This is a fan translation of The Treasure of the Kapitana (Сокровище «Капудании») by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Vladimir Vasilyev.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 22

George Burroughs, Prince Moreau, Galita, summer of 864

The arrested port commandant, known as "the maistro" in Galita, was brought in for questioning soon after Prince George's return from the palace that now belonged to Mauro Verrentine.

Despite the unexpected news, George was in a good mood. First of all, he'd never expected to catch Nazim Socrates so easily. The man wasn't a fool, after all. Even if the viceroy had been sitting at the palace all day, at the sight of the Albionian squadron entering the port, he wouldn't have hesitated to flee so fast he wouldn't have dared to stop before reaching Surozh [Footnote 1] or even Caffa.

That was why George returned to the Saint Aurelius in high spirits.

After draining a glass of wine and sampling some incredibly delicious Taurican cherries, he was about to discuss their next steps and actions with Advisor Itkal, when an officer appeared and reported that the commandant of the Galitan port had been delivered to his own office at the port authority building and was being kept under guard. The prince was sick and tired of the ship's cabins after the long voyage and being stuck on the shoal, so he was happy to take a walk to the port authority building, especially since Advisor Itkal and Minister Miquela had gone there earlier. So, after strapping on his sword for intimidation, George (escorted by the royal guards, of course, with the detail being larger than usual) got up onto the deck and then went to the pier.

It was pleasant to look at the port, with Albionian soldiers with muskets at the ready all over the place and even an occasional uniform of a royal guard visible here and there. At the sight of the prince, the guards and the patrolmen stood at attention. George eagerly saluted in reply.

No disorder, no drunken sailors, port girls, ever-present street urchins, or beggars! The port was more like a military camp, and the Moreau princes were well used to seeing military camps of late, except for Alexander, of course.

George also saluted the guards at the entrance to the port authority building. He turned right, already knowing the way, and entered the office of the maistro/commandant without knocking.

Jacob was sitting at the desk; his assistants were digging through the books they'd pulled out from the cabinets, periodically placing sheets of paper on the desk in front of Jacob.

Lucius Miquela was sitting in the corner of a sofa with a glass of something strong in his hand; in front of the sofa was a low table, on which stood a bottle that had clearly come from a local bar, a bucket of ice and tongs, and a vase filled with fruit. The opposite end of the sofa was occupied by Itkal; the sofa was so large that one could easily fit five or six more people between the advisor and the minister. But only one man was sitting there — Captain Freemer, loud and cheerful as usual. Then again, at the sight of his nephew, he quieted and, following Miquela's example, grabbed a glass.

Across from them, at the edge of a graceful chair with bowed legs and a chiseled back awkwardly sat an elderly man with a sickly yellow complexion.

He was dressed in local fashions: lightly enough not to sweat too much in the summer heat, but, at the same time, richly, so there was no way to mistake him for a commoner. The man hurried to stand up at the sight of George.

There were also armed guards in the office, of course, but they did their best to remain inobtrusive by the walls, while still remaining on alert and ready to stop any undesirable action by their prisoner at a moment's notice.

"Your Highness, I am happy to greet—"

"And I'm not particularly happy," George said harshly, not allowing the commandant to finish. "The reception shown to me by Galita… its viceroy in particular, turned out to be quite peculiar!"

The commandant ducked his head, then, unexpectedly, said, "Your Highness! I can guess that your anger was caused by the actions of Nazim Socrates. But, please believe this old mushroom, all of Galita is sick and tired of the viceroy! All of Taurica, in fact!"

He was speaking quietly and with that hopelessness in his voice with which those condemned to die spoke, knowing that there was going to be no pardon for them.

"If Nazim Socrates has angered you, Your Highness, call him and his henchmen to account, but do not exact your vengeance on Galita, I beg you. The city is innocent in all this."

That voice immediately altered Prince George's mood. The prince had entered the office ready to smite and punish, but now he was suddenly looking at a sickly old man, who wasn't particularly frightened of his smiting but who continued to still serve the city of Galita and doing it faithfully, without deceit, pretense, or showing off.

George couldn't explain where that feeling had come from. But he could sense that it was true. So he swallowed the angry speech he'd prepared and simply said, "Sit down! What is your name?"

"Edmond Flacchi at your service," the commandant replied and once again sat on the edge of the chair.

The prince also sat on the sofa between Itkal and Freemer.

"Tell me, Edmond," the prince asked. "Do you know where Socrates is now?"

"Somewhere in the waters," the commandant replied without hesitation. "He gathered his entire squadron and sailed all the way beyond Tarkhankut."

"A squadron?" George asked in surprise. "Is it large?"

"Fifteen ships, Your Highness. Nine quarissas, two santonas, a shelia, and two muaras. But the shelia left just before your arrival, while the other ships left Galita much earlier."

Damn it! George thought in alarm. I didn't expect Socrates to have such a large fleet!

He exchanged glances with the advisor.

"Should we hurry to Kerkinitis then?" the prince muttered. "I don't want anything bad to happen to Alexander and the Queen Svenja."

"Why Kerkinitis?" Captain Freemer asked in simpleminded confusion.

Georg turned his head to give his uncle a questioning look.

"What do you mean why Kerkinitis?" he asked, chilling from a sudden guess.

"The Queen Svenja left Ketkinitis, so there's nothing for us to do there."

"Left?" the prince exhaled, certain that the worst had happened.

"Well, yes, she did! We sailed out of Kerkinitis at the same time, the Queen Svenja sailed west, and we went south to rescue you!"

"West? And then past Tarkhankut?"

"Well, yes…" Freemer said in confusion, already realizing that something was amiss. "Did you know that, George?"

And the cryptograph Uncle told me about is with Alexander! George thought in almost desperation.

"Why? Why hasn't anyone told me about this?"

The desire to smite and punish was overwhelming George again, but now the target had changed. But, naturally, George Burroughs Moreau quickly got ahold of himself. Those who smote wasted their energy on uselessly shaking the air. But those who knew how to think tended to think and act.

"Miquela, Uncle!" George commanded imperiously. "We need to set sail immediately, the sooner the better! We're dropping everything, I repeat — EVERYTHING! Get to it!"

Then the prince switched his attention to Edmond Flacchi.

"Listen, sir," George addressed him, as if he hadn't only recently given the order to arrest the commandant, "I need people who know all Taurican shoals. At least two, but seven would be better. Right now."

"Shtarkhs?" the commandant asked thoughtfully. "I don't know if there are seven of them in the city at the moment. But there should definitely be a couple. Who's the fastest here?"

George snapped his fingers; the guard lieutenant immediately stood before him.

"Go to the tavern Oreanda, it's not far, on the quay," Flacchi suggested unhurriedly. "Ask for Tus Leao and Gerhardt whose nickname is Cypress. Then grab them by the scruff and drag them first to the cassatorium and then here, even if you first have to slap them upside the head. But under no circumstances should you talk to them, especially if they're drunk! And don't be afraid of the cassats, they're not going to hurt you. Understood?"

"Tus Leao and Gerhardt Cypress," the lieutenant repeated readily.

"As fast as you can!" George ordered. "Now!"

The lieutenant disappeared, quickly telling something to one of the guards.

Jacob's assistants were returning the books back to the cabinet.

"Uncle! Recall the guards! And make sure all the soldiers are pulled out of the port! Everyone on board!"

Freemer nodded and marched to the door. Miquela had left the office earlier after the prince's first words about setting sail.

And only Edmond Flacchi continued to sit there on the chair.

"You know, Edmond," George informed him with undisguised bitterness, "I think Galita got unlucky with a viceroy. But it did get lucky with its port manager, its maistro. Forgive me for this invasion. I am returning your office to you, keep up the good work."

"Your Highness," Flacchi got to his feet. "Please don't consider my words to be either flattery or impudence, but if a prince is asking an old man from the edge of the world for forgiveness, then there's still hope for Albion. Galita will be happy to see your again… especially since it will definitely have a new viceroy."

"Well then… Perhaps I shall return here. But, just in case, farewell."

"Good luck, Your Highness!"

The prince rose.

"Come, Itkal."

Already outside, halfway back to the pier, he asked sadly, either directing the question to Itkal or no one in particular, "Still, why didn't any inform me of Alexander's intentions?"

"I assume everyone was certain you already knew. Likely Captain Freemer's mistake," Itkal replied. "But it's best to discuss this on board the Saint Aurelius, Your Highness."

Footnotes

1) Surozh is the old name for the Crimean city of Sudak.