The Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  "The man is quite healthy," interrupted Demansk, mildly. "Amazingly so, in fact, for a convicted swindler."

  "Ha! Healthy, yes. You still stripped him of all his properties which, for a good Emerald merchant, is a fate worse than death."

  A little chuckle swept the room. When Tittle continued, however, his smile was gone. "But you are also trusted not to break necks capriciously, or simply from personal malice. So I think Thicelt and Nappur have the right of it. Don't think for a moment that your private arrangement with Jeschonyk can remain a secret forever. If nothing else, he will certainly tell his concubines in order to prepare them in case something happens to him. And the concubines will talk to the servants, and the servants…"

  He left the rest of it unspoken. Most of the world's elite tended to be oblivious to the fact that servants and slaves were people like anyone else-including the propensity to gossip. But none of the men in that room were so naive. If they had been, they wouldn't have been there in the first place.

  "It's decided, then." Demansk's tone made clear that there would be no further discussion. So, he was rather surprised to hear Sallivar clear his throat again. His financial adviser normally accepted his decisions with no demurral, once they were definitely made.

  Prit held up a hand, indicating that he was not challenging the decision. "That still leaves something else unclear." He nodded toward Oppricht. "As Kall said, others — Albrecht's people, to be specific-are certainly plotting along those lines themselves. So, the question is: do we do anything to stop them?"

  Demansk turned his head and stared through the open archway onto the balcony. He couldn't see the ocean itself, from his seated position-not even if it had still been daylight-but he could see the sky above it. Unusually, for this time of year on the northern coast, the sky was cloudless. Even with the lamps burning in the room, he could see the stars quite clearly.

  Demansk had always liked watching the stars at night. They seemed so remote, so aloof, from the muck of earthly existence.

  He could remember, once, while on campaign, standing next to Jeschonyk and staring up at the vault of the heavens. The old Speaker Emeritus was something of an astronomer; quite famous for it, in fact, even among Emerald scholars. He could remember the enthusiasm with which Ion had pointed out the various constellations and the mysterious stars which, unlike all the others, seemed to move about. "Planets," Jeschonyk had called them, insisting that they were the actual spirits of the gods themselves.

  He sighed, and turned his face back to the room full of plotters. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a murmur.

  "No, Prit, we don't. Jeschonyk will either protect himself, or he won't. We will have no hand in whatever happens, but… whatever does, of course, you will see to it that the necessary measures are in place and ready to go."

  Sallivar nodded. "I'll pass the word to Raddek and Gliev in Vanbert."

  "Good enough," said Demansk. "Let's move on, then, to the next thing." With a lift in his voice, as if he were relieved to move on to a straightforward matter of military logistics: "Jonthen, I'm a bit concerned by the state of-"

  They were not done until midnight. And then, politely seeing the others to the door, Demansk steeled himself for still another meeting. A pleasant enough one, to be sure, but he wondered sometimes if he'd ever get enough sleep. He seemed to have a vague memory of a time in the past when he had.

  Trae was waiting patiently in a separate room. And continued waiting, out of sight, until Demansk's lieutenants had all left the building. Not that there was any secret about Trae, exactly. All of Demansk's special attendants knew of Trae's work, although only Thicelt really understood it fully. Still, Demansk was a firm believer in the axiom that one should always have a second string to one's bow. There were his special attendants; and then, there was his family. Three of his four children, at least. The two worked toward the same purpose, but they still worked separately.

  Trae had little of the deference of Demansk's lieutenants. He was already scowling when he came through the door and launched immediately into his protest.

  "Father, you promised — "

  "Oh, shut up," growled Demansk. He pointed at one of the nearby tables. "Drown your sorrows in wine, if you must. Trae, it would be idiotic to risk your death or injury in this coming battle with Casull. And your precious steam ram would just get in the way, anyhow. Dammit, there's not going to be anything fancy about it. I will go after Casull like a man using a sledgehammer on a cornered rat. The last thing I need is complications.

  " And," he continued forcefully, overriding Trae's protest, "I will need your steam ram for this other matter. As I've now explained to you at least three times."

  Sullenly, Trae poured himself a goblet of wine. Even more sullenly, he flung himself onto a couch. Unlike Jeschonyk, however, he did not manage the feat without spilling some wine on his tunic. Fortunately, the garment was the utilitarian one which Trae was in the habit of wearing.

  " 'This other matter,' " he quoted. Being almost, but not quite, openly derisive. For Trae, if not his sister, there were certain limits in the way one spoke to one's august Confederate sire.

  "Father, that's pure speculation-and you know it as well as I do. I may be a callow youth, but I'm not dumb enough to think that a complicated plot is going to work, every step along the way, just as planned. You have no real idea if Albrecht's going to react-"

  "Ha!" barked Demansk, cutting his son short. "Just as bad as your headstrong sister! Presuming to lecture me on matters of strategy and tactics."

  But it was said cheerfully, and Demansk began pouring a convivial goblet for himself as he continued.

  "Trae, of course I'm speculating. Although I think the odds that Albrecht will react the way I'm guessing are a lot better than you think. I've known the pig since he was a piglet."

  He ambled over to another couch and took a seat. "The thing to remember about Drav Albrecht is that he's impatient. Don't ever let that smooth, sophisticated facade of his fool you. Underneath, the man is fundamentally a hothead. The past year-more than that-of leading that miserable siege of Preble will have frayed him to the limit. When he hears of my sudden triumph, and a much bigger one, over Casull…" Demansk took a long swallow of wine. "He won't be able to resist, Trae. Already by now, much less by late spring, he'll have everything in place to make a final assault. The casualties will be horrendous, of course, which is why he hasn't done it yet. But Albrecht doesn't really give a damn about that, not when push comes to shove."

  Trae was still scowling. But, after a moment, the scowl faded a bit. "Actually, Father, I'm not really trying to second-guess you about that part of it. It's just that I think I understand better than you do what you can, and can't, realistically expect from my steam ram."

  He waved the hand holding the goblet, managing in the process to spill some of it on the tiles. He didn't notice, of course. Demansk's youngest son combined the capacity of focusing more intently on something than anyone Demansk had ever met-while being oblivious to almost everything else around him.

  "All of my new ships, for that matter-including the woodclads you're depending on to protect you from Casull's new steamships. The thing is, Father, these dazzling fancy boats Gellert designed are damn near useless in anything except good weather. And when I say 'good,' I really mean 'almost perfect.' Any kind of heavy seas, and… you'll be lucky if you don't sink outright." He paused, and then his innate honesty forced him to add: "Well, not with the woodclads, of course. They won't sink in bad weather. But you'll never be able to handle them, and the gods help you if you're near a lee shore."

  Demansk started to say something, but Trae cut him off. "Yes, yes, yes-I know you'll be able to guarantee yourself good weather. 'Guarantee,' at least, as much as that word means anything when it comes to weather at sea." Grudgingly: "But, yes, since you're the one who's invading the Isles, you're the one who gets to decide when to do it. And I'll admit that the weather in these northern seas in late sp
ring is about as good-and predictably so-as it ever gets."

  Almost wailing, now: "But what about me? I'm not the one who'll make the decision when to use the steam ram. Albrecht'll do that — and he hasn't been consulting with me lately. And the weather as far down the coast as Preble is not predictable, not even in the spring."

  "So? The worst that happens is that you can't intervene. In which case, a lot of Islanders will get butchered-who, frankly, deserve it after the massacre of the Vanberts on Preble they carried out last year-and one of my clever schemes goes awry." Demansk shrugged. "None of my plans depends on your success, Trae. Although it would certainly help."

  For a moment, he was scowling even more fiercely than his son. "And half of me, to be honest, almost hopes you can't intervene. Yes, it would be handy to have all those desperate-and very skilled-Islanders at my mercy. I need to get the workshops in the main archipelago running at full capacity as soon as possible after the conquest, and having thousands of refugees from Preble would be a big help. But…"

  Trae laughed softly-softly, but quite harshly. "Once a Vanbert, always a Vanbert. They are a lot of sorry rebels. For which the traditional penalty is well established."

  Demansk took another long swallow from his goblet. "Exactly." Still scowling: "And it's not just a matter of tradition. One of the other things I can't afford is to get too much of a reputation for mercy, either."

  The scowl went away, replaced by a look of sheer weariness. "I suspect, even if all goes well, that I'm going to spend the rest of my life crushing rebellions. I don't enjoy bloodshed, Trae, but I learned long ago that often the best way to avoid an ocean of blood is to demonstrate that you are instantly willing to spill a lake's worth of it."

  Trae sat up straight, finished his wine-spilling some down his chin-and set the goblet on the tiles. Then, rubbing his neck: "I wouldn't worry too much about that. No offense, Father"-with a crooked smile and an upraised hand-"and I'm not trying to teach your august self the principles of tactics, but I really don't think that before too long there's going to be anyone in the world except outright lunatics who don't understand perfectly well that only an outright lunatic would rebel against the new dispensation."

  Demansk's responding smile was just as crooked. "Well. True enough, I suppose."

  Trae's sour expression came back in full force. Demansk sighed. "So what is the problem?"

  His youngest son's face, in that moment, resembled that of a five-year-old boy after being told he couldn't play that day. Demansk almost burst into laughter. He remembered that face very well.

  "It's me! If it doesn't work out the way you plan, I'll wind up sitting on the side throughout this whole war!"

  Demansk stifled the quip he was about to utter. As silly as Trae's complaint sounded to him, now that he had the perspective of decades of warfare to look back upon, he could still remember himself at that same age. Eager to prove his mettle in what, for centuries, had been the only real "rite of passage" that meant anything to Vanbert men. Even if, within a short time, he had come to understand that "honor" was a thing with real entrails, and not just a spirit. Spilled ones, usually.

  So his response was entirely solemn. "Trae, I need you for this. I can't possibly detach enough actual warships for the purpose. Carrier ships, plenty of them, yes-to take off the refugees. I lied to Jeschonyk about those ships we're having built in Rope, by the way. I told him they were part of my own fleet. But Albrecht will be raging, be sure of it, and he won't let them go peacefully. Those ships will need to be protected, because they aren't really warships-as you and I both know. Which means your steam ram is the only thing I've got which can do the job. Maybe. With you in command-you're the only one I trust who can do that-and if you do a brilliant job of captaining it."

  And now, with good cheer: "Look at it this way. If it does happen, you'll come back covered with glory."

  Trae tried to maintain the sour expression, but it was obviously difficult. "Oh, bah. Nobody'll understand it anyway. Except a bunch of stinking Islander refugees, and who cares what they think."

  "Not your own sailors and soldiers, boy," said Demansk forcefully. " They'll know- they'll understand. Don't think they won't."

  He finished his wine, set down the goblet on the table, and ended a long day and night of plotting.

  "Learn this much from your father, son. You build the respect of soldiers-real respect, not the shit that passes for it at triumphs-starting with the man next to you. Begin with the core, lad, and the rest will come when it comes. Without that core, it won't come at all."

  And now, grinning: "As you and I both will soon be demonstrating to that foul bastard Albrecht."

  Chapter 17

  It took Ion Jeschonyk almost two months to return to Vanbert. Some of that was due to the simple distance-about a thousand miles, in a direct line; and much longer than that, of course, following the actual road. Still, it was a good road, even by Confederate standards. He'd made the trip to Solinga in less than five weeks.

  But that had been in the early spring, when the weather was still foul and Jeschonyk had simply wanted to get to his destination as fast as possible. Now, with summer approaching, the countryside was blooming and beautiful. And, deep in his heart, the old man thought this would be the last chance in his life to simply wallow in the beauties of nature. He could remember doing that a lot, growing up as a boy on his family's estate. He wondered, as he had often before, what had happened to that carefree child.

  So he ordered his caravan to maintain a slow pace, and stopped often-sometimes for half a day at a time, while he waded barefoot in a brook or simply sat under the shade of a tree and contemplated the meadow flowers. The soldiers escorting him didn't object, of course, much less the drivers of his own coach and the wagons carrying supplies.

  By the time he finally arrived in the capital, the reports he brought for the Council were already completely obsolete. The gigantic city, with its one million inhabitants, was abuzz with word that Demansk had launched his attack on the archipelago. The news had been brought by the fast couriers employed by the Confederacy as their elite postal service. Such men could make the trip from Solinga in ten days or less.

  In fact, hearing what people were saying in the markets and streets as his caravan worked its way toward his own domicile, Jeschonyk could remember seeing such a special courier galloping past the caravan just a few days past. And he realized, wryly, that his brain had still been working even while he thought it entirely at rest with the waving flowers in the fields. Because Jeschonyk had ignored the courier completely, even though it was now obvious what it had to have meant. And had done so, of course, because that never-sleeping part of his brain had known full well that it was better for the reality to hit the Council before Jeschonyk had to start telling his lies to them.

  They wouldn't really believe him anyway, although most of them would want to. And this way, a good three fourths of the recriminations would be dispensed with. What was the point? For good or ill, the die was cast.

  To his relief, there wasn't a delegation from the Council at his mansion. Under normal circumstances, there would have been representatives anxiously waiting for him, day and night, for the past two weeks. But now, he had no doubt, all the Councillors were far too preoccupied with their own plotting and scheming.

  By the next morning, of course, after the news of his return reached them, half the Council would be pounding on his door. But at least he'd have one final evening of rest and repose.

  "Rest and repose," in a manner of speaking. Jeschonyk was actually quite well rested, due to the leisurely way in which he'd made the return journey. And he'd been celibate for a longer stretch than any he could remember in decades. He'd not wanted to bring one of his concubines on such a politically delicate mission, and he no longer found the company of prostitutes very entertaining.

  So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambe
rs. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.

  Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here-just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.

  They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.

  Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But…

  Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure-but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.

  Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular-the oldest girl, Kata, the one who'd been with him longest.

  Strange, really. She was the only Southron in his harem. Jeschonyk was generally not partial to Southron girls. The problem wasn't their appearance. Female Southrons did not sport the grotesque tattoos of the males, for one thing. And, cleaned up and shorn of those absurd hairstyles, he actually found their pale skins and light hair arousing. It was simply that the practice of female circumcision which was prevalent among the barbarians made their women, in Jeschonyk's quite extensive experience, rather unresponsive. But Kata was from the Reedbottom tribe, who-so she claimed, at least, and the evidence seemed to substantiate it-were one of the few tribes which had never adopted that particularly savage custom.