spite designed to turn the Electors of Paladria against me. Naturally, such ham-fisted efforts will not succeed, and indicate only the Peremptor’s discomfiture. Next week is Declaration Day, and if I can persuade five Electors to endorse my candidature, hah hah, I propose to put forward my name for the third and final time for the office of Peremptor of Paladria!”

Kintautas led what was by no means spontaneous applause. The Electors joined in dutifully, although Mirko detected no real enthusiasm. Carnazan gave an ironic cheer while Larien fought to suppress a smirk. The Lady Inuela, sitting next to Bartazan, after a minatory glance at Larien evinced no reaction at all.

“You will all be aware that my arraignment was the result of an act of avaricious spite by a former servant, whom I had raised from humble origins. Such breach of fealty is not to be tolerated, and I can only assure you that I have taken steps to secure my dignity: more of this later. For now, I prefer to move to a more enjoyable topic. You will all be aware that I have engaged the services of Captain Mirko Ascalon of the Garganet navy to provide technical guidance in the preparation of my dear wife’s galley for the Margariad. Progress has been in line with my most optimistic expectations, and only this morning the renowned galley Dragonchaser came off second best to Serendipity. I am confident that the House of Bartazan will be celebrating a double triumph at the end of the summer. Captain Ascalon, please rise while the company salutes you!”

Mirko felt he had no option but to comply and stood self-consciously while goblets were raised, his face feeling as red as his coat.

“To the noble Captain Ascalon! And also to his estimable helm Ipolitas Liudas! Defeat to Dragonchaser!”

Mirko noticed that Larien’s non-cooperation extended to refusal to participate in the toast. The Electors complied with a generally sour-faced ill-grace.

“Let me further pledge,” said Bartazan, “that should I be successful in my political ambitions, I will immediately appoint Captain Ascalon Master of the City’s Fleet. Now, let us begin our festivities, setting aside the petty machinations of our pitiful rivals!”

Mirko sat down and waited as the food was served. Master of the City’s Fleet! He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounded impressive; although since ‘Peremptor Bartazan’ would by then have no real need of him, the chances of such an office materialising were not high.

Bartazan had outdone himself for hospitality tonight. No fewer than seven courses, each with carefully selected wines, were put before the discerning palates. The vegetables were crisp and succulent, the meats rare and flavoursome. Delicately-spiced pastes and sauces added savour to every dish.

Larien was in a curious humour; her mood best summarised as ‘distrait’.

“Have I done anything to offend you, my lady?” Mirko asked quietly while their neighbours were distracted in conversation.

“Why should you think that?”

“Your conduct was more — open — yesterday,” he said. “I thought we had moved towards a certain intimacy …”

“You forget yourself, Captain. I enjoyed your company yesterday, in an informal setting; but here I am the niece of the Elector, and must set frivolity aside.”

“I thought that perhaps you regretted the degree of intimacy you permitted me yesterday.”

Larien sighed. “Yesterday was yesterday; today is today. I imagined you to possess more sangfroid than to repine over imagined slights like some mooncalf.”

“So yesterday was nothing?”

Larien picked up a napkin and daintily dabbed at her mouth. “Really, Mirko, this is absurd. You expect life to be a dull homogeneity. Yesterday I was in the humour for a diversion, which was undoubtedly pleasant. Tonight I am tired and vexed; and your importunities do not help. A man of breeding would not pursue the subject.”

Mirko pursed his lips; Liudas leaned towards him. “Did I not advise you to attempt no flirtation with the ladies of Formello?”

“Liudas, if you have intellectual capacity to spare — by no means a foregone conclusion — I suggest you devote it to the theories of helmsmanship. One day soon, I will require you to steer Serendipity around rocks; another collision will be your last.”

Liudas sat back and smiled. “My father is the Elector Nool Ipolitas; I don’t think I’ll be off the boat this side of the Election, do you?”

“If you want to find out, steer for the rocks.”

Kintautas again rang the gong. Two slaves appeared bearing a covered silver tray. Once again Bartazan rose from his seat, eyes a-glitter.

“My guests, I hope you have enjoyed the hospitality of Formello. I myself have not relished the occasion as I might, since the rancour of my former servant Padizan’s betrayal has removed the edge from my appetite. No man betrays Bartazan House without paying a full price.”

Mirko shivered, and thought back with amazement to his previous foray to Formello; if ‘N’ had not intervened, his unmasking could not have been long coming.

“With this in mind, I have prepared a tableau designed to assuage my displeasure, to entertain, and to warn of the follies of treachery. Some guests among you may feel my lesson is somewhat mordant: this is merely proportionate to the extent of my vexation. Kintautas!”

Kintautas set down the salver in front of Bartazan. Mirko began to feel a terrible foreboding.

“Now!” cried Bartazan, “let us see how those who betray me are rewarded!”

Bartazan lifted back the cover, to reveal the severed head of Padizan, gold coins arranged in a symbolic stream from his mouth, and filling his empty eye-sockets.

“Traitor to the House of Bartazan!” called the head of the House.

Next to him, Mirko heard a gurgling sound: Larien had vomited copiously. She rose and ran from the room. At the head of the table was a crash as the Lady Inuela fainted and fell forward. Mirko’s head began to spin — Padizan was dead because … you are becoming involved in affairs you do not understand ….

Leaping to his feet, he mumbled: “The Lady Larien,” and followed her from the Hall as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him.

Mirko found himself in the black and white tiled hall. “Where is the Lady Larien?” he barked at a slave, who wordlessly pointed up the stairs. He shook off the attempt to restrain him and ran towards her apartments.

“Larien!” he called as he knocked on the door. “Larien! It’s Mirko.”

He waited while she dealt with the heavy lock. She opened the door and walked back into the room; Mirko followed.

“What do you want?” she asked, her face ashen and her eyes brimming.

“I just wanted to see that you were …”

“That I was what? Calm? That I was calm after my uncle had murdered a man I’ve known as long as I can remember and served his head up on a plate? Well no, I’m not calm! I’m angry and vengeful and frightened and …oh Mirko, how could he?”

Mirko took her in his arms and gently kissed her hair. Added to is guilt over the whole business, he felt satisfaction that Larien had turned to him after her earlier chilliness; an extra frisson of self-disgust ran through him.

“Your uncle is not …not a temperate character.”

Larien continued to sob. “Padizan used to look after the stables when I was a child. He always used to make sure there was hay ready for me to feed the striders and gallumphers. ‘How are you, my chicken?’ he used to say whenever I sneaked down there. Sometimes I’d go when I was meant to be at my lessons. What did I care for the history of the House of Bartazan? So I’d slip off to the stables. Padizan always used to take me back, of course. But he’d let me stay for a while and stroke the beasts.”

“I…”

“It’s not you, it’s nothing you’ve done. My uncle’s to blame, he killed that good man who’d served him for so many years for no thanks or reward.”

Mirko clutched Larien tighter, as much to preserve his own balance as to give her comfort. His quixotic act to impress ‘N’ had led directly to the death of the slave-master. Affairs you do not understand …

“Larien, how can I work for a man like that? How can I carry on doing it?”

Larien wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Only you can say that, Mirko. They tell me how you treat the galley-slaves; if you went that would all be over. Maybe it’s best for you to continue and do just a little good. You are not a bad man, Mirko, and associating with one does not make you so.”

“Who told you I had improved the slaves’ conditions?” asked Mirko.

Larien looked up. “Oh, I don’t know, it’s galley gossip, everyone knows it.”

“I only treat them as seamen. I’m sure Drallenkoop treats his slaves as well.”

Larien sniffled and blew her nose. “Drallenkoop! He is our only hope.”

Mirko looked puzzled.

“You can beat every galley but Dragonchaser, I’m sure. Whatever happened on the water today, Dragonchaser is still your master.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

“But Mirko — if you could beat Dragonchaser in the Margariad. Just imagine you could. You’d be coming round The Sorcerers in the lead and the race at your mercy. Would you do it? Knowing it would make Bartazan Peremptor?”

“The Margariad doesn’t make Peremptors: the Electors do.”

“That’s sophistry. You know it’s not true. The Electors dare not refuse Bartazan if he wins — if you win — the Margariad. You know that. So tell me: if the race was in your pocket, would you win it?”

Mirko disengaged himself from Larien. “What else could I do?” he said quietly. “I’m a galley-master. When you’re watching, don’t delude yourself with false hopes, Larien. If I’m ahead of Dragonchaser, you can be sure I’m trying to stay there.”

Larien sank to her couch, sobbing again. “Mirko — I thought you were — I thought you wanted to do right. Leave me now.”

“Larien, my conscience is mine alone.”

“No excuses — just go.”

Mirko inclined his head. “Goodnight, my lady. I will call again soon.”

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Mirko heard the lock thud into place with what seemed unnecessary force, punctuating his dismissal.

CHAPTER 11

Mirko made his way back to the Banqueting Hall. For the first time he noticed that Larien had vomited on his sleeve, and he dabbed it absent-mindedly with a handkerchief Evaldas had provided as part of the outfit. He knew he would never wear the garment again.

Entering the Hall, Mirko found that the Lady Inuela had been carried out, and the other ladies were also absent. Although the table had been cleared of food, Padizan’s head remained on its salver for all to see. Nobody seemed particularly discomposed by it; Mirko noticed that Carnazan had left during his absence.

“Ascalon!” called Bartazan. “How is my niece?”

“She is distressed, my lord. She told me of her childhood affection for — for Padizan.”

“What a sweet, open nature she has, Captain — something that men particularly find attractive. She uses her emotions rather than her reason. Padizan had been my retainer for many years, Captain. Imagine my shock, my horror, my revulsion, on finding that he had betrayed me for money. Anger, too of course, but that came later. I had trusted Padizan — trusted him with my slaves, but more importantly to uphold the honour of my House. What a laughing stock I should have been, with Padizan parading about the town in his carriage, enriched through the misguided trust of the Elector Bartazan. Never could this be allowed!”

Mirko shook his head. Killed to save Bartazan’s face. Bartazan misinterpreted the gesture.

“I thought you would understand; the pride of the Garganet is famed. Come with me; Kintautas can look after the guests, most of whom now wish to depart, with my lesson fresh in their minds.”

Mirko followed Bartazan, not without trepidation. “The galley’s performance today gratified me greatly,” he said as they walked out into the open air. “As well as a stern enemy, I am a staunch friend. Do you possess a strider?”

“No, my lord.”

“It is time we remedied that deficiency. I cannot have my galley-master riding up to Formello in the rattlejack. I have a mount which would suit your needs admirably. Come, the stables are near.”

“I don’t know what to say, my lord.”

This was true enough; the last thing he wanted was an expensive gift from Bartazan after his behaviour tonight; but it was hardly possible to refuse.

“I will also give you some friendly advice; please take it in the spirit offered.”

Mirko inclined his head.

“Larien tells me she has invited you to the Peremptor’s Grand Ball as her escort. Ordinarily I would not permit this; a galley-master is not fit companion for an Elector’s niece. A similar piece of lèse-majesté led to young Minalgas Inisse’s difficulties.”

Mirko said nothing.

“On this occasion I am prepared to make an exception. Firstly, you are not a Paladrian, so you do not bring with you an obviously debased social position. Secondly, your presence is likely to discommode Koopendrall and Drallenkoop, a worthwhile end in itself. Finally, Larien has proved headstrong and wilful of late; by granting her this comparatively minor concession, I hope to conciliate her at no great inconvenience to myself. I hope you are sensible of the compliment I am paying you.”

Mirko had detected no particular compliment, and merely inclined his head again.

“Do not make the mistake of believing that I approve of your relationship. At the moment it causes me no real disturbance; but its continuance clearly would do so. The Lady Larien is my ward, and both her fortune and her marriage are within my gift. In due course I will bestow them where they do me the most good; plainly that will not be on a Garganet officer, even one who is Master of the City’s Fleet. Am I clear?”

“In every aspect, my lord.”

Late that night Mirko found himself proceeding steadily down the road from Formello to Paladria; this time the strider was his own, but he took little satisfaction from the circumstance. His mind ran again and again over the image of Padizan’s head stuffed with the coins he had not had time to enjoy; Padizan, the vulgar and venal slave-master who all those years ago had looked forward to Larien skipping her lessons and tripping down to the stables; Padizan, Mirko’s patsy.

The next morning Mirko was early at the Urmaleškas. The sun struggled with indifferent success to force a path through the morning mists. Liudas was not yet in evidence, but he roused the slaves into good order and marched them down to the docks. The mood was subdued; whatever method the slaves used to garner their current affairs, it was rapid. Padizan had been neither an especially lenient slave-master nor a harsh one; his position was not one to generate affection among the slaves, and those who had spent time in his pens felt, in the main, indifference; but they sensed from the tension in Florian, Trajian, Skaidrys and Jenx that much remained under the surface.

Mirko did not make eye-contact with any of the slaves as he arrayed them to march. Once at the docks, he instructed them to clean Serendipity’s sides thoroughly, and summoned his comrades in arms for a private conference.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about last night,” he began.

“Padizan’s dead — only hours after confessing publicly to a betrayal we all know he didn’t make,” said Florian sharply.

“Yes. All I can say is that I don’t know what happened or how. My — an associate of mine — observed that Garganet accents were heard in Formello that night. The truth must soon have been known.”

“So you arranged for Padizan to take the fall? That’s brave and honourable.”

“Florian, you forget yourself. Padizan’s death was not intended by the people who chose to protect me — and in so doing, protected you too.”

“How can you tell?” asked Florian scornfully. “You’ve only just told us you don’t know what happened. You told ‘someone’ what you’d done; he said ‘Leave matters to me!’ and Padizan is dead twelve hours later. How convenient for everyone — well, nearly everyone.”

“That’s enough, Florian,” said Trajian. “What was Ascalon supposed to do? Tell Bartazan that he’d used four of his own slaves to free Inisse? It’s easy for you to criticise with hindsight.”

Florian shrugged. “It’s all too late for Padizan. Are we rowing today?”

“If Liudas ever cares to join us.”

“I can helm,” he said. “I was a helm in Garganet.”

Mirko turned wordlessly.

“It’s easier to row, in general; and since Liudas has the job for the season, it seemed a redundant accomplishment.”

As they returned to Serendipity, Mirko was accosted by Drallenkoop.

“Hey, Ascalon! Do you fancy a rematch?”

“We aren’t doing speedwork today,” said Mirko politely.

Drallenkoop cawed. “Very wise; we’d give you ten lengths start and still beat you to the Hanspar.”

“Believe as you will, Drallenkoop. There’s only one race that counts, and events are starting to run in our direction.”

Drallenkoop laughed. “You’ve done better than I expected so far; but the Margariad has three turns, two of them tight; and you have Liudas at the helm.”

Mirko inwardly acknowledged the justice of this observation. “The race is won on the water, Drallenkoop, not in your mouth.”

Dragonchaser was swiftly away from the jetty, and moved with conspicuous crispness about her manoeuvres. Serendipity, perhaps suffering from yesterday’s exertions, or depressed by the tension among the Quartermen, performed with slackness and error. Florian showed to reasonable advantage — certainly enough to commend his helmsmanship above Liudas’ — but the rowers’ technical exercises were vitiated by sloppiness. After forty-five minutes Mirko abandoned the session in disgust; perseverance would only ingrain bad habits.

The crew returned shamefaced to the docks, aware that any other overseer would have had them whipped for such a display. Mirko maintained a steely silence.

“Tomorrow, I expect better,” he said, and set off briskly for his lodgings.

Mirko was grateful that evening for the strider — styled ‘Boodle’, according to its collar — which Bartazan had bestowed upon him. The cliffs overlooking The Sorcerers were even further away than Formello, and Mirko rode Boodle hard to make his rendezvous for seven bars. Dismounting, he led Boodle up the crest of the final rise.

He saw in the middle distance a slight figure in a dark cloak, evidently practising archery. Arrows flew rapidly into the trunk of a tree some distance away, none missing the target. ‘N’ was a woman of many accomplishments. On hearing Mirko’s approach, she stopped and laid down the bow, slightly out of breath.

“Ascalon,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

Mirko noticed that again she looked tired, the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced. He still wasn’t sure whether he was angry with her or not.

“Your letter didn’t give me a choice,” he said. “Besides, I would welcome your explanations.”

“Come and sit on the grass,” she said. “Look out to sea.”

“I’m looking.”

“What do you see?”

“Sea. Sky. Sunset. Rocks.”

“ ‘Rocks?’ Those are The Sorcerers.”

“So I understand.”

“They are the three largest rocks in the Bay of Paladria; they have the most treacherous and unpredictable currents anywhere in Mondia. I know what I’m talking about; I’ve been round and through them on galleys before.”

“The point of this geological discourse?”

“The Sorcerers form the third and final turn on the Margariad course, a fact you may or may not have researched. Most helms go around the outside of the rock Anazgro, a smooth turn which sets the galley up well for the long run home; a more daring or desperate galley will go between Rybalard and Basile-Orario, a shorter distance, but a much tighter and more technical turn.”

“I am nothing if not thorough. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

‘N’ brushed a breeze-blown hair back from her eyes. “No doubt you will have assessed the probability of Liudas negotiating a successful passage between The Sorcerers.”

Mirko pursed his lips. “Since you ask, I have; I rate the probability sufficiently close to zero that I would not attempt it. Serendipity will go around the outside.”

‘N’ smiled and nodded. “You are wise, although I am not convinced that even that route is within Liudas’ capacity. There are only three current helms who could negotiate The Sorcerers the fast way: Drallenkoop, who did so to win his first Margariad; Raïdis of Excelsior, who has done so in practice; and your new friend Minalgas Inisse, who took Animaxian’s Glory through to impress Ratzendila last season.”

“Where is this going, ‘N’?” asked Mirko, the name of Minalgas Inisse putting an edge in his voice.

“However creditably you performed in yesterday’s trials, you cannot possibly beat Dragonchaser when it counts. With Liudas at the helm, you need to be so far ahead of her by The Sorcerers that you can take the long route and still come out ahead. You need to set Garganet pride aside and realise: this is a race you cannot win.”

“We’ll see.”

“Mirko, no! You don’t understand the essential point.”

“Unlike you.”

“It is in both of our interests that you understand my full meaning.”

“I’m listening.”

“Yesterday you surprised everyone — everyone — by out-pacing Dragonchaser. You surprised Drallenkoop, and his wily old father; deep down even Bartazan would have been surprised. I’ll freely admit you surprised me. You remember all those vested interests we talked about last time: Giedrus, the tax-collectors, the office-holders; I’ve no doubt they were amazed too.”

“Good.”

“No! It’s not good at all! Not for me, and certainly not for you!” ‘N’s cheeks had spots of red and her eyes were alight. “Since yesterday, people are seriously believing you can win the Margariad: that’s lunacy. You can’t, but what’s important is that people think you can — and that includes people who can damage both of us. That puts you in danger.”

Mirko lay on his back and looked up into the sky. “Are you saying I should throw the race?”

“You can only throw it if you can win it to start with. My honest, personal advice to you is to get out while you still can; and if you must know, that goes against my interests. But it’s the best thing for you to do. If you can’t or won’t do that, at least stop carrying yourself as if you can beat Dragonchaser. Next time you come up against her, come off second best.”

Mirko laughed. “You should have seen us today. I doubt we’d have beaten a provisions barge. We were awful, and that was with no Liudas.”

“Good,” said ‘N’ softly. “I know you discount anything I say, but I genuinely do want to avoid anything happening to you. For several reasons.”

“What new assignment is this leading to?”

“I’m talking to you without ulterior motive,” she said with a smile, “if you can believe that. Didn’t I help you with Padizan?”

Mirko sat up with a start. “Padizan! Are you proud of that?”

“Padizan’s death was unfortunate; but my involvement in it was peripheral.”

“If your talk about personal regard for me is not just rhetoric, you’ll tell me exactly what happened after we parted yesterday.”

‘N’ nodded slowly. “I’ll tell you as much as I can. It was essential that Bartazan should be prevented from conducting widespread interviews. We don’t know who heard you in the corridors, but their information could have become significant at any time. I needed to misdirect Bartazan immediately.

“I have good intelligence on the characters of just about everyone inside Formello, and I knew that Padizan could be bribed. You need not be concerned by the methods by which I spirited Padizan away from Formello, nor the money and estate which I caused to be settled on him. It’s enough to know that my friends arranged immediate affluence for Padizan on condition that he make the public confession which I’m sure you saw.”

Mirko nodded.

“Padizan, now a man of means, became steadily more drunk throughout the day. Once he had concluded his confession he somehow eluded his minders. The next anyone saw of him, his head was on a platter at Formello.”

“Convenient for you.”

“It would have been if he’d died at the outset; but once he’d made the confession, there was no harm in me or my friends standing by the bargain. Indeed, his presence around town would have proved embarrassing for Bartazan, and so highly welcome.”

Mirko was quiet for a few seconds. He turned to look at ‘N’.

“ ‘N’, do you realise I have that man’s death on my conscience?”

‘N’ looked back gently. “I can understand it might seem that way; but you acted for the best, and only Bartazan and his henchmen are responsible for Padizan’s death. Rescuing Inisse was a good act, regardless of the consequences, or whether it was politically inadvisable. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I didn’t even do it for any creditable motive; I did it partly to impress you and partly to spite you; not a good basis to end a man’s life.”

‘N’ looked deep into Mirko’s eyes. Her own were bottomless dark pools. “You have achieved your ends. I can’t help it that impressing me proved not to be worth the price.”

She looked away in something approaching embarrassment.

“ ‘N’, what could be worth a man’s life? Or hearing Larien tell you all about how Padizan was kind to her when she was a girl and then how she—”

“Enough. I feel guilty too, you know. I tried to set matters straight and it didn’t work.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel …”

“I know. And Mirko …”

“Go on.”

“Don’t get too attached to Larien.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that today.”

“This isn’t agent talk, Mirko. For your own peace of mind, don’t trust her too much.”

Mirko squinted at her. “I seem to remember that you’re the one who—”

“I know that, and I need you to be — or at to least to seem — close to her. It’s an important part of the work you’re doing. But don’t trust her — or think it means anything.”

Mirko stood up sharply. “Can’t you ever stop manipulating people? You told me to get close to Larien: now you tell me not to. Well, it’s too late! I am close to her. Bartazan told me she was out of my league, and threatened me with Minalgas Inisse; that didn’t work. And neither will your dark hints about ‘don’t trust her’.”

‘N’ looked away; Mirko couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset.

“I didn’t have to tell you this,” she said, her voice throbbing with emotion. “The easiest and best thing for me would just be to let you fall in love with her. And of course you would; she’s young, she’s beautiful, she’s charming — how could you resist her? I could just let it happen, and she’d break your heart and I wouldn’t care and none of it would matter and I’d just move on to wrecking other people’s lives and tell myself that it’s all for the best …”

“ ‘Let it happen’? Is that how you see it, ‘N’? People don’t need your permission to have —”

“Oh, you don’t understand! You just don’t understand! I’m trying to help you!”

“If I were dealing with a less temperate woman I’d say you were jealous.”

‘N’ wheeled to face him, and slapped him hard across the face.

“Don’t you ever speak to me that way again, or presume to understand my motivations!” She threw down a pouch filled with coins. “There’s your douceur; in exactly two minutes I am going to shoot you if I can see you. I’d start riding now.”

Mirko said nothing and moved towards Boodle. He turned back and picked up the pouch. “I assume someone somewhere will miss Padizan,” he said, and tucked the pouch inside his coat. Leaping aboard Boodle he rode off without a backward glance.

CHAPTER 12

Mirko had no leisure to spare for reflection on either Larien or ‘N’ the next day. The morning was devoted to a strenuous practice session with Serendipity, and he was pleased to note a marked improvement in both attitude and performance. He challenged Excelsior to a sprint as far as the Morvellos, careful to specify a course with no sharp turns. Excelsior, which had been rowing particularly well of late, came out a length and a half ahead. Mirko was largely satisfied.

Mirko noticed that Animaxian’s Glory was out on the water again, and as they rowed past on the way to dock, he saw that Minalgas Inisse was at the helm. Animaxian’s Glory was not one of the best galleys; although Inisse was among the best helms, her crew was undermined by a sense of fatalism which prevented her from reaching the greatest heights of performance.

Inisse studiedly ignored Serendipity as she came past — the Azure was not a livery to evoke any cordial emotion, and he remained unaware of the part her crew had played in his release. The man he must associate with his liberty was now dead. The thought sparked off an idea in Mirko’s mind.

After taking a convivial lunch with Liudas and Excelsior’s officers Raïdis and Haïdis, Mirko went back to his lodgings to collect the pouch of coins ‘N’ had given him. He had learned that Padizan had supported a spinster sister out on the farmland away to the east of the town, and he took Boodle out in that direction.

Fording the River Ghesp at low tide, he soon found himself in country largely unfamiliar. Farmsteads dotted the banks of the Ghesp until the foothills of the Namadar Mountains. Mirko passed dozens as he rode along the towpath, stopping occasionally to ask how far remained to Padizan’s old cottage.

After a ride of an hour so up into the foothills Mirko came at last to Green Acres, the farm Padizan had shared with Nadien, his sister. Out at the front of the cottage, small and ramshackle, were two slaves.

“I am looking for Mistress Nadien,” he said. “Is she at home?”

The taller of the slaves looked up. “Who is asking?”

“My name is — simply tell her a friend of her brother’s.”

The slave moved lazily into the house, and after a short delay Mistress Nadien herself appeared, her back bent from years of labour and her face tanned and lined from long exposure to the elements.

“I am Nadien,” she said with greater confidence and dignity than Mirko had expected. “I don’t believe you announced yourself.”

Mirko sighed and dismounted Boodle. With a courteous but not obsequious — or so he hoped — bow, he said: “My name is Ascalon; I was formerly a Garganet naval officer, and I used to deal with your brother at Formello.”

Nadien frowned. “This is not a good start. I take it you work for — Bartazan?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Yes or no? It’s not that difficult. Either you work for the man who killed my brother or you don’t. Which is it to be?”

“I have no reason to deceive you; I am employed by Bartazan as a galley-master.”

Nadien’s face hardened. “I cannot imagine anything you have to say to me that I’d want to hear.”

Mirko looked around the farmstead; the building did not appear in the best repair, and the slaves did not have the stamp of prime quality.

“Mistress Nadien,” he said. “Padizan’s death must have left you — not well circumstanced. I am sure this is not a situation he would have desired. Your brother had many friends at Formello, and some of them have wished to show their friendship in gold. It cannot bring Padizan back, but it may alleviate some of your suffering.” He held out the pouch.

Nadien reached out and took it. “I believe this is known as conscience-money,” she said. “I will not deny I need it, and as such I will accept it — but I do not believe your story. A galley-master is an important man to Bartazan, and I cannot believe you are here without his knowledge. This money comes from him, which is the only reason I take it. You sir, a jackanapes, a bought man, inspire nothing but my deepest revulsion and contempt. Go now, before I set Etten and Sallar on you.”

The slaves did not look enthusiastic at the prospect of attacking an armed Mirko, but nonetheless he bowed and mounted Boodle.

“You may be right, Mistress, that this is conscience-money; but please be assured that it does not come from Bartazan. There are plenty of people who do not sleep easy at your brother’s death.”

Digging his heels into Boodle’s flanks he rode back off down the towpath, feeling no better than he had before he’d come.

On returning to his lodgings, Mirko found two letters awaiting him. One appeared to be from ‘N’, and this he set aside; he did not recognise the script on the other, which he opened first.

My Dear Mirko,

Please accept my apologies for my intemperate conduct at Formello. I am sure you can understand that I was immeasurably shocked and distressed at my uncle’s actions, and this left me unable to appreciate the kind attentions of the only friend I have left in Formello.

My brother Carnazan has left Formello today. He is my uncle’s heir but they have quarrelled over that good man Padizan. I do not know where he has gone or when he will return.

My only society is my aunt, who is triumphing in my loneliness, and Liudas, who has become increasingly distrait of late.

I am sorry that I have quarrelled with someone who means as much to me as you have come to mean. I understand why you must race Serendipity as hard as you can, and to show this I would be honoured if you would take me aboard the galley next time she goes out.

Dear Mirko, can you forgive me?

Foolish and unhappy,

Larien.

Mirko was moved in spite of himself. How could ‘N’ say ‘don’t become too attached to her’ when she could write a letter like that? And without Carnazan, her existence would be miserable indeed.

Next he turned to the letter from ‘N’, noting with surprise that it was not in cipher.

‘G’

Please accept my apologies for my intemperate conduct on the Cliffs. I should not have spoken to you or acted the way I did. Particularly I am embarrassed to have lost my temper and struck you; I prize my self-control above all other virtues and I have injured myself at least as much in my own estimation as I must have done in yours.

I would be sorry to have forfeited the personal regard you have shown me — not least by your daring recent escapade — through my immoderacy. Be assured that I value your abilities as an agent more as time goes on.

I hope you will bear this in mind as I reiterate the important observations I made on the Cliff:

1. You are in grave personal danger if it seems you have a serious chance of winning the Margariad.

2. Any emotional involvement you have with Larien can only end in dismay.

I make both of these points in a spirit of professionalism and not in any way through the baser motivations which you falsely attributed to me yesterday.

I will contact you in due course to learn of any further information you may have for me.

‘N’

Mirko smiled as he lay the letter down. ‘N’ may have been rattled into omitting to cipher, but in every other respect the letter was characteristic of her behaviour: a sincere but limited apology concentrating more on her self-image than any offence to Mirko; and further emphasis on the points she had promoted so strongly before. At least, he thought, he knew where he was with ‘N’: would that he could say the same about Larien.

CHAPTER 13

The next morning Mirko detected a real tension about the Jurbarkas Docks: it was less than a week to The Sorcerers Regatta, the last major race before the Margariad itself. He marched at the head of the crew down the jetty towards Serendipity’s mooring, noting the mood of the galleys he passed. Animaxian’s Glory appeared calm and disciplined, her overseer Farisse commending her crew to greater zeal in scrubbing down her sides. Morvellos Devil was affixing a new orange mermaid pennant and her master Lammerkin was tense and alert as he supervised the positioning of his crew. Daumantas seemed relaxed at the helm of Kestrel as she pulled away from her jetty; her chances of winning any of the races were minimal and this seemed reflected in her master’s composure.

The two galleys which Mirko feared were Excelsior and Dragonchaser, who sandwiched Serendipity at the end of the jetty. He noticed a bookmaker with a placard standing nearby:

BET ON THE SORCERERS REGATTA!

WHO WILL WIN?

10 VALUT WILL WIN YOU THE FOLLOWING SUMS, ASSUMING ONLY YOU ARE CORRECT!

Dragonchaser

12 val.

Excelsior

40 val.

Morvellos Devil

50 val.

Serendipity

65 val.

Animaxian’s Glory

80 val.

Kestrel

125 val.

Other galleys on application

Mirko felt that the odds reflected reputation rather than recent form. Serendipity had outperformed Morvellos Devil over the past few sessions. The odds on Dragonchaser were short of generous, but given her invincibility in races over the past three years this was hardly surprising.

Mirko gave a cheery greeting to Raïdis and Haïdis as he approached Excelsior, indicating the odds board with his head. Raïdis laughed derisively. “Back us, Ascalon — we’re going well and Dragonchaser will finish in our wake!”

“We’ll see! Serendipity is running well too!”

Drallenkoop sauntered over. “Save your money, gentlemen. Dragonchaser has been putting in double practice, and we can sustain a high tempo for an unparalleled time. I’m confident of victory.”

“So is Gintas, judging by those odds,” said Raïdis. “Do you even back yourself at such margins?”

“Why, of course,” replied Drallenkoop, smoothing his hair back in the breeze. “If we win, it’s easy money, so if I don’t bet, I’m backing us to lose — and who’s going to beat us? Raïdis, your crew don’t believe it — and neither do you. And Ascalon, you have neither the helm nor the belief for victory. Inisse lacks the coolness of judgement, and Hellence of Morvellos Devil is too old to helm with real boldness. No, earn yourself some valut: back Dragonchaser!”

With this he leapt aboard the galley, leaving neither Mirko nor Raïdis vexed: such bravado was part of the game, and characteristic of Drallenkoop’s confidence.

“Mirko! Wait there!” called a high voice as he prepared to board Serendipity. It was Larien, tripping lightly down the jetty, kitted out in a dockhand’s garb of white shirt and black trousers gathered at the ankle. “Will you take me out this morning? I haven’t been out on a galley this year.”

“Climb aboard,” he said, holding out his hand. “You can ride the observation platform, as long as you’re quiet.”

Larien made a comic moue. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“That’s the deal: I’m still overseer in Orstas’ absence, and I can hardly invite one of the slaves to oversee.”

“Why are we waiting, then?”

As he helped her up to the observation platform, he said: “I’m glad you seem happier today, Larien. What happened at Formello was a terrible shock.”

“It’s past now. I have many reasons to hate my uncle; this is just one more. And now he’s driven Carnazan away too …”

“Relax and enjoy the sea. You’ll find it surpassingly soothing.”

“Thank you, Mirko — and thank you for forgiving me. I behaved abominably.”

Mirko shrugged, and failed to suppress a grin.

“Ascalon!” called Liudas. “Are we going?”

Mirko dropped down to the overseer’s hollow. “Indeed we are. Jenx, beat Seven!”

The bay was crowded, with most of the contenders for next week’s race going though their paces. Mirko worked Serendipity hard, experimenting with a number of tempos, running at Nine for as long as possible, and practising rapid changes from Seven through to Nine and back again. The results were encouraging, and Mirko called a halt for rations with some satisfaction. Larien had seemed thrilled, occasionally calling aloud in appreciation.

After a break, Mirko decided to order some helm work. A few sharp turns around the Hanspar went relatively successfully; Liudas’ evolutions lacked the crispness of natural aptitude, but the Rock was avoided without excessive diminution of speed.

“Jenx! Beat Seven! Liudas, make for The Sorcerers!”

This was an important conclusion to the day’s exercise. The turn around The Sorcerers next week would probably decide the race, and while Liudas was performing relatively well it seemed opportune to familiarise him with the prevailing conditions.

The pull from the Hanspar to The Sorcerers was hard work into a strong current. The three rocks, Anazgro, Rybalard and Basile-Orario, named after the three infamous and ill-fated wizards of East Gammerling, looked much larger and more forbidding close up, and Mirko decided it was unnecessary bravado to attempt to ‘thread the needle’, especially as he had no intention of doing so in the race. Animaxian’s Glory was also doing some practice work around the rocks, which made threading the needle even more inadvisable. Mirko compromised on an approach at full race pace going round the outside of the rocks.

“Jenx! Beat Nine! Liudas! Round the outside, if you please!”

Animaxian’s Glory had pulled up to within half a length, both reckless this close to The Sorcerers, and discourteous in a practice session.

“Animaxian’s Glory! Back off! Back off!” called Larien from the observation platform. Inisse sneered and made an obscene gesture from the helm. He mouthed something of which only ‘Bartazan bitch’ was audible.

“Maintain tempo! Maintain course!” called Mirko calmly. “Florian, Skaidrys! Keep the rhythm there, men! Liudas, outside, outside!”

Animaxian’s Glory was unable to gain terms with Serendipity and Liudas pulled the long swinging turn around the outside of Anazgro, the easiest of the Sorcerers, quickening appreciably as she came round into the current.

From the observation platform came the call: “She’s threading the needle! Animaxian’s Glory is threading the needle!”

Larien was right, Mirko saw from the overseer’s cockpit. Inisse had swung the helm hard to port, turning Animaxian’s Glory almost a hundred and eighty degrees. It was an amazing manoeuvre — and seeing it, Mirko knew that never in a lifetime could Liudas master it — and Animaxian’s Glory shot ahead as she hit the faster inter-rock current first. She emerged a length and a half ahead of Serendipity but then lost momentum as the current died — always the outcome for a galley which came through the eye of the needle. It was now incumbent on Inisse to move aside to avoid a collision, since Animaxian’s Glory was the slower boat; but instead she angled her bows across Serendipity. Mirko’s crew, rowing Nine, had no chance to slow or avoid. She ploughed through Animaxian’s Glory’s oars, smashed full on into her hull, before jolting to a halt.

There was a scream from the observation platform; Larien, unbalanced by the sudden stop, was launched into the air and hit the water with a stunning splash. Without thinking, Mirko plunged into the water, diving deep under the surface. The impact of the sea knocked the breath from his lungs, and he surfaced, gasping.

Looking around, he saw Larien floundering. He didn’t know whether she could swim, but the shock of the fall had clearly disoriented her. She beat ineffectually at the surface, her head bobbing below the surface with alarming regularity. Mirko saw that Animaxian’s Glory was effectively obstructing Serendipity’s attempts to disengage and move across to pick them up; he could expect no immediate help from that quarter.

Mirko swam across to Larien with swift, even strokes; swimming was something all Garganet mariners did well. “Larien! Relax! I’ll keep you afloat!”

Larien made to say something, but she sank back under the surface with her mouth open, emerging a second later with a great choking gasp. Mirko closed the gap between them and put an arm under her back, keeping her above the water with his own bodyweight. Once he had established a stable position it was relatively easy to maintain an equilibrium.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” gasped Larien. “I — I could see we were going to hit but I couldn’t brace myself. I thought I was going to drown.”

“You’ll be safe now — as long as Serendipity can disengage from that dog Inisse.”

“I can swim, you know.”

“You hide it well.”

“I just panicked. Let me go, I’ll stay afloat.”

Mirko felt such a course would be more cognisant with her dignity if she really could swim, and gently disengaged to assess her competence. She appeared to tread water efficiently enough.

“Can you swim to Serendipity?” asked Mirko.

“I think so.”

Larien was as good as her word, and soon they were in range of the rope thrown out by Trajian. Mirko secured it under Larien’s arms and she was hauled aboard, with Mirko scrambling impatiently up the side.

Once on the deck, Larien embraced him with a kiss for good measure. “You saved my life,” she said, sinking her head on his shoulder.

“I thought you could swim,” replied Mirko.

“So I can,” she said. “But I would have drowned before I remembered it.”

A remark, presumably lewd, from Jenx caused immense hilarity on the slave deck. Liudas uttered an ineffectual reproof but there was now no halting the string of ribaldries from the rowers. Mirko turned to face them.

“Do you take this assault on our honour so lightly? Do you forget the provocation from Inisse? Today there will be a reckoning.”

Florian called out: “Do you intend to chastise Minalgas Inisse?”

“Yes, Florian, I do. Our honour is at stake.”

Florian shook his head. “The term ‘irony’ is insufficient for this situation.”

“Enough, Florian. Attend to your station. Trajian, Skaidrys, with me.” Trajian and Skaidrys left their oars and moved astern. “Animaxian’s Glory appears unable to disengage our oars. Let us step across and offer our assistance.”

“Aye, sir.”

Leaping the narrow gap between the craft, they soon found themselves on the helm platform of Animaxian’s Glory. Inisse stood at his helm undaunted, his overseer and several slaves surrounding him.

“Sir,” said Inisse in a strong voice, “you find yourselves on the sacred deck of Animaxian’s Glory, a vessel consecrated as a temple to the sea-god Animaxian, the deity of Paladria. Kindly regulate your conduct accordingly.”

Mirko dropped his hand to his sword-hilt.

“I rather thought I had come aboard a brigand’s lair where the rules of the sea are set at naught. Since neither Trajian nor myself subscribe to Paladrian superstition in these devotional matters, we disregard your claims to sanctity. Account for your actions this instant, or face the consequences. A young woman nearly lost her life through your malice today.”

Inisse laughed. “And what of my sufferings? Who is to avenge those? If the Bartazan trollop had drowned it would not wipe off one iota of the debt owed to me for the eight weeks I spent in Bartazan’s pit. You are Bartazan’s men on Bartazan’s galley — I can only regard this morning’s events as highly satisfactory. If that concludes your business, you may leave immediately: we are required at the Temple of Animaxian to conduct a Mystery.”

Mirko stepped smartly forward and dealt Inisse a buffet around the ears. “You aggravate your offence by referring to the Lady Larien as a ‘trollop’. Conduct your Mystery, by all means — and then bring yourself back to the jetty. You and I, sir, have business to transact.”

Inisse bowed insolently. “In case you feel the provocation insufficiently direct, let me expand my characterisation of the Lady Larien to include the terms ‘hussy’, ‘harlot’, ‘whore’, ‘jade’, ‘beastialist’, ‘fornicatrix’, ‘deviant’, ‘reprobate’ and ‘moral leper’. Good evening to you, captain.”

Mirko raised his arm, to a sneer from Inisse. Trajian and Skaidrys quickly pulled Mirko away and they returned to Serendipity. Mirko’s face was thunderous.

“Liudas! Disengage from this buffoon’s craft, steer for shore. Jenx, beat Seven.”

Larien, who appeared to have heard Inisse’s discourse, said: “You do not need to protect my honour, Mirko — and certainly not Bartazan’s.”

“Inisse’s insults were an abomination. I would have felt obliged to defend the honour and reputation of any lady so maligned.”

“His list was by and large unspecific, and reflected only the understandable bile of his temper. His provocations have been extreme. Those terms which referred to specific acts — with the exception of ‘fornicatrix’ — were demonstrably false, and those which did not were largely subjective value judgements.”

Mirko smiled, welcoming Larien’s return to her customary spirit: her immersion had inflicted no lasting damage.

As soon as Serendipity had moored, Mirko summoned a rattlejack for Larien and instructed Skaidrys to accompany her back to Formello. He was uncertain how Bartazan would react; while he evinced little regard for his niece, the insult to the honour of Bartazan House was clear and direct. Better if he dealt with the matter himself.

As he waited for Animaxian’s Glory to reach the jetty, he could not help reflecting on the irony of the situation. It was solely due to his own impulses that Inisse was at liberty at all; yet Inisse, perfectly reasonably, hated with a vengeful passion everything to do with Bartazan House and seemingly would not rest until he ruined either it or himself. He was hardly in a position to draw the facts to Inisse’s attention, and he certainly felt no personal animosity — but in his current humour, Inisse represented a real danger not just to himself, but to Serendipity and Larien. The situation was difficult and complicated: the person best able to help him was ‘N’, he suspected. But ‘N’ always made sure she was the one to initiate contact, and he had no reliable way of arranging a meeting with her. He would have to track down one of the various intermediaries he occasionally used.

A short while later, Animaxian’s Glory lashed herself to her mooring. The officers and crew disembarked and set up a wailing chant as they marched off, presumably to undertake their Mystery. Mirko sent the crew back to the Urmaleškas under Liudas’ command, with the exception of Florian and Trajian whom he retained as seconds. He spent the next hour or so honing the various duelling skills he had learned as a matter of course in Garganet; while his practice had been negligent of late, he doubted that Inisse, after eight weeks in an underground pit, would be any more proficient.

“How have you managed to get yourself in this position?” asked Florian as they stopped to drink. “You risk your life — and ours, of course — to rescue Inisse, and now he won’t rest until he’s killed you. Whichever of you dies, it’s an absurdity and a waste.”

Mirko sighed as he sat back on a mooring bollard. “I hardly know how else it could have turned out. I can’t tell Inisse who rescued him without endangering us all, and I can’t allow him to insult the Lady Larien without chastisement.”

Trajian said: “You could, in fact. You are an employee of the House of Bartazan — however eccentrically you discharge that employment — and any rebuke would be better be administered by Bartazan himself or Carnazan.”

“It’s my imaginings of the form Bartazan’s rebuke might take that disposes me to settle this myself; remember Padizan. And Carnazan is not here to intervene. Besides, Larien was under my protection as galley-master. A man must have some honour.”

Florian snorted. “Honour? Trajian and I know what you did in Garganet. It hardly seems appropriate to talk about honour in those circumstances.”

Mirko’s jaw clenched. “That was Garganet. I forfeited enough; it doesn’t mean I can’t try to act with dignity here.”

Trajian said: “We agreed that Garganet is behind us, Florian. We all need to stick together if any of us is going home. But Mirko, you should be careful with Larien: I don’t think Bartazan will be overjoyed if you debauch her.”

Mirko shrugged. “We act as we act; and take the consequences. I regulate my conduct by this precept.”

CHAPTER 14

The sun was low in the sky when Inisse returned to the jetty. Accompanying him were two Animaxianites of sober habit and surly mien. Florian and Trajian lounged on the jetty planks, while Mirko leaned, dead still, against his bollard.

Inisse stepped towards him. “You had business with me, I understand?”

Mirko stood erect and stepped forward. “You insulted the Lady Larien today in terms I found strongly offensive. I am sure that on reflection you will wish to withdraw the remarks and tender an apology to the lady.”

Inisse rubbed at his beard. “My animosity against the House of Bartazan is strong and understandable. Naturally I comprehend the Lady Larien in my displeasure. My only regret is that the imminence of the Mystery prevented me from outlining my opinions at greater length.”

“Very well,” said Mirko. “I have given you the chance. ‘Death, blood, or yield’, sir.”

Inisse bowed. “The devotees of Animaxian believe the dispensation of death is a matter for the Great One alone, and not to be presumed upon by man. I choose ‘yield’.”

Mirko’s smile of relief was masked by his bow. He had had no desire to kill Inisse, nor to die himself, although this possibility was more remote.

Inisse said: “Perhaps we might adjourn to the dockside where conditions are not so cramped as the here on the jetty. My seconds are the Pious Derellen and Aranisse.”

Mirko nodded to them. “Mine are the Gentle Florian and Trajian. Let us proceed with rapid effect.”

The dockside was empty, the only sound the lapping of the tide against the wharf and the occasional scrape of a galley hull. Inisse and Mirko drew their rapiers and circled cautiously. Mirko essayed a couple of feints which Inisse read and parried competently. Stepping up the tempo of his attack, Mirko managed to force Inisse back. A swift lunge caught Inisse’s shirt but failed to draw blood; instead Inisse was prompted to leap forward, prancing and stamping; a technique unorthodox but effective, and Mirko was forced to give ground. Encouraged by his success, he pushed further forward; Mirko, ducking under an over-ambitious lunge, caught Inisse’s cheek with a slight nick.

“You may yield, sir!” called Mirko. Inisse shook his head, rejecting an honourable defeat.

Inisse’s injury had raised his hackles, and he redoubled his attacks. His swordplay was characterised by flair, daring and more skill than Mirko had expected. Mirko continued to fight in the classic Garganet style: defensive, watchful, patient. Another opening presented itself and he jabbed forward to nick Inisse’s shoulder. Neither injury would inconvenience a determined opponent.

“Fight, man!” called Inisse. “My grandmother fences with more spirit!”

Mirko said nothing, content to give ground until he could force an opening. Inisse’s physical condition could not be good; he could not possibly have recovered full fitness yet.

It proved to be his patience which was exhausted first, however: with a cry of “Animaxian is great!” he launched a huge leap at Mirko who, surprised, stumbled backwards. With a cry of triumph, Inisse thrust at Mirko’s throat, a move signalled so far in advance that he was able to roll aside, the blade missing him by an inch. With his left hand he grabbed Inisse’s sword-arm and pulled the wrist back against his knee. He thought to hear a faint ‘crack’ and Inisse dropped the sword with a yelp. Mirko applied more pressure to the wrist and pulled Inisse to the ground, hauling himself erect in the same movement.

He stood with his sword at the prone Inisse’s throat. “You’ve fought with skill and vigour, Inisse. Now yield.”

Inisse spat up at Mirko. “Dog!”

“I don’t want to kill you, Inisse. Yield or die.”

“Yield!” hissed Inisse.

Trajian walked over and pulled Inisse to his feet by his good wrist. “Go now,” he said. “We all saw your bravery today.”

Inisse said nothing. In accordance with custom he bowed and offered his sword hilt to Mirko, who shook his head. “Forfeiture is for cowards,” he said. “Take back your sword.”

“Thank you,” said Inisse expressionlessly. He turned on his heel and walked away with his seconds.

Trajian said: “Are you hurt?”

Mirko shook his head. “He was more skilfull than I expected, but he didn’t touch me.”

“Idiocy,” said Florian through tight lips. “You rescue the man; then you let him nearly drown your paramour and come within an inch of cutting your throat. We should have let him rot: and you should have killed him today. He’s not finished with you yet.”

“The Lady Larien is not my paramour. And Bartazan detained him unjustly; we did right to free him.”

Florian laughed mirthlessly. “And you seek to right every injustice? When you run a crew of slaves? Where is the justice in my situation? Or Trajian’s? We are Garganet officers. All of the crew would adduce circumstances of their own.”

“Do you think I like to see Garganets in the slave pens? The fact is you were captured by corsairs who sold you in the markets to Bartazan. By every rule of trade that’s legal. I can’t do anything for either of you.”

Florian shrugged. “I never thought you could; I never even imagined you’d try. But don’t be so keen to promote yourself as a universal champion of justice, Ascalon. It doesn’t sit well with everyone.”

“You don’t have to like me, Florian; you don’t have to agree with me. Just do what I tell you. As soon as I can do anything for either of you, I’ll do it.”

Trajian snorted. “Do you know, I think I preferred Padizan and Orstas: at least I knew where I was with them.”

“That’s enough, both of you. I’m all that stands between you and Bartazan having the hide whipped off you.”

“Obliged to your forbearance, I’m sure,” said Florian with sardonic emphasis.

“Mirko — look,” said Trajian in a level tone.

Turning, Mirko saw some twenty figures in the white robes trimmed with green of the Animaxianites advancing towards them. Four of the men carried a large net.

“We’re trapped,” said Trajian. “We can’t get past them and we’ve the sea at our backs.”

“And one sword between three of us,” said Mirko. “This constitutes competitive odds.”

Florian shook his head. “Animaxian take Inisse! Every time you show him any mercy he tries to kill us.”

Mirko pulled his sword. “You two distract them — I’ll try and slash the net.”

“Distract!” said Trajian. “With what, my arse?”

“Come on!” called Florian. “Garganet! Garganet!”

“Garganet!” cried Trajian as he joined Florian’s charge.

Mirko advanced cautiously towards the net; before he was in sword range its holders surged forwards; Mirko’s arms were entangled before he could hope to use his sword. Kicking and struggling, he watched as first Trajian and then Florian were clubbed down with stout staves. In silence they were carried across to the net and dumped in alongside Mirko; a tangle of arms and legs which Mirko could not help but feel essentially undignified. Florian and Trajian, both stunned, seemed in no condition to offer an opinion.

Circumstances — in particular the net — prevented Mirko from decisive action. He had no option but to wait as he was jounced along through the back streets, until he saw, to no great surprise, the Temple of Animaxian looming large.

Through the giant archway they were carried, into the main worship space, out past the back of the altar to the top of a concealed stairway. Down, down they were carried. Soon Mirko smelled a briny tang and heard the lapping of waves. It seemed the Animaxianites maintained an underground link to the sea, although the reason was not immediately obvious.

The Animaxianites soon arrived at their destination; a dank, reeking cell with every inch of floor covered in seaweed. Mirko was encouraged that the seaweed did not extend up the walls; at least they would not be drowned by the next tide.

The Animaxianites set the net down and unceremoniously rolled the Garganets out.

“What is this?” asked Mirko, more for form’s sake than in any serious hope of an answer.

“Wait,” said one of the Animaxianites. “All will soon be revealed to you. Make your peace with whatever gods you worship.”

Mirko derived no comfort from this; indeed it seemed likely that the Animaxianites intended to kill them. Florian had been right in saying he had shown Inisse too much mercy. Fortunately Florian, conscious but groggy, seemed ill-disposed to press the point.

Several hours passed. The daylight which leached into the cell faded, leaving only an eerie phosphorescence from the seaweed. Florian emerged from a long silence.

“So. What are their intentions, do you think?”

Mirko sighed. “Nothing good, I suspect. If you were my officers, I’d be suggesting we say the Battle Creed.”

Trajian groaned and rubbed his head. “We aren’t dead yet. ‘I commend me to the endless night’ seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”

“They clearly intend to kill us,” said Mirko. “My guess would be as some form of sacrifice.”

“What a death,” spat Florian. “Underground, a sacrifice and a slave. We’ll take a few with us, at least.”

The door creaked on its rusted hinges to admit a small amount of light and three figures. Two were guards with swords drawn; clinking from the corridor suggested there were more. The third figure was a woman, her purple robes trimmed with silver. By Mirko’s assessment this made her a senior figure, possibly even a High Spiritor.

“My lady,” he said. “Welcome to what is, however temporarily, my establishment. I am sorry we are unable to offer you hospitality.”

“Are you the galley-master?” she asked, her voice calm and well-modulated. She did not appear a fanatic. Mirko suspected that their chances of leaving the Temple alive depended on creating some kind of rapport with her.

“Mirko Ascalon, formerly of the Garganet Navy, at your service. My associates, the Gentle Florian and Trajian.”

“An imbalance exists,” said the woman.

“Indeed it does,” said Mirko. “We have told you our names; you have not returned the courtesy.”

She clucked and said: “I am the Ecclesiant Aharisse; I conduct certain rites Below the Temple. The imbalance relates not to empty formalities, but to the treatment of the Adept Minalgas Inisse, at the hands of the Elector Bartazan.”

“Most reprehensible, I agree,” said Mirko. “It may be if you were to draw the matter to his attention that he would issue an apology. I would happy to act as an intermediary if necessary.”

Aharisse frowned. Her fair hair was piled high on her head, her robe cut to reveal an alabaster expanse of skin above her breast; she did not carry herself as a woman accustomed to debate or opposition. “Your idea is at best witless. Bartazan is not a man of humility or piety. It is necessary to find other ways of restoring equilibrium.”

“Perhaps a token payment as fiduciary damages?”

“You fail to understand the gravity of the offence. It is not just Inisse who has been wronged by Bartazan but Animaxian Himself. In such a context, talk is callow.”

“I sense,” interjected Florian, “that you already have a different idea.”

“I do,” said Aharisse. “Animaxian demands the blood of those responsible for the slight.”

“I rather thought he might,” said Mirko wearily. “I find it unlikely that the Elector will consent to appear before you.”

“The God will accept the repentance of proxies on this occasion,” replied Aharisse. “In the circumstances the three of you will suffice.”

“Out of interest,” said Trajian, “how does Animaxian communicate such subtle and precise information? I believe he lacks corporeal form.”

“It is late — far far too late — in your earthly existence to begin to understand the doctrines of Animaxian. What lies beyond this life, I can say no more than you. It may be that your perplexities are resolved at this point.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Trajian, “I am content to remain in ignorance.”

“Enough!” said Aharisse haughtily. “Animaxian will be appeased tomorrow. You need not concern yourself that His wishes have been incorrectly interpreted; my information is exact and unequivocal. Your conduct displays an unseemly levity, and I will allow you until the morning to prepare yourselves for the events to come. I warn you, a sacrifice of this nature to Animaxian is a serious and solemn rite: if you profane it by whatever means, it will be necessary to chastise you.”

Trajian responded: “But if we’re going to —”

“I have listened to enough,” said Aharisse. “I sense you are unwilling to adopt an appropriate humility. This is regrettable, but the rite must proceed nonetheless. Good night to you.”

Aharisse made a curious devotional gesture with her hands and left the cell, which was immediately locked behind her.

Sleep proved a limited commodity that night; no sooner had Mirko drifted into a fitful doze with dawn approaching than the lapping of the incoming tide wetted his feet and banished all further thoughts of rest. Florian was similarly discommoded and set up a great bellow: “Hoy there! What kind of treatment is this? Our quarters are somewhat damp!”

“Patience in there!” called an Animaxianite from outside the cell. “You will be making ample acquaintance of water soon enough.”

The key turned slowly in the lock, and a body of armed guards entered. Trajian and Florian immediately threw themselves against the Animaxianites and were subdued with harsh and effective force. Mirko shook his head; this had not been an intelligent use of what might well have been their last opportunity to effect an escape.

The guards led Mirko along the passageway, while Florian and Trajian were dragged with less ceremony. Up several flights of stairs they went, slippery with either seaweed or mould, and giving off a noisome odour. Presently they emerged into a large cavern, lit with lanthorns of impressive scope.

One side of the chamber was packed with sober and expectant Animaxianites; Mirko found it disconcerting to speculate on the likely cause of their anticipation. The far end of the chamber gave out on the sea, which flowed in through a grille to create a small central lake which formed the focal point of the space. Ripples on the surface of the water suggested something large lurked beneath.

Aharisse stepped from within an alcove to address the three Garganet. Today her purple robe was trimmed with sea-green, a brooch at her breast depicting a creature with fins, a sinuous body and villainously long pair of jaws.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “I hope you have used your last night wisely and reached a degree of composure. Today you achieve the end of your earthly journey, assuage your crimes, and move purified into the company of Animaxian.”

Florian looked at her through the one eye not closed by swelling; Trajian kept his own counsel as he mopped at his bleeding nose; and Mirko did not feel disposed either for expostulation or theological debate.

“You see before you the Platform of Redemption,” said Aharisse. “You will briefly find yourself affixed to the Platform while I make various small incisions; at this point you will be consigned to the Pool, where you will meet Animaxian: an honour of which you should be fully conversant.”

“I cannot express my gratitude,” murmured Trajian.

Aharisse turned her attention from Mirko. “Ah,” she said, “the bold and defiant one. I think we will wait awhile; you may find the fates of your comrades — edificatory. You,” she continued, turning to Mirko, “are their leader?”

Mirko nodded. “You too,” she said, “should witness the consequences of your follies before expiating them.”

She turned to Florian. “So you will make the acquaintance of Animaxian first.”

Florian appeared groggy but still summoned the energy to spit. Aharisse gave a reproving look, which in the circumstances was of limited effect. Acolytes took Florian’s arms and dragged him to the ‘Platform of Redemption’, where he was secured with gentle but effective restraint. Another acolyte walked to the side of the pool and threw in a foul-stinking mess of fish entrails. A giant pair of jaws broke the surface, clearly the model for Aharisse’s brooch.

“Gods preserve us!” breathed Trajian. “They have a woe-fish.”

Mirko said nothing. The predacity of the woe-fish was legendary. Once they were in the pool, they were dead men.

Aharisse raised her knife high.

“Impious servant of Bartazan!” she declaimed. “You have committed terrible blasphemy and sacrilege against the Adept of Animaxian. The god is just, and he decrees a just expiation. I make the incisions of repentance –” two moderate cuts were made on Florian’s arms “– to alert Animaxian to the arrival of a penitent.”

Mirko doubted that the woe-fish whom the Animaxianites appeared to take as an avatar of their god needed the clarification represented by the ‘incisions of repentance’: the entrails appeared to have wakened its appetite and it circled the pool with a beady eye on the platform – clearly not the first time it had represented the source of its dinner.

“And now, Profane One, meet your fate!”

“HALT IN THE NAME OF THE PEREMPTOR!” called a voice from the entrance to the cavern. “Desist immediately!”

Aharisse turned in dismay. Mirko’s gaze followed, to see twenty or so armed Peremptor’s Constables.

“What do you mean by this intrusion?” snapped Aharisse.

The Constable who had spoken stepped forward. “My name is Vaidmantas; I am Lieutenant of the Peremptor’s Constables, and my writ is law. Release these men immediately!”

Aharisse lifted her chin defiantly. “You have no jurisdiction over ecclesiastical affairs.”

Vaidmantas, a trim figure with mocking grey eyes, made a deprecatory gesture. “The practice of human sacrifice, as you are well aware, is illegal in every aspect. The Third Consistory of Animaxian acknowledges that the god is equally well satisfied with the sacrifice of sheep and goats. There are those theologians – a realm into which I do not venture – who would even argue that you yourself commit a blasphemy by readying a human sacrifice.”

Aharisse turned her back. “Enough. This is a jackpate, a puling nonentity. Let the rite proceed.”

Two acolytes stepped forward to release Florian’s bonds to allow him to pitch forward into the pool; two Constables’ arrows sang and the acolytes fell dead to the floor. The other acolytes stared in bewilderment, clearly with no appetite whatsoever for a fight. Mirko nodded in silent approval; Vaidmantas understood the value of a display of force.

“This shall not be!” cried Aharisse in a passion. Seeing the Constables freeing Florian, she instead launched herself with her sacrificial knife at Mirko. “You are the main culprit, and you must die!”

Mirko ducked as Aharisse flew at him, her hair escaping from its bun. She landed heavily on the stone floor dampened by the woe-fish’s leaping. Her foot slipped, and as if in slow motion she toppled backwards towards the pool, frantically flailing for balance.

“Help me!” she cried, holding out her arm to Mirko in supplication. Mirko had no desire to be dragged into the woe-fish’s pool and stepped well back. With a final scream Aharisse fell backwards, briefly vanishing under the surface with a splash. She resurfaced and tried to swim for the side; the woe-fish was faster. The water foamed for a moment, turned red, and then the Ecclesiant Aharisse was no more.

After a silence Trajian turned to Mirko. “Curious that she was so ardent of the benefits of meeting Animaxian, yet proved so reluctant to avail herself of them.”

“Indeed,” said Mirko. “A woman of naturally modest character, perhaps.”

Trajian nodded. “That must have been the case.”

Vaidmantas approached them. “Are you gentlemen unharmed?”

Mirko nodded. “My companions and I are largely unscathed, for which we thank you. How did you know we were here?”

Vaidmantas made an airy gesture. “Such rescues are the stock in trade of the Peremptor’s Constables. I am only glad we arrived in time.”

“No gladder than we are, I assure you,” said Mirko with a smile. “You have our thanks.”

Vaidmantas bowed, and walked with them into the sudden bright glare of the new day.

CHAPTER 15

It was only two mornings later that the day of the Peremptor’s Nomination Ball dawned bright and sunny. Mirko lay in his bed until nearly midday, having previously arranged to give the crew a day away from Serendipity. He dressed with greater than usual care, selecting the plum and umber coat over a brilliant white shirt, breeches of a light grey, white gaiters and a pair of cutaway umber shoes. His lodgings were not equipped with a glass, so he had to take the overall effect on trust. Clambering astride Boodle, he rode at a gentle pace up the mountain road towards Formello.

From the barbican Mirko’s approach was espied and two guards descended respectfully to swing wide the gate of the Henderbridge. Mirko raised a hand in salute and rode through into the inner ward where he dismounted. Liveried slaves took Boodle off to the stables and Mirko was escorted into the reception room inside the castle. There was an air of hushed expectancy about Formello: this was a significant day in the life of its master.

Larien soon came down the stairs from her own apartments. “Mirko!” she called. “I should hardly have recognised you — you look quite the courtier.”

Mirko politely inclined his head. Larien herself had taken great trouble over her own appearance and he could not remember ever seeing her so alluring. Her dress took as its basis the Azure, the main body a rich navy blue with sleeves of cerulean, and cuffs again of navy. The cut was daringly low, revealing a white expanse of chest and, to the probing eye, a little more. Her hair was piled on her head in an elaborate coiffure, and two large sapphires depended from her ears; another hung around her neck on a silver chain. Mirko found the total effect utterly captivating.

“Larien, if I am a courtier, I hardly know where to begin with my compliments. You are lovely beyond compare.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and Mirko caught the scent of a subtle sweet perfume. “I find simple praise the most convincing,” she smiled. “I know what I look like — what woman doesn’t — and it’s enough to know you appreciate the effect.”

“Oh, I certainly appreciate it,” said Mirko with a smile.

He was saved from any further effusions by the blast of a herald’s horn.

“Make way for the Elector Lord Bartazan!”

Bartazan was descending the stairs from his apartments, with the Lady Inuela on his arm. He was attired entirely in the Azure, even down to his gloves, while Inuela was simply but richly dressed in a flowing white dress with Azure favours. Mirko bowed as they approached, Bartazan responding with a measured courtesy; he suspected that Bartazan was not fully reconciled to his presence on such a significant day. The Lady Inuela accepted Mirko’s bow with a frosty courtesy.

“Who are the others?” whispered Mirko to Larien as the rest of the party made their way down the staircase.

“That’s Inuela’s sister Ysabel and her husband Calaran, with their son Balaran. Calaran is the cousin of the Elector Malanaz.”

Ysabel strongly resembled her sister, although she was several years younger with eyes less narrowed in spite. Calaran had the look of well-bred stupidity Mirko had noticed in other Electors’ family connections, while Balaran was at the age where acne was his most noteworthy feature. Mirko began to realise why his invitation had caused such displeasure with Bartazan; no doubt his presence would considerably lower the cachet of the party.

Attended by various liverymen the group made its way back out to the courtyard, where a number of open-topped carriages awaited. Bartazan and Inuela were assisted into the first, drawn by four striders and with wheels six feet high to ensure the masses had an adequate view of them. Calaran’s family were assigned the second carriage, smaller but still impressive, while Larien and Mirko clambered aboard the last with the minimum of ceremony. The coachman inclined his head as he positioned himself at the front of the vehicle, and Mirko grinned back at him. He might as well enjoy the occasion.

The route took them through the Old Town, where the crowds seemed more inclined to cheer than jeer, although in some quarters the balance was close. Mirko himself attracted a certain number of ribald comments which, following Larien’s example, he affected not to notice. Bartazan liberally distributed handfuls of silver coins where the crowds were deepest, to contemptuous clucking from Larien.

“Why does he do that?” asked Mirko. “None of these people can vote for him.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Larien. “Given a free vote, there is no way at all Bartazan would get twenty-six Electors’ votes; but there are any number of Electors who will be swayed by the mob. Many many years ago now, two or three hundred, the Electors chose Gilard Gilardson of House Sey for Peremptor; the people had bayed for Kattenkoop: the mob ran wild, Gilardson was torn limb from limb, and several Electors were lynched. It’s never happened before or since; but no Elector will ever forget it.”

“Kattenkoop? Any relation to Drallenkoop?”

“Yes, he was the Elector for House Drall at the time. There was another election, and of course Kattenkoop won. It would have been better if he hadn’t; it was his conduct in office which has made House Drall unelectable ever since. He disregarded our old liberties and suppressed all opposition.”

“Hardly unusual conduct for a Peremptor, I’d have thought.”

Larien laughed, her cheeks glowing in the sea breeze.

“No, you’re right. More damaging were the rumours that he was dabbling in the Old Craft. Who knows whether he was or not? I find it unlikely myself. Anyway, he was hounded from office, and lucky to escape with his life: there is no worse crime in Paladria. No Drall has stood for Peremptor since.”

“Paladrian politics is certainly a bloody business.”

“It will be if my uncle wins — that you can be sure of.”

Moving out from the Old Town, the carriages moved along the Esplanade towards Coverciano; this was the region where gentlefolk lived, and crowds were discouraged. Mirko looked out into the bay; several galleys were busy practising for The Sorcerers, now only three days away. He recognised the long pennon of Morvellos Devil, and saw Animaxian’s Glory drilling herself in smart turns; the easy style of Inisse at the helm was easily recognisable to the seasoned observer.

Larien caught the direction of his attention. Gently touching his knee, she asked: “Do you wish you were out there?”

“Under the circumstances, no,” he smiled. “One day’s practice won’t make any difference — and Liudas will be at the Ball anyway. Dragonchaser can’t practise either, if Drallenkoop is here.”

Coverciano loomed into view, the brilliantly whitewashed walls reflecting the bright mid-afternoon sun. There was a queue of carriages awaiting admittance at the gates, and Bartazan had to wait his turn like the rest. Nearby Mirko saw the carriage of Koopendrall, gleaming in gold and scarlet; the four-seater also included Drallenkoop and his companion, a young woman Larien dismissively referred to “that flighty Allara, supposedly the Elector Tychonod’s daughter, although with a mother like that it’s impossible to be certain.”

Mirko raised a hand in salute to Drallenkoop, and Dragonchaser’s master responded in kind, adding in a bow to Larien; she responded with a glare which also took in Allara.

As they moved forward they drew level with the green open carriage of the Elector Nool Ipolitas, in which Liudas was also seated, as befitted an Elector’s son. Liudas had outdone himself in finery, his otherwise sober costume appearing to have peacock feathers sprouting from each shoulder. Mirko could not repress a smirk, while Larien called out a compliment which Liudas returned in kind.

At last the Bartazan carriages reached the head of the queue. The footmen took them away while the dignitaries disembarked. The courtyard was heavily populated with Peremptor’s Guards, conspicuous in their black uniforms and four-cornered hats.

“My Lord Bartazan? This way, if you please.”

The party was escorted into the giant formal ballroom, which had not been used on the previous occasion he had visited Coverciano. Footmen freely distributed Televen wine and baked quails’ eggs as the assembled throng took their seats. Mirko found the occasion lacking in stimulation and applied himself early to the wine. The ballroom was undoubtedly impressive, the ceiling richly decorated with scenes in noble colours, the seats upholstered in Peremptor’s purple, and even the finger bowls adorned with rubies; but Mirko was eager for dinner to begin.

At last everyone was seated. Mirko looked around to see who he could recognise. Drallenkoop’s party was largely out of sight at the other side of the hall; Nool Ipolitas and Liudas were nearby, and Mirko recognised various of the Electors he had seen at Formello soirées.

There was a long blast from a herald’s horn, and the chatter around the room ceased.

“All stand to mark the arrival of the Peremptor of Paladria, the August Dignity Giedrus of House Luz!”

Mirko stood with the others as a group of persons swept into the room; he looked with curiosity at Giedrus, a tall figure younger than he had expected. His robes were purple trimmed with white. His lady and children followed at a respectful distance, and various high officers from the Peremptor’s Guard made up the party. Mirko noticed Vaidmantas standing towards the rear of the group.

Giedrus paused at his seat. Stretching out his arms, he said:

“Dear guests! I welcome you to Coverciano for this most important of days. Please, be seated and enjoy the hospitality we have prepared for you. After we have satiated our appetites, we will turn our attention to the more serious business: Nominations for the August Office!”

With this Giedrus took his seat, and footmen appeared from various alcoves to serve the first course, a spicy soup laden with croutons. Bartazan seemed in a good humour.

“Well, Captain? How do you find Coverciano?”

“Highly impressive, my lord. It fully reflects the dignity of the Peremptor’s office.”

Bartazan nodded. “Indeed it does; and since I intend it for my own residence, I find it most suitable. After the Nominations we will repair to the gardens, which are also praiseworthy.”

Mirko forbore from observing that he had been to Coverciano before; no doubt Bartazan’s thoughts were elevated by his forthcoming nomination. He returned to his soup, before turning his attention to the roast boar garnished with fennel, with potatoes and shallots which formed the basis of the main course. The salad of cold fowl which followed also proved acceptable, and by the time the mango and kiwano sherbet dessert came around, Mirko enjoyed a pleasant feeling of satiety. The conversation was not, by and large, of a level of stimulation sufficient to stave off post-prandial stupor: Larien contented herself with an occasional private smile, and looking around the other tables; Calaran’s discourse marked him as, if anything, even less intelligent than his appearance, while his wife wisely kept her own counsel. Young Balaran scowled his way through all four courses, making occasional peevish complaints to his mother. The Lady Inuela kept up a stream of polished inanity which Mirko judged essential in helping such events to pass off smoothly.

Mirko found the penultimate course of horse-chestnuts, shelled and dipped in honey and cinnamon, a little cloying for his palate. Larien, observing his lack of enthusiasm, leaned across and took one from his plate.

“Do you mind?” she asked. “These are my particular favourites.”

Mirko smiled. “Be my guest. I’m saving room for the sea-slug.”

Larien popped the chestnut in whole, her eyes immediately watering from the heat of the honey. “You’d think I’d have learned at my age,” she laughed, fanning her mouth and coughing. “Here, let me try with another.”

CHAPTER 16

By the end of the final course – the marinated sea-slug had been sweetened to perfection – Mirko was following Larien’s example and scrutinising the tables around him. The other guests did not appear to be in riotous spirits either, with the exception of one table in the far corner, which on closer inspection proved to be Koopendrall’s. Mirko thought that ‘N’ would be interested to hear more details of the event, and wandered off towards the privy past Koopendrall’s table. On his way back, to his astonishment, he saw not just Koopendrall, Drallenkoop and their companions, but the animated figure of ‘N’ herself. What conceivable reason could ‘N’ have for being Koopendrall’s guest at the Nominations Ball?

Stumbling over the carpet in his surprise, he attracted the attention of Drallenkoop.

“Watch out, Ascalon! This Televen is strong stuff!”

Mirko affected a sheepish grin and returned to his seat as quickly as he could. His puzzlement was rapidly increasing. ‘N’ had always appeared to be a gentlewoman: could it be that she was a member of House Drall? The idea was not inherently ludicrous; and indeed would explain why she was employing him to spy on Bartazan. If his supposition were correct, it would mean he too was working for Drallenkoop — or at least Koopendrall.

Larien leaned across and touched his hand. “Are you all right?”

Mirko roused himself. “Yes — just a little too much wine. But listen — can you see the Drall table from here?”

“Just. Why?”

“I saw someone I recognised at it. A woman, short, fairish hair, dark eyes, sort of attractive?”

“ ‘Sort of’?”

“You know what I mean. Do you know who she is?”

“It sounds to me like Catzendralle — she’s some sort of eccentric relation, Koopendrall’s cousin or second cousin or some such. How do you know her?”

“I don’t — I’ve just seen her somewhere before, maybe a regatta. It’s not a matter of any significance.”

Larien smiled and rearranged a lock of hair which had escaped its binding.

“It’s significant when my escort is noticing other women. I can’t see the interest — ‘sort of attractive’ is a generous assessment, and Koopendrall has obviously given her up as unmarriageable or she wouldn’t be a spinster at her age. I seem to recall she has a past, anyway …”

“I didn’t ask for a character assassination,” said Mirko with asperity. “I simply wondered who she was. Listen, the speeches are about to start.”

This fortunate break seemed to take Larien’s attention elsewhere. As Giedrus stood up, a footman discreetly slipped a note to Mirko: “From my Lord Koopendrall’s table, sir.” Mirko looked at the front: a single ‘G’ on the front marked it as ‘N’s work. Quickly breaking the seal, he registered the short message:

Meet me in the Orange Grove immediately after the nominations. Even by your standards this represents unsatisfactory conduct.

‘N’

Sighing, Mirko folded the note away in his coat, and reattached his attention to Giedrus.

“Lords and ladies, may I please have your attention! My second five-year term as Peremptor is coming to an end. It is not for me to assess the credit I have brought to the office during my tenure; the verdict on this score will of course be delivered by my brother Electors. I will not list the boons of peace and prosperity which have attended Paladria while I have been Peremptor, or the liberties I have restored. Let us instead consider for a moment the history of the August Office, and the men who have filled it with distinction.”

Mirko leaned across to Larien. “How long does this normally last?”

“Don’t worry — Giedrus doesn’t waste words.”

The Peremptor paused a moment to drink deeply of his goblet.

“The first Peremptor was of course my ancestor Pertinax Luz, chosen by his peers to root the Old Craft out of Paladria for good. In this he succeeded, for the Old Craft has never returned; Pertinax’s peers became the first Electors, and Pertinax wisely decreed that the August Office should ever more be selected from among this group by its members. Pertinax was not greedy for office, and the tradition of service to the common weal has ever after been a prime requisite for candidates for Peremptor. Other Electors from among the Luz have also served the people in this way; Pertinax the Second, who negotiated a treaty of friendship with Garganet; Romualdo of the Low Taxes; Verizon the Just, who codified our ancient laws. These are the men whose blood flows in my veins, men of force and vigour, humility and dignity. In my own way I have tried to follow their example.

“But never let it be said I lust for power. If a man of proven integrity, capacity and energy should step forward from among the Electors, and announce himself willing to take on the burden, I will relinquish the August Office without demur. My brothers, I do not know who among you intends to serve Paladria; but look into your hearts, to find that integrity, capacity and energy: if you do not find them, stand aside and allow a worthier man to serve.”

Larien whispered to Mirko: “See how smooth he is: the ‘integrity’ is intended to bring Bartazan’s arraignment to mind.”

Mirko agreed that Giedrus appeared to embody precisely the qualities of hypocrisy, plausibility and ruthlessness necessary in a successful ruler; Bartazan was altogether a less polished gem.

“It remains only to say that, since I cannot be assured that a more fitting candidate will indeed step forward, I once more declare my readiness to serve the people of Paladria in the capacity I have filled for the past ten years. Electors, I submit to your judgement!”

There was a ripple of applause around the room, genuinely enthusiastic in some cases, desultory in others, and on a few tables — such as Mirko’s — stony silence.

“I will move now to the question of Nomination. Brothers, do you propose a candidate?”

The Elector Nool Ipolitas rose portentously from his seat.

“Your Dignity, it would not be healthy for the state of Paladria were you to be returned, unopposed, to the August Office, since this would provide no validation for your no doubt progressive programmes. In this spirit, may I propose the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House?”

Bartazan inclined his head towards Ipolitas.

“I will endorse this nomination!” “And I!”

In a matter of seconds, Bartazan had his five nominations. Giedrus called to him in a full voice:

“My Lord Bartazan, Ilkmeister of Bartazan House: your peers have nominated you for Election, for a third and final time. What answer do you give them?”

Slowly Bartazan rose from his seat and looked around the room.

“Your Dignity, my brother Electors! I am unworthy of the honour you have bestowed upon me,” he said, holding up his hands against the expected storm of protest, “no, my brothers, this is not simple rhetoric! Twice in the past, I have allowed my flag to climb the Electoral Pole: on both occasions, the claims of the noble Giedrus have been preferred. The opinions of the Electors are clear and concise: Lord Giedrus is the man for the August Office.

“In allowing my name to go forward a third time, I of course engage in a considerable risk, since an Elector defeated three times is debarred permanently from the August Office. I should in all prudence withdraw my candidature against a time when the noble Giedrus has tired of his heavy responsibilities. But my sense of what is due to the spirit of Paladria is strong. No-one else volunteers to stand against a man with a record as impressive as my lord Giedrus’; and as the sage Nool Ipolitas reminds us, for Giedrus to be returned unopposed denies him the full endorsement his magnificent achievements deserve. In this spirit, I accept my nomination, in the absence of another candidate.”

From the floor came a cry: “I nominate the Elector Koopendrall!”

Heads turned to identify the miscreant. It was the Elector Mecislovas of House Annix, something of an eccentric personality, known for his animosity to Bartazan. Koopendrall permitted himself a wintry grin, his chances of nomination, let alone election, negligible.

Mecislovas contented himself with a chuckle as the other Electors frowned. Bartazan appeared somewhat discomposed.

“It seems the entertainment has begun before the nominations are finished. My lord Giedrus, my qualifications are slight, when measured against the great names of the past. But three previous Bartazans have held the August Office, and with reckless candour, I accept the nomination of my peers.”

With this, Bartazan returned to his seat. Giedrus rose.

“My brother Bartazan, you disinterestedness and selflessness inspire us all, and serve as an example to the whole of Paladria. I welcome you again to the Judgement of Equals. Now, with the Nominations concluded, we may proceed to the frivolities. Musicians! Play! My guests, the Palace of Coverciano is at your disposal. The evening is young — disport yourselves in the pleasure gardens to your hearts’ content.”

Mirko and Larien wandered easily into the open air.

“Wasn’t that just the most hypocritical performance?” asked Larien. “Could anyone have been fooled by my uncle’s reluctance; everyone in Paladria knows he covets the Office above everything. Giedrus will destroy him.”

Mirko smiled slightly as he looked at her. “Unless I —”

“Let’s not revisit that, Mirko. I understand your position: that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, here comes Liudas: will you excuse me for a while? I must attend to an item of business.”

Larien looked surprised but nodded her head.

Walking towards a footman, Mirko said:

“Please direct me to the Orange Grove.”

“This way, sir.”

The Orange Grove was accurately if unimaginatively named, a grove of citrus trees giving off a beautiful clean scent. Mirko inhaled the fresh perfume deeply; it was perhaps the only natural thing he had yet encountered at Coverciano.

Turning slightly, he realised ‘N’ was next to him. In her ceremonial regalia she seemed taller, a burgundy dress setting off her fair hair and complexion to advantage. Her eyes seemed dull, and once again Mirko thought she looked tired.

“Hello, ‘N’”

“Hello, Mirko.”

This, he noticed, was the first time she hadn’t called him Ascalon. He wondered what this augured.

“Won’t Larien be missing you?”

“I’ve left her discussing apparel with Liudas; I doubt she’ll notice I’m gone.”

“I’m sure you undervalue your charm — but that’s not why I want to talk to you.”

“No?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question. I came because Larien asked me to; and I certainly didn’t expect to see you — my lady.”

“So you’ve established who I am?”

“I assume I have the pleasure of addressing the Lady Catzendralle, of House Drall?”

‘N’ pursed her lips. “Why did you have to find out?”

“Why didn’t you tell me to start with? Because you didn’t want me to know I was working for Koopendrall?”

“I didn’t think you cared who you worked for. Gold is gold.”

“It’s not quite that simple now, is it?”

To Mirko’s surprise, ‘N’ — or Lady Catzendralle — smiled. “It never was simple, Mirko. Nothing in Paladria is simple. It’s my own fault — I should have guessed Larien would bring you.”

“Does it matter that I know who you are?”

“Follow me,” she said quietly, walking into a nearby maze. “There are better places to talk than the Orange Grove — but you’d never have found this one.”

Mirko followed Catzendralle as she steered flawlessly through the maze, finally stepping through an artfully concealed entrance into yet another garden.

“This,” she said, “is the Secret Garden — and for once, the term means exactly what it says. Only two people know of its existence, and they’re both standing here.”

Mirko looked around the garden, with its gravelled paths, neat lawns and shrubs, and borders of flowers in every colour.

“I’m not sure I believe that, my lady. These gardens appear to be immaculately maintained, and your observation implies that you do the gardening yourself.”

“Sit down,” said Catzendralle with a quickly repressed smile, calmly folding her legs under her as she sat. “This garden is unique; it is maintained by the Old Craft.”

Mirko started. “The Old Craft has been gone from Paladria for hundreds of years!”

“Indeed it has. But the garden is maintained by a charm of stasis, itself many hundreds of years old. It will persist forever, since — as you observe — the Old Craft is no longer practised here to undo it.”

“I have to ask how you know about it.”

Catzendralle laughed. “And equally, I don’t have to tell you. There are many things only I know: I make it my business.”

“It occurs to me,” said Mirko, “that this is the sort of place you’d bring someone to kill them, especially if they’d found out an important secret about you.”

“Mirko! There are much easier ways of killing you which don’t require me to look you in the face while I do it. I brought you here because I imagined you’d have certain questions, and I’d rather answer them away from eavesdroppers. And the Secret Garden is so beautiful.”

Mirko was never more suspicious of Catzendralle than when she played the ingénue. It was just one more ploy to keep him off balance.

“Catzendralle, what do you intend to do about the fact that I know who you are and who you work for?”

She sighed and lay back on the grass, looking straight up into the sky. “What can I do? I can kill you, as you suggested —”

“I didn’t exactly suggest it …”

“— but I’m not going to. The other option is simple: nothing. I don’t like my agents to find out who I am, for all sorts of reasons, and it’s never happened before. But now it has. You have been useful and energetic so far, and as a foreigner I doubt you’ll be staying here forever. And then of course, if I’m exposed, you’re exposed. Matters will proceed as before. I’m inconvenienced by today, but not endangered.”

Mirko looked across at her; her eyes were closed as she lay on the grass. “So you trust me?”

Without moving, she said: “Never make that mistake. I’m forced to trust you within certain limited parameters, no more than that.”

After a pause, Mirko said: “You have a lonely occupation, if you can’t or won’t trust anyone. How did someone like you end up doing this?”

Catzendralle opened her eyes and rolled over onto her side to face Mirko. “I won’t ask what ‘someone like me’ is supposed to mean; I don’t think I’d like the answer.”

“You know what I mean; you are gentlewoman, not uncomely, intelligent. Such a background would not generally lead to a career in espionage.”

Catzendralle sighed. “I doubt that you call Larien ‘not uncomely’ to her face. Leaving that aside, a gentlewoman who is educated and unwilling to be married off at her relatives’ whim finds few opportunities present themselves. I was approached to undertake some minor assignments, showed potential, and in time ended up where you see me now: in Coverciano’s secret garden, hoping my agent won’t unmask me.”

“Essentially your motivation is boredom?”

“I have two sisters: Jallendralle is married to an Elector’s brother, an odious character, violent when he’s drunk and promiscuous when he’s sober. She had to marry him because I refused to.”

She shuddered and continued. “Yanderalle isn’t married at all, and she’s older than me. A stimulating day for her involves playing with Jallendralle’s children; more often she sketches or works at a silkscreen. Well-born women in Paladria have about the same amount of freedom as slaves.”

Mirko was silent at the intensity of Catzendralle’s quiet observations. “I’m sorry — I had never thought —”

She smiled. “Men never think; which is one reason why a woman can be really rather good at what I do.”

Mirko felt a sombreness to her mood. He stood up. “Are you going to show me round the gardens?” he asked, stretching out his hand to help her up.

Catzendralle got lightly to her feet; her hand was cool and dry in Mirko’s. “Don’t think,” she said, “that because you’ve found out who I am, and I’ve told you something about myself, that our relationship has changed. Your instructions are the same as before, I pay you the same as before, and I am ‘N’, not Catzendralle.”

“Do you never relax? You can trust me, you know, even though you don’t want to.”

“No, I don’t ever relax: I prefer staying alive. You have been careless enough with your own safety so far; I don’t relish such a cavalier approach to mine. And you should be getting back to Larien.”

Mirko shrugged. “You’re more interesting than you appear at first sight, Catzendralle. You should try letting people like you for a change.”

Catzendralle said nothing for a few moments. “Can you find your way out of the maze?” she finally said sharply.

“Yes, unless it’s obscured by some Old Craft trickery.”

“It’s not. I’ll be in contact after The Sorcerers. Now go — I’ll stay here for a while.”

Mirko made his way out of the secret garden. Somehow Catzendralle had managed to make him feel guilty that he had found out who she was, and boorish for wanting to know more. He still didn’t know what to make of her; sometimes she seemed genuinely warm towards him, but if he reciprocated she reacted defensively or as if he’d affronted her. Since she was paying him, that, he supposed, was her prerogative.

CHAPTER 17

Mirko was surprised, on finally locating Larien, to find her in conversation with Koopendrall’s party on the Sunset Lawns. Even more to his surprise, she did not seem offended by the time he had spent with Catzendralle.

“Mirko!” she said. “Have you met the Elector Koopendrall? We are just discussing the prospects for next week’s regatta. Drallenkoop you know of course, and the Lady Allara — I would not answer for who she knows.”

Mirko bowed to Koopendrall — the man, it seemed, who was paying his wages. “My lord. I am honoured to meet the man who sponsors Dragonchaser.”

Koopendrall waved away the compliment. “She is my son’s galley; he maintains her from prize money. She’s nothing to do with me — although of course I take pride in her achievements.”

The Lady Allara, a young woman with blonde hair and disconcertingly wide blue eyes, asked Mirko, “Do you think you will win next week, captain? They say Serendipity has been performing well.”

“It would be rash to speculate on the outcome, my lady. Dragonchaser is the boat to beat, and in a week’s time all will be known. I can influence only the performance of my own galley.”

“I have to observe, Mirko,” said Larien, “that the Lady Allara’s knowledge of galley-racing is not large, and her commendation is not of immense weight. Am I not right, Allara, in saying that you have never watched a race from start to finish?”

“Certainly, my lady Larien, I have not made it my business to throw myself at every galley-master on the Bay; and consequently find little to occupy me on the waterfront.”

Larien arched her eyebrows. “I notice you are the guest of the most prominent galley-master of all today. As a result I would not think you best-placed to insinuate on the conduct of others in this regard.”

“I am not sure how your own escort will feel at hearing my Lord Drallenkoop styled ‘the most prominent galley-master of all’ when his own reputation has soared so dramatically. I accompany Lord Drallenkoop at his express invitation, which I accepted out of regard for his superior intellectual and social qualities, rather than his success in the regattas.”

Drallenkoop shot Allara a glare which effectively quelled any further conversation. Koopendrall took advantage of the pause to address Mirko.

“How did you enjoy the speeches, sir?”

“I was favourably impressed with their brevity; their content fostered an idea of humility in the participants which I suspect would not be borne out on closer examination of their characters.”

Koopendrall laughed. “You speak with dangerous latitude about your employer, especially with his niece present.”

“I am sure that even my lord Bartazan would not seriously claim humility among his virtues.”

“Although I do not own Dragonchaser, naturally I take a keen interest in her performances. Tell me, do you genuinely believe you have a chance of winning the Margariad? Do you —”

Koopendrall was interrupted by the arrival of four Peremptor’s Constables, led by Vaidmantas. Bowing to the gentlefolk, the officer addressed Mirko:

“Good evening, Captain Ascalon.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I will have to ask you to come with us. This is a matter of some seriousness.”

“You will see that I am engaged with my Lord Koopendrall. Can your business not wait?”

Vaidmantas looked mildly apologetic and a trifle embarrassed. “Sir, in view of the gravity of the accusations, that is not possible. I imagine you will prefer to accompany us under conditions of dignity rather than force us to use restraint.”

“ ‘Gravity’? ‘Accusation?’”

“This will be more expeditious if you accompany us. Possibly a misunderstanding has occurred.”

Mirko turned to the assembled company. “My lords and ladies, please excuse me; I believe the Peremptor’s Constables have arrested me.”

“No!” cried Larien, who had been stunned into silence. “Do you know who I am? You cannot take my uncle’s galley-master.”

“I do know who you are, my lady. Under the circumstances your intercession is futile — possibly worse than futile.”

“Mirko!”

“Larien, just find your uncle and tell him what’s happened.”

In silence the Constables led Mirko back into the palace, well away from the banqueting area.

“This will be your residence for the immediate future,” said Vaidmantas, conducting Mirko to a cell of spartan but relatively unthreatening appearance. “Among my other duties I deal with espionage against the Peremptor: in this context there are various matters we should discuss. Please divest yourself of any weaponry.”

Mirko silently removed his dagger and handed it to Vaidmantas.

“Thank you. Now, let us sit and consider the charges laid against you.”

“I would find that more straightforward if I knew what they were.”

“I have received an allegation that you have been intriguing against the Peremptor on behalf of the Elector Bartazan. In addition your name has been mentioned in connection with the death of Bartazan’s slave-master Padizan.”

“The allegations are false. I now intend to leave.”

Vaidmantas gave a soft chuckle. “Sadly the Peremptor’s justice does not operate in quite this fashion. Two scenarios present themselves: firstly, you may answer my questions in such a way as to convince me of your innocence, a remote but conceivable outcome; or you remain in custody until arraignment, trial and inevitable conviction.”

“It is three days to The Sorcerers Regatta. I can hardly oversee Serendipity from Coverciano.”

“Your enthusiasm does you credit. Hard as it may be to believe, however, there are more important things in Paladria than galley-racing. You will remain here until you leave — an observation more profound than it appears.”

“Who has accused me? What evidence do they adduce?”

“I am scarcely likely to share the name of my source.”

“Let us assume your informant is associated with House Drall. How convenient it would be for me to be incarcerated at the time of an important regatta, just when I am about to inflict a significant defeat on Dragonchaser. Am I near the mark?”

Vaidmantas pursed his lips. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Look, Vaidmantas, what exactly am I supposed to have done?”

“Murdered Padizan. Intrigued against the Peremptor.”

“Both allegations are absurd.”

“In my experience both the innocent and the guilty make much the same point.”

“What do I need to do to get out of here?”

“For now, that option is not available to you. We will speak again tomorrow.”

“Am I allowed visitors?”

“You may require someone to bring you food and clothes.”

“I demand to speak to Bartazan.”

“Not a wise choice. You are, in any case, expressly prohibited from all contact with all members of the House of Bartazan.”

Mirko pondered his situation. The person most able to help him would be Catzendralle, but he suspected she would not be eager to become involved in the affair. On the other hand, as it seemed likely that allegations had originated within House Drall, she might well be able to resolve the misunderstanding. After all, whatever offences he were guilty of, the murder of Padizan and intriguing for Bartazan were not among them.

“In that case, please convey a message to the Lady Catzendralle that I am here and would like to see her.”

Vaidmantas stroked his chin. “The Lady Catzendralle?”

“Yes. She is here tonight.”

“You pick the most curious friends. I will arrange for someone to contact her.”

With that, Vaidmantas turned and left the room, making sure to take Mirko’s dagger with him.

As the door was locked Mirko composed himself for rest on the straw mattress which constituted his bed. It seemed likely he would be here for some time, and fretfulness would not make the time pass faster. Who could have done this to him, and why?

House Drall certainly seemed the likeliest culprits. Although Drallenkoop hadn’t seemed concerned, there was a widespread feeling that Serendipity might challenge Dragonchaser in the next races. With a stand-in overseer next week, that now seemed unlikely. Then again, Catzendralle had made it clear that there were many vested interests who wanted to see Serendipity fail, starting with Giedrus himself. Since it was Giedrus’ own constables who had arrested him, this possibility could not be discounted.

His list of enemies did not stop with Bartazan’s political rivals, he realised. As a result of the episode at the Temple, he now had not just Minalgas Inisse but the whole Animaxianite establishment against him — although if they had been responsible here, he would have expected sacrilege to be on the bill of charges. Then there was Orstas, who had sworn revenge on both himself and Bartazan; and even Padizan’s sister Nadien. The fact that Padizan’s murder was laid to his account gave weight to this otherwise flimsy speculation.

Mirko sighed and shifted himself on the bed; it was by no means plush. But soon he found himself drifting off into sleep. Just at this moment he heard the lock turn rustily and sat up in alarm. Did Giedrus’ men go in for secret night-time murder?

A well-modulated voice said: “You can leave us, Vaidmantas. And no listening at the door, if you value your job.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

In the faint light which entered through the grille in the door, Mirko saw that his visitor was none other than Catzendralle. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Mirko! Are you all right?”

“Unhurt; but puzzled and angry. Do you know what’s happened?”

“Vaidmantas told me on the way here. You shouldn’t have asked for me — people will wonder at the connection.”

“I thought you might be able to help me. I’m no use to you here.”

“Neither are you any hindrance. Having you out of the galley is not disadvantageous at the moment.”

Mirko noted that this represented an implicit acknowledgement that he was capable of beating Drallenkoop, but forbore from pursuing the topic.

“You know that I’m innocent. And your family put me here — which led me to believe you could get me out.”

“Both of your statements are tendentious. I don’t know you’re innocent at all. Padizan was undoubtedly killed by one of Bartazan’s retainers — it could have been you. And I don’t know what makes you think House Drall put you here.”

Mirko sat up in annoyance. “This isn’t the time to fence with me, Catzendralle. You know, by every reasonable definition of the word, that I didn’t kill Padizan and that I’m not intriguing for Bartazan.”

Catzendralle smoothed her hair back in silhouette, a nervous gesture Mirko had noticed before. “I’m sorry — I’m just trying to show you that, as ever, things aren’t as straightforward as you imagine. Of course I believe you’re innocent — but you have many enemies, as I’ve tried to warn you. House Drall is perhaps not the most hostile of your opponents; added to which, Drallenkoop wants to beat you on the open water. He entertains no possibility of Serendipity beating him.”

Mirko stretched out on the bed. “Catzendralle, I just don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m here or who put me here — and I’m hardly in a position to find out. And Paladrian justice can be arbitrary; I draw only limited comfort from my innocence.”

“You are too useful an agent to be locked up here for long. I will find out what I can, and do what I can to secure your release.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be all right in here?”

Mirko smiled. “I have limited scope to better my condition.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. What you said in the Secret Garden — well, I’m trying to let you like me.”

“You don’t have to try that hard, Catzendralle. I do like you.”

Mirko noted a flush of colour in Catzendralle’s cheeks. “I should go now. It was impolitic to come here at all.”

“Good night, Catzendralle.”

The lock scraped shut as soon as she had left. Mirko turned on his pallet to face the wall and tried once again to compose himself to sleep.

CHAPTER 18

Mirko awoke early the next morning, having passed a poor night’s rest. A Constable appeared and left half a loaf and a flagon of water, which he forced himself to consume, although he had little appetite. A short while later Vaidmantas appeared.

“Good morning, captain. I hope your night was not too disturbed.”

“I had planned other ways of spending the evening. Now, have you come to release me?”

Vaidmantas clucked apologetically. “Your stay here will be less onerous if you do not raise your hopes with unrealistic expectations of freedom. This morning I will ask you questions; it is in your interest to answer fully and honestly, but you will not be leaving for some while.”

Mirko shrugged. “I have nothing better to do.”

“Good, you show some co-operation. Perhaps you would like some ale?” and he reached out a heavy earthenware flagon and two cups.

“Now,” he continued. “What can you tell me about Padizan’s death?”

“Only what everyone knows: he arranged for Minalgas Inisse’s escape — for a consideration — acted imprudently afterwards, and the end we both know.”

“How do you think his death came about?”

“Candidly? I have little doubt that a retainer of Bartazan’s may have been over-enthusiastic in avenging the House’s honour.”

“You don’t think that Bartazan connived in or ordered the death?”

“There’s no evidence to suggest he did.”

Vaidmantas frowned. “Don’t think to deceive me, Ascalon. You were present at the dinner where Bartazan unveiled Padizan’s head on a plate and explained exactly why he’d had him killed.”

“If you knew, why did you ask me?”

“To prove your mendacity to myself. I no longer require convincing. You are Bartazan’s man of business; you either killed Padizan or had him killed, and have been working to destabilise Giedrus’ election campaign. There are no more questions for you today — but tomorrow, I’ll expect to hear truth — in all its phases.”

Vaidmantas stalked out in displeasure. Mirko lay on his bed and cursed. Why was he protecting Bartazan? He might as well have admitted that he knew Bartazan had ordered Padizan’s death. It was still possible that Bartazan would secure his release, but given how close the matter touched the Elector personally, it seemed unlikely he would risk it.

The day dragged with unbearable slowness. The cell, away from the direct sunlight, was uncomfortably chilly; given the poor quality of the food, his constitution would be unable to stand many weeks of this. Mirko considered scratching a message on the wall, but he lacked any object sharp enough to make an impression, even in the soft limestone of the cell.

Late in the evening there was an immense commotion on the corridor.

“Let us go! Let us go! The Hierophant will hear of this!”

Vaidmantas’ voice: “Silence! You are under arrest. Come quietly to the cells.”

“Never! We are innocent, we intended no mischief. We merely wished to conduct a conversation.”

“The circumstances — specifically the weaponry and your numbers — suggest otherwise. For now, you are detained on charges of conspiracy and insurrection. The Animaxianite doctrines will not save you here.”

“Are we not entitled to avenge slights and sacrileges? You take the worship of Animaxian lightly, my friend.”

“Enough! Constables, the cells with them, now.”

Mirko could understand little of the background. A group of Animaxianites had seemingly taken exception to someone’s conduct, and decided to settle it by violence. They were an obstreperous faction, beyond a doubt; their acts towards him had proved that.

That night, Mirko’s rest was even more disturbed that before. The Animaxianites alternated noisy complaints and imprecations with equally strident devotional practices. Mirko vowed that, should he be released, he would under no circumstances join the Animaxianites.

Early the next morning Vaidmantas once again appeared.

“Get up, you’re going home.”

“I thought I was murderer and spy.”

“So did I — so do I. Not everyone agrees. For now, at least, you’re a free man. And if I were you, I’d be looking over your shoulder.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means not everyone likes you. Specifically: keep away from the Animaxianites, and steer well clear of the Lady Catzendralle.”

Two guards escorted Mirko from the palace. At the front of the building, a rattlejack was waiting with a driver and Larien perched on top. Larien jumped down lightly and embraced Mirko.

“How are you?” she asked, her eyes full of concern.

“Tired, puzzled, no worse. Someone accused me of killing Padizan.”

“I know — the Peremptor’s Constables came to see my uncle. He didn’t tell them anything, of course. How could he, when he’d had Padizan killed himself.”

“And you do believe that I had nothing to do with it? I could not prove my movements for the whole of the day in question.”

“You would not a kill a man in cold blood, a man who had not harmed you. Of course you’re innocent.”

Mirko silently contrasted her attitude with Catzendralle’s.

“Thank you for believing me. It is easy when you’re in the cells to think that no-one does.”

“I tried to see you yesterday but they wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t bear to think of you cut off in there.”

“The Garganet embraces fortitude. The situation, while vexing, was hardly terrifying.”

“Only because you don’t understand Paladrian justice. There was every chance you would have been convicted.”

“The matter is concluded— for now, at least. Where are we going?”

“My uncle has a town house nearby — he is naturally keen to speak to you.”

Whitecroft was by no means as imposing as Formello; two storeys in height, hidden behind a screen of manzipar trees, it was a place where he could be close to the pulse of events without making an obvious presence in the town. Most Electors and rich merchants employed something similar.

Larien took Mirko into a richly-furnished reception room.

“Thank you, Larien. I wish to have a few private words with Ascalon,” said Bartazan.

Larien departed with a stiff incline of her head.

“Ascalon, sit down. Perhaps you’d like a drink.”

Mirko selected a strong red wine and waited for Bartazan to come to his business.

“I was visited by Giedrus’ constables yesterday,” he said. “Their attention materially constrains me.”

Mirko sipped at his wine. “I too found myself discommoded, especially since we both know I was guilty of neither of the offences in question.”

“You are well paid,” said Bartazan with a shrug. “A certain amount of inconvenience is inevitable in your circumstances.”

“I would describe the situation as going beyond ‘inconvenience’; all the more so since I might easily have been freed sooner through your intervention.”

Bartazan frowned and looked down into his goblet. “I did not summon you to hear a litany of your unimaginative and essentially minor grievances. The only expeditious way I could have secured your freedom was to have admitted to Padizan’s murder myself, which would have constituted perjury as well as reckless altruism.”

Mirko saw no point in pursuing the matter further. “I assume there was a reason you brought me here?”

“I referred earlier to my material inconvenience. As you know, I have already been arraigned for sacrilege and my reputation has suffered further — at an important time — from the allegations surrounding Inisse’s release and Padizan’s death. I am the victim of a powerful conspiracy — one which also appears to encompass your own destruction. I can the more effectively protect us if I know everything that you do.”

Mirko smiled. Bartazan would kill him if he knew everything Mirko did. There was a limit to the information he could provide.

“I’ve no doubt at all,” he said, “that the incident with the Animaxianites was just what it appeared; Inisse and his friends wanted revenge for your treatment of him.”

“Do you also attribute the events at Coverciano to Inisse?”

“It seems to me unlikely; they would have ensured I was charged with sacrilege, given that I killed one of their devotees at their own altar. Giedrus, or maybe House Drall, are likelier candidates.”

“Mmmm. I suppose Giedrus might choose to strike against me that way — either alone or in concert with Koopendrall. But do not discount the Animaxianites. Do you know that several were arrested last night?”

“Yes. They were in the cells next to me.”

Bartazan smiled softly. “Do you know why they were arrested?”

“Not in any detail.”

“They were on their way to your lodgings to kill you.”

A chill ran down Mirko’s spine. “Are you sure?”

“The Animaxianites are boasting about it.”

“Then they didn’t arrange my arrest. If they knew I was in custody, why would they then look for me at my quarters?”

Bartazan nodded. “Sound reasoning. Giedrus is the most likely culprit: but then why would he have had you released? He could have held you as long as he chose. Maybe it was House Drall after all.”

Privately this was Mirko’s belief too, but he was keen to keep attention away from Catzendralle: the route to her led ultimately back to himself. “Why would House Drall bother with me? I am no real threat to them. Drallenkoop is sure I can’t beat him on the water.”

Bartazan stroked his chin. “What is the worst thing that could happen to House Drall? Not defeat for Dragonchaser, that’s for sure. No, their nightmare would be ‘Peremptor Bartazan’. By striking at my galley-master, they strike at me, sap my energies. This cannot be. You must take greater care of your security.”

“So it’s my fault that your enemies are trying to kill me?”

“Ascalon, you have the Garganet touchiness. All I am saying is, look after yourself, for I cannot.”

“Or will not.”

“The distinction is over-precise.”

“Do you have any further questions or observations, my lord?”

“Not at this moment. If I were you, I’d assign several of the more trustworthy slaves as your companions — perhaps the Garganets?”

“I have a galley to prepare for an important race: if you’ll excuse me.”

With a curt bow Mirko turned and left the room. Larien noticed him leaving the house and ran into the street after him.

“Mirko! What did he say?”

Mirko scowled. “That my safety is my own responsibility, and he will be irked if I allow myself to be killed. My own concerns were ignored.”

Larien gave a sympathetic shrug. “We always knew my uncle was not a man to be trusted. Come on, let’s go down to the Old Town and find something to eat — you must be hungry.”

Mirko realised that he was indeed ravenous — the food in the cells had not induced an appetite. “I would sell out a thousand Bartazans for a portion of fried whelks,” he said with a smile.

The rattlejack swiftly conveyed them to the heart of the Old Town, reassuringly unchanged despite Mirko’s privations since he had last seen it. The bustle of craft from all parts unloading: galleys from the Emmenrule, West Gammerling, Mettingloom, Aylissia and the Near Isles, all with their characteristic goods. Tomorrow was market day, and there were profits to be had. Larien selected a tavern with tables out on the waterfront overlooking the galleys, and Mirko ordered up beer and whelks. They ate and drank in companionable silence for a while.

When Mirko had finished his portion he looked across at Larien, still eating daintily. Her hair was loose today, and one lock was repeatedly blown across her face by the sea breeze, causing Mirko to smile at her ineffectual efforts to prevent it.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” laughed Mirko. “I was just enjoying looking at you. Does that fall within my permitted privileges?”

Larien flipped the stray lock aside. “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said. “Do you remember, I once said to you that I had few attachments, but always deep ones.”

Mirko looked down into his mug. “It was the first time we met, at Formello.”

Her eyes sought his. “Yes it was,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know if you’d remember.”

“My mental processes are generally sharp enough.”

“Do you remember the first thing the Lady Inuela said to you?”

Mirko laughed. “Since you ask, no.”

“There you are, then. I must have made some kind of impression on you.”

Mirko met her gaze. “Oh, you managed that, for sure.”

“I remember hoping, when we were walking in the gardens, that you’d turn out to be what I thought you were.”

“What did you think I was? And have I?”

Larien ran her finger round the rim of her mug. “You seemed to have a largeness of spirit, a decency of soul, which is hard to find in Paladria. I suppose they’re the qualities you would associate with a Garganet gentleman.”

“In Garganet I was no gentleman. I came from unremarkable origins: what made me what I am was the Garganet navy. We had a code, written and unwritten, and I believed it, and I lived it. Until one day I found I couldn’t …”

Larien reached out and touched Mirko’s hand. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Mirko left his hand under Larien’s. “I don’t know if I do, Larien: maybe you’d need to be Garganet to understand it.”

“Try me,” she said, leaning across until her head almost touched his; instinctively, Mirko leant back a touch.

“There is the Garganet Naval Code,” he said. “It governs our lives. Its first article is this: Never to surrender, never to flee, always to fight. It’s the basis of our invincibility. Anyone coming upon a Garganet galley knows it will always fight if attacked, no matter what the odds. Even if a Garganet galley is quicker and faced with overwhelming odds, we fight. We don’t surrender our ship, and we don’t run away.”

“It sounds an inflexible arrangement.”

“It has its logic: it deters all but the most determined foes from attacking. Not only do we always fight — we always fight well.”

“What happened? I can see your pride in it, even now.”

“I was commanding a scout galley off Lynnoc, a little craft, smaller even than a Paladrian racing galley. Garganet wasn’t at war with Duke Falto, although there’s always tension, and there are often skirmishes. We ran upon three fighting-galleys, each three times our size. They sounded the Attack Horn and tried to encircle us. The Code is absolute — we had to fight to the death or capture.”

“And?”

“And I couldn’t do it. I had reached my rank through initiative and independence of thought; I couldn’t see the merit in sacrificing my life and my crew’s for nothing. I ordered the helmsman to hug the coast where the heavier galleys couldn’t follow us in. We lost them in the fog which always settles in the evening in those parts. I brought Dittrusig home safely and with useful information from my scouting foray. And of course, I was court-martialled, stripped of my rank, discharged and exiled.”

“Mirko! That’s so harsh!”

“I could hardly complain. The Code is explicit; and to have shown any leniency would have set a poor example. Although the sentence could have been much harsher.”

“How could it possibly …?”

“The Adjudicants could have determined I had broken off an engagement — because the Attack Horn had been sounded — rather than evaded one. That would have been death. Since I was of no important family, I imagined they might have done so. But one of the Adjudicants was a brave man, with real moral courage — the only important sort. He pleaded my case with the other Adjudicants when I was too proud to. So I got off lightly …”

“Mirko — I never realised this at all. And my uncle was so disparaging about how you’d come here — how could you let him?”

“It hardly mattered, Larien. The disgrace of my exile, the loss of the profession I loved — nothing else could rival that humiliation. But since I’ve been here, on the sea again, working with the galleys and the seamen — it’s given me energy and enthusiasm again.”

Larien leaned across the table and kissed Mirko full on the lips. “You asked me if you’d lived up to what I hoped you were. Yes, Mirko, you have. You are an honourable and decent man.”

Larien sighed. “Oh, Mirko — why are things always so difficult? If I were some tavern wench, I could do as I chose, consort with whoever I liked.”

“In other words, be seen with me without embarrassment.”

“We – and you in particular – must be careful. Whatever happens between us, things can never develop beyond a certain point. If you forget that, you could be another Minalgas Inisse: don’t think Bartazan wouldn’t imprison or kill you if you got in his way.”

“I’m not interested in Minalgas Inisse, other than to prevent him killing me.”

“Mirko, you don’t understand Paladria or the Paladrians.”

“I’ve been abducted and imprisoned twice; I’m learning.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. You still think the Margariad is about you and Drallenkoop; you can’t see that people will die if Bartazan wins.”

“Bartazan won’t win,” said Mirko with unintended heat. “He’ll be on the dockside.”

“More fool you, Mirko. You may be decent, honourable, all the noble things I said about you; but you’re also pig-headed, ignorant and plain stupid. Make what you will of that.”

Mirko swung her to face him. “The way you present it, the qualities would seem to go together. I may show intelligence and political acumen if I ensure Serendipity performs badly; but there’s no honour in it. Are you still asking me to throw the race?”

Larien coloured. “Why do we always end up here? Yes, if you think you can win either The Sorcerers or the Margariad, then make sure you don’t. If you win, the best that Koopendrall, Drallenkoop and any number of their allies can hope for is exile. Bartazan has waited a long time, he knows how to bear a grudge, and he is not a temperate man.”

“Larien —”

“In addition, he will feel able and obliged to marry me off to one of his odious cronies, Norvydas or that unspeakable Romualdas. And you’d let all that happen to win a boat race!”

“Larien! Don’t —”

“Mirko — that’s enough. If the thought of me in Romualdas’ bed isn’t enough to stay your hand, well, go ahead, race as hard as you like! Do what you want — but do it without me!”

“I hardly had a great choice as far as —”

“Just leave me alone! I’ll get a rattlejack home. You just go back to your rooms and work out exactly how much value you put on your conscience. I only hope you can live with yourself.”

Mirko was left staring at the waves lapping at the dockside. After a few minutes he turned and went back to his lodgings.

Nursing a mug of Widdershins, he took stock of his achievements to date since arriving in Paladria. Whatever Larien had said about his honour, he felt soiled and compromised. Every relationship he had in the city was based on some kind of duplicity or abuse. He was in the employ of a clearly evil man, and the contention that his opponents were probably no better was hardly sufficient justification. And he was not even serving Bartazan wholeheartedly as long as he took Catzendralle’s money.

Catzendralle … she was the root of his problems, even if not deliberately. It had been from some absurd quixotic notion of impressing her, of convincing her that he was not solely motivated by money, that he had arranged Inisse’s rescue: an act that had led to the death of Padizan, the implacable enmity of the Animaxianites and danger for his whole crew. He still failed to understand her character. She was a curious mixture of hard-headed competence and flashes of unexpected emotion.

And then there was Larien, infuriating, subtle, inconsistent. He was sure her attraction to him was genuine, but it was hopeless to pursue a relationship with her. Not only was she ever-conscious of the difference in their social class, but he felt that he would never understand her enough to be close to her. Some men preferred women to be mysterious and unfathomable, an attitude he could not understand. For him, such distance was a barrier to intimacy. But it was her he’d told about the court-martial. He shook his head; he could know her for years and still not understand her any better.

With an inner shrug, he drained his beer and made for his bed. The one thing he done openly and honestly since he’d been in the city was his training of Serendipity — and a hard session would be necessary tomorrow.

CHAPTER 19

It was the morning of The Sorcerers, the second greatest of the Paladrian races. Mirko was awake with the dawn, and took an early breakfast of hot fresh manchet bread and light beer. He felt an unaccountable optimism which was not borne out by logic. Serendipity had done nothing to suggest she could beat Dragonchaser in a long technical race; Larien had not been in contact since they’d argued on the waterfront; Catzendralle had neither communicated nor provided funds since his incarceration; and the Animaxianites were still eager to sacrifice him for profaning their temple. All taken with all, his circumstances lacked promise. But his optimism would not be denied, and he left his rooms with a light step.

As soon as he started to walk along the main street towards the Jurbarkas Dock, he was accosted by a figure in white robes, trimmed with a blue-green — seemingly a Animaxianite.

“Captain Ascalon — a moment if you please.”

Mirko paused politely, if warily. The Animaxianite did not appear to be a young man, or unduly vigorous, but it was as well to be careful. The stout leather undershirt he wore provided only a certain amount of comfort.

“At your disposal, sir, but please be brief. I have a regatta to attend.”

The Animaxianite bowed. “I am the Hierophant Zigmantas,” he said. “I am the chief interlocutor with Animaxian Himself.”

Mirko found this an unimpressive distinction but concealed his thoughts. “I am at a loss as to your business with me.”

Zigmantas smiled. “You will be aware that certain devotees had vowed to kill you, in recompense for your sacrilege.”

“ ‘Sacrilege’! It was self-defence. What was I —”

Spreading his arms, Zigmantas interrupted. “That is past. I am here to tell you that you no longer need fear retribution from the Brothers of Animaxian.”

Mirko frowned. “Why should I believe that?”

“Equilibrium has been restored. Animaxian is again content.”

“How so?”

“Your profanation of the temple defiled our sacred space and displeased our god. However, a reparation has been made, and there is no further debt.”

Mirko still felt some way short of understanding the situation. “What form did this reparation take?”

“A payment was made which allowed a proper and proportionate sacrifice to be undertaken. The temple is cleansed and you walk again as a man free of taint.”

“And Inisse?”

Zigmantas placed his head on one side. “Inisse naturally feels a degree of resentment against the House of Bartazan. His personal goals remain his own, but they are no longer Animaxian’s.”

“In other words, Inisse will still kill me if he can?”

Zigmantas shrugged. “Who can see into a man’s soul? If I were you, I would be inclined to give him a wide berth.”

Mirko nodded his thanks to the Hierophant — who appeared to be expecting a more quantifiable gratuity — and went his way. Soon he was in the heart of the docks, with crowds thronging the approach. Mirko was quickly recognised.

“Make way for Captain Mirko!”, “Forward Serendipity!”, “Honour to Bartazan!”

The approach to the jetties was policed by Peremptor’s Constables who stood aside at Mirko’s arrival. The crowd was in high spirits, the mood jovial and unthreatening. All of the galleys seemed well-supported although, as ever, Dragonchaser commanded the loudest congregation.

Walking along the jetty Mirko noted the draw; this time Serendipity had only a middling position, next to Dragonchaser, but behind Morvellos Devil and especially Excelsior, which had the best draw of all. Given a good start, she would prove difficult to catch. Drallenkoop, giving some last instructions to his overseer Mindaugas, seemed as unworried as ever. Mirko saluted him before leaping aboard Serendipity.

Liudas was already at the helm, looking less nervous than for the Hanspar. The drills Serendipity had conducted over the previous month had not served to make him a good helm, but the most flagrant errors had been eradicated from his performance. Mirko hoped for at least a solid competence.

Jenx was at his drums, chewing on falcx; his eyes indicated that he had already given it ample time to take effect. After a quick word, Mirko stepped into the rowing area to speak briefly with each man. The Quartermen, he noted, all seemed at the right pitch of tension, with even Florian having set aside surliness and cynicism. The galley was as ready as he had ever seen it.

Mirko gave the signal to Jenx and the crew rowed slowly out to the start line at Four rhythm. The Sorcerers was unique in the Paladrian calendar in that the race was over two laps of the same course. The galleys rowed out into the bay with the Hanspar Rock to port, for the most part with a strong cross-current, before reaching the open sea and bearing to port towards The Sorcerers. At this point the galleys were rowing directly into the current, before executing the technical turn around — or through — The Sorcerers, heading back towards the docks with the current, before flipping back around the Hanspar with the current, back up to The Sorcerers and home again. Many felt it was a harder race than the Margariad itself, even if the prize money were far less.

The conditions were unusual today, Mirko noted. There was a surprisingly high wind, and a perceptible swell, even this close to shore. Choppy white breakers slapped against the galley’s bows. It would make helming that much more difficult, he thought.

The vessels jostled on the start line, Serendipity up against Dragonchaser on one side and Animaxian’s Glory on the other; not an arrangement Mirko would have chosen. Inisse was visible at the helm, but ignored Mirko’s traditional call of good wishes. Drallenkoop was in high spirits on Dragonchaser, even offering a side-wager of fifty valut on the result. Mirko was no gambler, but on this occasion, motivated by an irrational surge of confidence, he agreed.

The horn sounded loud, and the race was underway. Serendipity settled into her customary ritual.

“Jenx! Beat Eight!”

Jenx beat out the rhythm, a fast one for the start of a long race. Mirko was determined to get a good start; he did not want to be adrift of Dragonchaser from the outset and more importantly, he wanted to be clear of Animaxian’s Glory as quickly as possible. Inisse was a dangerous and unpredictable influence.

Pull-pull-pull. Serendipity soon found her rhythm and moved strongly forward. Dragonchaser was also beating Eight but from a slightly less favourable start position; Serendipity inched ahead. Animaxian’s Glory was beating Seven and Serendipity moved up alongside her.

“Liudas! Careful now — watch Inisse! Jenx, keep them at Eight!”

Animaxian’s Glory started to drift across Serendipity; it might charitably have been ascribed to the wind, but more likely Inisse was ‘closing the door’ — a manoeuvre discourteous but not illegal.

“Liudas! Give her space — we have the speed of her — go wide, man!”

Liudas pulled the galley well wide of Animaxian’s Glory to pass, a course that brought them across Dragonchaser’s line.

“Ascalon! Straighten up!” shouted Drallenkoop. Mirko thought it best to ignore him.

Maintaining her Eight rhythm, Serendipity gradually pulled past Animaxian’s Glory. “Liudas! Back on the straight!” Liudas pulled Serendipity into line; Animaxian’s Glory was now full astern and unable to create any more mischief. Looking back, Mirko saw that Dragonchaser was having an easier passage.

“Jenx! Beat Seven!” Mirko called as he settled Serendipity into a more sustainable rhythm. There was plenty of time to reel the other boats back in. At the head of the field, Excelsior was pulling ahead strongly. Kestrel, which had enjoyed a favourable draw, was now dropping back, and Morvellos Devil moved ahead into second place. Serendipity was fourth with Dragonchaser just behind in fifth.

The positions were maintained as the galleys passed the Hanspar. Shortly after Serendipity caught and passed Kestrel, with Dragonchaser following immediately. Mirko was sure she was using him as a pace guide, and probably a wind-break too. She could go faster than this — but it was a long race and no doubt Drallenkoop was confident of getting past at The Sorcerers. The crew seemed happy with Seven and Liudas appeared relatively calm.

The Sorcerers approached. The current was running strongly today, and the wind this far into the open sea was strong also. If Liudas could get around the rocks competently, Morvellos Devil would be catchable before the end of the first lap.

“Liudas! Be ready! Steady does it!”

Liudas’ face was taut with concentration. Mirko noticed Dragonchaser increasing her tempo to increase the pressure; she was ready to profit from any error. But Liudas’ approach line was better than usual; he did not try to hug the rocks too close; perhaps the drills had been useful after all.

“Turn! Liudas! Turn! Turn!”

But Liudas had taken his lessons too much to heart. He let Serendipity move well beyond the normal point for a turn, to make a wide, lazy arc around Anazgro. The gap he’d left would fit a galley — and looking over his shoulder, Mirko saw that Dragonchaser had gone to Nine and was shooting through.

“Jenx! Nine, Nine!”

It was essential that Serendipity should hit the faster current past the final rock, Basile-Orario, still ahead — but the rapid move from Seven to Nine was a difficult one to bring off. Florian and Trajian’s quarters managed the transition successfully, but Skaidrys and Slovo were struggling. The combination of wide line and broken rhythm proved too much, and Dragonchaser came past to great cheers and catcalls from her crew.

Mirko cursed. Dragonchaser had played them for fools again: Drallenkoop had bided his time to the rocks, conserving energy and waiting for Serendipity to make her inevitable mistake; and Liudas had obliged with an amateur’s turn — again. It would be necessary to address the situation more seriously after the race, Elector’s son or no Elector’s son.

“Jenx! Beat Seven!”

Mirko felt that the best option was to consolidate while the current was with them on the leg back into the bay; if strength and morale permitted, they could put in another assault in the latter half of the race.

As the galleys came back to the Hanspar for the second time, Excelsior still led. There was a comfortable gap to Morvellos Devil in second, who was herself now strongly threatened by Dragonchaser. Serendipity remained secure in fourth, although Animaxian’s Glory was performing more strongly than expected to remain in contact in fifth. Realistically, at this stage of the race, the winner was likely to come from the first three, with Excelsior, a strong galley well commanded, probably the favourite.

Mirko instructed Jenx to increase the tempo as Serendipity approached the Hanspar. Ironically, with nothing now at stake and the race already lost, Liudas executed a perfect sweeping turn around the rock; a circumstance which caused Mirko more vexation than otherwise. Although the crew continued with a high tempo, Serendipity could make no headway on the craft ahead. Dragonchaser put in one of her customary surges and passed a tiring Morvellos Devil with ease. Approaching The Sorcerers for the second time, though, it seemed apparent that Excelsior still enjoyed a commanding lead.

Excelsior pulled off a fine turn around The Sorcerers; Drallenkoop’s only option now was to thread the needle between Anazgro and Rybalard, and then Rybalard and Basile-Orario, and Mirko was not surprised to see her do it. At the tempo she was rowing, it was an extraordinarily risky stratagem; but Drallenkoop shot through, to come out ahead. That was only half the battle, though; the current always died for the galley who threaded the needle, and Excelsior was coming from behind with a much stronger momentum. Mirko’s view was imperfect, but it looked as though Excelsior was still going to nose ahead before the run to the finish.

Suddenly Drallenkoop must have swung the helm across. Dragonchaser slewed into Excelsior’s line, completely blocking her run. Raïdis at her helm had two choices: plough into Dragonchaser’s side — a collision which would probably harm Dragonchaser more — or veer off, losing speed and line. He chose the latter option, for whatever reason. Excelsior narrowly missed Dragonchaser, but was virtually stationary. Dragonchaser continued across the current, and used her speed to swing herself back round into position. While Excelsior struggled to build her rhythm up to racing speed, Dragonchaser streaked away. The race was hers.

Serendipity put in a strong finish. Liudas again botched The Sorcerers, this time grazing Basile-Orario on the way past, but Morvellos Devil in third place was tiring rapidly, and Serendipity passed her on the way down the home run. A third place finish was not discreditable but, Bartazan aside, he doubted that anyone else would even notice where they’d finished. The story was all about Dragonchaser and Excelsior today; Drallenkoop would have some explaining to do.

Serendipity had finished only a minute or so behind the two winning boats, and they were both making fast to the jetty when she arrived. The crew of Excelsior were jeering and catcalling across to Dragonchaser, which was taking no notice. Leaving Mindaugas to superintend his slaves, Drallenkoop leapt ashore to a mixture of cheers and jeers from the crowds, which were kept well back from the jetties. Smiling, he ran over to the race officials to hand in his race medallion to signify victory. Turning to acknowledge the crowd, he found his way barred by Raïdis, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

“You dog, Drallenkoop: you baulked us.”

Drallenkoop laughed in his face. “That’s all part of racing. You should learn to race if you want to play with the grown-ups.”

“Grown-ups settle their differences like men, Elector’s boy,” said Raïdis, pulling his sword half from its sheath. “Or perhaps you’d rather apologise?”

Mirko had jumped from Serendipity and tried to intervene. “That’s enough, Raïdis, tempers run high on the water.”

Raïdis looked at him in scorn. “You saw what he did — unless you were too far behind. We had the speed of him out of The Sorcerers, and he swung across us. That’s not racing — not the way I was brought up to it, anyway.”

Drallenkoop said: “You want to finish taking that sword out? I’m ready for you. Mindaugas! Bring my blade.”

Mindaugas hastened from Dragonchaser carrying Drallenkoop’s duelling sword. “Now then,” Drallenkoop said, strapping it on, “Do you want to make something of this? Or not?”

Raïdis whipped his blade out and held it upright in front of him. “I await your pleasure, my lord.” Haïdis had stepped alongside to act as his brother’s second, while Mindaugas was in position for Drallenkoop.

Drallenkoop took a step back and adopted the duelling pose. “At you now!” he cried, and surged forward. Mirko, as a Garganet necessarily a keen swordsman, watched intently; it was too late to interfere now.

Raïdis was the more attacking swordsman; Drallenkoop was content to parry and give ground where necessary. His sallies were less frequent but more dangerous. Raïdis was bold and determined, but his defence was not strong: twice with consecutive feint-lunge combinations he was nearly breached.

The jetty was not a good place to fight, too narrow to allow a full range of movement. Both fighters were forced to keep one eye on their position less they stumble into the sea. Drallenkoop began to fight more aggressively; little by little he was wearing his opponent down. Confident of victory, he began to flourish and showboat, enraging Raïdis still further; still he was not quick enough to respond. Drallenkoop manoeuvred him close to the edge of the jetty, forcing him back against a mooring post. Desperately Raïdis kicked out, catching a surprised Drallenkoop on the wrist; backing up, he stumbled, and Raïdis was upon him. He stood over him with his rapier.

“Yield!” he called. Drallenkoop tried to roll away but Raïdis kicked him back into position. “Yield or die!”

Three Peremptor’s Constables rushed through, their black cloaks trailing. “Enough!” the lead man — Mirko saw it was Vaidmantas — called. “Break it up now!”

“Yield!” cried Raïdis in desperation.

Vaidmantas had his sword out, and he stood poised at Raïdis. “I said enough, on the Peremptor’s warrant.”

“But — “

“Put up your sword, Raïdis. This is a regatta, not a tourney.”

Drallenkoop got to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes while Raïdis complained to Vaidmantas. “You had no right to do that. That was a fair duel with seconds; you should have let it run its course. You waited until I’d won and then stopped it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Vaidmantas. “It was not a true duel; neither of you specified ‘death or blood’. Without that you offend the Peremptor’s peace. Think yourself lucky I don’t arrest the pair of you; it’s only because it’s regatta day I don’t.”

Drallenkoop bowed ironically to Raïdis. “Thank you for the sport,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a trophy to collect.” He turned to walk back towards the crowds and the presentation area on the main Esplanade. Raïdis spat onto the jetty, and Drallenkoop found his way blocked by Haïdis.

“Don’t think you won today, Drall,” said Haïdis in a level voice. “Not the race, and certainly not the duel.”

“There was no duel. You heard the Constable.”

“No?” said Haïdis with his dead lilac eyes. “Perhaps you’d like a more properly constituted one. ‘Death or blood’ — your choice, Elector’s boy.” He held Drallenkoop’s gaze.

Drallenkoop’s lip twitched. “I fight my duels on the water,” he said, and walked off to the Esplanade. Haïdis was not a man to laugh but the narrow smile he turned Drallenkoop contained more than sufficient mockery.

The trophy was presented from a specially constructed dais designed to afford all spectators the best view. A herald announced Drallenkoop: “Three times winner of the Margariad, and today a third win in The Sorcerers Regatta! Let’s hear your cheers for the noble Drallenkoop!”

But instead the noise from the crowd was a lusty booing, interspersed with catcalls. “Drallenkoop cheat! Drallenkoop cheat!” went the chant. Drallenkoop smiled, held the trophy aloft, and made his way over to the House Drall enclosure. Mirko looked across into the scarlet and gold pavilion, and caught a brief glimpse of Catzendralle through the entrance. He smiled briefly and nodded, but she did not respond. He wondered what she had made of the day.

The festivities had started on the Esplanade, with the drinks booths beginning to do better trade than the food stalls. Mirko was as yet in no mood for revelry, and walked back over to the jetty where Liudas was forming the crew into ranks. He broke off at Mirko’s approach.

“I’m sorry, Ascalon,” he said. “I didn’t steer well today.”

Mirko shook his head. “Let’s not talk about this now, Liudas. Tomorrow, when we’ve all had a chance to think, will be better.”

“What’s to say? I made a mistake —”

“ — two mistakes, to be more precise —”

“—and I’m sorry.”

“This is the real world, Liudas. Saying sorry doesn’t make everything all right.”

“I don’t know what more I can say.” His mouth drooped.

“‘I resign’.”

Mirko thought he was going to cry. “I won’t resign!” he said defiantly. “I’ll practice and I’ll get better. We just need some more drills.”

Mirko sighed. “We’ve done nothing but drill for three months. Your performance has improved from woeful to inept; and you save your worst for races.”

Liudas stuck his chin out. “I’m not resigning and you can’t sack me: my father —”

“—is the Elector Nool Ipolitas, yes, I know. If you don’t have the decency to resign, I won’t sack you.”

“Only because you can’t.”

“That’s enough, Liudas. Go home — I don’t want to see you at Coverciano tonight.”

Liudas shrugged and walked off to continue arraying the slaves for the march back to Urmaleškas . He turned his head and said “I’ll go home — but you won’t keep me off Serendipity. Don’t even try.”

Mirko leaned against the mooring post and sighed. Today the crew had promised to be Dragonchaser’s equal; but as long as Liudas remained at the helm that counted for nothing. He would have to try and persuade Bartazan that it might be worth sacrificing a vote sometimes …

CHAPTER 20

Later that evening Mirko made his way to Coverciano for the customary regatta soirée. He had missed the main banquet, but since he had little appetite this did not concern him as much as it would normally have done. Larien looked sullen in one corner, paying only the most desultory attention to Lady Inuela’s conversation. Bartazan was talking earnestly to several men, including the Electors Nool Ipolitas and Norvydas. Neither Larien nor Bartazan looked promising subjects for conversation, but he knew that duty compelled him to approach Bartazan, at least.

“Good evening, my lord,” he said as he walked across the room.

Bartazan turned him a look of surprising cordiality. “Ascalon! What a day’s racing we’ve had today!”

“Indeed we have, my lord. I’m only sorry that Serendipity was so far off the pace.”

Bartazan waved the apology away. “Pah! The slaves raced well today — if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate miscalculation we might even have won.”

Since Liudas’ father was present Mirko judged it imprudent to analyse the ‘miscalculation’ any further, and merely nodded.

“But,” continued Bartazan, “to hear a crowd booing Drallenkoop! That was a pleasant moment, indeed.”

Nool Ipolitas nodded and Norvydas smiled. A third man with a flushed face and stark green eyes said: “It can only do you good in the election should Drallenkoop lose a little of his lustre.”

“Well said, my Lord Romualdas. I have hopes, I have hopes,” said Bartazan, draining his goblet.

“Those hopes remain some way short of fulfilment,” said Mirko. “We do not have the quality on the boat to ensure success.”

Bartazan frowned. “My lords, will you excuse us a moment?” he said, drawing Mirko aside. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” he said. “Nool Ipolitas is no fool; impugning his son in this company does not help me.”

“My lord, let me be candid —”

Bartazan pursed his lips. “Your candour is unnecessary. I assume you are going to ask me to sack Liudas.”

Mirko inclined his head. “Yes. He is nothing more than a liability.”

“We have had this conversation before, Ascalon. I need Nool Ipolitas’ vote, and the three he commands. I might secure Romualdas’ anyway by offering him Larien, but I cannot afford to offend such an influential man as Ipolitas. It’s not even as if you can supply a helm who knows the waters well enough to do any better.”

“My lord, with a decent helm I can beat Dragonchaser! You won’t need to worry about Nool Ipolitas!”

Bartazan’s eyes clouded. “Let me be candid with you for a change, Ascalon. I have two strategies to win the Election. The Margariad is the second of them. Anything can happen on the water; there are no guarantees, even for the best boats. Electors are different; votes can be guaranteed, by all kinds of methods. At the moment, I count myself behind Giedrus, but the gap closes every day. One or two more Electors will tip the balance. I’d like you to win the Margariad for me; but you’ll need to do it yourself.”

Mirko bowed. “Unlike many folk, I welcome plain speaking. Your position is amply clear. I thought you had more courage.”

He turned and walked off to see Larien. If there was scope for the evening to get worse, Larien probably provided it.

“My Lady Inuela, my Lady Larien — may I join you?”

“Of course, captain,” said Inuela, bringing a smirk to Larien’s face. “Larien and I were just discussing today’s extraordinary events.”

“Yes, third place for us was extraordinary, if not wholly unprecedented,” said Mirko with a smile.

Inuela started. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“Mirko is sporting with you, aunt,” said Larien. “He knows exactly what you mean.”

Lady Inuela scowled. “With a lord like mine, one becomes slow to recognise humour.”

“I did say you couldn’t win, Mirko,” said Larien with a penetrating look.

“That didn’t stop me trying, my lady. I finished with my honour intact, not a claim every master could make today.”

“So you think Drallenkoop forfeited his honour today?” asked Inuela.

“His conduct on the water was sharp practice, to say the least; his behaviour on the jetty afterwards was craven.”

Larien flushed. “You are calling Drallenkoop a coward?”

“It’s no part of duelling to be rescued by the Constables when you’re losing.”

“It surprises me to hear to you talk of cowardice in breaking off an engagement, captain.”

Mirko’s face froze. “You forget yourself, my lady.”

“Larien, what are you talking about?” asked Inuela. “You seem to have upset Captain Ascalon to no purpose.”

Larien flushed even redder. “Leave it, aunt. I said something I shouldn’t have done.”

“So did I,” said Mirko. “But not today.”

“Oh, why can’t I hold my tongue?” cried Larien. “I’ve wanted to see you all week, Mirko, and not to insult you. Please, I’m sorry.”

Mirko shook his head quickly. “Larien, it’s been a long day. I don’t want to quarrel with you too.”

“Then we’re friends again?” she said breathlessly.

“I suppose so.”

“Aunt, please excuse us — there’s something I’d like to show Mirko in the Velvet Garden.”

Inuela paused with a knowing look. “Of course — I had promised to talk to the Elector Mempersink anyway.”

Larien took Mirko’s arm and led him out into the gardens. As they walked through the fragrant bowers, she said: “Hot tempers run in the Bartazan line, I’m afraid. I should never have argued with you in the first place, and I certainly shouldn’t have said what I did earlier.”

“It’s past now,” said Mirko. “We should just accept that there are some things we can’t agree on. When the racing season is finished affairs will be that much simpler.”

“What will you do afterwards?” Her large blue eyes looked deep into his.

“In truth, I haven’t decided. Your uncle says he’ll make me Master of the City’s Fleet if he wins the Election — a promise I am hardly building my future around. But I can’t go back to Garganet. Galleys are all I know, so I may stay here and see if I can get another engagement for next year.”

Larien smiled. “I’d like it if you did stay. Did you know that Drallenkoop’s overseer Mindaugas is retiring after this season? I’m sure that Drallenkoop would take you on as overseer without a second thought. That would be marvellous — you’d be in the best galley and Drallenkoop is a most liberal master.”

“I am sure Drallenkoop already has a lengthy list of candidates for such a prestigious position; besides which, I am not sure his opinion of me is as high as all that.”

“Oh no! he speaks highly of you.”

“You have great insight into Drallenkoop’s thoughts,” laughed Mirko. “Are you sure you are not attributing him your own wishes?”

“The world of the Electors is a small one. I am not ignorant of what goes on in House Drall.”

“Anyway,” said Mirko, “if I worked for Drallenkoop you would hardly be able to be friendly with me as you are now.”

“We’ll see,” she said, showing her strong white teeth. “Once Bartazan loses the Election he can never stand again — it will be his third defeat. His influence will leach overnight.”

“Larien, I’m pleased we’ve cleared up our misunderstandings. I have to transact some business now — perhaps I might call on you tomorrow?”

“I’d be delighted,” said Larien. “I’m at the townhouse for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Don’t forget,” she said, looking back over her shoulder as she walked away.

Mirko summoned a servant, paper and pen, and composed a brief note, reflecting as he did so on the novelty of parting from Larien on good terms. He could not remember the last time he had done so.

Finishing his note, he sent the servant away to deliver it. Trusting to his sense of direction, he made his way into the Labyrinth. Soon he found the concealed entrance to the Secret Garden and settled down to wait for Catzendralle, wondering how she would react to being summoned in this way.

The sun was declining in the west, casting much of the garden in shade, but one corner still enjoyed full sunlight, and Mirko took up station on a secluded seat, enjoying the cool fresh smell of the manzipar trees. If this was the effect the Old Craft could have, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Mirko had lost track of time in the stillness of the Secret Garden by the time the foliage gave way to reveal Catzendralle with her quick clever movements. He raised a leisurely hand to attract her attention. Catzendralle smiled and came over to sit beside him on the bench. She was dressed in a russet dress which managed to be simultaneously demure and alluring; it seemed she generally took more care with her attire when she visited Coverciano.

“Thank you for coming, my lady.”

Catzendralle smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “You don’t have to call me that. My name is Catzendralle, and my friends call me Catzen.”

“Friends?”

She frowned. “I do have some.”

“That wasn’t what I meant — I was just surprised at the implicit invitation to count myself among them. Previously you’ve been at pains to remind me I’m the hired help.”

“Don’t be so Garganet, Mirko. I’m inviting you to call me Catzen. It’s up to you whether you do or not.”

Mirko laughed. “I’m sorry — Catzen. I get too used to Larien. And no, I haven’t forgotten what you warned me about her.”

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked. “I assume it will take some time, and I’ve brought a pitcher of good Garganet wine with me.”

Mirko could not help but be suspicious at this unprecedented friendliness, but felt that tact compelled him to take it at face value. Taking the goblet Catzendralle had handed him, he said:

“There are several things. I have a report for you, which you can read at your leisure.”

Catzendralle took the paper and tucked it into her dress.

“And then I wanted to say thank you for getting me released. At least, I assume it was you.”

Catzendralle’s deep dark eyes twinkled. “I might as well accept the credit since you’re so ready to offer it.”

“And finally, I’d like to ask a favour. Or if you want, you can treat it as my douceur this time.”

Catzendralle sat up straighter in her seat and took a long sip of her wine. “Oh yes?”

“Give me Liudas.”

“In what sense?”

“You never tire of telling me you know everything about everyone. I want to know enough about Liudas to get him off my boat.”

“It’s Bartazan’s boat — which I assume is the problem. Do I deduce you want to dispense with his services and Bartazan doesn’t?”

“I don’t think that’s any secret. I want you to tell me whatever I need to know about him to make him resign.”

Catzendralle stood up and went to sit on the grass. “Why should I?” she said quietly. “You know that I can’t afford to have you win the Margariad; what better than to keep you lumbered with a helm like Liudas?”

“That implies you think I can win without him. Implied compliments are often the most sincere.”

“Mirko, this isn’t a game. Yes, I think you can win, and I know more about galleys than you think. With the right helm, I do think you’d push Dragonchaser. But that wouldn’t help me, and I don’t think it would help you.”

“Catzendralle — Catzen — the galleys are all I’ve got. You know I can’t go back to Garganet and I don’t want to be your agent forever. This is important to me: if I lose, I lose, but I want to do it on my own terms.”

“Mirko, you aren’t talking in language I understand. You’ve given me no reason to help you.”

“Other than helping me to get something I want. I thought that’s what friends did.”

“That’s not fair, Mirko. I’ve done everything I can to help you so far.”

“Like having Padizan killed?”

Catzendralle flushed. “I’ve helped you more than you know. I did save you over Inisse, even if things didn’t turn out as I’d expected. And have you ever asked yourself how you escaped from the Animaxianites? Or why you happened to be in the safest place in Paladria the night they came to kill you? Or why they don’t want to kill you any more?”

“You?”

“I’ve said more than I should.”

“I didn’t ask you to help me.”

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t. The Animaxianites would have killed you either time, and Bartazan would have done far worse if he knew even a fraction of your activities.”

“Thank you,” said Mirko stiffly. “But this favour I am asking you for. Think of it like this. If Liudas resigns from the boat, do you think Nool Ipolitas will be happy? Won’t he be suspicious that Bartazan has put pressure on him? Bartazan needs Nool Ipolitas’ vote, and his cronies. How about taking this chance to sow some dissension?”

“That doesn’t help me if you win the Margariad.”

“You really do think I can do it.”

“Who would you put at the helm?”

“Florian. He’s helmed in Garganet, he’s rowed the bay for three years. He’ll be better than Liudas, that’s for sure.”

Catzendralle sighed. “I should say no out of hand; but I’ll think about it. I need to assess the potential outcomes. Will that do for now? I don’t want us to argue with half the bottle left.”

Mirko smiled and raised his goblet. “To friendship.”

“Friendship.”

They sat in companionable silence and savoured the fine Garganet wine, which brought back many memories for Mirko.

“Do you like my secret garden?” asked Catzendralle.

“It’s magical,” said Mirko. “Timeless.”

“And so it is, literally,” said Catzendralle. “Had you forgotten the maintenance spell? This garden is unchanged for three hundred years.”

“I find it hard to believe. I never imagined the Old Craft to be so benign.”

“It was never the Old Craft that was evil,” she said. “It was the use that people put it to. It’s no different to any other form of power in that sense. Paladria was never Gammerling: there were no lords of the Old Craft here. When East Gammerling was blasted, of course we drove out the Old Craft the same as everywhere else. But like so many other things here, it had never come across the mountains with full force anyway.”

“You seem almost nostalgic for the Old Craft.”

Catzendralle was briefly silent. “I wouldn’t want you to think that. The Old Craft has been driven from our realms for good reason; but because it was never loved in Paladria, it’s never been truly hated, either. I could tell you of folk even now who sport with it — high born ones in some cases. Death to them if they’re caught, of course, but can you imagine such dabblings in West Gammerling or the Emmenrule?”

“You intrigue me — there are people in Paladria who practice the Old Craft?”

“I didn’t say that. The Old Craft requires a gift — if you aren’t born with it, no amount of study will give it to you. There are some in the city who flirt with the trappings: grimoires, conjurations and the like. It’s a frisson, like an orgy — which it often accompanies — but with a whiff of danger. It has no more to do with the real Old Craft than Bartazan has to do with public service.”

“You are well informed, Catzen.”

“I always am, Mirko, I always am.”

Mirko smiled. “You won’t forget to think about Liudas?”

“I’ve already given you your answer,” she said. “You just need to know where to find it.”

Sleep was elusive for Mirko that night; the day had contained too much to digest, and his mind raced through the small hours. A night-owl hooted with irritating irregularity, and eventually Mirko rose from his bed and poured himself a pitcher of ale.

All in all, he reflected as he sipped his drink, the race itself had not gone badly. Liudas aside, Serendipity had acquitted herself favourably. She was a match — or close to it — for both Dragonchaser and Excelsior in a straight line, and ahead of all the others. Dragonchaser came into her own around the rocks, and it was for this reason imperative that Liudas were dismissed; a question to ponder later. Given, by whatever means, a competent helm, there was no reason at all why Serendipity could not mount a serious challenge in the Margariad.

Dragonchaser, too, had revealed unexpected flaws which could only help his case. She had been fortunate to beat Excelsior today; the baulking manoeuvre could easily have backfired, and Drallenkoop’s subsequent conduct indicated how badly he had been discomfited. The ‘duel’ had served to undermine his popularity, previously unassailable, and created a valuable fund of malice between his two greatest rivals. Here too were fine grounds for optimism.

His relationships with both Larien and Catzendralle — Catzen — were no more straightforward. Larien was as inconstant as the wind: today, she had flared up on the slightest provocation, and then gone to great pains to soothe his feelings; and then tried to persuade him to make his future in Paladria. She was undeniably alluring, and he flattered herself that she was attracted to him; but he found her unpredictability unsettling, and she undoubtedly worked to keep him at a distance. On any number of occasions their relationship had seemed set to blossom, only for some impediment to appear between them. He sensed this represented an underlying pattern in their relationship.

Catzendralle was scarcely any easier to read. Their relationship was based — or had been — on the gold she paid him, but that seemed to be less and less the case. That was as much down to Mirko himself, he supposed: if he hadn’t rescued Minalgas Inisse to prove to Catzen that he wasn’t motivated by money, things would never have developed the way they had. But now he knew who she was and who she worked for; and as she’d implied, from that point onwards she had either to trust him or kill him. Fortunately she’d preferred the former option. Now it was ‘call me Catzen’, and she’d even considered giving him Liudas — perhaps. In some ways he felt a closer affinity with her than he did Larien. She was much more consistent in her attitudes, and she’d certainly saved him over Inisse, even if he didn’t necessarily believe her about the Animaxianites and his imprisonment. All it needed now was for her to give him Liudas. What had she said? I’ve already given you your answer. You just need to know where to find it. But she hadn’t at all; she’d gone on to small talk about maintenance spells and the Old Craft … unless … it couldn’t be that simple, could it? I’ve already given you your answer. Laughing aloud, Mirko leaped from his seat.

CHAPTER 21

Mirko had given the crew the next day off; their muscles would be groaning after The Sorcerers and he saw no profit in flogging them any further. It also meant he did not have to see Liudas, for whom he had different plans. After spending a pleasant morning with a charming Larien, he made his way down to the Urmaleškas and summoned Florian, Trajian, Skaidrys and Jenx. The fourth quarterman, Slovo, he could not bring himself to trust.

The group soon found themselves in the Waterside where Panduletta found them a secluded booth. Once the mugs of Widdershins had been brought, Mirko moved on to business.

“Florian,” he said. “How would you like to be the helm of Serendipity?”

“Serendipity already has a helm — of a sort, at least.”

“You four will help me change that,” he said. “Florian, if there were no Liudas, how would you feel?”

“I don’t want the job badly enough to kill him for it.”

“You won’t have to.”

“In that case,” said Florian, “I’ve rowed these waters for three years; I know the currents and I know how to helm. What do we need to do?”

“Boy! More beer!” called Mirko. “Here’s what we need to do.”

Late that night, Ipolitas Liudas was entertaining a young woman of flexible principles in his apartments when a series of noises disturbed him. He called irritably on his two house slaves, but elicited no response. With a muttered apology to his companion, he went to the front of the house to investigate.

Two figures in black, their faces covered by masks, loomed before him. The larger, bulky and menacing, made a muffled snorting sound. The smaller figure pranced and hopped around the chamber: “Ipolitas Liudas! Ipolitas Liudas!” it chanted. “Bring me to Ipolitas Liudas!”

“Liu — Das…” whispered the other heavily.

Two more masked black figures stepped from the shadows. “Liudas! Liudas! We call on Ipolitas Liudas!”

Liudas slunk back in alarm. The small prancing figure gyrated with ever greater speed. “I smell Liudas — you are Liudas!”

“Ah — no, you’re mistaken — no Liudas here.”

The large figure hissed. “This is the one who broke my rest. He must be extinguished!”

Liudas shrunk back against the wall. The prancing figure advanced towards him. “I am the demon Maibalides!” he announced with a shrill cry. “I come from Below!”

“No!” cried Liudas. “Leave me!”

Maibalides continued. “This is Bambalar,” he said, indicating the larger figure. “Your meddlings have disturbed his eternal rest.”

Liudas stared, wide-eyed in terror. “The balance must be righted,” shrieked Maibalides. “One for one, one for one! One has left eternal rest, another must begin it.”

“You — no, no!” Liudas sobbed. “It was a prank, no more.”

Maibalides shook his head sadly, his caperings ceasing in intensity. “The Old Craft does not admit of ‘pranks’,” he said. “You must accompany the demons Alizar and Elizar as they take you Below.”

The two black figures from the shadows stepped further forward, reaching out for Liudas.

“Please!” wept Liudas. “It was an error, trivial, foolish. I meant no harm.”

A fifth figure in black stepped from a place of concealment to whisper in Maibalides’ ear. Maibalides nodded.

“Liudas,” he said heavily. “Do you truly repent of your acts?”

“Yes, yes — anything! I’ll do anything!”

“The damage is small, on this occasion,” said Maibalides. “Your potential to do harm is great, however. You must swear to forsake the Old Craft forever.”

“Yes! I abjure and repudiate it utterly!”

“Yield up, then, your grimoires, your folios, your librams!”

“But —”

“Choose! Yield them up to me, or accompany me Below.”

“A moment! I will of course furnish the grimoire immediately.”

Maibalides nodded. “Attend him,” he instructed Alizar and Elizar.

Liudas shuffled back into another room, making his way to a locked cabinet which, after several fumbling attempts, he managed to unlock. He handed over a bound volume and several other adjuncts which the demons briefly inspected. The trio returned to the main room, where the fifth figure studied the material in more detail, before nodding to Maibalides.

“Ipolitas Liudas!” called Maibalides, with greater rapidity in his movements. “You are chastised! Never again meddle with powers you do not understand! Consider yourself a fortunate man!”

Liudas babbled something unintelligible; the demons swiftly left the room, at least two of them failing in their attempts to control sniggers.

Early the next morning Mirko presented himself at Liudas’ town house on his fine strider Boodle. The house-slave on the door manifested a black eye and responded with a surly gravity to Mirko’s request to speak to his master. Some minutes later he returned and with poor grace invited Mirko to enter the parlour, where a pale Liudas awaited. Even his trim beard seemed ragged today.

“Liudas, good morning!” exclaimed Mirko.

Liudas nodded heavily. “I am by no means glad to see you. I have experienced a disturbing night.”

“Wine can be a terrible thing when taken to excess.”

Liudas thought better of an explanation. “I hope you will state your business concisely. I understood you were not intending to drill today.”

“My intent was to ask whether you had reconsidered your resignation.”

Liudas set his jaw. “I most certainly have not. I will attend for training tomorrow.”

“I should have thought you would be wary of — meddling — in events beyond your understanding.”

Liudas coloured. “‘Meddling’? Why do you say that?”

“No reason. Helmsmanship is a calling beyond your current capacities.”

“Ah. Well, I do not find myself minded to resign from Serendipity. I will see you tomorrow, if that is the sole purpose of your business.”

“It isn’t quite that simple, Liudas.” He brought from his coat a brass object of uncertain purpose. Liudas blanched.

“Where did you get that?”

Mirko shrugged.

“What is it?” Liudas asked.

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve.”

“How about this?” Mirko produced a volume. “I believe it’s known as a ‘grimoire’.”

“You can’t do this!”

“I’ve done it. I understand the Old Craft is not popular in Paladria. Let me be completely explicit: when I learn that you have tendered your resignation, I return your artefacts. Until then, I retain them. If I become impatient, I turn them over to the Peremptor’s Constables.”

“I’ll tell them I’ve never seen them! It’s you who’ll have explaining to do!”

Mirko sighed. “In addition, everyone in Paladria, from Elector to doxy, will learn how you were terrified by five men in sheets and masks. If my nose didn’t mislead me, you went so far as to soil your breeks; an amusing anecdote, don’t you think?”

Liudas narrowed his eyes. “I told Bartazan you could not be trusted.”

Mirko bowed. “You have until tonight to see Bartazan. Good day to you.”

Without further ceremony he left the house and leaped astride Boodle. His work had proved extremely satisfactory; all that remained was to install Florian at the helm. And sometime he’d have to say thank-you to Catzen.

The slaves were exercising aimlessly in their compound at Urmaleškas when Mirko arrived. Immediately he summoned Florian, Trajian, Jenx and Skaidrys. A nearby rattlejack conveyed them down to the Waterside where Panduletta was quick to ensure they were adequately supplied with Widdershins.

“Thank you for your efforts last night,” said Mirko, raising his mug. “Liudas has assured me this morning that he will be resigning as helm of Serendipity, which has of course been the object of our labours.”

Trajian smiled. “Well done, Ascalon.” Jenx and Skaidrys nodded in agreement.

Florian said: “That would appear to leave the position vacant. Do you have a replacement in mind?”

Mirko smiled. “The man in question will need to be familiar with the principles of helmsmanship, ideally acquainted too with current and tidal conditions in the Bay of Paladria. The best candidates are likely also to have some experience of galley racing.”

Florian savoured his beer. “The prime candidate would appear to be Drallenkoop, despite his recent mishaps. A decent case might also be made for Raïdis, and how can we forget the daring Minalgas Inisse?”

“It seems to me unlikely that any of these would be eager to come aboard Serendipity.”

“The field narrows beyond that point. Jukundas, formerly of Animaxian’s Glory, is currently without employment, but largely for good reason.”

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

The 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 Sorcerers.

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.”

Mirko had no enthusiasm to investigate the Garganet galley; her officers would be unlikely to give him any cordial reception, and their presence could easily unsettle both Florian and Trajian. But neither regarded themselves as slaves, or under his orders off the water, and both were already on their way to the galley.

“Hallo there!” called out Florian. “What ship are you?”

A face looked up from the deck. “We’re Spray, out of Garganet, if it’s any of your concern. And don’t mock our accent!”

“He’s not mocking your accent,” said Mirko. “He’s Garganet, as are we all.”

“Garganet, you say? What ship are you out of? I didn’t see another one here. We’ve trouble replacing our oars — these damned Paladrian ones are a foot shorter than ours.”

Florian turned to Mirko with a malicious smile. “Well, Captain, what ship are we out of?”

“That’s enough, Florian,” snapped Mirko, nettled. To the crewman he said, “You, fellow, where are your officers? Our business would be better transacted with them.”

The crewman shrugged. He called out towards the stern, “Captain, there’s another Garganet ship here — here are their officers.”

“Thank you, Gremio,” called an unseen figure, leaping ashore and approaching the others from behind. Tall and fair, with a negligent ease of manner, he said: “I’m Captain Bernat of the Spry, and glad to meet you.”

Mirko turned slowly. “Bernat!”

Bernat’s expression of frank good humour froze. “What kind of jest is this? I’m told there’s a Garganet vessel here and I find you? What Garganet vessel can you possibly command?”

Mirko set his mouth. “Your crewman misunderstood, Bernat. He heard the accents and thought we were from a Garganet boat.”

Florian interjected: “I take it you two are acquainted?”

Trajian hissed at Florian to be quiet, but silence could not remove the smirk dominating Florian’s face.

“You might say that, sir,” said Bernat. “I was the overseer on Dittrusig when the then Captain Ascalon ran away. I thought never to see him again; a situation to which I reconciled myself with the minimum of difficulty.”

“I assure you, Bernat, the feeling was entirely mutual. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you got your own command,” said Mirko.

“What it’s worth,” said Bernat, “is exactly nothing. Your good opinion has all the value of a stale fart. Now, do either you or your associates know anywhere we can get four custom-made oars?”

“Annkin’s Yard on Queely’s Hard. I’ll get someone to take you over,” replied Mirko tonelessly.

Bernat bowed slightly. “I am obliged to you. I also require provisions for my crew.”

Soon after, a sullen Mirko found himself in the Waterside Tavern listening to increasingly elevated Florian expand on the ills of his situation while a sympathetic Bernat listened. Trajian, as was his habit, contented himself with the occasional pithy interjection. Eventually Bernat tired of Mirko’s indirect discomfiture and pursued a more direct tack.

“How do you justify this, Ascalon? I understand that the disgrace of your court-martial will inevitably have soured your temper and lowered your standards, but to race second-rate galleys around a millpond with two Garganet slaves in your crew scarcely represents cause for pride.”

Mirko looked into his mug and spoke slowly. “There is a limited range of options available to a cashiered Garganet officer. My work here is not as discreditable as you might think; the races are honest, the seamanship by and large good, and Florian and Trajian would be slaves regardless of whether or not they rowed on my galley. Crewing with me is their only real chance of freedom.”

Bernat contented himself with a smile. “The best galley in Paladria would not extend an average Garganet boat. Paladrians don’t understand the sea.”

“Maybe not, but they understand their own bay. You’d be surprised how well the best boats — Dragonchaser, say, or Excelsior — would perform against a Garganet vessel.”

Bernat laughed. “You think one of these hick galleys would out-race Spray?”

“You wouldn’t even beat us.”

Bernat’s face lost its humour. “There are ways of proving that, Ascalon. When our oars are replaced — you might fancy a turn around the bay.”

“Do you have money?”

“Mirko!” hissed Trajian. “You don’t have to do this — and you shouldn’t.”

“We’d win — or don’t you think so?” said Mirko.

Trajian frowned for a moment. “Well, yes we would, the way we’ve been going. Any of the usual courses and we’d be a match.”

Bernat looked around the faces and took a long pull of beer. “You, Florian, do you think so too?”

Florian’s slate-coloured eyes were expressionless. “Since you ask, I do believe Serendipity, in waters her crew were familiar with, would out-run any Garganet galley of like size not accustomed to the waters.”

“Well then,” said Bernat with a slow smile, “we have a wager. Can you cover a thousand valut?”

“A thousand? I took you for a larger man than that,” said Mirko. “Double it and we have a race.”

Bernat’s hesitation was barely perceptible. “Two thousand it is. Tell me when and where; Spray will be ready.” He stood and strode briskly across the crisp wooden floorboards of the tavern.

Trajian turned towards Mirko. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Mirko laughed. “What can I lose? First of all, I think we’ll win on our own waters; and secondly I’m wagering Bartazan’s money. The race will be excellent practice for the Margariad.”

Florian showed the beginnings of a smile. “Sometimes I almost admire you, Ascalon.”

CHAPTER 23

Three days later Mirko made his way down to the Jurbarkas Docks where Serendipity was moored. It was the morning of the challenge with Spray, and he was surprised at the attention the race had attracted. He had viewed the affair as a private matter between himself and Bernat, but a crowd of decent size was already in attendance. They had seen two races already, with Dragonchaser comfortably outpacing Morvellos Devil around the Hanspar without needing to set any rhythm above Eight; while an encounter of desperate ineptitude between Kestrel and a lacklustre Animaxian’s Glory through the Sorcerers had resulted in an unconvincing win for the latter.

As he walked through the competitors’ enclosure towards Serendipity, Mirko saw Drallenkoop and Larien engaged in animated conversation which appeared to lack all cordiality. He waved at Larien who returned a pained glance, while Drallenkoop scowled. Mirko had been aware that Larien cultivated Drallenkoop as a studied insult to her uncle, but today there seemed to be undercurrent of ill-feeling. Drallenkoop leaned towards Larien for emphasis; Larien extended her arm in Mirko’s direction with an expression of disgust, turning on her heel to walk towards him.

“Larien!” called Drallenkoop. “My remarks are not concluded!!”

“You can’t have your wine and drink it, Drallenkoop!” Larien shouted back over her shoulder. “You wanted this: now you’ve got it!”

Mirko looked quizzically at her. “Are you all right, Larien?”

Larien controlled herself with an effort. “I am now,” she said, her colour raised. “I was going to ask you a favour.”

“Go ahead,” said Mirko, inclining his head sideways with a smile.

“Take me out with you today. I want to be part of the race.”

Mirko ran a hand through his hair. “Larien, this is a race. I need to win, and I can hardly justify the extra weight.”

“Weight!” cried Larien, her colour rising again. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Larien, don’t be so silly—”

“Oh, and silly as well! Fat, stupid Larien, why would you ever want to have me on your boat, or in your bed?”

“Larien! You are overwrought. I can’t have any weight on the boat that isn’t pulling an oar. I meant no insult.”

“I turned down Drallenkoop so I could go out on the water with you, and you won’t even take me!”

“You should have asked me first — and anyway, what exactly did you ‘turn down’ Drallenkoop from?”

“Oh, not you as well! Drallenkoop doesn’t own me, and neither do you.”

“For Animaxian’s sake, Larien, I never claimed to. You just never told me you were that friendly with him, that’s all.”

“Are you jealous, Mirko? I’ve told you often enough, I socialise with Drallenkoop to annoy my uncle. Now he’s vexed because I’ve thrown him over to see you, and you are no better when you see me talking to him.”

“You are irrational! I am interested in nothing beyond winning my race. If you prefer to spend the morning with Drallenkoop, be sure I will not detain you.”

Larien set her mouth. “I’m coming with you. I’d prefer a voluntary invitation, but there are other ways.”

“Oh yes?”

“Does my uncle know where your stake money for this race has come from? Or the size of the stake?”

Mirko hesitated. “Of course.”

“I think not. According to Kintautas this morning, Bartazan thinks this is a hundred valut race to settle a grudge between you and Spray’s captain. If he knew you’d put down 2,000 valut of his winnings I wouldn’t like to be on your deck.”

“May I ask how you know? Challenge details are confidential between the captains and the galley association.”

Larien smiled triumphantly. “No great difficulty when the Secretary of the Association has been trying to get inside my smallclothes since I was fourteen. A mixture of flirtation and blackmail can go a long way.”

Mirko frowned. “This time, if you fall in, you drown. Understood?”

Larien’s face lit up. “I didn’t fall in – I was knocked.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “It’s no secret you are adept at blackmail yourself,” she said. “Liudas was reticent as to detail, but he hates you, whatever you did to him. I’m sure you and I can be more cordial.”

Mirko shook his head with a rueful smile. “One day you will come to grief, Larien; but not today, I suspect. Come on.”

The herald sounded the horn and the race was underway. Serendipity immediately launched into Tempo Eight, as he’d agreed with his officers before. The first battle was to reach the Hanspar ahead; if Serendipity went round that turn in second place, the race was as good as lost.

The day was windless and the sea calm, the waves making only small white tips as they broke. Serendipity settled easily into her rhythm but Mirko was alarmed to see Spray easing gradually ahead.

“Jenx! Go to Nine! Go to Nine!” he called, his first gamble of the race. Despite their improvement in form and confidence over the season, this was not a sustainable tempo for the crew. Nonetheless they responded with a crisp discipline which pleased him. Spray did not match Serendipity’s increase in tempo; Bernat was confident of reeling in any deficit over the remainder of the race.

Pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity maintained the rapid tempo with an easy vigour. Slowly she pulled ahead of Spray. “Come on lads, keep it going!” called Jenx from the drum-pit. Trajian and Slovo, the two nearest Quartermen, smiled grimly and Slovo added an obscenity for good measure.

The Hanspar rock approached and Larien, next to Mirko on the observation platform, squeezed his arm in excitement; Mirko, concentrating on the relative positions of the two galleys, scarcely noticed. “Florian! You’ve got room — take it steady!”

Florian failed to acknowledge this obvious remark and pulled Serendipity into a gradual arc around the Hanspar, ensuring that he did not leave sufficient space for Spray to pass on the inside. The manoeuvre was executed with characteristically unobtrusive excellence, and as Serendipity straightened up to begin the pull towards the Morvellos, Mirko had time to watch Spray skirt around the Hanspar with a conservatively wide margin. He estimated that Serendipity had a lead of a single length — useful but not at this stage decisive. The long haul towards the Morvellos with the current behind the boats gave Spray every opportunity to narrow the gap.

“Jenx! Go to Eight! Go to Eight!” he called. Tempo Nine had served its purpose in rounding the Hanspar ahead; but to attempt to sustain it any further would guarantee a collapse on the long home straight, against the strong current from the Morvellos to the Jurbarkas Docks.

The galleys traded stroke for stroke as they continued their passage towards the Morvellos. There was little Mirko could do at this stage; the crew was rowing at its maximum sustainable tempo, there were no awkward currents or adverse winds, and he had time to look around him and take in the scene. He could hear Larien breathing fast next to him but he did not turn to look at her. Ahead lay the Morvellos Lighthouse with its colony of mermaids, as yet too small or hidden to be seen. The lighthouse stood proud against the sky, with the sea stretching endlessly to the horizon.

“Captain!” called Florian, breaking his reverie. “Spray is making ground!”

Mirko turned on the observation platform. Spray was still maintaining Tempo Eight, but her crew, professional rowers all, had a more powerful stroke and this advantage was bringing her gradually back on terms with Serendipity. Mirko looked ahead to the Morvellos: it was essential that Serendipity went round the lighthouse ahead; he knew that his tired crew would not be able to overtake the disciplined Garganets against the current if they fell behind. With the automatic reckoning which became second nature to galley-masters, he calculated that Spray would catch them a little before the lighthouse; although possibly not soon enough to pass as well. Mirko had now to decide whether to gamble on increasing the tempo once again.

Pull-pull-pull. Serendipity’s rhythm was starting to become ragged; the crew, facing backwards, could see the now perceptible progress Spray was making. “Trajian! Slovo! Skaidrys! Ketchelon! Hold the tempo! Keep Eight!” Mirko called in desperation. Once a crew lost its rhythm, the discipline was difficult to reimpose. Trajian and Skaidrys were keeping to the stroke rate immaculately, and Trajian’s Quarter was so well drilled that they followed him. Skaidrys was keeping most of his Quarter to tempo, but Slovo and Ketchelon, the least experienced Quartermen, were exercising seemingly no influence over their own Quarters. Mirko shook his head quickly. Moving to Tempo Nine was out of the question; holding Eight was proving a challenge, and any attempt to increase the pace would cause disintegration.

He jumped from the observation platform and stepped across to the helm. “We can’t go any faster,” he said briskly to Florian. “You’re going to have to make the turn of your life.”

Florian gave a resigned shrug. “It’s not about technique, it’s about nerve,” he said. “Who dares go closer to the rocks? I can go in as close as you like for a short line — but you risk ripping the bottom out on the shoals. How badly do you want to win?”

Mirko cursed. “I want to win the Margariad more than I want to beat Spray. I need a whole boat to do that.”

“There you are then,” said Florian. “If Spray leaves me a gap I’ll take it; but I’ll not pretend there’s one if there isn’t.”

“Be ready, and follow my instructions,” said Mirko sharply, climbing back to the observation platform. The Morvellos were no more than a minute’s rowing ahead, but Spray was now level, and on her observation platform Bernat looked across exultantly.

“Florian! Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard!” cried Mirko.

Florian complied instantly: this was standard Garganet procedure, to veer across into an opponent’s path to disrupt her rhythm. It was, in truth, a desperate expedient, but if it were even partly successful, Spray might be unable to recover in time to pass before the Morvellos.

Almost instantly Spray had responded. As Serendipity swung abruptly to starboard, Spray steered to port, effectively entering the space left by Serendipity with no loss of rhythm. She surged ahead, and Mirko knew the ruse had failed utterly, had cost Serendipity ground rather than gaining it. Bernat had known the ploy was coming and had been ready. Mirko’s mouth set into a grim expressionless line, but it was no time to brood: the lighthouse was upon them.

“Florian! Watch Spray — look for the gap! Jenx, go to Nine! Go to Nine!”

Mirko knew as well as Florian that there might not be a gap. If Bernat took a line close enough to the rocks, there would be no scope for a dash down the inside. It was also a gamble to increase the tempo to Nine: it meant that Serendipity could exploit a gap if it appeared — but it risked destabilising the crew and gave Florian less time to react to the shoals. Mirko knew that his only real hope lay in Bernat’s ignorance of the waters which might impel him to give the Morvellos a conservatively wide berth.

“Mirko! Look — mermaids!” cried Larien excitedly.

Mirko shot her a glance of annoyance for distracting him with sightseeing at such a moment — he could not even spare the time for a reproof — but he noticed the mermaids on the rocks at the foot of the lighthouse a short distance away, looking out at him with their striking blue eyes inscrutable.

“Damn!” called Florian from the helm. “Look at Spray!”

Mirko shared Florian’s sentiments. Spray, whether by fortune, good planning or a combination of the two, had adopted just about the best line possible as she swung around the rocks. Theoretically there was room to take a tighter inside line, but Mirko knew that to take it would tear the bottom out of Serendipity. The sea was calm, and the crew was unchained; conceivably some of them might avoid drowning or being dashed on the rocks. And Larien would drown for certain.

Mirko shook his head at Florian, in case there had ever been a question or a doubt. The race was lost, for Serendipity would never make up the deficit against the current.

Come in. Mirko, come in!

Mirko looked around. No-one was saying anything. Mirko, our friend Mirko, come to us.

The mermaids! Who else could it be? Mirko remembered that morning on the beach, when the mermaid had called inside his head for help.

It’s safe. The tide is high, the rocks are low. You have room. Come in, come in.

It could only be the mermaids, unless Mirko was going mad. But in Garganet, mermaids had an evil reputation, calling to galleys, driving the crews mad and beguiling them to destruction against the rocks, for purposes that always remained obscure.

Mirko! You saved me, Mirko! Trust me, trust me! Come in, the tide is high, the rocks are low. Mirko, my friend Mirko, come in!

Before he realised what he was saying, Mirko called down to Florian: “Go inside! We have room! Inside, man!”

Florian looked up in bewilderment. “You know we don’t! You’ll gut us!”

“Helm, inside! Jenx, go to Ten! Ten!” he called with an exaltation of recklessness. The hairs on his arms stood erect, a chill swept over his skin. This was insane, it was suicide. But it would work.

“Helm! Do you hear me? Inside!”

At Tempo Ten Florian had either to comply or run into Spray’s stern. With no expression he swung the helm to starboard to bring Serendipity inside Spray’s line and unprecedentedly close to the lighthouse and its hidden shoals.

Easy, Mirko. Close enough to be safe.

“Straight, Florian. Close enough!”

Bernat looked back from his observation platform in astonishment. It seemed he had learned the best line from local racers — and he knew that Serendipity was too close. He dared not come inside himself or cut across Serendipity’s line for fear of gutting his own boat; and he cursed impotently as Serendipity slipped through on the inside.

The boats were close enough that Mirko could hear the bellowing from Spray’s officers. “Ten! Go to Ten!” yelled Bernat.

Mirko knew that neither boat could sustain Ten against the current for any length of time; but looking at the exultant faces of his crew, he knew it would be Spray who cracked first. They believed in the recklessly brilliant judgement of their captain, but more importantly, they believed again in themselves, the crew who had taken Serendipity through a gap that didn’t exist against the pride of the Garganet navy. Without allowing a hint of his triumph to reach his face, Mirko relaxed. Spray’s crew was broken; the race was won.

Mirko felt a pain in his arm; turning, he saw Larien had dug her fingers so deeply into him that she had drawn blood; and he hadn’t even noticed.

“How did you do that? How did you know?” she asked, her clear blue eyes alight. “You could have sunk us!” But there was no reproach in her tone or her eyes.

Mirko shook his head with a smile. “I could hardly explain,” he said. “Just enjoy this feeling. Who knows when it will come again?”

Larien looked away. “I don’t know if Drallenkoop is worried about you,” she said. “But he ought to be. You can beat Dragonchaser — and I never believed you.”

From experience Mirko sensed that the conversation was likely to turn into a plea from Larien that he throw the Margariad. “We will see, Larien,” he said. “That will be another race altogether.”

Larien looked back up into his face and smiled. “I never realised how much this meant,” she said. “ ‘Excitement’ is too pale a word for what we’ve had today. I should never have asked you to lose to spite Bartazan. I’m sorry, Mirko, I had never known what this felt like, what I was asking you. Forgive me, and win if you can,” she finished with an averted gaze.

“Oh, Larien,” he said with an hesitant laugh. “You can always surprise me.”

“I won’t kiss you then, since I’m sure you’re expecting it.”

“Save it until we get back,” said Mirko with an easier smile. “We still have a race to win.”

Larien contented herself with silence as Serendipity continued her triumphant pull against the current. Spray had seemingly given up any chance of victory and Mirko was able to savour the progress towards the finish line without fear that Serendipity might squander the race through folly, negligence or ill-chance. The gentle yawing of the galley prevented any sense of unreality becoming established, and by the time the victory horn was sounded, Spray was some eight lengths in the distance.

“Hooray! Hooray for Serendipity!” came the calls from the spectators’ area. “You showed the Garganets! Three cheers for Ascalon! Three cheers for Bartazan!”

Mirko allowed himself a grin at this last; since Bartazan had unwittingly provided the stake, he was entitled to share of the acclaim, or so Mirko reasoned. Larien appeared less amused, and shot him a minatory glance.

As the dockhands began to make Serendipity fast to her jetty, Spray arrived; Bernat did not look across. Mirko handed Larien down from the observation platform and stepped across to the overseer’s cockpit.

“Men!” he called. “We have won a mighty victory today! We have beaten a galley as good as any racing in Paladria this year. Drallenkoop must beware! Dragonchaser — look to your laurels! Well rowed, men! One more performance like this and you will all be free!”

“Animaxian bless you, sir!” shouted Skaidrys; Florian, sauntering up from the helm, contented himself with spitting noisily over the side. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” he said harshly to Mirko.

“I’m pleased with all of us — you included,” said Mirko levelly. “You helmed brilliantly today.”

“Don’t stroke my arse, Mirko. Something happened at the lighthouse and it had nothing to do with my helmsmanship. We’ll discuss it later — and you’ll get no ‘three cheers for Ascalon’ from me.”

“You might try smiling occasionally, Florian. We’ve beaten a good boat for the first time today: it doesn’t get much better than this.”

“Maybe not for you — a free man with 2,000 valut in his pouch. I’m as much a slave as I was this morning, and there’s no coins to bulge my pocket. You tell me why I should be smiling.”

Mirko shrugged. “Have it your own way, Florian. In a fortnight’s time you’ll be free. For now, I’ll stand you all the Widdershins you can drink at the Waterside.”

“See you there,” replied Florian, vaulting off the galley and striding through the acclaim of the crowd.

Mirko made a more measured disembarkation from Serendipity and stepped across to the Association booth to pick up his winnings. As custom dictated, Bernat was also present and looked displeased at being kept waiting. Mirko bowed.

“Well raced, Bernat. You were unlucky today.”

Bernat’s expression retained the inflexibility of Spray’s timbers. “I wish I could say ‘well raced’ to you; but we both know you beat us with a fool’s gamble. You could have sunk Serendipity with any stroke. We took the tightest straight line and you cut inside us.”

Mirko smiled. “Maybe we just know our own waters better.”

Bernat gave a half-smile. “It’s cost me 2,000 valut to learn that you’ve sunk so far that you’ll risk your galley and your crew to win a race. There’s no doubt who was the faster boat out there today.”

“The first boat to cross the line earns that title, and I believe there were eight lengths between us at the end.”

Bernat turned to the Race Secretary. “Are there any further formalities? I am eager to conclude my business.”

“Very well,” said the Secretary. “Bernat, these are your 2,000 valut. Observe that I hand them over to Mirko, along with his own 2,000 valut stake, making a total of 4,000 valut. Mirko, would you like me to apply this sum to Serendipity’s challenge account?”

“You may return the 2,000 stake to the account; the remaining 2,000 represents Bartazan’s down-payment on my salary which is currently in arrears.”

“Is that so?” cried a voice with impatient hauteur, stepping within the booth: none other than Bartazan of Bartazan House.

Mirko flushed. This had not formed a part of his plans. “My lord!”

“Did you think to conceal a transaction of this magnitude, with my money, from me?”

Bernat smirked. “A reasonable question.”

“Your galley has achieved a splendid victory today: celebration, or at least magnanimity, would be becoming and appropriate responses.”

“ ‘Celebration’! You may celebrate, Ascalon, that I choose not to lay an action against you for attempting to defraud me of 2,000 valut; and praise my magnanimity in allowing you to retain command of Serendipity.”

Mirko laughed, for Bartazan had surely overplayed his hand. “My lord, if you feel you can attract a galley-master of equivalent stature this close to the Margariad, do not allow your loyalty to me to prevent you. Simply pay me my retainer and I will depart with good grace.”

Bartazan’s face began to mottle, never in Mirko’s experience a sign of congeniality. “I need twenty-six votes among the Electors to become Peremptor. I currently count on twenty-three, assuming that I still retain the support of Nool Ipolitas. Be assured that if I were confident of the other three, I would hang you from the gibbet at Formello, or have your throat cut in an alley.”

“Under the circumstances I might prefer to see Giedrus retain his incumbency.”

Bartazan took a step towards him. “Ascalon, you are a man I despise, a mercenary scoundrel preaching a hypocritical fantasy of egalitarianism. My association with you makes me a laughing stock. If I win the Margariad there will be less laughter. In truth, you are by no means fit for a high civic post; but be assured that I will pay your bonus on the understanding you depart immediately.”

“Naturally you will honour your promise to free the crew.”

Bartazan’s lower lip jutted in annoyance. “Do not vex me with trivialities. I have agreed to free them, and free them I shall. For now, hand over my 2,000 valut and I’ll say no more.”

With a sigh Mirko handed over his pouch. “I will be seeing them again when you pay me my victory bonus.”

Bartazan turned without response. “Larien!” he called to his anxious niece waiting nearby. “You are needed at Formello tonight: come with me now, and do not think to be consorting with riff-raff on the waterfront.”

Larien shot Mirko an apologetic smile and followed Bartazan to his carriage. Bernat smiled insolently as he lounged against the booth. “Mischance for you, Ascalon: no winnings, and no girl. Better fortune next time, eh?”

Mirko returned a smile of weary contempt. “Some things are worth much more than money, Bernat: and imagining you explaining to your father how you lost to a Paladrian slave galley skippered by a Garganet exile just happens to be one of them. Now, I assume you have no further business here: do not allow your magnanimity in defeat to detain you.”

CHAPTER 24

Mirko’s spirits were surprisingly undimmed by his encounter with Bartazan or the confiscation of his winnings; proceeds which, he had to admit, were not strictly his entitlement. He had achieved his aims: put Bernat in his place, and showed the racing fraternity that Serendipity was a galley to be taken seriously. He made his way to the Waterside Tavern with a light step, hailing Panduletta with a spring in his step as he called for beer.

Florian and Trajian were already ensconced in the corner with several empty mugs on the bench in front of them. Since neither of them possessed a single valut, Mirko suspected they were drinking at his expense; not, in the circumstances, an unreasonable act.

“Gentlemen! Good of you to wait for me!” he said.

Trajian shrugged; Florian said: “I am sure your prize money will allow you to stand a couple of crew members a drink.”

“Ha! If you want to see any of the prize money, apply to Bartazan. For now, the largesse is all mine.”

Florian raised his mug with an ironic flourish. “You may care to tell us exactly how you came to conceive your race-winning manoeuvre.”

A figure appeared from the shadows: “Equally you may not…”

“Catzend— ‘N’! How long have you been here?”

“I knew you’d be here eventually,” said Catzendralle with a weary smile. “I didn’t have long to wait.”

“Florian, Trajian, will you excuse us a moment?”

Trajian contented himself with a leer. Florian said, “What’s it worth not to tell Larien about your other lady friend?”

Mirko frowned. “It isn’t like that at all! ‘N’ is just—”

“ ‘Just!’ “ cried Catzendralle. “That wasn’t what you said last time,” she continued, sitting heavily on his lap and throwing her arms around his neck.

Mirko was at a loss for words. Catzendralle had been distinctly chilly in recent meetings; and even at the height of their intimacy she had shown no inclination to throw herself into his arms.

“Now then!” she said, nuzzling at his ear. “Aren’t you going to invite your colleagues to allow us a little privacy?”

The situation became ever more baffling. Fortunately Trajian rose from his seat, hauling Florian upright with him. “Don’t let us detain you, Mirko. You’ve earned an evening’s relaxation. Don’t be late for practice tomorrow!”

Florian drained his mug with a flourish. “I shan’t hurry back to the barracks. I assume your credit is good with the doxies as well as the taverns.”

Mirko was unable to respond as Catzendralle’s lips were firmly pressed against his. He was beginning to accommodate himself to the situation and kissed her back with growing vigour. Catzendralle pushed him away.

“Mirko! What are you doing!”

Mirko sat back in surprise. “Nothing you weren’t. Although your feelings come as a surprise.”

Catzendralle slipped off his lap and onto the bench beside him. “Like what? I was just getting rid of the other two so I could talk to you.”

“You take no pains to flatter me.”

“I was concerned you would give away my identity. I’d rather be taken for a tart than your paymistress.”

“Catzen, you ought to be more careful with people’s feelings.”

Catzendralle looked quizzically at him with her large brown eyes. “I thought you were only interested in Larien?”

“It’s not quite that simple, Catzen. Larien passes the time, and she has no serious designs on me.”

“You said you had become attached to her.”

“That was always your interpretation. I have to say I found kissing you more rewarding than I had expected.”

Catzendralle blushed, a sight Mirko felt he wanted to see more of. “I haven’t come here to flirt with you,” she said. “You owe me some information.”

“And you owe me some money.”

Catzendralle dropped a purse of coins on the bench. “This should settle your arrears, and a little more. But I’m expecting you to tell me how you managed to win today.”

“Some of us have the gift of galley-racing,” said Mirko airily. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Catzendralle’s eyebrows rose. “Even though I used to stand on the observation platform of my uncle’s galley?”

Mirko smiled complacently. “Going out on a galley does not make you an expert on racing, Catzen.”

“Not even when your uncle is Addacatzen and he let you take the helm?”

“Addacatzen?”

“He won the Margariad twice in Sunrise. He was the best galley-master House Drall ever produced until Drallenkoop. He knew how to race, and he knew the waters. You are underestimating me again.”

“Catzen! I was doing no such thing, although I never realised you had quite such a racing pedigree.”

“Of course not: you learn only what I tell you. But I know — know as someone who has steered the Morvellos — that there was no passage where you took one today. I also know that Spray took the best line available.”

“How do you know that? Bernat called a good line — but he doesn’t know the waters.”

“No, but he had local knowledge. He had the best charts in Paladria.”

“Oh yes?”

Catzendralle pointed to the pouch of coins. “Most certainly, since I sold him the information — the proceeds of which are sitting in front of you.”

Mirko took a long swig of Widdershins, conscious as he did so that he was being remarkably forbearing. He set his mug down on the table.

“May I ask why you did so?” he asked with icy politeness.

Catzendralle smiled pleasantly. “Indeed you may. In no particular order of priority: I found myself short of money; I was keen to discomfit Bartazan by inflicting an expensive defeat on his galley; and I wanted to ensure that you lost.”

Mirko stared at the broad beams in the ceiling. “I scarcely know where to begin. I thought we were reaching an understanding; forget Larien, she’s a bored flirt. I took you for a person of greater depth, Catzen. I even thought you had an emotional attachment to me. And you sell Bernat the information you think will beat me?”

Catzen flushed crimson. “What are you saying? Mirko, you’re drunk! Emotional attachment!”

“I’m not drunk at all. I think — thought — that we were at least friends and that… but anyway, I was wrong, otherwise you wouldn’t have betrayed me to Bernat.”

“Forget Bernat!” cried Catzen in a passion. “I want to know about this ‘emotional attachment’.”

“And if you had proved yourself worthy I would have done. I was obviously wrong about you. Just tell me why you sold Bernat the charts.”

“Tell me about the attachment first.”

“There is no attachment. There was a sale. Now tell me!”

Catzen looked away. “I couldn’t have you winning. Not because of Bartazan; because I didn’t want you in danger. You still don’t know the risks you’re running,” she said quietly.

“You did it to help me?” asked Mirko, almost levelly.

“Essentially,” said Catzen, looking up with greater composure. “There are people who will try and kill you, Mirko. Believe me, because I know them.” She stared down at the table. “And I don’t want that to happen. I want you to stay alive.”

“It featured in my own plans,” said Mirko dryly.

Catzen looked up into Mirko’s face quickly, and then looked away again. “Perhaps we should set this aside for now. Please, just tell me what happened out there today. I need to know.”

Mirko set his mouth. “You need to decide whether you’re interested in me as spymistress ‘N’ or Catzen. As far as I can see, only ‘N’ needs to know, to find out where her scheme went awry.”

Catzen drained her mug angrily. “If you’re going to play games I’m going. Whatever you might think, I want to make sure nothing happens to you. That sounds more like Catzen than ‘N’ to me. But if you can’t see that, I’m not wasting time trying to convince you.”

“Catzen, don’t — “

She wrapped her cloak around herself and stepped from the saloon without a backward glance, her head bowed. Mirko stared for a moment into his mug. If he went after her, he was her tool forever; but if he let her go — well, that had its disadvantages too.

He reached into his pocket for a valut-piece. Flipping it into the air, he thought: if it comes down galley up, I’ll follow her; if it’s the Peremptor, I stay here. The coin dropped to the table, rolled erratically towards Catzen’s empty mug, which it struck to fall and lie flat. Dragging it back towards him, he saw Giedrus’ stern face staring up at him. He shrugged; the mug had retarded its true motion, he thought, knocking it to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he saw Giedrus again. What kind of man entrusts his destiny to the toss of a coin anyway?

With a shrug he stepped briskly from the table towards the exit Catzen had left. She could not have gone far, and would scarcely be difficult to find.

Locating Catzen proved even easier than he had expected, since she was waiting almost immediately outside the door, staring out to the moonlit sea from the waterfront.

“You didn’t get far,” said Mirko with a frown.

“No.”

“It’s almost as if …”

“Not ‘almost’. I was waiting for you; I knew you’d follow me.”

Mirko sighed. “How?”

Catzen shook her head with the beginnings of a grin. “Will you ever learn not to ask me that? In this case, the answer is simple; women develop the skill early. It’s like archery; the more you practice, the better you get.”

“Am I so transparent?”

“Men in general do not present a great challenge to the perception. You are easier than most because you’re more honest than most.”

A wooden railing fenced off the waterfront from the sea, and Mirko went to lean against it. “You have this curious habit, Catzen, of blurring insult and compliment in such a way that I can’t tell which is which.”

She came and leant against the railing so close to him that her arm rested touching his. “Your difficulty is that you try to make a distinction. Sometimes a remark is just a remark.”

He looked across at her. “What happened at the Morvellos today — you might not believe it.”

“Like I said, I have you down as honest. Try me.”

“It was the mermaids…”

In the moonlight it was difficult to tell, but Mirko thought she had lost something of her colour.

“Go on.”

“They called to me — in my head. They called me in.”

Catzen shook her head. “There’s not one man in a hundred that the mermaids talk to — and not one in a hundred of those that they don’t mean harm. Don’t you have them in Garganet?”

“Yes, yes we do. They have much the same reputation there, and they’ve never tried to talking to me there.”

“Has one ever talked to you before?”

“No — no, that’s wrong. Once, on the beach here. Two fishermen were tormenting one they’d captured. They clearly planned worse mischiefs still. I was still bitter about everything, and I have to admit that I didn’t care. Then she called to me in my head, pleaded with me to help her. So I sent them packing with my sword at their arses. It was not an occasion of any great consequence. But the voice in my head today, it said: ‘You saved me’, so maybe it was of consequence after all.”

“Mirko, you have the most extraordinary skill of sailing through events unscathed. How could you believe the mermaids would guide you through safely?”

“I just knew they would. And they did.”

They leaned silently against the rail for a period. Mirko was conscious of the warmth of her arm against his, her body heat leaching out through her cloak. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she stared out to sea; the moonlight softened her features, gave them a cast of the innocence and optimism they might have had when she was young. He sensed, underneath her competence and cynicism, a vulnerability and loneliness; or was he just projecting his own feelings on to her? He felt himself drawn powerfully to her, an affinity which made his attraction to Larien seem a thing of coarse sensuality.

Catzen smiled and pushed herself back from the railing. “Don’t even think about kissing me.”

“I wasn’t — well—”

“Remember how predictable I’ve found your conduct tonight.”

Mirko ran a hand through his hair. “Catzen, you were the one who was so keen for me to talk about feelings with you earlier.”

She shrugged, her dark eyes unfathomable in the gloom of the night. “The fresh air has sharpened my wits. When you know what your feelings are, I might let you tell me.”

“How do you know I don’t?”

She laughed and skipped back a pace. “One day you will stop asking me ‘how’ — or perhaps not. For now: be honest with yourself about how you feel about Larien. When you really can tell me that you don’t care for her — then you can talk to me.”

Mirko continued to look out to sea. “You’ve been telling me all this time not to get too attached to her — for motives I hesitate to speculate — and now I tell you I’m not, you don’t believe me.”

She stepped back towards him and laid her hand on his forearm. “My motives were not as discreditable as you might imagine. And even now, I could tell you things about her you might not want to hear; but I won’t because I’m neither spiteful nor a tittle-tattle. Whatever you decide about Larien has to come from your heart.”

“I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on in your mind, Catzen.”

“You don’t have to. Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I can’t live with my conscience if I don’t. One of the reasons I warned you off her was because I thought she’d break your heart; I didn’t think she was sincere about you. Well, that was wrong. She isn’t the innocent you think she is; but she does care for you; and if you want her, I imagine she’d be yours without too much difficulty.”

“How—”

Smiling, she shook her head. “ ‘How’ again? These are my conclusions: she cares about you; she won’t make you happy; and Bartazan will kill you if he thinks she’s seriously attached to you. How you act on that information is your choice.”

Mirko laughed as he looked into her face. “You have a compelling way of putting things.”

“If you loved her you wouldn’t care about Bartazan. You are pig-headed enough where the Margariad is concerned; excessive prudence over your personal safety is not one of your faults… although I wish it were. Goodnight, Mirko: remember what I’ve said.”

“And sorry about selling the charts?” asked Mirko as she walked away, but her black-cloaked back was already all but invisible.

He turned and started to walk back towards the tavern; as he did so he noticed three men, cloaked and hooded, walking in his direction. Automatically his hand dropped to his rapier hilt. Catzen was right that he had few friends around Paladria.

“Ascalon?” said the man in the centre of the three; Mirko recognised his face but could not put a name to it.

He nodded briskly. “Kindly state your business briefly. The day, as you might imagine, has been draining.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the other man’s face. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to deal with you briskly, sir. My name is Resardas, Covarc Resardas. My business is in the nature of speculative transactions.”

“A bookmaker? I know where I’ve seen you now. What odds are you offering on Serendipity for the Margariad?”

Resardas’ mouth drooped. “I am no longer taking bets on Serendipity, since you ask. This morning you might have got six for one.”

“No longer taking bets? Am I to take it you consider our victory a certainty?”

“I am not a patient man, Ascalon. If Serendipity wins the Margariad I am, if not ruined, markedly inconvenienced.”

Mirko looked around the waterfront. It was utterly deserted. In Paladria people often disappeared in such circumstances.

“I should have thought this was part and parcel of your business,” he replied. “Can you not bet on Serendipity against other bookmakers – Gintas, perhaps?”

Resardas grimaced. “Gintas, keen to secure a greater share of the market, is not prepared to accept my bet. The expedient you suggest is closed to me.”

Mirko shrugged. “Can you not use a trusted intermediary?”

Resardas clucked impatiently. “I did not intercept you to ask for a solution. I merely warn you in a spirit of friendly counsel that unscrupulous persons may adopt unscrupulous courses.”

“Fortunate, in that case,” said Mirko with a nonchalance he did not feel, “that we are all persons of high scruple here.”

He turned his back on the trio and walked back towards the tavern, his shoulders tense with anticipation. But neither Resardas nor his henchmen moved, and Mirko made his way unmolested to the sanctuary of the inn.

CHAPTER 25

Mirko’s inclination to give the crew the next day off was tempered by the bleary eyes and pale complexions which presented themselves before him at roll-call at Urmaleškas the next morning. He could understand and forgive Florian and Trajian, who had been drinking at the Waterside at his expense; Jenx could be excused on the grounds of reaction to yesterday’s dose of falcx. But the remainder of the crew, in slave quarters, could have had no legitimate access to alcohol. In the circumstances, it was necessary to make an example, and Serendipity took to the water for a morning of strenuous practice.

The sun was unusually bright for the late season, and the glare reflected off the calm sea to the discomfort of those members of the crew nursing sore heads. The practice drills were perfunctory, and after an hour Mirko gave up and brought the crew back, on an impulse circling via the Morvellos. The other galleys out on the water were conducting inshore drills, with the exception of Excelsior, far away over towards the Sorcerers. As Serendipity approached the Morvellos, however, Mirko noticed Morvellos Devil practising her approaches to the lighthouse. It was an inevitable consequence of yesterday’s exploits, he supposed, that other galley-masters might now want to determine a new optimum route around the rocks.

Morvellos Devil was experimenting with a line which even Mirko felt was rash. Several mermaids disported themselves on the rocks, taking seemingly no interest in either Serendipity or Morvellos Devil. There were no voices in Mirko’s head today, and scant recognition from the mermaids.

The master of Morvellos Devil, Lammerkin, caught sight of Serendipity and saluted Mirko airily. She had just completed a perilously close pass of the rocks and Lammerkin seemed pleased with himself. The wind was blowing from the west and Morvellos Devil’s lime-coloured lateen sail billowed. Jenx and Florian were both of the opinion that a storm would soon arrive: the sky had begun to darken ominously. Mirko signalled Jenx to beat Seven and Serendipity moved away from Morvellos Devil, which appeared intent on one more pass of the rocks.

Morvellos Devil raised her tempo to Eight to pass the largely uninterested crew of Serendipity, before adopting her previous course close to the rocks. Insanity! thought Mirko, with the wind freshening and pushing the galley closer to the rocks, and the course inadvisable at the best of times. It was difficult to judge, but Morvellos Devil seemed to be approaching even closer to the rocks than Serendipity had done yesterday.

She appeared to have executed the manoeuvre successfully when an erratic gust of wind filled the lateen, pushing her towards the rocks. There was a terrible grinding sound; this was not a glancing blow of the oars; Morvellos Devil had hit the rocks with her hull — and at speed.

Mirko jumped from the observation platform to the overseer’s cockpit. “Port side only! Port wheel, port wheel!” he called. “Jenx! Make Nine!” He knew there was a limit to what Serendipity could do, especially if Morvellos Devil’s crew were chained; but he could not leave her to sink.

Meanwhile Morvellos Devil was backing furiously in an attempt to wedge herself off the rocks. Lammerkin was screeching madly but there was little evidence of constructive thought; if Morvellos Devil were holed she might be better off on the rocks until Serendipity could reach her. Mirko had no way of communicating this information, and merely instructed the crew to make tempo Ten. Morvellos Devil had recovered some discipline, making a strong pull off the rocks and into the wind, with Lammerkin having sufficient presence of mind to order the lateen reefed.

Soon Serendipity was close enough to hail. “Lammerkin! Hold your position! Hold your position! We will tow you off!”

“We’re sinking!” called Lammerkin.

Mirko found this credible; already there was a distinct list to Morvellos Devil’s hull. Augenis and Slovo threw stout ropes across the gaps and made Morvellos Devil fast to Serendipity’s stern. To return Morvellos Devil safely to the docks was not going to be an easy procedure: if her crew could row in synchrony with Serendipity, the effort would be much eased; but if they panicked at the thought of rowing a sinking vessel, all was lost.

“Florian,” said Mirko. “Jump across to Morvellos Devil and take over. If she looks like she’s going to sink, cut her adrift: I’m not having her take us down with her. But most of all, make sure she rows with us.”

Florian gave a curt nod and leapt with practised agility across the gap between the boats. Lammerkin and Florian between them soon managed to restore some sort of order — at least crewmen were not running up and down the gangways — and Morvellos Devil began to add her strength to Serendipity’s.

In the circumstances tempo Four was the greatest Mirko felt able to sustain, but some kind of running repairs aboard Morvellos Devil had arrested her gradual tilting and, while she sat low and crooked in the water, she no longer appeared to be in immediate danger of sinking. Mirko caught sight of Florian leaping about with great energy, followed by two or three crewmen; they had stripped the furled lateen from the mast and appeared to have constructed some kind of improvised plug for the hole below the waterline.

The Jurbarkas Docks hove into view; it looked like the Morvellos Devil was going to get home without sinking. Florian leaped back across the gap.

“The plug has slowed down the leak, but she’s badly holed. Our berth is nearer — tow her to ours and we’ll take hers.”

Mirko nodded; it would be ironic if Morvellos Devil were to sink within sight of the shore. Serendipity towed her to the berth earmarked for herself, unfastened the tow-rope. Dock hands who had been observing events from the shore quickly made Morvellos Devil fast to the jetty and helped the crew ashore, while Serendipity continued to the berth used by Morvellos Devil in happier times.

By the time Serendipity was made fast and Mirko had disembarked, Lammerkin was waiting. “Ascalon!” he said. “Thank you — your officers and crew saved us.” He shook Mirko’s hand with gusto.

Mirko shook his head ruefully. “What were you thinking of, Lammerkin? The Morvellos deserve more respect than that.”

“You weren’t saying that yesterday,” said Lammerkin mildly.

Mirko grinned. Lammerkin was right; the difference between reckless foolhardiness and brilliant audacity was immeasurably slight. He could hardly ask if Lammerkin had been called in by the mermaids, although if they had done so they had done him no favours.

“Come on, let’s go and have a drink while the galley-wrights get to work on Morvellos Devil. You won’t be going out again today and neither will I.”

Lammerkin readily assented to this proposition, and the pair soon found themselves ensconced at the Waterside. Not normally the most expansive of men, Lammerkin was today in a voluble mood. Morvellos Devil had twice finished second in the Margariad — the last time four years ago with Lammerkin as master — and his observations were often to the point.

“Your best chance of beating Dragonchaser is the fact that she has never been under pressure until this year. Drallenkoop has won three years running by ever-increasing margins. You saw how rattled crew and master were in the Sorcerers, when Excelsior ran her close. Drallenkoop is a brilliant helm, none better at the spectacular turn; he knows with instinctive skill the best line for both the Sorcerers and the Morvellos. But those turns are much easier when you have a clear run. Dragonchaser’s real strength is the speed of her crew over flat water: she hits the turns ahead. A fast boat will always beat a good helm.”

Mirko sipped at his third mug of Widdershins and nodded. “What do you do if one boat has the fastest crew and the best helm?”

“It rarely happens. Drallenkoop may like to think he’s the best helm, but he isn’t: Minalgas Inisse is better, but his crew is too slow for it to do him any good. Oh, Drallenkoop has the potential, and his turn through the Sorcerers to win the Margariad three years ago was breathtaking; but he’s had so little competition recently that he hasn’t maintained that standard. Drallenkoop is a great galley-master, but not for his helming: it’s for getting every last iota out of his crew. You have something of the same, but your crew isn’t as good.”

Mirko normally found this kind of conversation uninteresting, but today he was in the mood to hear more about the great race he had set his sights on winning.

“How many Margariads have you raced, Lammerkin?”

“Ha! This will be my fourteenth, with one second place and two fourths to my credit. Morvellos Devil is a sound enough boat, but Lord Garlin cannot afford slaves good enough to challenge the best boats. This year I thought we had a decent chance of second, but Excelsior has come on better than expected, and of course Serendipity has surpassed all expectations. I’ll be happy with third; and worse than fourth and Garlin will be looking for a new master next year. You may not think it to look at me, but I could have been a great galley-master with a little luck. I have always had Hellence at my helm; and we’ve both become more cautious with the years. The mighty galley-masters of my youth are all gone now, but the truth is I was never good enough to step into the breach. Drallenkoop aside, none of today’s masters are anything like the quality we used to see.”

Mirko laughed. “Men always think they follow an age of heroes; their own deeds they think are not worth accounting — but the next generation will look at them in awe. There will be lads in the crowd this year who look at some marvellous manoeuvre — maybe even one you pull off — and their hearts will be fired to take to the galleys themselves.”

“No, no, no. If you’d ever seen Addacatzen or Barviluna, you’d know the meaning of a great master.”

“Addacatzen I’ve heard of.”

“Ah yes, he was the skipper of Griselda and latterly Sunrise. His galleys didn’t have the sheer speed of Dragonchaser, but Addacatzen understood racing. In a crowded fleet he could always find the gap, and his lateen was always angled to the wind. A mystery he only won the race three times.”

“Why was that?”

“House Drall — well, I’m sure you know all the stories about House Drall. They can hardly take an active part in politics in the city, not with their history. As a result much of their energy goes into the galleys instead. Addacatzen was a popular galley-master, the Drallenkoop of his day, if you like. Unwisely, he allowed his name to be associated with a political faction — our Peremptor Giedrus was one of the coming men, too, and they were part of the same affinity. Anyway, Addacatzen ended up in a gutter with his throat cut. A galley-master can be an influential man, and there were plenty of people who worried about his influence. If only he’d stuck to the racing…”

Mirko smiled uneasily. “People have said the same to me. Between ourselves, I’ve been bribed and threatened to race badly.”

“Ha! A successful galley-master will always make enemies, although as long as he knows his place he’s usually safe enough. Drallenkoop, for instance: he’s made it clear his ambitions are limited to the water. No one will touch him.”

“The fact that at the moment he stands between Paladria and ‘Peremptor Bartazan’ wouldn’t be in any way a factor?”

Lammerkin permitted himself a small smile. “For a fact, there aren’t too many people would be keen to see Bartazan elected. No doubt that’s why you’re attracting so much hostility. But I’m sure Bartazan will look after you.”

Mirko looked down into his mug. The exact nature of the ‘looking after’ Bartazan might bestow was a permanent concern. Catzendralle, as ever, had been right to suggest he had few friends whichever way the Margariad turned out.

Lammerkin called for another jug of Widdershins, but before Panduletta could bring it, Florian burst into the tavern.

“Mirko! Quickly! There’s a fire at the docks! Serendipity is ablaze!”

Mirko and Lammerkin jumped to their feet. “Call the Constables!” cried Lammerkin. “Not a moment to lose!”

Mirko rushed out into the street, his head spinning. Galleys didn’t just ‘catch fire’. Resardas’ threat flashed into his head: I warn you in a spirit of friendly counsel that unscrupulous persons may adopt unscrupulous courses. Resardas himself might soon be learning the meaning of the word ‘unscrupulous’.

The pall of smoke against the clear night sky was plainly visible. Whatever was ablaze, the flames must have taken hold with alacrity. Mirko cursed; this close to the race the chances of constructing an new galley were negligible. If Serendipity could not be saved, the Margariad was lost. Under such circumstances, the probability of securing his salary arrears from Bartazan was not promising; and his use as an agent to Catzendralle would also be at an end. He set his mouth. Whatever it took, he would find out who had crossed him.

As he neared the Jurbarkas Docks the crowds began to thicken. There was nothing like a calamity to bring folk out on to the streets. Ill-favoured faces turned in vexation as he tried to force his way through.

“What’s your hurry, fellow?” grunted one loutish person.

“My galley’s on fire!” cried Mirko.

“It’s Ascalon!” went up the cry. “Make way there for Captain Ascalon!”

Although the night was clear, the smoke made it difficult for to see in detail what was happening. Gouts of flame twenty feet high leapt into the air, tendrils of fire snaking out erratically as they were caught by the sea-breeze. Dockhands ambled around ineffectually with buckets of sea-water, tossing them in the vague direction of the flames, to no effect.

“Come on there!” called Mirko in desperation. “Show some urgency! There’s a galley on fire! Florian, to the barracks — get the crew here!”

Florian dashed back into the crowd; in the other direction strode Mindaugas, Dragonchaser’s overseer, and a sturdy band of her crew.

“Mindaugas!” called Mirko in relief. “Thank Animaxian you’re here — we might save Serendipity yet!”

Mindaugas allowed a wondering glance to settle on Mirko. “Are you insane, Ascalon? We berth next to you — do think we’re risking the flames spreading? Men — cast off and away!”

Mirko looked on astonishment as Dragonchaser’s virtually complete crew rushed into the smoke — not to extinguish the blaze, but to move Dragonchaser out of the way. This was Paladrian galley-racing.

With a curse Mirko plunged into the smoke behind them; if no-one else would lift a finger, he at least would fight to the end. He rushed past Dragonchaser’s berth to the adjacent mooring with its legend Private — Serendipity, of Bartazan House. He stopped with a caw of laughter and recognition, choking on smoke as he did so.

The flames gained in intensity as they ignited the tightly furled lateen sail at the top of the mast; the varnished fabric went up like kindling. With it went the galley’s hopes of racing again this year, for there was no chance at all that the blaze could be extinguished.

“Ascalon!” shouted a voice in his ear. “Get back —there’s nothing you can do now.”

Mirko turned and saw Vaidmantas, an officer of the Peremptor’s Constables with whom he was all too familiar. Nodding he allowed Vaidmantas to escort him back down the jetty.

Vaidmantas leaned against the sea-wall. “A bad business.”

Mirko assented with a weary nod. “Passions run high in this game, it seems.”

“You don’t see any way it could have been accidental, then?”

“Galleys are made of wood; wood can catch fire easily enough. But on a deserted jetty late at night? No, I think we can assume a deliberate act here.”

Vaidmantas nodded and smoothed his uniform. “We have spoken often enough for you to avoid offence at my observation that you have a fair quota of enemies.”

Mirko rubbed his chin. “Where should we begin? As you well know, Minalgas Inisse and the Animaxianites have shown a marked animosity in the past, although their Hierophant claims that is all in the past now. Then again, both Orstas and Liudas left Serendipity in ways that to a petty or vindictive mind require a counterblow. You might also be interested in a conversation I had with Covarc Resardas yesterday, and no doubt a little ingenuity might come up with further candidates, some closer to Coverciano than others.”

Vaidmantas frowned. “The latter point is clearly misconceived. The Peremptor dispenses justice, rather than dispensing with it.”

“A subtle distinction,” said Mirko with a slight inclination of his head.

“The dispensation of justice, by its nature, has subjectivities and quirks of perception. To fail to act for this reason would lead to paralysis and indecision; and eventually the collapse of law.”

“I am sure you have more pressing calls, Vaidmantas, than to debate the abstractions of statecraft with galley-masters.”

Vaidmantas laughed and bowed. “Indeed I have, captain: such as discovering immediately and with full rigour the persons who have criminally enflamed your galley.”

He turned and made to walk away.

“Vaidmantas! If you are about to conduct such an investigation, you should start with the essential facts correct. It’s not Serendipity that’s on fire: it’s Morvellos Devil, with whom we exchanged berths this afternoon.” Even in the orange reflections of the blazing galley, the draining of Vaidmantas’ complexion was all too apparent to Mirko. “Good luck with your investigations, sir.”

He ran over to where Florian was approaching with Serendipity’s crew. “It’s not us that’s on fire — it’s Morvellos Devil. Remember, we lent them our berth.”

Florian laughed. “Something of a wasted journey, then.”

Mirko remembered his earlier scorn for Mindaugas and smiled. “Certainly not. Someone wanted to see us on fire tonight. Find Serendipity, get the crew aboard, and make for the open sea. I wouldn’t like to see any more ‘accidents’ tonight.”

Florian grinned. “Aye aye! Are you not coming yourself?”

“I have some investigations to make ashore — and I trust Vaidmantas about as far as I can see him in this smoke. I’ll be back at the barracks tomorrow morning: training for tomorrow is cancelled!”

He sprang off into the crowd. He had a feeling that Catzendralle would be able to shed some light on this mysterious affair — if she could persuaded to tell all she knew.

CHAPTER 26

Away from the docks the streets were quiet and Mirko secured the services of a covered rattlejack without difficulty.

“Do you know the residence of the Lady Catzendralle?”

The driver, with a dark saturnine face and a great beak of a nose, sniffed thoughtfully. “She lives at Darklings, the House Drall estate.”

“Take me there — and smartly.”

“This rattlejack knows but one speed, having but a single pacer to draw it. You may call it ‘smartly’, you may call it ‘tardy’, but our speed never varies.”

Mirko sighed. He could do without a philosopher at the reins, but the rattlejack trade seemed to attract them. The pacer set off at its regulation speed —which to Mirko was closer to ‘tardy’ than ‘smartly’ — and picked its way across the cobbles and into the low hills where many of the Electors made their estates, leaving the Old Town falling away behind.

Mirko had never realised that Catzendralle lived on the family estate, although as a genteel spinster relation it seemed an obvious arrangement. It occurred to him that she would be vexed to see him at her home; but then she should have given him sufficient information to obviate the need for the visit. He wasn’t entirely sure of the terms on which they had parted, and this also made him unsure of his welcome. He had been on the verge of lurching into emotionalism, which had taken him by surprise, and if she had encouraged him he certainly would have done. But, as so often, when presented with a potential intimacy, she had withdrawn into irony and defensiveness.

He looked up as the houses started to thin out. A wood of high manzipar trees loomed on the left. “We’re here”, said the driver. “This is Darklings.”

“I don’t see any estate.”

“That’s why it’s called Darklings. Do you think Koopendrall is keen to have every idle sightseer in Paladria riding a rattlejack past his house? That path in the woods leads you where you want to go. I take it you have an appointment?”

“Of a sort,” said Mirko.

“I’ll wait here. You won’t be long if you don’t have an appointment, and I could do with the fare for the return journey.”

“Suit yourself,” said Mirko, pressing a valut-piece into his hand. “Don’t blame me if you’re here all night.”

“The fee is one valut twenty.”

Mirko shrugged. “Consider the twenty minim deduction a loquacity tax,” he said before striding off into the manzipar wood.

Darklings was set well into the wood. House Drall clearly valued its privacy. After some five minutes of stumbling along the gloomy path, Mirko found himself at a clearing in front of a building — or more accurately, a complex of buildings — adorned with fanciful towers and cupolas: Darklings. A wall of white marble surrounded the whole, with a single gate visible. In the absence of any other alternatives, Mirko stepped towards it, smoothing his attire as he did so. He was still in the clothes he had worn on the water this morning, not his smartest even when clean. Now, water-stained and smelling of smoke, even Mirko was conscious that he did not cut the most impressive figure.

Standing before the gates Mirko found himself confronted by an unusual apparatus. A large white placard read:

This is Darklings

The seat of House Drall

Please pull the tassel appropriate to your status

Affixed to the placard were several coloured ropes, each labelled to facilitate identification:

Peremptor or his Representative

Electors of Paladria or their Representatives

Persons of Gentility

Citizens and Free Men

Tradesmen calling by Appointment

Tradesmen, Other

Ruffians and Vagabonds

Mirko found this a curious system. While the job of Koopendrall’s staff might be simplified were Ruffians and Vagabonds to announce themselves in this way, it seemed to him that the truly villainous would in all probability have the guile to pull a different tassel. Mirko wondered which tassel represented his own status. He suppressed the strong temptation to pull ‘ruffian’ and settled after a short deliberation on ‘Persons of Gentility’.

A bell of clear timbre rang quietly in the distance, and hesitant footsteps could be heard on the other side of the gate. “Who calls on House Drall at this hour?” came a querulous voice.

“A ‘Person of Gentility’, by definition. Kindly open the gate so we may discuss my business in greater detail.”

A lock turned and the heavy gate swung back. Mirko saw a tall stooping figure of advanced years and exaggerated dignity; he had seen similar retainers at Formello; they seemed to be a necessary adjunct to the modish Elector.

“Please state your business, sir,” said the functionary with a bow. “This statement should include a full explanation of your reasons for presenting yourself in disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“Your apparel is by no means consistent with the status of gentility. I assume that you therefore adopt the habilments of a dock worker for reasons of concealment.”

“My name is Captain Mirko Ascalon, master of the galley Serendipity, owned by the Elector Bartazan of Bartazan House.”

“Ah! All is now clear. You should more correctly have pulled the red tassel marked ‘Electors of Paladria and their Representatives’ since your status derives from your employment rather than your person. You would be astonished how frequently visitors pull the wrong tassel.”

Mirko smiled sympathetically. “A frustration and an inconvenience, to be sure. Now, may I gain admittance?”

“I can state with assurance that my Lord Drallenkoop is engaged this evening, while the Elector Koopendrall is conducting an evening reception for the Kestrel Hawk Breeders’ Association. I will see if I can secure your invitation, although in truth I am not sanguine.”

“You need not inconvenience yourself,” said Mirko politely. “My business is with the Lady Catzendralle.”

The functionary shook his head in puzzlement. “Lady Catzendralle? Are you certain? My lady lives a quiet life and receives few visitors without an appointment; yet my schedule shows that you do not have one, sir.”

“My invitation was of the sort which might be described as ‘open’: my lady requested me to present myself at my own convenience, a time which is now upon us.”

“Hmmm,” — this with a scratch of a thinly-covered pate — “this is somewhat irregular. You say that my lady explicitly invited you to wait on her at home?”

“There can be no conceivable misunderstanding on this score.”

“Very well, very well. Guffoon, step here if you please!”

A servant smartly liveried in House Drall red and gold stepped forward, a proud dragon embroidered on his chest. “The Proper Guffoon at your service, sir!”

“Guffoon, please conduct Captain Ascalon to the apartments of the Lady Catzendralle with good haste. Do not be tempted by short-cuts or seeming expeditiousnesses.”

“Naturally not, sir. Please follow me, Captain.”

The Proper Guffoon set off with a brisk pace down a corridor with a vast vaulted ceiling. “The Lady Catzendralle, sir?”

Mirko wondered at the acuity of the Proper Guffoon’s short-term memory. “Just so.”

“House Drall protocol demands that I escort you through the Nexus Room at the centre of Darklings. However, my lady’s apartments are on the periphery of the estate and would require us to double back upon ourselves. In all candour this represents tediousness and inconvenience for us both; no doubt you would prefer to step across through the gardens to take a more direct route.”

This was accompanied with a smile of such astonishing vacuity that Mirko was taken aback. It seemed that House Drall had some difficulty in attracting servants of an appropriate calibre. He wondered why they did not employ slaves, as did the House of Bartazan.

“Very well,” he said. “I am quite content to follow the most rapid route.”

“Excellent!” said the Proper Guffoon with enthusiasm. “I am sure you will find the gardens to your taste.”

Guffoon led them out into a discreetly lit parkland, broken up with shrubbery and benches. The effect was less formal and structured than Coverciano, but pleasantly relaxing nonetheless. Folk strolled in small groups and particularly in couples.

“This is the Public Gardens, sir, available for the recreation of all members of the household. If we step this way, we may take a short-cut through the family’s Private Gardens.”

Even Mirko found this idea lacking in punctilio; but since any adverse consequences would be laid at the Proper Guffoon’s door, he saw no reason to demur.

“Look out, sir!” called Guffoon as the approached the Private Gardens; a couple were engaged in adventurous act of outdoor intimacy and Guffoon was forced to step awkwardly over them. Mirko essayed a neater side-step. “Unsavoury,” said Guffoon, “but these things will happen.”

Producing a key, Guffoon unlocked the door to the Private Gardens and admitted Mirko. “Mind the ha-ha, sir; it can take the unwary by surprise.”

Mirko picked his way carefully forward; ending this eventful day sprawling with a sprained ankle among the ha-has was not an ideal outcome. He was distracted by a woman’s throaty giggle in the near distance.

“Don’t! Not here!” she laughed; a voice Mirko found familiar. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

Out of the dark and straight into Mirko cannoned the figure: to his astonishment he saw it was Larien. Immediately behind her bounded a man who put an arm around her waist and bore her to the ground. Drallenkoop!

“Larien — what on — Larien!”

Larien looked up and struggled to her feet, brushing moss and twigs from her dress. “Mirko! I — what are you doing here — I don’t — I can’t —”

Drallenkoop raised himself from the ground with less embarrassment. “Captain Ascalon,” he said with a bow. “Welcome to Darklings. As you will observe, I am presently engaged.”

Mirko was stunned into silence by this intimate scene between Larien and Drallenkoop. Larien herself was looking down at her shoes and clearly unwilling to make any further observations. Drallenkoop, on the other hand, appeared to be relishing the situation.

“You appear bewildered, captain. I will do what I can to resolve your perplexity.”

“I — you — Larien — I hardly know where to start.”

“Sit awhile,” said Drallenkoop with a smile, gesturing towards a bench made of finely wrought iron. “We will not address at this instant the reasons for your presence in the House Drall Private Garden.”

Mirko swallowed. “My apologies for intruding, Drallenkoop. I am — taken aback — to see the terms of intimacy between Larien and yourself, inasmuch as I had come to think of myself as enjoying a certain status in her affections.”

Drallenkoop suppressed a grin with an effort. “And so you did, captain. Larien, would you like to tell Ascalon the exact nature of your relationship?”

Larien turned a pleading eye to Drallenkoop. “Don’t do this, Drallen. Can’t we just leave it?”

“Oh no, indeed, that would be no fun at all, none whatsoever. And I am sure a man of Ascalon’s stamp would prefer the painful truth to miserable evasions. Am I not right, captain?”

“I don’t pretend to understand what you’re talking about, Drallenkoop. In general I prefer truth to lies, but I don’t expect to get it from either of you.”

“Larien,” said Drallenkoop in a gentle voice. “Are you not going to tell Ascalon that you were my mistress from the outset? That your intimacy existed only through my express instructions? No? Ah well, I appear to have done so anyway.”

Mirko sat back on the bench with a sigh. Larien was looking in as opposite a direction as possible. “Is this true, Larien?” he asked.

Still looking away, she uttered a single sob, scarcely intelligible. “Yes.”

“Why? What possible motive could you have?”

Larien sank to the ground, pulled her knees up to her face and rocked gently.

“It looks as if I’ll have to tell you myself,” said Drallenkoop, pacing slowly back and forth. “House Drall has good reason to hate and fear the House of Bartazan. It has always been to my father’s advantage to have sources within Bartazan’s household: I have no doubt he does the same with us. Larien has long been dear to me, and almost as important, a key source of information inside Formello.”

Mirko stared blankly up at Drallenkoop.

“I always paid you the compliment of treating you as a serious rival,” Drallenkoop continued. “Bartazan’s galleys had long been a joke on the water, crewed by buffoons like Liudas and Orstas. The arrival of a competent Garganet officer was always likely to bring about an improvement, and naturally I instructed Larien to become as close to you as necessary to exercise an influence over your conduct. In this — “ he glanced at the still mute and rocking Larien “— she proved less than wholly successful. Despite telling me weekly that you had contracted an overwhelming passion for her, she was unable to make you appreciate the calamity for Paladria that a victory for Serendipity would represent — and for you as well.”

“There was no ‘overwhelming passion’,” said Mirko in a thick voice.

Drallenkoop shrugged. “It’s all one. Larien proved ineffective; largely, I suspect, because she yielded her favours too easily for you to prize them.”

“Drallen!” shrieked Larien. “How can you say that! You — you were the one who told me to do whatever I needed to! You pimp, you hypocrite!”

Mirko looked at Drallenkoop out of one eye. “She has a point. You have prostituted your own mistress to win a galley-race that most observers would have backed you to win comfortably anyway.”

Drallenkoop shook his head. “You don’t understand Paladria. If there was one chance in a hundred that you would win, I had to choke it off. I was quite happy to sacrifice Larien for that; the consequences of Bartazan becoming Peremptor would be indescribably dire for my family.”

Mirko turned to Larien. “Do you hold yourself so cheap?”

“Mirko — I — you don’t understand. How I hate Bartazan — and I never ever expected to like you…”

Drallenkoop stepped across and bent over Larien, reaching down to tilt her chin up. Looking into her face, he said:

“Don’t try that one on Ascalon. I imagine he is too intelligent to fall for such adolescent drivel; but in case not, you might care to inform him how you characterised his lovemaking?”

Larien shrank back to lie flat on the ground. “Don’t! Don’t don’t don’t!”

“What were the words? They made something of an impact on me at the time. ‘Mechanical’, ‘perfunctory’, ‘inept’ all featured, as I remembered. ‘The tenderness and spontaneity of a clockwork toy’. How we laughed!”

From her supine position Larien sprang at Drallenkoop’s face. “I hate you! I gave you everything, and you won’t even leave me my dignity!”

Drallenkoop easily pinioned her wrists in one large strong hand. “You are overwrought,” he said, shaking his head. “You owe Ascalon nothing; indeed he has had what might be termed a ‘free ride’ on a smarter pacer than he might otherwise have commanded.”

With a sudden twist Larien broke free and dashed across to Mirko’s bench. She sank to her knees in front of him. “Please, Mirko! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I’ve been so stupid.”

Mirko stared at her in astonishment. “ ‘Sorry’? Do you really think that helps?”

“No — no, of course not. There’s nothing I can do to change the past. But you have to believe me when I say my feelings were real — in the end, anyway.”

Mirko continued to stare at her. Larien reached out and took his hand in both of hers.

“Mirko, we can go away from here tonight, we can forget any of this ever happened.”

Drallenkoop stepped smartly forward and dragged her away. “You don’t have to play up to him any more. Your use as a honey-trap is over.”

She span in a fury. “I’m not ‘playing up’. I should have seen you for the selfish, scheming, manipulative sneakbill you were long ago. You never cared about me; all you wanted was to win races and spite my uncle. Well, it’s taken me a long time, but I’ve woken up now.”

Drallenkoop tried to smile but ended up with a sneer. “It’s too late to play the abused innocent now, Larien. You wanted to spite Bartazan as much as I did; you never once protested about the things I asked you to do. Now, say goodbye to Ascalon, and go back to my apartments. Jaspian will prepare you a sleeping draught.”

Larien slowly pulled herself up to her full height. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m going home, Drallenkoop. I never want to see or speak to you again. Mirko, I know I’ve hurt you deeply, but if you want to come with me…”

Mirko looked at her for a long silent moment. Her dignity and her reputation in ruins, she still looked beautiful and defiant. For a moment he toyed with the idea. Something that Catzen had said rang in his head: Even now, I could tell you things about her you might not want to hear. Catzen had known all this, and she hadn’t told him. Was she as duplicitous as Larien? She had shown herself adept at holding information back in the past. He didn’t know where he stood with either of them. He had a moment of clarity: Larien, headstrong, wayward, unpredictable; Catzen, involute, reserved, wary. Each was damaged, hurt by a world which took without giving. For Larien, underneath the anger he felt pity but no more; for Catzen, he suddenly realised, his feelings were infinitely richer and deeper. Maybe without this sudden, startling, dramatic disillusionment with Larien he would never have realised it, but the revelation was none the less unequivocal for all that. Larien was a child, Catzen a woman.

“Larien,” he said gently. “This can never happen. Never. I don’t trust you and I can never care about you. Get away — from Darklings and from Paladria, if you’ll follow my advice.”

Larien looked at the ground, her eyes full in the moonlight. She bit her lip and turned without a word, running from the garden with quick light desperate steps.

Drallenkoop leaned against a bulbir tree staring ahead. With a seeming effort he brought himself under control. “Well,” he said dryly.

“I’ve nothing to say to you, Drallenkoop. I’ll do my talking out on the water.”

Drallenkoop permitted himself a crooked smile. “If that’s how you want it,” he said. “You won’t win, and even if you did, you wouldn’t profit from it. If you think I’m untrustworthy, there is scarcely a credible description for Bartazan.”

Mirko shrugged. “I’m not winning for Bartazan; I’m winning for me.”

“Have it your own way. You’ve never beaten Dragonchaser yet, and you’ll not do so next week. Anyway, why are you at Darklings? Did you want to see me?”

“No. I was on my way to call upon the Lady Catzendralle.”

Drallenkoop uttered a shriek of laughter. “Crazy Catzen? What conceivable reason could you have?”

“I am not about to make you my confidant, Drallenkoop.”

Drallenkoop turned to the Proper Guffoon who had been seeking to evade notice in the shadows. “Guffoon, since I assume you were escorting Captain Ascalon to the Lady Catzendralle’s apartments through my private gardens, kindly finish your errand. Then you may consider yourself discharged without a character. And if you ever mention what you’ve seen tonight, rest assured I will kill you. You know that is neither bluff nor bravado.”

Guffoon’s head sank mournfully. Opposition was futile, and with a subdued gesture he beckoned Mirko to follow him. Drallenkoop remained, leaning against the manzipar tree and staring into the middle distance.

CHAPTER 27

Soon they reached the edge of the Private Garden; Guffoon unlocked the gate and ushered Mirko through. A series of white single-storey villas were displayed before them surrounding a spacious terracotta courtyard punctuated with tall green broad-leaved plants.

“Please wait here, sir,” said the Proper Guffoon, “while I announce your presence to the Lady Catzendralle.”

Mirko seated himself on an intricately carved wooden bench while Guffoon attempted to summon Catzendralle. The hour was not particularly late but there was no sign of movement within. Eventually Catzendralle issued from the villa in a state of some dishevelment, her hair hastily dragged into a shapeless bunch, a dark cloak thrown over what looked suspiciously like pyjamas.

“I’m sorry if I’ve woken you,” said Mirko, rising hesitantly from his bench.

“What are you doing here? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Catzendralle hissed with a noticeable lack of cordiality.

“I needed to talk to you.”

Catzendralle pursed her lips. “Your actions at least have the virtue of directness; but I am sure your business could have been transacted through our usual means.”

“I felt otherwise,” said Mirko. “Someone tried to burn Serendipity tonight; it was sheer luck that they got Morvellos Devil instead.”

“This is no surprise,” said Catzendralle with a reflective nod. “I have been warning you all summer that you have been making enemies. The event is hardly worth disturbing my night’s rest for — or the lunacy of presenting yourself at Darklings. What if Koopendrall or Drallenkoop had seen you?”

“Drallenkoop did,” said Mirko flatly. “Once he managed to wrest his attention away from Larien.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’? I assume you knew about them?”

“Come inside,” she said. “We’ll talk about the fire, and about Larien — if you insist on asking.”

“Believe me, I do,” said Mirko, following her inside the villa. At her invitation he seated himself on a simple couch, looking round at the unostentatious but clearly expensive furnishings.

“I did warn you about her, Mirko. I told you not to get too attached to her.”

“As it turns out,” said Mirko, “I didn’t get too attached, although I only realised that tonight. But things would have been much simpler if you’d told me she was Drallenkoop’s mistress. I suppose you couldn’t, though, not without compromising House Drall’s intelligence operation.”

Catzendralle wordlessly placed a goblet of red wine on the occasional table at Mirko’s side, and took a sip of her own wine.

“It isn’t quite that simple,” she said. “It isn’t good practice to tell agents more than they need to know, and I couldn’t afford to have Larien know that I was on to her. And part of me wanted you to decide for yourself that she wasn’t for you,” she continued, gazing downwards and looking at Mirko from under her eyelids.

Mirko found this ploy artificial and sighed. “We can talk about Larien later,” he said with an effort. “For now, I want to know who tried to set light to my galley.”

Catzendralle looked back up with a smile. “Someone who doesn’t like you — which doesn’t much narrow the field — and someone not very intelligent, which probably doesn’t help much either. How difficult can it be to tell two galleys apart? They are painted different colours.”

“Morvellos Devil was on our mooring; it was dark. The mistake was understandable.”

“Maybe,” said Catzendralle, “but someone will be most vexed that their plan has failed.”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me who ‘someone’ is.”

“I understand you had a somewhat unfriendly communication from Covarc Resardas.”

“True. But why would he threaten if he was intending to act? He hadn’t had time to see if his warning would have any effect. If he’d been going to burn us, he’d have just done it.”

Catzendralle sat down and crossed her legs. “That makes sense, but it doesn’t get you any closer to the truth.”

“I saw Vaidmantas at the docks. He looked shocked and displeased when I told him it was Morvellos Devil on fire and not us.”

“Vaidmantas? You think Giedrus ordered this?”

“You were the one who pointed him out as a potential enemy in the first place.”

Catzendralle ran a finger round the rim of her goblet. “I don’t think it’s Giedrus. He may have known what was going on, but I don’t think he organised it.”

“Why not? What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

“Mirko, believe me, it wasn’t Giedrus.”

“You have sources close to him, I take it? Can’t you ask them?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Just take my word for it.”

Mirko shrugged. “If that’s how it has to be. But think about where it takes us. I discount the Animaxianites and marginal malcontents like Liudas. That only leaves your people.”

Catzendralle’s complexion lost a little of its flush. “My people?”

“House Drall. Don’t tell me you don’t run their intelligence work, or that House Drall doesn’t have a prime motive for wanting Serendipity out of the Margariad.”

Catzendralle looked over to a tapestry displaying a giant dragon in cloth-of-gold, her face expressionless. “How did we get here?” she asked quietly.

Mirko leaned forward. “Just tell me, Catzen. Tell me that your intelligence network tried to burn my galley.”

“Don’t, Mirko, don’t…” A tear ran down one cheek.

“I’ve seen enough hysterics and waterworks for one night, Catzen. I just want the truth now.”

She blinked back her tears and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “If I’d wanted to burn Serendipity, it wouldn’t be Morvellos Devil ablaze now,” she said with a soft smile.

Mirko rose abruptly from the seat. “Catzen, the time for lies is over. I am no longer docile.”

Catzendralle stood too and put her hand on Mirko’s forearm. “Sit down,” she said. “You’re right, there’s no point in any more lies.”

Mirko sat down wordlessly. He had no inclination to help her out. Ten minutes ago I thought I loved you, he said to himself.

“Your theory is not unreasonable,” she said. “But it’s based on one false assumption: that I would want to work for House Drall.”

“And why should you not?”

“I have no cause to love Koopendrall, or his father before him,” she said. “They spent most of my teenage years trying to marry me off to a series of unsuitable men. When I showed a mind of my own they made things as difficult for me as they could. I wouldn’t work for them — but more pertinently, they would never imagine I have the capacities to be useful to them.”

“So — who — ?”

“Do remember me telling you about my uncle Addacatzen? The one who used to take me galley-racing?”

“Of course. Although you didn’t tell me what happened to him.”

Catzendralle looked away. “I see you found out anyway. It was one of the reasons I’ve worried about the risks you took and the enemies you’ve made: I could — and still can — see you ending up the same way.”

“The situations are dissimilar. Addacatzen had got involved in politics…”

“So have you, although you won’t see it. The result of this year’s Margariad is political.”

Mirko had a flash of insight. “And wasn’t Addacatzen part of the same political gang as Giedrus?”

“Yes.”

“So… are you working for Giedrus?”

Catzendralle nodded. “You know now enough to ruin me… to kill me, for that matter.”

Mirko sighed. “Why would I want either your ruin or your death, Catzen?”

“I don’t know… I just don’t like you having the option.”

“How did you come to work for Giedrus anyway?”

Catzen paused to set her thoughts in order. “When I was a teenager it became apparent that I had a talent for noticing things; for not being noticed myself; and a certain degree of what we might for want of a better term call intuition. After Addacatzen was killed, Giedrus asked me to undertake certain errands for him. Things went from there: he became Peremptor, and I got a freer and freer hand.”

Mirko took a long sip of his wine. “If you’re working for Giedrus, you can hardly let me win the Margariad, can you?”

Catzen looked into his face for a moment. “No.”

“You might even set fire to my galley, and think you were acting for the best, if the alternative is to kill me. It’s no different to selling Bernat the charts.”

“It isn’t that simple any more. At the start, you were just another agent; you gave me useful information and I paid you. The arrangement was not unusual.”

“And then?”

“Then I made the mistake of starting to like you. I worried that you were going to get yourself killed because you didn’t know the rules. Still I wasn’t too concerned about helping you, because it was axiomatic that there was no way Serendipity could beat Dragonchaser.”

“Helping me? I hadn’t noticed — that fiasco around Padizan aside.”

Catzen set her jaw. “It wasn’t a fiasco at all, even if the outcome differed from my expectations. But if you think I haven’t helped you apart from that: how about the mob in the street? Who do you think arranged your rescue from the Animaxianites? Who saw to it that you’d be safe in the Peremptor’s dungeons when the Animaxianite lynch mob was after you? And secured your subsequent release? And who gave you the hint on how to get rid of Liudas?”

Mirko released his breath slowly.

“Just so,” Catzen said. “To start with I was just looking after an agent I’d invested considerable time in; by the time I realised it was more complicated.”

“And now you’re in a quandary, Catzen: you know that I really can win the Margariad, and if I do your man is out of a job.”

Catzen folded her cloak more tightly around her legs. “You encapsulate the position exactly,” she said quietly. “I assume you will not be swayed from your plans.”

“You assume correctly,” said Mirko crisply. “I have a commitment to the crew who will be free if we win.”

“Only if you can trust Bartazan.”

“He offers a better option than defeat. Dragonchaser — or even Excelsior — may yet beat us; but we will not throw the race.”

“I only ever did any of this because I wanted to,” she said. “I will not hamper you now. If it means that much to you — then go ahead and win.”

Mirko stood up and walked over to look out of the window and into the courtyard. “Thank you,” he said. “There’s something else as well.”

“Yes?” came the voice from behind his shoulder.

“Last time we talked, you asked to keep my own counsel until I knew what I felt about Larien.”

“An easier decision for you to make now that you know she’s Drallenkoop’s mistress.”

“Yes and no,” he said, still staring from the window. “When I saw her in his arms, do you know what I felt? Rage and shame at being played for a fool; astonishment that I hadn’t realised what was happening; pain that someone I cared about had so abused my trust. But jealousy? Do you know she offered — in front of Drallenkoop — to throw him over and come with me instead? She looked so proud and determined: but I knew I didn’t love her, knew that I never had.”

“And?” Catzen’s voice was softer; Mirko could sense her at his shoulder.

He turned to face her. “You know the rest, Catzen. All the feelings you believe I had for Larien, I have for you…”

Catzen looked down at her feet with a nervous laugh. “I am hardly dressed for an interview of this nature.”

Mirko sighed in exasperation. “You are evading me again.”

“Mirko,” she said, touching his arm. “You would not believe how often I have dreamed about this moment.” She laughed again. “And I’ve never been in my pyjamas when it happened. But it scares me…”

“What is there to be scared of, Catzen?”

“I am not — as you may have noticed — a person designed for easy intimacy. My experiences of it in the past have not been ones I recall with pleasure. I am more worried about being hurt than keen to be loved.”

Mirko gently took her in his arms. “And why do you think I would hurt you?”

“Can you guarantee not to get yourself killed?”

“Of course not; but neither can you. You have to decide whether to trust me, Catzen.”

She disengaged herself and walked to the other side of the room. “Yes,” she said with a sad smile. “Trust is what it’s all about.”

“Why do you think you can’t?”

“There are two big secrets in my life. One I’ve told you today, about Giedrus.”

“You might as well tell me the other,” said Mirko with a smile.

“When I’m ready, I will,” she said. “That’s not today, with my heart racing and my head spinning. You might not feel the same way about me afterwards.”

Mirko walked over towards her. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner you’ll know.”

“It’s not that simple, Mirko. Can’t you just be happy with what you have for now?”

Mirko sighed. “I suppose so. But one day you will have to trust me; you can’t keep me at a distance for ever.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t, can I…” looking into his eyes and kissing him. “Come with me; I don’t think I’ve shown you my chamber yet…”

CHAPTER 28

Mirko awoke the next morning satisfied that Larien’s characterisations of his amorous potentials as ‘mechanical’, ‘perfunctory’ and the like were no more than malicious slanders. Catzen might have her reservations about intimacy, but to Mirko’s admittedly subjective perceptions, once she overcame her inhibitions there was little to complain about.

“You can’t afford to be found here,” she said as she rolled out of bed, her pyjamas long since discarded. “Both Koopendrall and Bartazan might take some convincing that there was a legitimate reason for you staying.”

Mirko smiled. “I have to go, anyway. I need to make sure that no-one managed to set fire to Serendipity.”

“I am going to speak to Giedrus straight away, to find out what he knows.”

“You may want to get dressed first.”

She aimed a mock swipe at him. “And don’t take this the wrong way — but don’t come back here.”

Mirko laid back on the bed. “I didn’t imagine you kept open house. You still have — reservations…”

Catzen pulled on a pair of breeches and a loose cotton shirt. “I have no reservations at all about you,” she said. “But until I’ve told you the ‘second secret’ there is no real relationship, is there?”

“Only you can decide when — or if — you’re going to tell me. It’s your judgement that it’s so important.”

“Believe me, Mirko, it’s important. You would never forgive me if I kept it back from you.”

Mirko shrugged. “I won’t pretend I understand, Catzen; but I’ll let you handle this your way. You’ve been right so far.”

She leaned over the bed and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you won’t regret it.”

As soon as Catzen had departed Mirko dressed and left via the discreet gate she had directed him to. The sun was bright and warm, and he walked down the hill towards the Old Town rather than summoning a rattlejack, trusting to the walk to clear his head. The past two days had been packed with more events than he could readily assimilate: the astounding victory over Spray; the fire on the waterfront; Drallenkoop and Larien; and finally last night with Catzen. He remained convinced that his feelings for Catzen were more deeply rooted than they had been for Larien, but he did not pretend to himself that he knew how things would turn out. Catzen was still keeping a large part of herself screened off from him; but she had trusted him this far, and he was confident that sooner or later she would tell him the ‘second secret’. He remained baffled at what could be more significant than admitting she worked for the Peremptor, which she had divulged almost casually. Too casually? He shook his head; either he trusted her or he didn’t. But it wasn’t easy to have blind faith in another person’s motives, especially when that someone was professionally manipulative. Maybe it wasn’t just Catzen who was daunted by the idea of intimacy.

Mirko decided to check the Jurbarkas Docks before calling in at the Urmaleškas. Morvellos Devil still smoked in the daylight, the mast completely gone and the hull severely damaged. To all intents and purposes the galley was destroyed; it would probably be easier to build a new one than attempt to rebuild. Whatever course of action Lord Garlin decided upon, his galley would not be racing in this year’s Margariad. Lammerkin would be stuck on thirteen Margariads for another year.

Lammerkin himself sat forlornly on the sea-wall, looking out at Excelsior and Kestrel, the only galleys choosing to practice this morning. The others remained moored, protected in most cases by armed guards. Responding to a mournful wave from Lammerkin, Mirko walked over.

“This is your doing,” said Lammerkin quietly.

“Hardly,” said Mirko. “I didn’t set the fire.”

“Whoever did wanted to burn Serendipity, not Morvellos Devil.”

“Probably,” said Mirko with a shrug. “The blame lies with the arsonist, not the intended victim.”

“This was my last chance,” said Lammerkin. “Lord Garlin has made it clear that he is intending to appoint a younger master as soon as he can find one. My only hope was to race well this year, maybe force my way into the top three. That’s all gone now.”

“I’m sorry, Lammerkin. But surely a man with your record can secure another galley?”

“Not among the decent boats,” he said sadly. “Merchants like Darizun, minor lords like Widderling; they can afford to outfit a galley and scrape together thirty-odd racing slaves; but it’s a vanity for them, they can’t afford the quality of slave necessary to keep with the pack. When race day comes around they usually withdraw rather than face humiliation. It’s no end to a career for a man like me.”

Mirko could think of no suitable response. Lammerkin sourly collected his thoughts and made his way back into the town. Mirko added one to his current list of enemies, despite the injustice of Lammerkin’s feelings.

Over at Serendipity Florian presided over a group of the more trustworthy slaves: Trajian, Skaidrys and Jenx prominent among them. “Any news?” asked Mirko.

“Guess!” said Florian with a laugh. “The culprit has been apprehended.”

“Rapid work!”

“It’s our old friend Orstas.”

Mirko had to work to avoid his jaw dropping. “Orstas! Could he not identify his own galley?”

“Seemingly not — especially as he was somewhat drunk at the time.”

Mirko shook his head wonderingly. “For a fact, he has a grudge against both me and Bartazan. Who caught him?”

“Vaidmantas’ men had him in custody within a couple of hours. I can only assume that they had a tip-off.”

“Did Orstas plan and execute the act alone?”

Florian shook his head in bafflement. “I assume so: who would employ someone as unstable as Orstas to carry out a daring and dangerous plan?”

Mirko had his doubts; Orstas may have carried out the plan; but he must have had help. Maybe Orstas was innocent, a convenient scapegoat to allow the true culprit to escape. Events were too complicated for his understanding.

He turned as he heard the sound of marching feet. A small troop of militia in Bartazan Azure was stepping along the road in synchrony: at their side, on a sleek pacer, rode Bartazan himself.

“Good morning, my lord!” called Mirko. Bartazan merely nodded as the troops arrayed themselves before Serendipity.

“You slaves can return to the Urmaleškas,” he said. “My militia will guard the galley now. Well done — now get some sleep and be ready for training.”

Mirko was almost impressed that Bartazan had at last realised that the crew would perform better if allowed adequate rest. He was not surprised that he did not trust the Peremptor’s Constables to mount a safe watch, and indeed he would not have done so himself in the same situation.

Bartazan vaulted from his pacer and strode towards Mirko. He looked energetic, focused, confident: the proximity of the race — and the Election — seemed to be inspiring him.

“Ascalon! You and I must talk.”

“I am at your disposal; there’ll be no training today.”

“I don’t know why you’re smirking. You have much to explain.”

Mirko was puzzled. “I know very little. The Constables have arrested Orstas, who may or may not be the culprit.”

Bartazan shook his head impatiently. “I’m more interested in what you were doing at House Drall last night.”

Mirko’s heart pounded. How could Bartazan know that already? And what legitimate excuse could he offer?

“I was paying a social call,” he said, as confidently as he could.

“Really? While my galley was at risk of arson, at the estate of my chief rival.”

Mirko nodded. “That is correct, my lord. I had assured myself of Serendipity’s safety and left Florian to ensure that no unpleasant surprises occurred.”

“Hmmm. No doubt you will wish to tell me the nature of your call at Darklings.”

“It was a private matter, my lord, in no way connected with the Margariad.”

“Am I to assume you are conducting an amour at Darklings?”

“I would not put the matter in quite that way; however I was visiting a lady.”

Bartazan kicked at a stone in exasperation. “Does it not occur to you that this behaviour is foolish in the extreme? What if Koopendrall, or Drallenkoop, had seen you? Were you not concerned by the inevitability that I would learn of your rashness?”

“No, my lord. My conscience was clear and I feared no adverse consequences.”

Bartazan grunted. “I hope she was worth it — especially if it keeps you away from Larien.”

“You need have no fears on that score, my lord. Your niece and I are not conducting any form of improper relationship.”

“You are aware,” said Bartazan with a brisk nod, “that I disbelieve virtually everything you say?”

Mirko made a noncommittal gesture. “There is little I can do to alter that, my lord.”

“Your security hangs on the fact that I believe that, despite everything, you can and will win the Margariad for me. Be assured that if you double-cross me, I will kill you.”

Mirko smiled. “Your confidence is well-placed. The crew believe in me — and only me — and given a fair race I think we can beat Dragonchaser. This year she is winning on reputation rather than excellence.”

“You are an assured customer, Ascalon. I will tell you an important piece of information.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Elector Algimantas has been nominated Secretary of Determinations.”

Bartazan seemed to feel this news needed no further elaboration. Mirko merely raised his eyebrows.

“Algimantas,” continued Bartazan, “for reasons we need not explore here, feels a keen interest in securing my election. The Secretary of Determinations is responsible for organising the Election; and in securing the post for one of my own supporters I have gained a certain advantage.”

“I am at a loss as to understand why.”

Bartazan permitted himself a thin smile. “Algimantas has set the date for the Election: one week from today, immediately on conclusion of the Margariad, on the waterfront. Every Elector will naturally be present for the race, and no objection can be raised to holding the Election immediately.”

“And you feel that if we win the Margariad you will be acclaimed on the spot…”

“Just so.”

“This may be an indiscreet question: but do you have enough votes to be able to win anyway?”

Bartazan narrowed his eyes. “These calculations are carried out with great deliberation — in private. They are not the subject of casual gossip.”

Mirko rubbed his chin. “The matter is of no great consequence — to me, at least.”

“Exactly so, Captain. Your job is the same regardless. If it exhorts you to greater zeal, though: I need twenty-six votes to secure my election. Twenty-three are mine beyond a doubt; I reckon Giedrus’ tally at twenty-two, but with the five waverers more likely to back him than me. Do not let me down.”

Mirko smiled a crisp brittle smile. “I have undergone many trials in my commitment to make Serendipity the fastest galley on the water: I have been inconvenienced and my life has been threatened on more than one occasion. I would be loath to see those efforts go to waste. And naturally my crew look forward to their freedom.”

“No doubt they do, Captain, no doubt they do,” said Bartazan, returning Mirko’s smile. “The day of the Margariad will be an eventful one, make no mistake.”

CHAPTER 29

Mirko returned to his lodgings at the Waterside weary in mind and body. The previous night, with the fire and his prolonged exertions with Catzen, had afforded little opportunity for sleep. With a brief nod to Panduletta, he slipped up the stairs to his rooms and fell into an immediate dreamless sleep.

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 Catzen’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.”

She stepped into the corridor and began to walk away. Mirko felt a terrible mixture of pity and guilt. However she had hurt him, he could not do this. He felt low, mean, vindictive: not the person he believed himself to be.

“Larien.”

She stopped and turned to look at him. “I do forgive you,” he said. “Genuinely forgive you. You were foolish rather than wicked. I can’t love you, Larien, if that’s what you want; and I’d find it difficult enough to be friends. But I don’t wish you ill. You will never be happy here; you should leave the city, go to Io or even Aylissia. You can have a new life there, away from the poison of Formello and Darklings.”

Larien stepped towards him, raised a hand to his face. “You are a good man, Mirko. I should never have gone along with what Drallen wanted, the snake. If we had met differently...”

“Maybe, Larien, maybe. We’ll never know.”

She kissed his cheek and walked slowly down the corridor. Mirko stared pensively after her, and returned to his chamber. He poured himself a goblet of wine and settled down to his thoughts.

CHAPTER 30

A febrile atmosphere pervaded Paladria; the two greatest events in the calendar, the Margariad and the Election, were taking place on the same day; and no-one in the city could fail to understand that the events were connected. The Peremptor’s Constables were seen in greater than usual force, and Bartazan of Bartazan House made sure that he was visible in all parts of the city.

Mirko found the tenor of events oppressive, and spent as much time as possible on the water; either drilling Serendipity or, when the crew showed signs of tiredness, taking a small craft around the course with Florian and Trajian. He had not seen Larien since she had visited his chambers, and Catzendralle was also keeping herself out of the way, contenting herself with communicating by ciphered letter. It was the calm before the storm.

Drallenkoop, meanwhile, conducted himself with ostentatious confidence, drilling his crew no more than necessary, and whipping the populace to a pitch of hysteria. Mirko was in no doubt from his observations that Dragonchaser remained the most popular galley among the crowds, and the bookmakers still had her as a clear favourite ahead of Excelsior and Serendipity, who vied for second place.

Bartazan, meanwhile, became calmer as the day approached. Mirko found his new geniality alarming.

“Why should I worry?” Bartazan asked over a goblet of rich Estrian wine in his reception chamber. “I have the best galley-master and the votes of twenty-four Electors already in the bag.”

“Twenty-four is two fewer than you need,” observed Mirko superfluously. “You still need me to win.”

“And who says you won’t? Resardas is no longer taking bets on us. Drallenkoop is overconfident, and Dragonchaser’s performances have lacked the crispness of last year.”

“We still haven’t beaten them in a race that matters.”

“Such modesty is unlike you, Ascalon. I take a keen interest in galleys, and many professional seamen give me their opinions. Good judges think you will win.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Mirko, unsure why he was allowing the conversation to go here.

Bartazan chuckled. “Let’s not consider such irksome possibilities,” he said. “I am a man with a powerful destiny; and defeat for Serendipity would not allow its fulfilment. A wise-woman once told me I should be Peremptor…”

Mirko looked at him in surprise. “Old Craft nonsense! You can’t believe it, and it’s hardly safe to admit to hearing such drivel.”

Bartazan swirled his wine around his goblet. “It was many years ago now; the wise-woman is long dead, and the other things she told me have all come to pass. The Old Craft is gone from the surface of Paladria, and best that it should have done. But never think that it is buried deep. The Paladrians are a superstitious people, and the Old Craft is deep in their soul. You should realise that.”

“How so?”

Bartazan poured himself another goblet of wine. “I made it my business to find out how you got Liudas off my boat.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t worry. In the circumstances you were justified — Florian is clearly a superior helm — and the method was ingenious. I won’t pretend I’m not intrigued by how you found out a secret buried so deep even his father and I didn’t know it.”

“A galley-master — especially a rising one — commands considerable prestige,” said Mirko easily. “There are always people eager to do me a favour.”

Bartazan studied him through clear eyes. “Just make sure the price isn’t too high,” he said. “I happen to know you are not among the Peremptor’s favourites.”

Mirko shrugged. “I take that as a tribute to my unswerving professionalism.”

Bartazan raised his goblet high. “Here’s to professionalism.”

That afternoon Mirko drilled the crew one final time before the race. Tomorrow was set aside for rest; and when the sun rose after that, it would be race day. In the late afternoon sun Mirko felt a quiet assurance as Serendipity made its way around the Margariad course. Florian had grown in competence with every day; Mirko hoped not to have to thread the needle through The Sorcerers, but tucked away in his mind was a feeling that should it prove necessary, Florian could do it. The Quartermen, Trajian, Skaidrys, Slovo and Ketchelon, all had smoothly functioning Quarters, able to go up and down through the Tempos without jarring or loss of speed. Dragonchaser remained, as always, the boat to beat, but Mirko doubted that her crew was any smoother — or highly motivated, with freedom at stake — than Serendipity’s.

Barring unforeseen incidents — always a leap of faith in Paladria — and given a clean run, Mirko felt that Serendipity would beat Dragonchaser and all comers. He shivered: why did that idea frighten him? Granted, it would put Bartazan in Coverciano; but he was little if any worse than Giedrus: no, what worried him was the fear of dashed expectation. He had worked harder than ever before to turn a crew of dispirited slaves into a crew so polished and confident that they had beaten a Garganet naval vessel; he had risked his life, and his contrasting relationships with both Catzendralle and Larien, to get Serendipity to the position where she might contemplate victory. But what if, after all that, it did not happen? What if Dragonchaser or Excelsior were faster, or someone made a better job of arson next time? He would lose his bonus, of course, and Bartazan had threatened dire consequences in the event of defeat; but his unease was more fundamental, he realised. He had invested, for half a year, much of his essence in making Serendipity the galley he wanted it to be. Now he stood on the verge of achieving it, and he realised how much it meant to him, and correspondingly how much it would hurt to lose it. Stealthily he had allowed himself to hope. It was the hope which was so terrifying.

Practice finished and Serendipity was moored tight to the dock. A group of Bartazan’s militia stood by; the galley’s safety while she was docked was their responsibility and they took it seriously. Mirko doubted that Giedrus would risk another arson attempt, but prudence cost nothing.

The crew marched back to Urmaleškas in crisp formation, a far cry from the rabble they had been at the beginning of the summer. Mirko leaped onto a barrel as the crew went through its programme of stretches.

“Men!” he called. “That was our last practice: we are as good now as we will ever be. In two days’ time the Margariad will be over.”

“And we’ll be free men!” called Augenis.

“That is contingent,” said Florian dryly.

“Contingent upon us winning,” said Mirko in a firm voice. “And you should believe me when I say we have nothing to fear. Dragonchaser has become lazy and uncompetitive; Excelsior does not truly believe she can win. Our destiny is in our own hands!”

“And will Bartazan release us?” asked Skaidrys.

“He has no reason not to. If we win he will be Peremptor. He’ll be magnanimous to those who helped put him there.”

There was none of the grumbling that had formerly accompanied talk of Bartazan’s success. The crew had no reason to love the Elector, but for better or worse they had accepted that their destinies and his were linked.

“There is no more preparation we can do. Rest tonight, eat well tomorrow. And don’t think I don’t know that some of you have slipped out of Urmaleškas at night; well, I want none of it this time.”

Florian and Trajian grinned discreetly at each other. He doubted they would follow the prohibition, but it hardly seemed worth causing conflict over. They were both reliable men, fully committed to victory. A good galley-master knew when to turn a blind eye.

“Does that apply to you, captain?” shouted Jenx.

“I can assure you I’ll be tucked up at Formello.”

“With Larien, I’ll wager,” muttered Jenx in an undertone so penetrating that no-one could fail to hear.

“A wager you would lose, Jenx. The Lady Larien… will be keeping her own company.”

From the crew came a laugh which mixed scepticism and affection. Mirko knew that the crew firmly believed that he was conducting a daring amour with Larien; and in the way of seamen, thought better of him for the fact.

The truth was different as Mirko rode back to Formello on Boodle. A cold cheerless chamber overlooking the gloomy wood was where he must spend the night. He had not seen Larien since their emotional interview in this chamber, for which he was grateful. Catzen was keeping out his way; despite her frequent ciphered letters he sensed she was withdrawing back into herself. She still had not taken the decision to commit herself to Mirko; that much was clear. With the race so close, he was happy to let the matter rest until it was over. At that point, everything would be resolved.

CHAPTER 31

Rising early the next morning, Mirko found that there was a tang of autumn in the air for the first time. By tradition, the Margariad marked the end of summer, and autumn was running through its dress rehearsal exactly on schedule. Mirko had no real plans for the day, but already Formello, its walls brooding and its arrow-slits leering, had an oppressive feel. Bartazan was staying at his town house and Mirko was in no humour to linger around the castle.

He decided to ride down into town, and saddled up a skittish Boodle. Before he realised it, he found himself in the Old Town. It was a while since he stopped off at the Waterside, and he wanted to see Panduletta before the race. Afterwards, who knew, he might need to make his escape too quickly to have time for goodbyes.

The front door of the tavern was barred on the inside, a most unusual circumstance. It was early for drinking, but there was normally a good quantity of whelks available for breakfast. He wandered round into the rear courtyard, and found no signs of life. This was unparalleled.

“Panduletta!” he shouted. “Open up! It’s Mirko!”

There was silence and he called out again. Faint sounds of movement could be heard within.

“Who is it?”

Mirko frowned. “It’s me! Ascalon!”

There was a heavy sound of the bars being drawn back. One of the serving girls, Cambyryna, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and ran into the courtyard.

“Captain,” she said in visible distress, “there’s been a terrible assault!”

Mirko’s heart pounded. “Panduletta?”

“No, it’s Florian!”

Mirko’s heart sank as his stomach rose to meet it. “Florian! Is he…”

“My mistress has sent for the apothecary — but it looks grim.”

“Take me to them,” said Mirko briskly. “There’s not a moment to lose.”

Cambyryna escorted Mirko up the stairs to Panduletta’s private quarters.

“Is it the apothecary?” called Panduletta from within.

“No, mistress, it’s Captain Ascalon.”

Panduletta rushed across the room. “Mirko!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “He’s going to die!”

“Sit down,” said Mirko, leading her back into the room to a plush burgundy couch. “Let’s wait for the apothecary. Can you tell me what happened?”

Panduletta tried to compose herself. “He…he was coming to see me — before the race, you know. We are —”

“I know,” said Mirko gently. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me what happened.”

“They were waiting for him on the waterfront. When they saw him they fell upon him without warning, the dogs!”

“Who?”

“Florian said it was the Peremptor’s Constables but that can’t be right. They must have rescued him and he was confused.”

Mirko said nothing. Everything was beginning to take shape, and there was no reason to believe the Peremptor’s Constables were not the culprits.

“Four of them attacked him in the street,” she said. “He didn’t stand a chance, but he managed to force them back and made it to the door. Once he was inside they went away. I was going to call the Constables but Florian wouldn’t let me.”

Very wise, thought Mirko. “So he could walk when got here?”

Panduletta nodded. “He had been beaten around the head, and both of his arms were cut where he had tried to defend himself. I thought he was all right, although there was a lot of blood; and then he collapsed, and he hasn’t woken up again. I called the apothecary, he came and looked grave, and now he’s gone to prepare a tincture.”

“Can I see him?” asked Mirko. Panduletta’s complexion was the colour and texture of egg-shells. She took him into the inner chamber.

Florian lay under Panduletta’s coverlet. A bandage which had once been white wrapped his head, now stained with blood. Bandages also covered both arms, one of which was in a sling. Mirko concluded that the chances of him helming Serendipity tomorrow were not high.

“Florian?” he whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s Mirko.” But there was no response.

“What does the apothecary say?” he asked Panduletta.

“The apothecary says,” another figure, long of leg and brisk of voice, boomed as he entered the room, “that his chances are much better if you stand aside and let me do my job.”

Mirko surveyed the figure. “I take it you are the apothecary?”

The man rubbed his hands in evident satisfaction. “That I am, the Erudite Marijus at your service, elixirs for every occasion, love-philtres a speciality. I’ll perform a discounted consultation later for such a distinguished galley-master.”

Mirko looked sideways at the Erudite Marijus with distaste. Tall and bald, with a lower lip and stomach equally prominent, and a leer of self-satisfied self-centredness, Marijus did not inspire confidence. “You would please me more by attending to Florian first.”

Marijus bobbed his head. “Of course, of course. Head injuries are always tricky, very tricky. Luckily I have my Number Three tincture, which normally works to good effect. Sometimes it brings on a calenture, by nature of its ingredients,” he beamed, “but this rarely proves fatal, very rarely, hmmm.”

Mirko gave Panduletta a surreptitious side-glance to which she responded with a shrug.

“While you are applying the tincture,” said Mirko, “perhaps you could tell me the extent of Florian’s injuries.”

“One head injury, probably caused by a club or similar,” he said. “Deep cuts to the arms, inflicted with a light blade; and a broken collar bone. Minor — in the circumstances — contusions. Unless the head injuries are worse than they look, and as long as the cuts avoid infection, the prognosis is good.”

Mirko nodded. “He won’t be on your galley for a while, though,” continued Marijus thoughtfully. “The collar-bone alone will take weeks to heal.”

“I had gathered that,” said Mirko with some heat. “I have seen broken bones before.”

“Now, now,” said Marijus with a smile. “I understand your frustration, but let’s not take it out on the good apothecary, eh?”

Mirko held up a placatory hand. “My apologies, sir. Cambyryna, please would you fetch me paper and a stylus?”

Cambyryna went downstairs while Marijus carried on administering his salves and remedies. Mirko doubted that they would prove efficacious — Marijus had all the hallmarks of a charlatan — but consoled himself with the thought that they were unlikely to do any harm either.

When Cambyryna returned Mirko excused himself and went into Panduletta’s private chamber to write a number of sensitive letters: to Catzendralle, in the hope that she might be able to offer useful advice; to Bartazan, with some trepidation; to Trajian, that nautical questions might be addressed with urgency. A final letter was addressed to Lammerkin, erstwhile master of Morvellos Devil. A series of runners was dispatched to deliver the correspondence on the instant.

Trajian, located at the nearby Urmaleškas, was the first to arrive, and Mirko swiftly briefed him on events. Trajian shook his head in woe and wonderment.

“Astonishing that someone should want us to lose so badly!” he said.

“Many people are keen to avoid the prospect of Bartazan in Coverciano. We can take it as a compliment that someone thought the best way of stopping us was to try and kill our helm.”

“They might as well have done,” said Trajian gloomily. “With a broken collar-bone Florian is in no position to advance our campaign. And I’d thought I’d be on my way home tomorrow.”

Mirko raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were his friend? You fall some way short of empathising with his sufferings.”

Trajian smiled ruefully. “A cool temperament is not a crime. If Florian had not sneaked out to see Panduletta last night, this would never have happened.”

“None of this finds us a new helm.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Trajian, hope in his eyes that Mirko had one last trick to pull off.

But Mirko merely shook his head. “Have you helmed?” he asked.

At this point the discussion was interrupted by loud shouts and curses. Mirko surmised, correctly, that Bartazan had arrived; not an interview he was relishing. The Elector stormed into the parlour where Mirko and Trajian were talking.

Bartazan was red and sweating. “Ascalon! You have much to explain!”

Mirko frowned. “I thought my summary covered the important points. Florian is seriously inconvenienced. Abandon any hopes of him taking the helm tomorrow.”

“Now is not the time for flippancy, Ascalon. I want to know how one of my more valuable slaves was wandering the streets two days before the Margariad; and what steps you propose to take to retrieve the situation. And not in front of a slave,” he finished with a glower at Trajian.

Trajian rose and made to leave.

“A moment, Trajian,” said Mirko. “Your counsel may be valuable.”

“An Elector does not transact confidential business in front of his galley slaves!” said Bartazan, reddening still further. “Ascalon, you do not realise how dangerous I can be.”

“In the circumstances,” said Trajian with a bow to Bartazan, “I think matters would proceed more expeditiously without my counsel. Besides, I would like to look in on Florian.”

“Now,” said Bartazan, pacing the room with an alarming surfeit of nervous energy. “Why was Florian parading through the streets of this low part of town?”

“Would the answer help you, my lord? What’s done is done; Florian acted imprudently and we should leave the matter there. The important thing, as you imply, is that we take the most appropriate steps.”

“And these are?” said Bartazan with an access of calm. He folded his arms and stood a foot in front of Mirko.

“I am using my contacts in the galley-racing community to secure a replacement helm.”

“I take it you have not yet been successful?”

“This is hardly a situation where instant results are feasible.”

“It should come as no surprise to you that Paladria is not awash with unemployed Margariad-quality helms. Those helmsmen currently disengaged are generally so through their own incapacity.”

“Such as Liudas…”

“I was thinking of men such as Nexinger — the ‘Iron Snail’ – and Jukundas.”

“Jukundas — widely and justly known as ‘Old Addle-Pate’ – owed his brief spell of fame solely to your imprisonment of Animaxian’s Glory’s first-choice helm.”

“It is hardly just to include Liudas in this company.”

Mirko controlled himself with an effort. “We have trodden this path many times, my lord. Liudas is short of the quality necessary to helm a race-winning galley. I take it Nool Ipolitas’ vote is again uncertain.”

Bartazan’s face darkened. “By no means! Nool Ipolitas is well satisfied with the post I have offered him in my new administration. I merely suggest Liudas’ name as a man who is familiar with Serendipity and her crew.”

“The suggestion lacks the remotest approach to merit,” snapped Mirko, giving vent to his asperity. “For a start, you forget the circumstances under which he departed the galley: they are unlikely to make him look favourably on a return. More importantly, the crew know him for an incompetent: they do not trust him and they will not row well for him. My ‘desperation solution’ is better than that.”

“Outline, if you will,” said Bartazan icily, “the nature of your ‘desperation solution’.”

“Why, I will take the helm myself. I am qualified and trained in helmsmanship — if admittedly a little rusty — and I am as familiar with the waters as anyone. I have no great flair for the craft, but I feel sure I could perform better than Liudas.”

“This would leave vacant the position of overseer.”

“There is no alternative to appointing Trajian, a Garganet naval officer who commands respect among the crew. Admittedly, I would need to blood a new Quarterman, which I would prefer to avoid, but it will at least get us to the start line.”

Bartazan shook his head in wonderment. “Your negligence of status is staggering! First you appoint a slave as helmsman, an idea of barely credible lunacy which yielded predictably unfortunate results, and now you propose to have the slaves overseen by another slave! Where is the respect for degree and place essential to the smooth functioning of galley and city alike?”

“Garganet crews operate on a more egalitarian basis,” said Mirko, “and these are principles I have adopted — with some success — on Serendipity. The situation will not develop into the rabble you suggest.”

“Unacceptable!” said Bartazan firmly. “I will send Liudas tomorrow morning and all will be well. You would do well to return to Formello, since my town house Whitecroft cannot accommodate you. Alternatively you may mess in Urmaleškas tonight.”

“My plans are not fixed,” said Mirko. “I may return to Formello, with your leave.”

Bartazan sat heavily on Panduletta’s best couch. “I take it you realise this assault was no accident; and the involvement of the Peremptor’s Constables was no coincidence.”

“This aspect of the affair had not escaped me. Giedrus is determined to damage our performance.”

“Just so,” said Bartazan. “In the circumstances, the idea of you wandering the streets like Florian is surpassingly foolish. You are not go anywhere without an armed escort.”

Mirko nodded his head and Bartazan left, little mollified if at all, by the interview.

On Bartazan’s exit, Cambyryna came in with a letter. “This came while you were engaged with the Elector,” she said with a shy smile.

“Thank you,” said Mirko, looking at the envelope and seeing with disappointment that it was not Catzendralle’s handwriting. Impatiently he ripped it open.

Sir,

You do me a great honour by offering the post of helm aboard Serendipity to whichever of my helm Hellence or myself feels disposed to accept it. This offer would carry more sincerity if the proximity of the Margariad were more remote.

Regrettably neither Hellence nor I feel able to accept your generous offer. To nurture resentment is an ignoble characteristic, and I will therefore cite advanced age and weariness after a long season’s racing as the reason for our unwillingness to accept the engagement; rather than any potential animosity arising your meddling in politics you fail to understand, which led to the destruction of my own galley. It would be equally churlish to have reached the conclusion that I would prefer any galley on the water to win the Margariad before Serendipity. I will not, therefore, give utterance to any such sentiments I might hypothetically hold.

I remain your obedient servant,

Lammerkin, formerly of Morvellos Devil.

Mirko made to screw the letter up, thought better of it, and handed it to Cambyryna. “Please take this through to Trajian,” he said.

“Not good news, sir?”

“No, although scarcely unexpected.”

Cambyryna bobbed and left the room.

Mirko sat down with a frown. He had never expected either of the Morvellos Devil officers to be prepared to help; their resentment at him was unjustified but obscurely understandable. It created an unfortunate situation; there were no other competent helms at liberty; he recoiled from using men like the Iron Snail or Old Addle-Pate; and Liudas by any reckoning was little better than nothing. Whatever Bartazan said, he was going to have to take the helm himself, or withdraw Serendipity altogether. In the circumstances he thought Bartazan would accede; although it would not be wise to linger in Paladria if the gamble were unsuccessful.

CHAPTER 32

Perhaps Catzen would have ideas, he thought. As if the thought of her had conjured her existence, he caught her level tones in the outer room. He snatched the door open.

“Catzen!” he called. “We have much to discuss.”

Catzendralle gave a half-smile. “I am not accustomed to being addressed by my familiar name in a dockside tavern,” she said. “Nonetheless, I agree with your assessment.”

Mirko looked at her more closely. Her normally sanguine complexion was pale and wan, the lines around her eyes incised more deeply than ever. He doubted that this was a suitable opening conversational gambit, and merely beckoned her into Panduletta’s parlour with a sideways twist of his head.

Catzen sat on the couch formerly occupied by Bartazan and rested her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have not been sleeping well.”

“I imagine disquiet is the inevitable lot of the intelligencer,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head. “We need to act, not talk,” she said. “Your life is in immediate danger — more immediate than I had imagined. The best thing for you is to take a galley out of Paladria this morning; but since I suspect you won’t, at least you need to disappear until tomorrow morning.”

Mirko pursed his lips. “I’m not leaving now; but my conscience can accommodate a diplomatic disappearance — if it is as necessary as you say.”

“It is. I am all too familiar with what Giedrus is planning.”

Mirko walked across to the window and looked out across the bay.

“This is not the time for vague hints and evasions and ‘my sources tell me’, Catzen. You have to start being open with me; about everything.”

Catzen looked away and played with the mermaid ring on her finger. “ ‘Everything’ is a big word, Mirko. People who ask to know everything usually regret it.”

“For Animaxian’s sake, Catzen, this is not the time for games! I have been remarkably patient while you have arranged my life behind the scenes, getting me out of trouble that you’d got me into in the first place; telling me just enough that I’d do what you wanted but not enough to work things out for myself. You’re completely incapable of being open or straightforward about anything.”

“Is that what you really think?” asked Catzen quietly, still looking down. “I don’t go to bed with just anyone, you know.”

Mirko sighed in exasperation. “Even then you kept telling me it wasn’t for real, that there were things you needed to tell me that you didn’t trust me to hear. That’s not my idea of an open or straightforward relationship.”

“It wasn’t like that!” cried Catzen. “It’s not that I don’t trust you — it’s because I don’t want to lose you,” she said, dropping her voice. “I couldn’t bear to tell you everything, for you to know everything about me — and for it to repel you. I’m not good at closeness, Mirko, and I’ve spent so much time getting close to you….”

“Why should you repel me, Catzen? Don’t you think that because I care about you, I won’t reject you?”

She got up and walked across to the window and laid her head on Mirko’s shoulder. “You don’t know what I have to tell you,” she said. “Don’t make me.”

Mirko stared ahead at the Morvellos Lighthouse in the distance. Nothing would be easier than to put his arms around her and tell her everything was all right; but it would be easy for the wrong reasons, and it wouldn’t solve anything. This needed to be resolved before the race.

He put his hands on her arms and turned her to face him. “It won’t do, Catzen. It’s now or never.”

She looked unblinkingly into his eyes for an eternal second; Mirko held her gaze. She looked out to sea for a moment and nodded to herself.

“Then it’s now,” she said. “But remember, you wanted this.”

Mirko nodded. “How could I forget?”

“It would be better if we removed to a location less hazardous,” she said. “I wasn’t exaggerating about the danger. Giedrus — or more specifically, Vaidmantas — will kill you if he finds you. And if he finds me with you, he’ll kill me too.”

“This isn’t another stall?” asked Mirko.

She shook her head. “We have to go. If you have any instructions for your crew, now is the time to convey them.”

Mirko nodded, went out to speak to Trajian. “If I don’t come back for the race, you’re in charge,” he concluded.

“With no master and no helm,” said Trajian wryly. “The chances for glory are not promising.”

“Better hope I come back, then,” said Mirko. “And Trajian — be careful. Get into Urmaleškas and stay there.”

Catzen was looking out to sea when Mirko returned. “Let’s go,” he said buckling on his rapier. “Where are we going?”

Catzen led the way downstairs. “Coverciano,” she said with an unexpected chuckle.

“That would not seem to be the best place to avoid Giedrus’ men.”

“I can hardly take you to Darklings, for any number of reasons; and the road to Formello is most certainly watched. Giedrus doesn’t yet realise I am no longer in his service, either.”

Mirko was dubious, but Catzen had gained an access of energy and confidence.

“We will have to share my galumpher, I’m afraid,” she said, leaping into the front saddle. “You will have to take the rear end.”

The galumpher — a much larger animal than a lady would normally ride — appeared relatively docile, a relief to Mirko who was uncomfortable on anything sturdier than a pacer.

If it had not been for the constant worry that Vaidmantas’ men would come upon them, Mirko would have enjoyed the pleasant ride up the coastal road towards Coverciano. Vaidmantas would not attempt an outrage in so public a place; the disappearance of a troublesome and unconnected foreigner might attract little attention, but not that of an Elector’s cousin.

Coverciano soon loomed ahead, tranquil and relaxing. Catzen rode up to the gates and displayed an intricately-wrought trinket. The guard bowed and opened the gates. They were inside.

“What now?” asked Mirko.

“Have you forgotten my secret garden?” she said. She called over a groom and the galumpher was led away. “Let’s walk,” she said. “It’s not far. Try not to look so obviously shifty. Giedrus will not be strolling the grounds — he is far too busy.”

“Packing?” said Mirko with a smile.

Catzen laughed, for the first time he could remember in weeks. “Giedrus is not expecting to leave.”

They found themselves in the Orange Grove, and Catzen led them into the maze. Mirko walked past the entrance to the Secret Garden until Catzen gently pulled his sleeve back. The stepped through the concealed entrance. Mirko immediately felt a sense of calmness, and he felt Catzen relax beside him.

She took his hand and led him to a nearby seat swinging gently from a manzipar tree. “I always dreamed of telling you everything,” she said. “And I always wanted it to be here. Forgive me for stage-managing events,” she smiled.

“You seem much happier here,” he replied.

“This is my favourite place in the world,” she said. “It cannot be found by accident. It is so beautiful, and only I can come here — and now you, of course.”

“Autumn is coming to the Secret Garden,” said Mirko. “The leaves are starting to fall.”

“They will be gone tomorrow,” she said. “You remember that the Garden is subject to a spell of maintenance.”

Mirko watched a leaf spiral down from a high branch to land at Catzen’s feet. He leant forward to pick it up and gave it to her. “What will happen if you take it out of the garden? Will the maintenance spell still remove it?”

Catzen reached out for the leaf. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never tried it. It is so fragile — like feelings. We never know whether they will still be there tomorrow either.”

“It depends on the feelings,” said Mirko. “They can be delicate, tender, beyond naming or description: yet they may endure far longer than coarser, grosser passions. Sometimes the more you believe in them, the stronger they become.”

She took his hand again and looked long into his face. “I said I would trust you, and I will,” she said. “How much do you know about the Old Craft?”

Mirko gave a puzzled look. “Very little. I was surprised to learn that this garden existed — although of course everyone knows about the Morvellos Lighthouse.”

“There are two kinds of Old Craft,” she said. “The kind everyone thinks about when the Old Craft is mentioned is Operant. That’s the kind of craft that affects the physical world around us. It maintains the Secret Garden, lights the Morvellos Lighthouse; and of course it was Operant Craft that destroyed East Gammerling all those long centuries ago. Men decided that it could not safely be tolerated in our world, and they destroyed it utterly — or at least prevented its open use.”

Mirko said nothing. It was so like Catzen to give a history lesson to avoid talking about anything to do with her emotions.

“The other kind of Old Craft is known as Voyeurant. Voyeurant Craft does not affect the physical world; it can only observe it. The commonest form of that is called ‘clairvoyance’, the ability to see events occurring outside of the field of vision. Less common is precognition, the ability to foretell future events; and postcognition, which can see the past: hindsight with eyes.

“Facility in the Old Craft cannot be taught; a small number of people have a latent gift, which can be developed by diligence. Without the Latency, no amount of study will avail. The proscription of the Old Craft could not, of course, proscribe Latency itself. As many people could develop the Old Craft today as in the days of the Sorcerers of Gammerling.

“Latency in Voyeurant outnumbers Operant by as much as twenty to one; while Voyeurant is similarly preponderant among female Latents. Operant Latency is much more likely to be found among men. Ipolitas Liudas believed — utterly without foundation — that he was a Latent Operant. His innocence of the gift — or curse if you prefer — would not have saved him from burning, of course, which was why it was so easy for you to blackmail him.”

Mirko turned his head to look at her. “I’m beginning to form a suspicion as to how you know so much about this — about everything, in fact. This isn’t just assiduous research and good sources, is it?”

Catzen swallowed and reached out to touch Mirko’s face. “No it isn’t,” she said. “I have — or had — a fully developed Voyeurant Latency. I have practised the Old Craft, and it’s death on the pyre for me if anyone ever finds out.”

She continued to rest her hand against his cheek; Mirko couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. Catzen was a witch, outlawed by death across the centuries.

“Mirko,” she said softly. “Mirko, say something, please say something.”

“I don’t know what to say, Catzen. I didn’t know what the second secret was; I suppose I thought you had killed someone. But this…”

She took her hand away. “I knew it,” she whispered to herself.

“Catzen… it’s just such a shock.”

She nodded, tears running down both cheeks. “I know you won’t denounce me to the authorities,” she said with a watery laugh. “If only because the authorities will kill you if they find you. But I was always more worried about losing you than being found out anyway.”

“Catzen…”

“You don’t have to keep saying my name every time I pause,” she said.

“Sorry — I — “

“You gave me an ultimatum this morning,” said Catzen. “It was unfair of you, and now I’m going to be unfair to you. ‘Now or never’. If you still want me, you have to say so now; otherwise I walk out of here and you won’t see me again. But if you want — us — then it really is now or never.”

Mirko looked at her and smiled. “There’s nothing to think about, Catzen: it’s now.”

He took in her arms and kissed her; she resisted momentarily and then buried her head in his neck. Mirko sighed; it wasn’t that bad. Whatever she was, whatever unusual abilities she might possess, she was still Catzen. She had thrown away her career and her objectivity to be with him, and all that had held her back was the fear — understandable enough — that he might reject her because of the Old Craft. But he had looked into his heart and thought: so what?

“It doesn’t matter, Catzen,” he said. “It simply doesn’t matter. Come on, tell me all about it. How terrible it must have been for you to keep it secret all these years.”

She kissed him again. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve wanted to tell you,” she said. “I wish I’d told you sooner.”

Mirko gave a modest shrug. “I am right sometimes.”

“It was the craft, of course, that launched me on espionage. It waxes with a woman’s fertility, so it is strongest when she is young, and gradually becomes weaker. My uncle Addacatzen knew, I think, that I had a Latency, and I began to find things out for him and Giedrus. I am certain that Giedrus never knew the source of my information, but I was so good at finding things out that he made more and more use of me until I was the centre of his intelligencers. I helped to keep him in Coverciano.”

Mirko gently stroked her hand, but now she was in full flow it was as if he wasn’t there.

“When I was about twenty-five I noticed that the clairvoyant effects I had achieved with ease were becoming more difficult; I had to concentrate longer and harder to see, and it took me longer to recover afterwards. By the time a woman reaches her change, the Latency is gone, and it is a long decline to reach that point. I realised that I was starting to lose my gift. From that point I made sure that I recruited good informants, and worked like any other intelligencer; although occasionally I would use the gift to check that my agents were as I thought them.”

“Did you use ‘the gift’ on me?” asked Mirko sharply.

She smiled dryly. “Occasionally. I won’t go into details. When you were captured by the Animaxianites and no-one could find you, I searched in my own way.”

“And saved my life,” said Mirko.

“As we became closer, I hardly thought it ethical to use the gift; and who knows, I might have found out something I didn’t want to know. They say eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves; well, clairvoyants see no good of themselves either.”

“I can see that the gift was a great excitement to you, but I am sure not everyone with a latency ends up in espionage,” said Mirko questioningly.

“When I was much younger, sixteen or so,” she said, “I had the latency, in an attenuated form, for precognition. I couldn’t see events with anything like the clarity of my main gift, but I was able to develop something stronger than an intuition for certain future events. Koopendrall was most eager to marry me off at that age; I was well-connected and more attractive than you might believe. I was introduced to potential suitors and experienced a strong foreboding against them all. Koopendrall was understandably impatient with what he saw as my excessive maidenly modesty.”

“Might he not have been right?” asked Mirko gently.

“These were by and large vile men,” she said, “and every normal feeling would have revolted against them — but my repulsion was much, much more. And none of the men I rejected have turned into anything worthwhile. My sister’s husband Saldiras, whom I rejected, is corrupt and loathsome beyond belief. As I grew older, this part of the gift waned, although I had a foreboding about my uncle Addacatzen’s death which he ignored to his cost,” she concluded.

“Do you still have these presentiments when you meet men?” asked Mirko with a smile.

“I know no more than anyone else now,” she said. “I just have to use my judgement as you do. Even my main gift comes hard now. If you think I look a wreck this morning, it’s because I’ve been trying to piece together what happened to Florian.”

“You don’t look a wreck.”

She smiled wanly. “My face has sunken in; it’s the colour of parchment: I would like to think I don’t look like this all the time. After a couple of hours’ sleep I’ll be much better.”

“And what did you find out?” asked Mirko, setting sympathy aside for a while.

“What I should have guessed long ago: Vaidmantas is the most duplicitous snake on the planet, a woe-fish in human form. I always knew he was unscrupulous, but I never understood the depths of his hypocrisy and villainy.”

“I am not surprised.”

“He has risen high in Giedrus’ counsels; this I well knew. What I did not know was that Giedrus had begun to stop trusting me — or at least believed that Vaidmantas was better suited to his more unsavoury operations. So he arranged for Orstas to set light to Serendipity (so he thought) and for his subsequent ‘accidental’ death. And as we now know, it was men loyal to him among the Peremptor’s Constables who set upon poor Florian.”

Mirko shook his head wonderingly. “A wicked, wicked man.”

Catzen gave a sour smile. “So much was taken as read, although I should have been alert to it earlier. What sets him apart is that he’s also working for Bartazan…”

“What!”

“He is Bartazan’s confidential agent in Coverciano.”

Mirko thought back to the mysterious figure in Bartazan’s chamber when he had been snooping there for Catzen. The height, the voice, the build — all fitted Vaidmantas.

“But why try to destroy Serendipity? Why try to kill Florian? Surely these harm Bartazan. Or were they botched deliberately?”

“Oh, no indeed,” said Catzen. “He is subtler than you think. He has worked for Giedrus and Bartazan with diligence and enterprise. He cannot lose: whichever man becomes Peremptor will owe him favours and loyalty. He doesn’t care which one wins.”

“You have to admire his clear-sightedness,” said Mirko. “Such a scheme would never have occurred to me.”

Catzen leant her head on his shoulder. “Of course it wouldn’t, dear Mirko,” she said. “You always get defensive when I tell you about your decency and integrity, as if they mark you out as some bumpkin — but they are the things I first loved about you.”

Mirko kissed her slowly and softly on the lips. “Maybe I can get used to being decent and honest,” he said with a half-smile.

She stood up and took his hand. “There is a summer-house at the back of the garden. It has a bed and linen, all maintained by the same Old Craft spell. I am going to lie on the bed for two hours and sleep, otherwise I will collapse; but then I will wake up, and I’ll still lie on the bed,” she said with a twinkle flashing through the tiredness of her eyes.

They went into the little wooden summer-house, which had barely enough room for a bed, a table and four chairs. Catzen went immediately to the bed and lay down, asleep almost before she finished stretching herself out. Mirko sat on the side of the bed and watched her breathe; her face relaxed and instantly she looked much younger, the maiden who Koopendrall had so assiduously tried to marry off. What a strange and difficult life she must have had, singled out by the Latency, valued by her family only as a bargaining counter for an advantageous marriage. Was it any wonder she was so unsettled by affection and emotion when she had been forced to insulate herself so securely against the world?

He lay down on the bed and stretched out next to her, nestling into an embrace. In her sleep she shaped herself to fit Mirko, and he watched her breathe in and out, in and out, until their rhythms grew to match and he too slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Mirko was woken by the sun, declining in the afternoon, slipping gently through the summerhouse window. Catzen stirred as he awoke and looked at him smiling.

“I didn’t dream this?” she asked. “I told you about the Old Craft, and you didn’t mind?”

Mirko kissed her on the forehead. “No, I didn’t mind. I judge people by what they do, not what they are.”

“We have a number of important practical questions to resolve,” she said, “such as who steers Serendipity tomorrow, and how you stay alive to reach the start line.”

Mirko nodded.

“But those can wait,” she said. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” and she put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down towards her.

“Have you forgotten that we’ve done this before?” asked Mirko when she paused to breathe.

“That didn’t count,” she said. “I always thought you would go your own way when you found out about the Old Craft. But this — this is something different…”

Mirko found himself in no mood to disagree, and committed himself to the moment.

Night had fallen before Catzen announced that she was hungry. “Fortunately,” she said, “this magical summerhouse contains a magical larder. I take it that eating Old Craft food isn’t objectionable to you?”

“In the circumstances,” said Mirko, “I can hardly make any meaningful protest. In the first place I have worked up an appetite; and in the second, I am beginning to revise my adverse opinion of the Old Craft, my little witch…”

She rose from the bed, wrapped her cloak around her and padded back with a tray of bread, cheese and wine. “The garden’s creator didn’t mean to spoil us,” she said. “But this will do just nicely.”

“Catzen,” he said as they ate, “what am I going to do about Serendipity’s helm?”

“I understood that Bartazan had managed to secure Liudas’ services,” she said with a partly suppressed smile.

“Exactly,” said Mirko. “But it will be me Bartazan blames when we lose.”

“Luckily I have a better candidate,” she said. “You will agree with me in the end.”

“And?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“Helm Serendipity tomorrow. I never thought to race the Margariad, but lots of dreams seem to be coming true at the moment.”

“Ah, Catzen, just because I —”

“Oh, I’m not asking for special favours,” she said with an earnest smile. “I really am the best you’ll get. I can do this.”

“Catzen, have you ever helmed a galley?”

“Don’t you listen to me? I can remember every word you’ve ever said to me. Women are more attentive to these things. I used to helm Addacatzen’s galley Sunrise.”

“It’s one thing taking the helm on a leisurely practice round a calm bay; quite another to steer a race galley.”

“I even helmed Dragonchaser once; Drallenkoop had a fistula and I turned up to take practice one day. Drallenkoop was furious when he found out, and Koopendrall was little better. But the crew were complimentary afterwards. And Addacatzen said I was an excellent helm.”

“You don’t think he was being polite to his niece? Or that it’s relevant that this was fifteen years ago?”

Catzen frowned and scowled. “Be honest, it’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? Why can’t a woman helm a galley every bit as well as a man?”

“Has a woman ever helmed in the Margariad?”

“Not as such, but this is a chance for us to make history. I know these waters, Mirko! Trust me — I have to be better than Liudas.”

Mirko looked long and hard into her eyes. He loved her; but he had invested his whole being into Serendipity this summer, and he couldn’t afford to be influenced by sentiment. On the other hand, Catzen had proved herself extremely competent at everything she claimed she could do; vainglory was not one of her weaknesses.

He nodded. “Don’t let me down, Catzen.”

Catzen bit back a smile with difficulty. “You are supposed to say ‘I will still love you whatever happens’.”

“As I will, Catzen; but I’d prefer to love you with a winner’s laurel round your neck.”

CHAPTER 33

Mirko was awake before dawn, conscious that, in so many ways, this was his day of destiny. He realised, although with surprisingly little apprehension, that he could well end it dead; while in itself an unappealing prospect, it undoubtedly lent savour to the mundane events of the day. Somewhere, Bartazan would be choosing his attire, uncertainty sapping at his energies; the prospect of Liudas helming his galley would not increase his confidence. In Coverciano, Giedrus would be surveying his apartments, wondering if it was for the last time; although no doubt deriving some satisfaction from the tribulations afflicting Serendipity. Vaidmantas too, would be looking at the day with an appraising eye. One way or another, he would expect to end it Lieutenant of the Peremptor’s Constables, whatever the outcome of the Election. Larien would be there, somewhere, too. Would she still want to see Dragonchaser come home at the head of the field? Or was her breach with Drallenkoop insuperable? It no longer mattered to him, but he realised that he hoped events were kind to her.

He turned at the sound of Catzen moving around the room. “We should be ready to go,” she said. “We are safe here, but we have to get down to the docks somehow. Vaidmantas will still kill you if he catches you. I’ll get the galumpher.”

Mirko occupied himself with a few lunges with his rapier, followed by a breakfast of modest quantity. He started to feel more confident. Who cared what Bartazan and Giedrus, Vaidmantas and Larien, were thinking? He had Catzen at his side, and he had a race to win.

“What are you smiling at?” asked Catzen, as she slipped back into the summerhouse in the breaking dawn.

“Nothing,” said Mirko. “I am just considering the potential outcomes for today.”

Catzen smoothed a stray hair off her forehead.

“Don’t worry, Catzen,” he said. “Things will work out.”

The air was crisp and chill with autumn as Catzen led the galumpher through the grounds of the palace. Mirko looked up at the sky. A lifetime watching the weather told him that it wasn’t going to be a factor today; breezy maybe, but no chance of a storm, and dry for the spectators. Around Coverciano servants moved sleepily about their business. The outcome of the Election was of no concern to these folk; it was the more exalted ones who had cause to fear a change of regime. Maybe some of the stable lads nursed hopes that a hated overseer would be replaced if Bartazan came to power, but indifference was the prevailing tenor.

The morning guard strolled languidly around the walls, looking little more concerned by events. If I were Peremptor, thought Mirko, I would introduce more urgency into my guards. For now, though, this indolence served them well.

“Good morning, my lady,” said the guard on the gate. “You’re out and about early.”

“Good morning,” said Catzen. “This is a busy day, you know. An Election, a race — and I want to get a good seat.”

The guard laughed. “Just so. I’ll be here all day; still we can see part of the course from the Walls — most of the run to the finish.”

Catzen smiled politely.

“You’ll be expecting your cousin to win, no doubt? I’ve ten valut on Dragonchaser myself, so don’t tell me I’m wrong.”

Mirko, who had been watching the exchange in silence, could not suppress a snort.

The guard turned to Mirko. “And who might you be? And what do you know, anyway, that my lady doesn’t?”

“Take no notice of him,” said Catzen with a flush. “The man knows nothing of galleys, and will most likely back Kestrel or Morvellos Devil.”

The guard continued to scrutinise Mirko suspiciously. “Your face looks familiar, fellow. Turn to face me.”

Mirko shuffled around while keeping his face partly averted; not an act calculated to defuse mistrust.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said the guard, “but I don’t quite the looks of this fellow. Will you oblige me by waiting a few moments?”

Mirko shot Catzen an apologetic glance. “We’re in something of a hurry,” said Catzen, using a ‘grand lady’ mode of address he had not seen from her before.

Mirko’s attempt at a benign smile managed to be simultaneously vacuous and sinister; a considerable achievement, but not one calculated to smooth their exit from the palace.

“Ortem!” called the guard back into his hut. “See if you can find Vaidmantas! He wanted to know if there were any suspicious movements.”

Mirko’s heart sank at the mention of Vaidmantas; while it was conceivable he could be bought or otherwise suborned, he preferred not to make the attempt. He looked sideways at Catzen, who shrugged. It was signal enough. He brought his knee up into the guard’s groin; the man pitched forward and Mirko struck him behind the ear with the pommel of his rapier.

He lay still and Mirko stepped inside to deal with his colleague Ortem. But Ortem was too quick. “Help! Help! Murder! Mayhem! Help!”

Mirko cursed; he kicked at the man’s kneecap; there was no honour in killing an honest servant. A sturdy chop to the throat proved sufficient to incapacitate him, but the damage was done. The clatter of boots nearby, the brazen call of alarums, told him that the alarm had been raised.

Catzen was on the rear saddle of the galumpher. “Jump on!” she cried. “Ride for your life! Ride for the gate.”

Mirko wondered Catzen could not guide the galumpher, his own skills being largely unsuited for the purpose; but he supposed she had her reasons. He bellowed at the beast in attempt to prompt it into action; the galumpher gathered speed, and behind him Catzen performed a complex manoeuvre to face backwards in her saddle. From the saddlebag she unclipped a bow, and slung a quarrel of arrows over her shoulder. That was why she was sitting at the back.

The guards were still disorganised in their pursuit. Had they thought to shut the outer gate immediately, Mirko and Catzen would have been trapped inside; as it was, before the call “Lower the gates!” went up, the galumpher was almost through; and although Catzen had to duck as the grille came down, the gate was negotiated with room to spare.

Catzen crowed with laughter as those pursuers who had thought to mount their own galumphers were brought up short; for the gate designed to keep her and Mirko in had only detained the pursuers; Vaidmantas chief among them, bellowing furiously at the hapless underlings.

“Where to?” cried Mirko. “Darklings?”

Catzen shook her head. “Wrong direction — we need to get down to the docks, where there are people.”

“The Waterside!”

Catzen nodded emphatically. “And quickly!”

Behind them, the guards had raised the gate. Looking round, Mirko quickly counted six pursuers, Vaidmantas at their head. Catzen wordlessly pulled her bow back, awaiting the moment they should come within range.

The galumpher clattered down the hill, the sea to their left, the sun rising on the horizon behind them. Mirko could hear the galumphers of the pursuers gaining on them. “Can’t you slow them down?” said Mirko.

“No point in shooting at them yet — I don’t have arrows to waste.”

The road to the Old Town stretched out before them, the buildings like scale models below them; at the rate the Guards were gaining, all too far away.

“Faster!” said Catzen tersely. Mirko did not dignify the remark with a response. Did she think he was dawdling deliberately? He heard the thrum of the bow behind him, and a cry of pain; one of the Guards crashed to the road, throwing up a cloud of dust. Vaidmantas shouted something indeterminate which Mirko did not feel compelled to stop and listen to.

“They won’t shoot at us,” said Catzen, turning her head. “A dead Elector’s cousin might be too difficult to explain. They’d much prefer to murder us in secret.”

“Reassuring,” said Mirko dryly.

“It ought to be; that reluctance is keeping us alive.”

The bow thrummed again. Catzen swore softly. “Can’t you ride that more smoothly?” she asked irritably. “I need a steady base to shoot from.”

“I can trot if you’d prefer a less challenging environment.”

Catzen said nothing but merely loosed another unsuccessful arrow.

“Mirko! They’re getting close!”

Mirko risked turning his head to look behind; the view was not encouraging. He kicked at the galumpher’s sides but there was no answering surge; the creature was already at the meagre limits of its capacity. Why could Catzen, who appeared not to be short of funds, not have invested in a mount capable of several speeds, including ‘rapid’? The populated heart of the Old Town lay well ahead; at this rate they would be over-run.

“I’ve no choice,” said Catzen. “I’m going to have to shoot Vaidmantas — for which there will be a price later…”

“Later is later,” said Mirko. “It’s now we need to worry about. Haven’t you been shooting at him before?”

Catzen shook her head. “There was no need if we could get away. But I don’t think we can. Slow down, rise steady.”

Mirko reined in the galumpher. Catzen raised herself in her stirrups to stand tall. Vaidmantas, at the head of the pursuers, seemed heedless of his danger. At this distance it would take a remarkable shot to bring him down.

But Catzen was a remarkable shot. Her face expressionless, her windblown hair framing her features, she let go an easy shot with seemingly no force. Mirko could not follow the arrow’s flight, but then he saw the arrow protruding from Vaidmantas’ shoulder. With his good arm he fought to bring his galumpher under control, but he was thrown into the dirt, landing heavily on the arrow and shoulder with a cry of rage and pain. The other four Guards reined in indecisively.

“Now! Go! Go! Go!” cried Catzen. “We are nearly there!”

Two guards pulled Vaidmantas into a sitting position. The other two, in response to a curse from Vaidmantas, set off again in pursuit, the low early morning sun casting shadows of vast length in the direction of Mirko and Catzen. But long as the shadows were, they could not bridge the gap between pursued and pursuers. Quickly they lost heart, and Mirko was able to enter the populated streets of the Old Town with something like dignity.

“Make for the Waterside,” said Catzen. “We can wait there until the crowds thicken; we’ll be safe enough until after the race, at least.”

Mirko dismounted in the patrons’ yard at the Waterside; never had the dingy old tavern looked so homely. He reached out a hand and helped Catzen down; she looked taut and strained but otherwise composed.

“Panduletta!” he called. “Open up, it’s Mirko!”

It was Cambyryna who pulled back the shutters and let them in.

“Good morrow, sir. The mistress gave orders you was to be taken straight to her if you showed up. She didn’t say anything about your lady friend.”

Mirko took Catzen by the hand. “The Lady Catzendralle goes everywhere I do. Take us to Panduletta.”

They were conducted up the narrow winding staircase to Panduletta’s private chambers, where Florian was sitting propped up in her bed, bandages around his head and shoulders, but a weak smile on his face.

“Florian!” cried Mirko. “You seem to be alive.”

Florian shrugged, then winced at the effect this had on his shoulder. “I believe so.”

“You’re no use to me like that, though. You were supposed to be helming a galley today.”

Florian looked down. “I’m sorry I sneaked out, for what it’s worth. On this one occasion, at least, you were right.”

Panduletta broke in. “Can’t the two of you stop bickering? You are both so — so Garganet, all prickliness and pride.”

“Sorry,” said Mirko. “I have been pre-occupied.”

Florian gave Catzen an appraising glance. “So it would seem.”

Mirko controlled a flush. “That wasn’t what I meant; although may I introduce you to your replacement, the Lady Catzendralle.”

“ ‘Replacement’?”

“Someone has to steer today. My lady has come through a rigorous selection process.”

Florian muttered something unintelligible, only the words “in your bed” being generally audible.

“I beg your pardon, Florian?”

“Nothing. My wits have been addled by that unutterable quack Marijus’ Number 3 tincture. Do you know what he makes it from?”

“I’m not sure I want to,” said Mirko.

“Well, I’m telling you anyway: goat-shit.”

“I thought there was a smell in here,” said Catzen. “Perhaps some fresh air would benefit us all.”

Florian looked at her with distaste. “Don’t you wreck my galley today.”

Mirko smiled. “Your galley? If you aren’t careful you’ll be identifying with the cause next.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ascalon. If you win — if she can steer — I’m a free man this evening. That’s worth a bump on the head.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Mirko, “that the Lord Bartazan — or Peremptor Bartazan, under this scenario — will automatically release non-participant crew members.”

Florian looked dumbstruck. “He must! I am part of the team.”

“Quite frankly, Florian,” said Catzen, “I think you will be fortunate to see any slaveries remitted today, participant or not. I don’t think Bartazan will be interested in details tonight.”

“We have a deal,” said Mirko with a frown. “He fought hard enough against the concession, which makes me believe he’s sincere in it. That deal is that ‘the slaves’ will be freed — and that includes you, Florian. We won’t race without that assurance.”

Florian gave a weak smile. “I don’t know whether that’s noble principle or teary sentimentality.”

Catzen’s face flushed red. “It’s an utterly stupid idea to antagonise Bartazan over something so trivial,” she snapped at Florian, “but it’s exactly the sort of pig-headed perverse self-defeating decency that Mirko always shows.”

Florian tried half-heartedly to suppress a sneer. “If we don’t win, today, my lady, I hope you drown. All Ascalon needs is some nectar-whelped Electorbitch telling him he’s wonderful and noble and too good for this cruel world. I wasn’t over-fond of Larien, but at least she—”

“Florian, that is more than enough,” said Mirko in a surprisingly level tone. “You know nothing about Catzen, and I won’t allow you to speak to her that way!”

“Mirko, it’s not worth worrying about. Florian is naturally concerned that I will show his helmsmanship up by my own élan.”

Panduletta held up her hands. “Stop this, all of you! Marijus said that Florian was to get rest, not argument. How will he feel when he makes his morning call and finds him wrangling?”

“Sorry,” said Mirko.

“My apologies,” said Catzen. “I am your guest, mistress Panduletta, and I display coarse and unbecoming manners.”

Catzen wandered over to the window and looked out. The sun was rising in the sky. “Look, Mirko!” she cried, all animosities forgotten. “You can see all the galleys on their jetties. Don’t they make a fine sight?”

Mirko walked across to join her at the window. In accordance with race tradition, the galleys were all arrayed in colourful new sails. Serendipity floated proud, her hull freshly painted in Azure chequer, a sail of deepest indigo with the leaping woe-fish emblem of the House of Bartazan in the centre. Adjacent was the scarlet sail of Dragonchaser with its rampant dragon emblazoned. Excelsior’s purple sail made a fine contrast with the brilliant white of Animaxian’s Glory, while the yellow and orange striping of Kestrel was surely too bold for most tastes.

Catzen’s large brown eyes were alight. “You cannot imagine how long this has been a dream for me. So many Margariads I have watched, cheering for Sunrise or — sorry — Dragonchaser. I always hoped that one day I might sail on one of those proud galleys. And here I am!”

Florian snorted. “Ipolitas Liudas could have said much the same — in fact, he probably did. Love of the galleys doesn’t make a helm.”

“That’s enough, Florian,” said Mirko. “Catzendralle is the helm we have today — solely as a result of your own folly and negligence. Your best contribution is to keep your thoughts to yourself, especially as you have no encouragement to offer.”

Panduletta frowned. “Can’t you at least wish them good luck, Florian?” she said. “You and Mirko have been through too much together.”

Mirko raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “I’d be frustrated too if I’d missed out on the race, and with everything having gone so well too.”

Florian looked at him sourly. “I may have been unnecessarily churlish,” he said. “I have a vested interest in you winning, and I’ve no doubt that the Lady Catzendralle will prove a superior helm to witch-boy Liudas.”

“Shall we go?” said Catzen in a brittle tone. “I would like to mingle with the crowds before the race. We’ll be safe enough from Vaidmantas’ men now there are people on the street.”

Mirko nodded. He could well understand her discomfort at Florian’s allusion even though it hadn’t been directed at her.

“Florian, trust me. I’ll be back with your cancelled indenture papers after the race.”

“Since that depends on Bartazan’s magnanimity, forgive me a degree of scepticism. Just race well; we can’t have a bunch of Paladrians beating a Garganet.”

Mirko smiled and stretched out his hand. Florian’s reference to him as a Garganet indicated — too subtly for anyone else to notice — that he had disregarded the matter of the court-martial which had stripped Mirko of his Garganet citizenship.

Florian leaned forward, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, and shook Mirko’s outstretched hand. “Fair winds, sea-friend.”

“Fair winds.”

Mirko smiled. “Goodbye, Panduletta. All being well, I’ll see you after the race.”

Panduletta gave him a quick embrace, with a perfunctory curtsy for Catzen. Catzen replied with what Florian would have called an ‘Electorbitch nod’ as she left the room.

CHAPTER 34

There were still several hours before the race; the streets were thronged with crowds in a carnival atmosphere, and the booths of the local traders — especially those selling hot food — were under siege. Mirko was well-known on the waterfront and managed to circumvent the queues, an approach with which Catzen did not appear entirely comfortable.

Mirko laughed as he handed her a portion of honey-glazed chestnuts in a snapple-fish shell. “You see nothing wrong in engaging in espionage, but you object to me jumping the queue to secure your luncheon?”

Catzen smiled as she swept a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. “I admit it does seem perverse. The espionage has a purpose in the world of high-statecraft, however misguided it may have been; but queue-jumping is just ill-mannered. As Florian so delicately said, I’m an Electorbitch by upbringing, and we take these things seriously.”

Mirko shook his head in perplexity. There was no fathoming the curious morality of the Electors, who thought nothing of locking a man in a private dungeon and forgetting him, but recoiled at the violation of lunchtime etiquette.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Catzen with a frown.

“I don’t know. You, Electors, I can’t say.”

“I don’t see that I’ve said anything risible.”

“Catzen, don’t be so prickly! We are close enough that I can laugh at you sometimes?”

She put one arm around his neck, carefully balancing the chestnuts with the other. “Of course; I’m just not used to it. I had forgotten what it felt like…”

Mirko ruffled her hair. “Watch out!” cried Catzen. “Don’t spill the chestnuts, not after you have abused etiquette so grossly to secure them.”

He turned at the sound of a footstep behind them. “A charming scene,” said a man with a chill smile and an arm in a sling: Vaidmantas.

Mirko’s hand dropped to his rapier-hilt; Vaidmantas raised his good arm in mock alarm. “The gallant Captain Ascalon would not skewer a disabled man, surely?” he said.

Catzen carefully set down the chestnuts on the wall with a deliberation that wrenched in some indefinable way at Mirko’s heart.

“Mirko will not kill you,” she said, “although Animaxian knows he ought to.”

Vaidmantas bowed. “My Lady Catzendralle, you have a harsh and bloody ethic. I wonder whether your new friend is acquainted with how you have deployed it in the past? The Captain is renowned for his high moral tone: I wonder what he would make of certain of your past escapades.”

“I know everything I need to about Catzendralle’s past,” said Mirko, “namely, what she has seen fit to tell me. Since I trust her, this is surely sufficient.”

Vaidmantas smiled. “My lady is no innocent, and you engage with her at your own risk. Still, since you were her agent, you must expect a degree of — ambivalence — in her make-up.”

“Say whatever you have to say, Vaidmantas,” said Catzen. “I am no longer in Giedrus’ employ, although I may have forgotten to tender my resignation formally. And of course, if Serendipity wins today, you will find yourself in a similar situation.”

Vaidmantas gave a glacial smile. “Maybe the laudanum the apothecary has tendered for my shoulder has warped my judgement, but I am giving you a warning. The pair of you have done me a personal injury today. I am not a man to subordinate my long-term aims in pursuit of a petty vengeance; but one day, when the time is right, I will settle with the pair of you. If you don’t win today, I need only watch: Giedrus will have you both killed without a second thought; but if you do win — well, I will not be completely powerless then, either. Don’t expect Bartazan to protect you.”

Mirko’s returned smile was equally bleak. “I never expected any different, Vaidmantas.”

With an ironic bow, Vaidmantas took his leave. Catzen looked at Mirko with an unreadable expression. “That is not a good enemy to have,” she said. “He is a man who will be on the winning side no matter what. Our situation is by no means secure.”

“Then let’s just enjoy today,” he said, picking up the shell of chestnuts and handing them back to Catzen. “We should be getting to Urmaleškas.”

They made their way through increasingly crowded streets. Mirko was widely recognised. “Good on you, Ascalon!”, “I’ve three valut on you today!”, “Look out for Dragonchaser!”.

Mirko’s back was sore from the pounding of hands from well-wishers by the time he reached Urmaleškas. The gates opened at his approach, and Trajian ushered them inside.

“I’m glad to see you, Mirko,” he said. “There was a rumour the Peremptor had laid a warrant against you.”

“I believe he neglected that formality,” said Mirko with a wry smile, “although nonetheless he has been eager to remove me from the race; but as you see, I am here. Can you rustle up a couple of sets of Azure?”

“A couple?” asked Trajian with a questioning glance at Catzendralle. “You are not planning on taking your new lady friend as a passenger?”

“Of course not,” said Mirko with a pleasant smile; Trajian relaxed. “Her name is the Lady Catzendralle, of House Drall, and she is our helm today. As such she will need a uniform.”

“You are joking, of course.”

“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 hardly 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

The 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.

The herald was running through the list of competitors for one final time, and Mirko gave an encouraging smile to Catzen who waved back with every appearance of confidence. Serendipity was sandwiched between Animaxian’s Glory — never a proximity Mirko relished — and the Mandry-Arvaluz galley Sparkle, whose performances to date marked her out as inconsequential.

In the Electors’ stand Algimantas let fall a giant red flag; the herald sounded loud and long his horn; and the Margariad was underway.

“Jenx! Beat Seven! Beat Seven!” called Mirko, leaping up to the observation platform. “Catzen, easy does it!”

Serendipity moved easily ahead at the comfortable Seven rhythm. Several galleys were tempted by the thought of early glory and a following wind, and set unsustainably high tempos. Jamminaldo streaked to the fore, and Kestrel made a brave start. Mirko noticed that Dragonchaser, on the far right of the field, started more conservatively, and the silver and lilac sail of Excelsior also tucked into the crowd. Sparkle fouled her oars immediately on the start, and Catzen instinctively made use of the extra space to make some sea-room and increase the gap between herself and Animaxian’s Glory: Mirko was still not sure if she intended to race seriously, or if Inisse were still intent on settling scores with the Bartazan galley.

Jamminaldo and Kestrel streaked ahead, the cheers of the crowd still audible from the shore. Serendipity, still beating Seven, was tucked into the middle of the pack.

“Keep us clear, Catzen!” called Mirko. He could not afford to be trapped among the slower boats if Dragonchaser or Excelsior attempted to break from the front of the field. Dragonchaser in particular had adopted a worrying position, with clear sea on the shore-side, making it easy for her to adopt a higher tempo and streak away if she chose. Excelsior was alongside Serendipity, with Animaxian’s Glory tracking her wake.

Mirko relaxed as the boats settled into a rhythm along the straight. Pull-pull-pull. The effort was easy and unforced. He instructed Catzen to manoeuvre Serendipity to the side of the field and gradually she moved across. Mirko did not have time consciously to evaluate Catzen’s performance, but unconsciously he realised she was displaying an unobtrusive competence. The crowded jostling at the start of the race was always an unsettling time for a helm.

Mirko felt the wind flapping his collar from behind; it was perhaps freshening slightly. Serendipity sat fairly flat in the water; it was rare inside the bay at this time of year for choppiness or significant waves. The Morvellos Lighthouse was approaching, and Mirko had to decide whether to try and overtake more galleys before the turn or tuck in. Jamminaldo and Kestrel remained at the head of the field, but he knew they were not serious rivals; neither had a crew with enough strength and stamina for the latter stages of the race. Dragonchaser, still wide on the right of the field, would not be able to take a tight line around the lighthouse, but unencumbered by baulking vessels might still attempt to slip away; while Excelsior remained in the pack, and could not pass Serendipity without a lengthy and unwelcome detour.

There was a risk in sticking with the pack that he could lose contact with Dragonchaser if she made a determined break; but it would be wasteful of effort to try and thread through the densely-packed field — not to mention risking a collision — as they went around the Morvellos. Dragonchaser had gained an early advantage through adopting a more flexible position, making good use of her favourable start draw; first blood to her. Mirko made his decision.

“Jenx! Go to Six, go to Six! Catzen, hold position ‘til we’re round the lighthouse! Easy now!”

Mirko was not comfortable with this cautious strategy, but he still had to see how Catzen would deal with a challenging turn, and the sudden breakaway was not Drallenkoop’s usual technique: he trusted to the superior conditioning and stamina of his crew to ease away gradually from the field. He considered for a moment taking a tight inside line around the Morvellos as he had to beat Spray; but he was coming round the rock from the opposite direction under different tidal conditions. And looking across to the rocks, he saw only a single mermaid watching events, and she did not seem disposed to call to him this time. The mermaid sensed his gaze and turned her head to look at him; Mirko raised his hand in salute, but the mermaid did not respond. He could not tell if it was the same one he had rescued all those months ago. Maybe the mermaids felt their debt was paid now.

Serendipity approached the rocks at a cautious tempo. The House Tichanet galley Negrillon was ahead and slightly wide of them, with Excelsior pressing behind, having got the better of Animaxian’s Glory. Dragonchaser remained ahead and wide, but to Mirko’s relief appeared to be saving her boldness for the more taxing phases of the race to come. He nodded in satisfaction.

“Easy, Catzen! Take it easy, just get us round!”

Catzen swung the helm in a long lazy arc; she even had time to smile as Serendipity curved round the lighthouse. Negrillon ahead of them was unable to execute so economical a turn, and Catzen positioned Serendipity to go through the gap, looking expectantly at Mirko.

“Jenx! Beat Eight! Beat Eight!” Pull-pull-pull-pull. Serendipity eased through the gap, waves skipping up over the bow as they came around into the current. This was where the race proper began: in fourth place, just behind Dragonchaser, with Excelsior and Animaxian’s Glory to the rear; the wind in their faces and the current contending with them. This was what the year had been all about.

As the leading galleys started to pull into the wind, there was an appreciable slackening of velocity. Kestrel, in particular, seemed almost to go backwards; her moment of glory was over. Jamminaldo, the galley of House Sey, appeared to be having difficulty in maintaining a consistent line, buffeted by the wind. Dragonchaser’s scarlet sail was forced back against her mast, but Drallenkoop chose this moment to increase the tempo to Eight; Mirko knew if she got away in the run down to the Hanspar, the race was lost.

“Come on now!” he roared. “Quartermen! Keep the rhythm! Trajian, your men are ragged!”

There were grim faces as the crew dug deep into their reserves of energy. “Keep Dragonchaser in sight!” he called. “Catzen, in behind her!”

Catzen shot a weary glance up to the observation platform; tucking in behind a lead boat as a shield from a headwind was basic helmcraft, although Mirko reflected it was a tactic Liudas had never mastered.

“Jenx! Down to Seven! Beat Seven!” he called. Less effort was needed to remain in Dragonchaser’s wake, and it was better to conserve energy for when he was ready for a serious assault. Catzen instinctively understood the strategy and positioned Serendipity with Dragonchaser between her and the wind.

As the two galleys pitched into the seas being churned increasingly by the freshening wind, Mirko noticed that Drallenkoop was making no attempt to force Serendipity into the wind; instead he was taking the straightest route and allowing anyone to tuck in behind them who cared to. It could hardly be because he was afraid of Jamminaldo, which was rapidly losing ground; instead it bespoke a potentially fatal overconfidence, a feeling that no other galley could live with her straight-line speed or, more tellingly, her crispness around the turns. Time would tell if he was right.

Looking round, Mirko saw that Raïdis had adopted an identical tactic in Excelsior, using Serendipity as a windshield. In ideal circumstances Mirko would have tried to flush her out by taking a more indirect course, but with Dragonchaser ready to steal a potentially race-winning advantage he could not afford the risk. Excelsior would reach the Hanspar the freshest of the three boats, but at the cost of being behind both of her main rivals, and potentially out of touch should a decisive breakaway occur.

Mirko felt relatively satisfied as the long haul to the Hanspar unfolded. Jamminaldo had disintegrated completely; Dragonchaser, Serendipity and Excelsior all passed her without disruption of their rhythms. Serendipity seemed comfortable behind Dragonchaser, staying in contact without excessive exertion. Dragonchaser clearly had something in reserve, but Serendipity could say the same; Drallenkoop had to decide whether to gamble on a potentially decisive increase of tempo, or to pull away gradually, or to attempt to gain a greater advantage around either the Hanspar or The Sorcerers. Mirko thought he knew how Drallenkoop’s mind worked; he would try to make his superiority around the turns work in his favour. He jumped down from the observation platform and briefly shared his thoughts with Catzen, who nodded. She had done marvellously well so far; for someone who had not helmed in years, she had a rare, instinctive gift.

“Jenx! Be ready, Hanspar coming!”

Dragonchaser hit the approach to the rock, with its unpredictable current, with a small but definite advantage. Drallenkoop swung the helm in a practised arc; the turn was crisp and sharp; flawless, in fact.

“Jenx! Keep Seven! Catzen…” he realised there was nothing he could say to her; either she’d get the turn right or she wouldn’t. She didn’t need his advice.

Catzen smiled quietly to herself as the turn arrived; she nodded her head and hauled the helm with a snap; Serendipity flowed into the turn, speeding away as she moved out of the adverse current, straightening up and following Dragonchaser. Her turn had been no better than Drallenkoop’s; but it had been no worse, and they were still in contention.

Mirko caught Catzen’s eye; they were sparkling with scarcely containable excitement, and her cheeks were flushed from a mixture of adrenaline and the sea-wind.

“Mirko!” she called. “Give me speed! Let’s hit them!”

Mirko grinned. This was exactly his intention.

“Jenx! Go to Ten! Go to Ten!” he cried in a great voice. To move up two tempos was a risk, but nothing less would get them past Dragonchaser. If the move failed, the race was lost; but to go into The Sorcerers behind was defeat too.

“Catzen! Prepare to pass to port!”

Catzen nodded, then swung the helm to starboard. Mirko cursed: either this was sheer wilfulness, or Liudas’ tendency to confuse left and right had manifested itself under pressure.

As Serendipity began to move to starboard, Dragonchaser tracked the move, steering in the same direction to block the sea-room.

“Got you!” cried Catzen, immediately wrenching the helm as far to port as possible. At tempo Ten, Serendipity responded instantly; Drallenkoop was taken by surprise and only belatedly started to straighten up.

“Go! Go! Go!” screamed Catzen at the crew. “Ten! Ten!”

Dragonchaser tried to move back into the gap. Mirko could see Drallenkoop shouting at his overseer, trying to wring a tempo increase out of the crew; but it was too late. Mirko could feel the blood coursing through his veins and a lump in his throat. He looked at Catzen, and he couldn’t tell if his eyes were moist from the whipping wind or the emotion; her manoeuvre was brilliantly conceived and executed, an act of genius; he had been right to trust her. He gave a great whoop of exultation: the madness of racing was on him again.

“Come on!” bellowed Mirko. “This is it, boys! This is where we win it! Keep the rhythm there, Skaidrys! Slovo, your Quarter can keep Ten! Come on, man!”

Mirko knew that the tempo was not sustainable for more than a couple of minutes; and there was the most challenging turn of all to come, and a long run into the finish. He could slacken the pace and consolidate the lead; or he could keep pushing. Common sense dictated easing back; but on the other hand, two more minutes of this would break Dragonchaser, unused to being passed or outpaced. He looked down at Catzen, who seemed to understand the dilemma. She straightened her right arm, pointing ahead: more, more.

Jenx looked back expectantly, awaiting the command to come down to Nine or even Eight. “Maintain Tempo Ten, Jenx!”

Jenx nodded and grinned: he was not having to row. Mirko jumped down from the observation platform and ran forward to Trajian. “Can they keep this going?” he asked.

Trajian gasped: “I’ll tell you when we can’t — that’s not yet.”

Mirko nodded. “Get me to The Sorcerers at this tempo and the race is ours.”

He ran back to the stern. “Catzen, we’re going for broke: I want as big a lead as possible by The Sorcerers.”

Catzen smiled, the calmest person on the galley. “Do I thread the Needle?”

“Can you?”

Catzen’s smile widened. “I can do anything today.”

“We won’t push our luck. Your job is to make a decent turn around the conventional route. I want us so cleanly ahead that even if Drallenkoop threads the Needle we’ll still come out ahead. One more turn; that’s all I need from you.”

“I can do it,” said Catzen, pushing her hair back out of her eyes.

Mirko grinned. “Just make the turn, my lady.” He sprang back onto the observation platform. The crew were visibly straining; but Dragonchaser was failing to re-establish contact, and was now coming under pressure from Excelsior. Ahead loomed The Sorcerers: if Catzen could pull off a good — or even an adequate — turn here, then Serendipity was the favourite.

Trajian’s teeth were gritted as he struggled to hold the tempo for his Quartermen; Skaidrys on the adjacent front Quarter was expressionless but holding the rhythm. The Sorcerers were not that far away; this was not the time to mollycoddle them.

“Come on, Quarters!” he shouted. “Do you want to be free or not? One more minute, one more minute! How much do you want this? Row! Row!”

Mouths were contorted into grimaces all over the boat; they might no longer have a headwind to face, but the current was still against them, and progress was slow.

Catzen called out: “Mirko! Look at Dragonchaser — she’s coming adrift!” and sure enough the gap was increasing. The unexpected pressure and Serendipity’s punishing pace were destroying her morale and composure. Now, thought Mirko, we’ll see what you’re really made of, Elector’s boy Drallenkoop.

Aboard Serendipity the crew could see the patent difficulties experienced by Dragonchaser and dug deeper into their reserves. As The Sorcerers approached Mirko performed a rapid calculation: was he far enough ahead that even if Dragonchaser threaded the Needle she would come out behind? It was close; and he knew that Drallenkoop would try it if he could. He had a sudden temptation to let Catzen try it; the way she was helming today, he’d back her to bring it off.

Catzen seemed to divine something of his dilemma. “Let me do it, Mirko! You know I can!”

Mirko looked ahead to the looming triple crest of The Sorcerers, angry jagged rocks reaching out for any ship straying too close, waves ending their incalculable journey across the ocean dashed against the rocks. The current raced through the gap, boiling and snarling. It held an evil aspect for Mirko; he was ahead and it wasn’t for him to take what might prove an unnecessary risk.

“Sorry, Catzen. We don’t need to do it — take the long way.”

Catzen looked as if she wanted to argue; Mirko held her gaze sternly and she looked away.

“Jenx! Down to Seven! Beat Seven! We’re going round the outside.”

Jenx seamlessly converted the tempo from Ten to Seven without discontinuity for the rowers. Serendipity was approaching The Sorcerers at a smooth progression and manageable speed for Catzen. He looked back to Dragonchaser, who had also dropped her tempo: he could see her prow inclining towards the narrower of the gaps. Drallenkoop was taking the last desperate option open to him: forcing Dragonchaser to slip between Anazgro and Rybalard in the face of a roiling current. He was going to thread the Needle. And Mirko mentally raised his cap; he knew that he lacked the courage to throw his own galley into that maelstrom. And Drallenkoop had conquered the passage twice before; a third time would be unparalleled.

“Catzen! Dragonchaser’s going threading!”

Catzen gave a perfunctory nod. She was struggling to hold Serendipity close enough to Anazgro — with a current determinedly forcing her off — to make a clean passage.

Mirko knew the race would be won and lost within the next minute. He did not think that Dragonchaser could come through The Sorcerers ahead, even if she threaded the Needle successfully; but if he was wrong then there was a battle in prospect. Catzen now had Serendipity pulling straight into the current, before advancing the turn so that the current was on the starboard bow.

“Jenx! Beat Eight! Beat Eight!”

More speed would be useful at this point, and incurred no risk; Anazgro was past, and they only needed to ride the current to pass Rybalard. But where was Dragonchaser?

Dragonchaser was in the midst of the spate between Anazgro and Rybalard, Drallenkoop fighting to hold a steady line. The margin for error was small, the consequences of miscalculation or misfortune to be dashed to pieces against unyielding black rock. But so far there had been neither miscalculation nor misfortune.

Sooner than Mirko would have liked, Dragonchaser popped from between the rocks like a cork from a bottle. She was facing the wrong way, and now had to spin as rapidly as possible, come back between Rybalard and Basile-Orario, but this time with the current. It was a faster manoeuvre, but an easier one because she was not fighting the current. Mirko watched in dismay as the 180-degree turn was executed seemingly instantaneously: this was Drallenkoop’s signature manoeuvre and it had been demonstrated to perfection.

“Jenx! Go to Nine! Go to Nine!” he called, and only hoped that the crew could move up a tempo. There was a danger that Dragonchaser could get out ahead.

Catzen was gripping the helm in silent supplication. There was nothing constructive she could do; Serendipity’s job now was to run in a straight line.

Dragonchaser emerged from between the rocks with a slight lead; but she was slanted across the current, and thus slowed. Serendipity had the momentum that came with the current, and was facing in the direction she wanted to be moving in. Dragonchaser had the choice of slowing to allow Serendipity through, or allowing Serendipity to plunge into her side. The rules of racing required her to give way in these circumstances, but Mirko knew that Drallenkoop wouldn’t, for it meant conceding the race. He remembered the almost identical circumstance in The Sorcerers regatta when Excelsior had been cowed into backing off when she had right of way: it wasn’t going to happen here.

“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

The 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,” said 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.

“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

Mirko 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 brilliant 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.

Bartazan had twenty-six votes; he had won the Election; he was Peremptor of Paladria.

And, thought Mirko, he was also a murderous hypocrite; and he, Mirko had put him there.

The crowd would be denied no longer. “Bartazan! Peremptor Bartazan! Give us the new Peremptor! Bartazan! Fly the Azure Flag!”

Giedrus sat expressionless at his table; Mirko sat with his head in his hands next to a frozen Catzen. Larien looked across at the pair of them, her thoughts unreadable. Elsewhere, at a signal from Vaidmantas, the Constables took up new stations at the exits.

Algimantas rose from his seat and called the room to attention. “My lords, may I direct your attention to the flagpoles? You will see that the Election has a winner; the Azure of the House of Bartazan is at the summit. I give you your new Peremptor, Lord Bartazan of Bartazan House!”

The crowd outside bellowed in approval as servants brought down the canopy to return the Electors to their privacy. Inside the pavilion rapture was more contained; everybody knew that many of the votes cast for Bartazan had been the result of direct or indirect duress. Larien cast a long look at Mirko, rose from her seat and went to stand by the exit leading to the Election platform.

Bartazan stood up and walked with measured dignity to the far end of the pavilion, pausing has he passed Giedrus’ table to exchange a few quiet words. Mirko was mildly encouraged; there was as yet no gloating or triumphalism. Mirko knew from his own experience that one could never tell in advance how power would affect a man, and that his means of securing it did not necessarily give a clue as to how he would discharge it. Perhaps Bartazan would prove statesmanlike after all.

After briefly condoling with Giedrus, Bartazan sprang up to the lectern swiftly unveiled for the victory speech.

“My fellow Electors, and my guests,” he began, his face overspread by a benign if possibly not sincere smile, “I stand before you not as your Peremptor, but your servant.”

Mirko identified the cough at the back of the room as coming from Larien; it seemed likely that the knowledge would not escape her uncle either, but Bartazan was not detained in his oratory.

“I am conscious of a deep personal inferiority as the responsibility of the August Office settles upon me; but my House has a long and honourable history of service to the common weal of Paladria, and I will strive with all my might to live up to the traditions of my House and the Office.”

Larien appeared to have brought her scorn under control, and no-one else among the Electors felt the need for interjection or open scepticism.

“It is my intent to dispense only justice as your Peremptor. I forswear all senseless harshness and vendetta; however, it is necessary to begin my tenure with a certain reckoning, which will deal justly with certain persons who have fallen away from their loyalties and obligations. In public affairs there is inevitably a tension between justice and mercy; and on occasion the diligent ruler must choose between the two. Vaidmantas, step forth!”

Mirko looked at Catzen, his stomach leaping. What was Bartazan planning? Was it possible he was going to make an example of the treacherous Vaidmantas and accept the wisdom of reaching an accommodation with Mirko? The idea had never previously occurred to him. Or was this moment he chose to rid himself of all the problems Mirko represented?

Vaidmantas walked slowly to the lectern, his face expressionless. Mirko realised that Vaidmantas had no more idea of Bartazan’s intentions than anyone else; megalomania and paranoia were not predictable states of mind.

“Welcome, loyal servant of Paladria!” cried Bartazan. “You may consider yourself, as of this moment, Captain of the Constables.”

Vaidmantas bowed, his expression still unreadable.

“Your first act is to secure the exits from this room, that justice may be administered the more effectively.”

Catzen reached across and took Mirko’s hand. Sorry, she mouthed. Mirko squeezed her hand, and allowed his other hand to drop to his sword hilt. My fault, he mouthed back.

Vaidmantas wordlessly directed the Constables to all the exits; although Mirko noticed that Larien had managed to slip out while all eyes were elsewhere.

“It has come to my attention,” said Bartazan, “with a heavy heart, that a man I had come to rely on, from whom I had come to expect loyalty and even considered a friend, has been conducting a secret intrigue against me these many months. Intrigue against the Peremptor is treason.”

Mirko considered that, even were he a Paladrian citizen, the law hardly permitted treason to be determined retrospectively; but Bartazan was unlikely to be swayed by legalistic quibbles.

“Sadly I refer to the self-styled ‘Captain’, Mirko of Garganet. You have all seen his consummate skill on the water today; but like so many of our galley-masters, he has been corrupted into dabbling with politics, to his ultimate woe. In conspiracy with the Lady Catzendralle, of the pernicious House Drall, he has sought to undermine and betray me. I will deal with the body of House Drall later, but regrettably the Lady Catzendralle must be taken into custody, awaiting the trial by her peers which is her right. No such privilege need be extended to the rogue Garganet, neither citizen nor gentleman.

“Vaidmantas! Kindly take the Lady Catzendralle into custody; then remove Ascalon and kill him immediately.”

Constables moved towards Catzen and made to lead her away, while others moved towards Mirko with drawn swords. Catzen shook off the first arm which reached her.

“Be good enough to allow me to adjust my hem!” she said with quiet hauteur. “If this is to be my last public appearance, I would not have my skirt flapping at my ankles.”

Such was her authority that the first Constable stepped back while Catzen knelt to adjust her hemline. Before Mirko could fully establish what had happened, Catzen had stood erect with one of Panduletta’s hem-pins concealed in her hand, and plunged it into the stomach of the hapless Constable, who leapt back in alarm with a cry of chagrin.

All eyes moved to the scene; Mirko took advantage to draw his sword and skewer the wrist of the first of the advancing Constables. The odds were still long but he now had the initiative. He leaped onto the long banquet table. “Come on!” he roared. “Who’s first?”

The other two Constables stepped back in puzzlement; this had been no part of their expectation. Catzen drove her elbow hard into the nose of the Constable she had pinned; he fell back with blood coursing from the wound. Hampered by her dress, she clambered onto the table to stand back-to-back with Mirko.

The Constables around the exit looked irrresolutely on: they were unwilling to desert their positions and risk an escape. Mirko essayed a sally down the table; Electors scattered and he caught one of the unwary Constables with a thrust to the belly. This technique would work, Mirko realised, until the Constables managed to collect their wits. Lady Inuela sat below them, her face transfixed in horror. Mirko thought about taking her hostage, but he knew Bartazan would not care.

Deftly Mirko flipped up the injured Constable’s blade with his own and threw it to Catzen. For the time being there was a stand-off of sorts, but it could not last. Ladies around the room screamed; Bartazan bellowed largely incoherent advice. Then Vaidmantas called out: “Archers! Fetch me archers!”

Mirko knew the game was up; an archer could pick him off from the side of the pavilion and he would be able to do nothing. Catzen looked at him in alarm; Mirko shook his head. He was a dead man either way; but he could save Catzen from the archers by giving in. “Vaidmantas!” he called.

CHAPTER 38

From outside Mirko was interrupted by a high clear female voice, and one he recognised.

“Listen to me!” it shouted. “Bartazan is killing Mirko!”

Larien, thought Mirko. What is she doing?

“Help me!” she called. “Will you let them kill brave Mirko? And the Lady Catzendralle? Help me now!”

Mirko could hear the great inarticulate roar go up from the crowd, who only minutes earlier had been threatening to lynch anyone who did not vote for Bartazan; but the person of a galley-master — especially a Margariad winner — was inviolate. The next thing Mirko knew splintered planks were sailing through the entrance; they were ripping up the platform in their rage and hurry to get inside.

Vaidmantas turned. “Where are the archers! Eudrys, keep them out!”

But the first members of the crowd had surged through the entrance, trampling Constables underfoot. This wasn’t a rescue attempt, it was a riot. Vaidmantas called the Constables to order, turned tables on their side to create a barricade. Once the archers arrived they could easily restore order, but until then they had to avoid a riot. The Electors milled around like chickens molested by a fox, running this way and that to no great effect. Bartazan dashed over to Vaidmantas’ barricade, shouting great imprecations.

“Come on!” yelled Mirko to Catzen. “Let’s get out of here — now!”

The Constables were too concerned with their own safety to spare a thought for them; the panic-stricken Electors neither recognised them nor cared; and the crowd parted to let them through with a great cheer, although already the thought of looting and destruction held more appeal for them than their original purpose.

Mirko took Catzen’s hand as they dashed pell-mell from the pavilion out on to the plaza, trying to force a passage through the great press of bodies swelling in the opposite direction. “Don’t let go of my hand!” he shouted.

Eventually, after much barging and cursing, they found themselves in a side-street; only to be confronted by a squad of Constables, all armed with bows.

“You there! Halt!” cried the leader of the group. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a riot at the pavilion — the crowd is trying to lynch Peremptor Bartazan. Vaidmantas needs you there now! There’s no time to waste!”

The Constable nodded. “Come on, lads! There’s work to be done!”

And the archers pounded off down the street.

“Where now?” panted Catzen. “Those archers will restore order soon enough.”

“The docks, as quickly as we can!”

Catzen found it hard to keep up with Mirko’s unflagging pace; and Mirko himself felt his lungs burning and his legs moved as if he were running through water. Catzen cast her sword aside in sheer exhaustion as she held on to Mirko’s hand. Behind them Mirko heard a horn blowing loud and long.

“That’s the pursuit,” gasped Mirko. “We’re back where we were this morning.”

Directly in front of them was the jetty, guarded by surly Constables annoyed at having missed the more glamorous task of superintending the Election.

“Let us through!” called Mirko. “I need to get to Serendipity!”

The Sergeant of the Constables looked puzzled. “No-one’s to go through, captain, that’s the orders of Vaidmantas.”

“You blockhead!” said Mirko. “I hardly think that applies to galley-masters, do you? Your job is to protect the galleys — I’m not going to set fire to my own boat, am I?”

“I suppose not, sir…”

“Stand aside, then!”

The Sergeant moved aside with a mumbled apology, and Mirko and Catzen clattered down the jetty. Serendipity was illuminated in the crescent half-moon, rocking gently on the tide, the sail bellied with the light breeze.

“This is where we find out if Trajian has followed instructions,” said Mirko. “If he hasn’t, we’re dead. Trajian! Are you there?”

“Who is it?” came a voice back out of the darkness.

“Mirko and Catzen — are we ready to go?”

Catzen said quietly to Mirko: “I thought we had a leak?”

“Not if Trajian has done as I hoped.”

Trajian sprang from the deck onto the jetty with a grin. “Welcome aboard! I take it events have not gone according to plan.”

Catzen permitted herself a thin smile. “It depends: if the plan was to ensure Bartazan — or should I say, the August Bartazan — passing a death sentence on us, we enjoyed complete success.”

“Well,” said Trajian, “we have replaced the damaged timbers and taken aboard a full complement of provisions. If there’s anywhere you want to go, Serendipity will take you there.”

Mirko nodded. “We no longer have a choice. Bartazan will not remit your indentures, he has told the Constables to kill me and arrest Catzen. We need to go.”

“What about Florian?”

Mirko looked at Catzen. She shrugged and shook her head.

“There’s nothing we can do for him,” said Mirko. “There’s no way we can rescue him, and no reason Bartazan should harm him. We need to go with all due speed. Tell the crew they have five minutes. Catzen, you go aboard; I’ll join you shortly.”

Catzen looked at him in surprise and went aboard. Mirko walked back down the jetty and past the Sergeant, who saluted smartly as he went past. Leaning against the sea-wall, he looked back into the Old Town. This place had been home to him; only for a year, but it had been home. On any rational basis Paladria was not a city to regard with affection, its ruling class corrupt, evil, at best inept. But here he had found friendship — admittedly at a price — purpose, and confidence. He doubted he would ever be returning; he had left a few loose ends, especially ――

Even before the thought could crystallise he heard a whisper in the still quiet of the night: “Mirko! Are you there?”

Mirko looked around. From the shadows stepped Larien.

“I knew you’d be here,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you got away.”

Mirko smiled thinly. “That remains a premature assumption. Serendipity is seaworthy, and we will have to trust to our chances; but our escape is not yet assured.”

“You know my uncle wasn’t bluffing about killing you.”

“Of course not. But you know I had to try and redeem the slaves. And thank you for what you did.”

Mirko thought he could discern a flush spread across her moonlit face.

“Think of it as paying my debt,” she said. “After the way I’ve treated you this summer… now I can look you in the face if I ever see you again.”

Mirko looked up at the sky. Why was dealing with Larien never straightforward? “You can come with us, you know. You must be in danger here now.”

Larien shook her head with a half-smile. “Even Bartazan won’t kill his own niece — not before tomorrow lunchtime, anyway, and I’m out of here on the Taratanallos packet then. Are we friends again?”

He took her hand. “It depends what you mean by friends — but yes.”

She stood up and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “Then that’s enough for me. One day we’ll meet again, Mirko — so I’m glad we’ve parted like this.”

“Goodbye, Larien.”

“Goodbye Mirko.”

He watched her as she slipped slowly off into the darkness; and sighed with relief. The final interview had not created any conflicts he could not deal with, and he would no longer have to worry about her continuing ability to affect him in ways he could not fully understand. Whatever his feelings for Catzen, Larien would always have the power to touch him in deep and unpredictable ways: best that she were off the scene.

Cries in the distance brought him to full alertness: “Treason! Treason! To the docks!”

He sprinted back up the jetty. “Jenx! Help me cast off — we’re leaving!”

Mirko and Jenx untied Serendipity and leaped back aboard.

“Which direction?” asked Catzen.

“Just out into the bay — we need to get away from the land.”

Jenx beat a steady Six tempo as they pulled out towards the Hanspar. Mirko looked back towards the shore; on the seafront he could see torches, enough for several squads of Constables. He jumped down from the observation platform to stand next to Catzen.

“What will Bartazan do?” he asked.

“You’ve stolen his galley and his slaves: what do you expect him to do?”

“Come after us with the Fleet.”

“Yes, but it’s not quite that simple. Bartazan has been Peremptor half an hour; the Fleet officers are traditionally loyal to the House he has beaten; and you are popular in the city. He might not be able to launch the Fleet against you.”

Mirko looked at her in surprise. “We can cruise the seas, then…”

“It only needs a few officers — the rowers are loyal to the officers and to their purses. We need to get out of here, and quickly.”

Mirko nodded. “I’m not keen to run against the current once we’re outside the bay, so that rules out Estria. We’ll make for Aylissia, and if anyone wants to press on for Taratanallos or Garganet from there, they can. Jenx! Go to Seven!”

Mirko climbed back to the observation platform and looked across to the Fleet Docks, which were lit but still. Steadily Serendipity made her way west across the bay, steering by the light of the Morvellos Lighthouse. This course took them closer to the Fleet Docks than Mirko wanted to go, but he was unwilling to leave the bay for the open sea without the protection of the coastline.

“Look!” shouted Catzen, “there’s a galley coming out of the docks.”

Mirko pulled out his spy-glass. “It’s only one ship, but a double-lateen sixty-four: twice our size and faster than us, especially with a fresh crew.”

The black shape of the Fleet galley scudded rapidly across the inshore waters; at her rate of progress she would intercept Serendipity while they were still in the bay; and Mirko knew the chances of out-running her were slim.

“Jenx! Down to Five! Down to Five! Catzen! Put about — prepare to fight!”

Jenx wordlessly lowered the tempo; Catzen looked at him in astonishment.

“You can’t fight a sixty-four — she’ll destroy us!”

Mirko’s eyes were cold. “I ran away once before. It’s not the Garganet way. This time, Catzen, we stand and fight. We may not be a Garganet galley but we’ll go down like one.”

Catzen shook her head. “Not like this, Mirko, not like this. I didn’t come all this way, go through everything that I’ve been through, to die because you’re too proud to run!”

“We can’t outrun her anyway,” said Mirko levelly.

“It buys us time!” cried Catzen, her eyes alight. “Don’t be a fool!”

Mirko’s eyes narrowed. “Do I have to take over the helm myself? Do as I say!”

Catzen stood defiantly as Mirko jumped down from the platform.

Mirko! Mirko! Listen to us!

He stopped short.

Come to the rocks; we will protect you.

“Mirko?” said Catzen in puzzlement. “What’s happening?”

Mirko held his hand up to silence her.

Mirko — you are our friend. We will help you.

He looked out towards the Morvellos Lighthouse. Clustered on the rocks at the base were more mermaids than he had ever seen, ten or even fifteen.

“Jenx! Go to Eight! Catzen, steer for the lighthouse.”

Catzen swung the helm around. “It’s the mermaids, isn’t it? They’re talking to you again.”

Mirko said nothing. He raised his glass again to look more closely at the Fleet galley: on its bow was painted the legend Esterling with its sigil of a manzipar tree indited below. At the stern fluttered a long scarlet pennon with a golden dragon.

“Catzen,” asked Mirko uneasily, “why would a Fleet galley have a House Drall pennon?”

“It wouldn’t — unless…can you see the helm?”

Mirko trained his glass at the stern. “Oh, Catzen… it’s Drallenkoop…but why?”

The oars smacked raggedly at the water as Catzen said: “He has every reason to resent you: you’ve taken his title, you’ve sunk his galley and destroyed his relationship with Larien. It looks like he hates you enough to make it worth doing Bartazan a favour.”

Mirko set his shoulders. “I like to know who my enemy is. We aren’t beaten yet.”

The lighthouse approached with agonising slowness as Serendipity, her crew already exhausted from the day’s efforts, pulled into the current. Esterling’s oars seemed only to skim the water’s surface as her sixty-four oarsmen rapidly closed the gap. Mirko knew they could not make the open sea ahead even if they tried: matters would be settled on the rocks and waters around the lighthouse.

Mirko! Trust us, we will protect you.

An arrow dipped in pitch thrummed across the narrowing gap between the galleys, falling no more than ten yards short of Serendipity’s stern. The chances of Esterling setting fire to Serendipity were not high, but a burning arrow catching in the lateen sail could conceivably set her alight. Mirko instructed two oarsmen away from their duties to reef the sail. Around the rocks it would be of dubious value anyway.

“Catzen, take us as close into the lighthouse as you can. Try and keep the lighthouse between us and Esterling at all times.”

Catzen nodded and gave the little half-smile she normally used when Mirko’s intelligence had exceeded her expectations. The mermaids watched inscrutably as Serendipity approached; for now they had no further counsel to give Mirko.

“Am I too close?” asked Catzen, one eye on the waves pounding relentlessly against the rocks. Mirko was uncomfortable with their proximity but felt that the mermaids would warn him if they flirted too openly with the rocks.

“Keep us where we are,” he said. “The closer we are, the harder Esterling will find it to follow us in.”

And Esterling clearly was in a quandary. With two decks of oarsmen she sat heavier in the water and could not take the risks to stay close to the lighthouse that Serendipity could. The superior speed and freshness of her crew were negated in this slow-paced cat and mouse. Esterling launched sporadic volleys of arrows, but these were half-hearted and no threat. Mirko grinned. Serendipity could keep Esterling at bay indefinitely, dodging around the lighthouse.

Catzen shook her head at him. “This stalemate helps Esterling, not us. Bartazan only needs to launch one more galley and he can trap us.”

“He hasn’t done it yet, which suggests he can’t. What if there’s been a mutiny?”

“He controls the treasury. Sooner or later he’ll find someone competent to take a galley out.”

“But if we run for the open sea, Esterling will be on us in minutes. If we don’t he needs only wait.”

He turned to look at the mermaids. They might want to protect him but there was little they could do if Bartazan managed to launch a second galley. On the upper deck of Esterling, Drallenkoop was pacing with barely containable energy, berating the archers for failing to land an a fire-arrow near enough to cause any damage.

“Does Drallenkoop look like a man who’s prepared to wait for reinforcements, Catzen?” Mirko asked. “Just look at him! He’s seething with frustration. Let’s goad him!”

Catzen raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“Your job is simple but important. I want us so that you could a draw a straight line from Esterling, through the lighthouse, to us. And be prepared to respond to my instructions on the instant. Understand?”

“Your plan is hardly so complex as to tax the intellect,” she responded dryly.

“Jenx! Tempo Two, but be ready to move up.”

For the next ten minutes, Serendipity, on the ocean side of the lighthouse, gently manoeuvred in an attempt to arrange the configuration Mirko wanted. The moonlit sea was calm, the winds were light. The only sound was the gentle plashing of her oars, and the rhythmic pounding of the waves against the rocks. Esterling seemed uninterested in tracking the minutiae of Serendipity’s movements. For all Drallenkoop’s brilliant reputation, Mirko realised, he was by experience and inclination a galley-racer: he would never before have fought a naval engagement.

Mirko stood on the observation platform looking back at the lighthouse; very little of Esterling was visible — she was now almost completely obscured by the bulk of the lighthouse.

“Jenx!” he called in a tone little louder than conversational. “Get ready.”

Jenx merely nodded. Catzen looked up expectantly; whatever Mirko was planning, he had the position he wanted.

“Go to Eight!” he cried. “Tempo Eight!”

The crew ground into action, forcing Serendipity into a muscle-grinding acceleration which must have been torture for muscles which had alternately strained and cooled throughout the day. But accelerate they did, with Catzen steering for the open sea and looking to steal a march on Esterling.

Aboard Esterling a cry went up; oaths drifted across the water. Mirko could hear Drallenkoop roaring orders; and, more slowly than would have been the case on Dragonchaser, the crew responded. Drallenkoop swung his helm to starboard and looked to pass the Morvellos to his left.

“Jenx! Down to Six.”

Jenx looked puzzled but complied. Esterling looked to be beating Eight or even Nine; giving the Morvellos a wide berth she rapidly closed the gap.

“Catzen! Hard about! Hard about! Back past the lighthouse. Jenx, go to Eight!”

Serendipity was now coming back the way she had come — in towards the shore — with the current carrying her along, adding impetus to the tired rowers’ efforts. Esterling’s great speed was now taking her further away from the doubled-back Serendipity. Drallenkoop pulled his helm across to try and intercept Serendipity before she could regain the shelter of the lighthouse. He was too involved to think of ordering arrows now.

Mirko! Come closer!

So the mermaids are still awake, thought Mirko. “Catzen, bring us in a touch.”

Drallenkoop! Drallenkoop! Come closer to the rocks, the way is short.

Mirko looked around in astonishment. The mermaids were talking to Drallenkoop — and somehow he could hear that too.

Drallenkoop kept Esterling on a steady course; she was already close to the rocks; although not to Mirko’s eye close enough to foul them, which was his hope.

“Jenx! Go to Nine!” He needed to unsettle Drallenkoop enough that he would gamble with the rocks and push too hard.

Drallenkoop! Drallenkoop! Great helmsman, lord of the sea! You can sweep closer to our rocks than that. We are calling to you, waiting for you! Come to us!

A shiver went down Mirko’s spine. He could feel the power of their call, though it was not for him. Would Drallenkoop be strong enough to resist it?

He saw Drallenkoop bring the helm around a fraction to port, in towards the rocks. His heart gave a leap, half horror, half exultation. If Drallenkoop did make it through, he realised, he would be virtually on top of Serendipity: there would be no escape.

There was a grinding sound behind them; Esterling visibly slowed. She’s grounded, thought Mirko. But how badly was she damaged?

Esterling appeared to have come to a complete halt. She had managed to wedge herself completely and immovably on a submerged rock.

“Jenx! Down to Six! Catzen, put us about again!”

Serendipity slowly turned to face Esterling. If she managed to get free, Mirko wanted to be in a position to launch one serious ramming run. But Esterling was already listing heavily. She had hit the rocks fast and it seemed she had hit a large one too. There could be no doubt: Esterling was sinking, and quickly.

“Jenx! Go to Seven! Catzen, open sea.”

Catzen nodded. This was no time to be picking up survivors. Drallenkoop and his crew had been trying to kill them for the past hour; now they would have to secure their own rescue. Let Drallenkoop, lord of the sea, cling to rocks and debate matters with the mermaids. He would have plenty to think about: not many galley masters managed to be sunk twice in a day.

Mirko raised his arm in thanks to the mermaids who, for the second time, had come to his aid. They were dangerous friends, but worse enemies. Thank you, he thought. No words came into his head from the rocks; all but one of the mermaids slipped into the sea and vanished from sight and knowledge. The final one remained on her rock and looked back at him. Into his head came not words but an image: Mirko himself with his sword out, marching towards the two louts on the beach as they prepared to molest the mermaid: louts with the scarlet tabard with a golden dragon of House Drall. He smiled. The mermaids always paid their debts.

He climbed down from the observation platform to stand beside Catzen. She put her free arm through his.

“Well,” she said. “Where to now, Captain?”

Mirko looked back over his shoulder at the dim shapes of Paladria looming out of the dark. “Aylissia can wait,” he said. “I always wanted to see what was over the horizon. South it is.”

Catzen’s eyes were dark pools in the moonlight as she smiled up at him. “They say we’ll sail off the edge of the world.”

“We already have, Catzen, we already have.”

And Catzen brought the helm around, and Serendipity made her moonlit way into her own unknown future, unique among all the other unique futures she might have chosen.

THE END