by David Drake
He scowled. "Stupid, that was. Rafta was unmarried because she was as near brainless as a person can get without having actual roots. She'd been kept secluded in the hareem her whole life."
"That leaves the youngest daughter unaccounted for," remarked Demansk. "Princess Jirri, if I remember right."
The officer who'd led the boarding party cleared his throat. "I think she's probably on the galley, Triumvir. If she's about fifteen years old, there's a girl that age-very finely dressed-in the lot. And looking about as scared as I've ever seen a girl look without breaking into actual tears."
Demansk sighed. "Well, we can put a stop to that, at least. Have the delegation brought on board, Sharlz, if you would." He gave the small crowd on the galley a quick examination. "There are too many of them to fit in my cabin, so we'll have to do the negotiations right here on deck."
He turned to the quinquireme's captain, but the man was already anticipating the order. "Bring the Triumvir's chair and desk from his cabin!" he bellowed to several of the sailors waiting on the maindeck below. "And be quick about it!"
The first thing Demansk did, when the Islander delegation crowded onto the quarterdeck, was crook his finger at the teenage girl in their midst. That she was a princess was obvious, just from the finery of her garments, leaving aside the jewelry. Whether it was her decision or someone else's, Demansk didn't know. But clearly enough the girl was prepared to die in her best outfit.
As pale-faced as a dark-complexioned Islander could get, the princess came forward. Demansk was rather impressed, actually. Her face had the tightness of someone trying desperately to show no emotion at all, but her gait was not mincing in the least.
When she came up to him, he said quietly: "No harm will come to you, girl. You have my word on it. But, now, it would be best if you waited for me in my cabin."
One of the sailors led her away. The other Islanders didn't even so much as glance in her direction. But, from the vaguely smug looks on several faces-as smug, at least, as defeated men can get-their thoughts were obvious: A concubine for the conqueror. That's why we left her alive. Smart move.
Demansk had considered the possibility, in fact, once he discovered that there was a surviving female relative of Casull's. Sexual possession of a defeated enemy's women was a traditional mark of conquest, after all. But he'd discarded the idea almost instantly. He intended to wound the Islanders, and grievously-but, for that very reason, would avoid rubbing salt into the wound. Wounds heal quickly enough. Humiliation festers.
His decision hadn't even been shaken by seeing the girl herself. Very pretty, she was, and Demansk was no more immune to feminine beauty than any other healthy middle-aged male. But… he'd been more impressed by her composure. A different idea was beginning to form in his mind. One which might advance his project considerably, although it had obvious pitfalls.
He pushed the matter aside. There would be time to think about that later, and discuss it with his advisers. For the moment, there were great bleeding wounds to inflict.
So, his voice as hard as iron, Verice Demansk began laying down his terms of surrender.
"You will be henceforth a province of the Confederacy of Vanbert, by the name of Western Isles."
The name was important, since it implied all the islands in the Western Ocean-Vase and Preble as well as the archipelago proper. And there wouldn't be any tomfoolery about "auxiliary nations" here.
"Two full regiments of Confederate troops will be stationed in the city of Chalice itself. You will be responsible for billeting and provisioning them." He nodded toward the encampment being built on the shore. "As well as providing whatever is necessary for the two brigades which will remain permanently ashore here, along with their fleet."
That was the first wound, and a big one. Maintaining soldiers was expensive, at best-especially when it included ship maintenance.
But it was also time to offer the first subtle sign that, provided there was no opposition, the occupation would be heavy on Islander purses but not crushing to their souls.
"Order among the troops will be maintained according to Vanbert law, which will be enforced." He gave a glance at Forent Nappur. His job, that, to make sure it happened. By law, that meant no looting, no casual beatings of innkeepers and other civilians, no rapes. In practice, the law was often ignored. But Demansk had given Nappur the clearest and firmest instructions on the matter. Clear and firm enough, in fact, that Nappur had brought impaling stakes with him on the expedition-and both he and Demansk expected that they would be used, soon enough. But not often, once the troops understood that there would be no looking the other way here.
"You will be required to pay, immediately, an indemnity of six million-"
All the faces began turning pale, as Demansk mercilessly continued to list the booty which he intended to squeeze out of the archipelago. The official justification he gave was "the long history of piracy and other crimes committed against the citizens of the Confederation." Which, in and of itself, was true enough-although he would be squeezing out of the Islanders, in the first month of the occupation alone, a sum larger than everything they had managed to gain from their centuries of piracy.
But the real reason was even cruder: Demansk needed that enormous loot to keep his soldiers happy. Every single one of his men, he had no doubt at all, had been looking forward happily to sacking Chalice. Being deprived of that pleasure would leave them disgruntled, to put it mildly, unless he could shower them with much greater wealth than they would have been able to plunder from a burning city.
"— during the first three years of the occupation, you will also be required to restitute one million-"
Several of the richer-looking delegates were moaning softly, now. The initial booty they could squeeze, to a large extent, out of the commoners on the island. But to keep handing over such huge sums, month after month after month, would bankrupt everyone in the archipelago.
Which, of course, was exactly what Demansk was planning to do. For the simple reason that a man facing bankruptcy takes a very different attitude toward a stranger who proposes a partnership than one who is awash in wealth.
Demansk needed the booty outright for his soldiers. He needed a bankrupt archipelago for his own investments. He was about to demonstrate that there was another way than seizing land for a conqueror to recoup his expenses. Or so, at least, he hoped. Since no conqueror in history had ever done such a thing, it remained to be seen whether it would work. If it didn't… Demansk himself would be bankrupt, within a few years.
By the time he was done, the expressions on the faces of the Islander delegates-some of them, at least-were mulish as well as horrified. He decided to squelch that possible resistance immediately.
"Finally, I will remind you all of something." He made a casual gesture toward the huge army encampment on the nearby shore, which was readily visible from the quarterdeck. "I can-quite easily-simply have Chalice sacked. And you know how Vanberts sack a city, since we've done it enough times." Bluntly: "Like a redshark takes a drowning man. In which case, any survivors-what few there are-will not be worrying about their lost treasure. Because they will spend the rest of their lives at work in the fields, and will have far more immediate things to worry about."
He rose from his chair, planted his hands on the table, and leaned forward. His face was bleak, cold, iron. "And if you're wondering whether I'm inclined to do it, the fact is that I'm having a very hard time restraining myself from doing it." In a low, almost hissing, voice: "You stinking bastards ravished my daughter and shamed my family. So go ahead and try to argue with me. Please."
The anger in his voice was only partly feigned. The mulish looks vanished. Most of the delegates were positively ashen-faced, now. The story of Helga's capture was well known in the islands. The captors and rapists had bragged freely about it, at the time, and most Islanders had shared in their glee at inflicting such a humiliation upon the high and mighty Confederates. And now the father of their victim had his
hands on their throat, and the hands were those of a giant…
"Done, lord," choked the old man who seemed to be the leader of the delegation, insofar as anyone was. "It will be done."
Demansk sat back down. He decided it was time to ease up a bit. "Good," he murmured. Then, gestured toward Thicelt. "I am appointing Sharlz Thicelt, an Islander himself, to be the governor of Western Isles province. He will arrive in Chalice tomorrow. Make sure Casull's palace is prepared for him."
An Islander. The men of Chalice studied Thicelt covertly. Many of them knew him personally, at least to a degree. As a practical matter, of course, that did not reassure them much. An Islander would be even more adept at spotting attempts to circumvent the Confederacy's harsh demands than a foreigner.
Still… he was an Islander. The men in the delegation contained no fools among them. They could see the implications quite clearly. First, at least they would be dealing with one of their own, who would understand how to avoid needless humiliation. Second-more important-Islanders were no great respecters of station, unlike Vanberts. Yet here was the greatest of all living Vanberts, with an Islander as one of his closest subordinates.
The implications were… interesting.
When Demansk entered his cabin, he found the princess huddled in the corner atop his bed. Her hands were making vague little movements, as if she was trying to restrain herself from clutching her garments. Pointless, that would be, under the circumstances.
He started to scowl, but managed to keep from doing so. The girl was likely to misunderstand the expression.
"I am not going to rape you, child. So be at ease on that matter, at least."
She seemed to relax a bit. It was hard to tell. Again, Demansk was impressed by the girl's composure. He suspected, from things Thicelt had told him in the past, that growing up a islander princess was a harsh school in its own right.
There was a knock on the door. "Enter."
Thicelt came in, followed by three sailors returning the writing table and the chair. Sharlz waited until the sailors finished their work and were gone before saying anything.
Then, his first words were spoken in the Islander tongue, and addressed at the princess: "Relax, girl! The august Triumvir's virtue is already a thing of legend." He gave her a friendly leer. "Me, on the other hand… But! You are not in my hands, after all, so there's nothing to fear on that account either."
He turned to Demansk. "I assume you're going to keep her secluded, yes? Or should we have her removed while we continue our plans?"
Demansk studied the girl. The idle thought which had come to him earlier, on the deck, came back in richer color and details. Fascinating possibility…
It was worth exploring, he decided. No point in it if she isn't bright as well as good-looking.
"Come here, Jirri." He pointed to the chair at the table. The princess scuttled off the bed and hurried to do as she was instructed. Only after she had taken her seat did it occur to Demansk, belatedly, to ask if she understood his own language. Apparently so.
But to make sure, since she might simply have interpreted the gesture which accompanied the command, he asked her directly. Speaking in her own language, in which he was competent if not fluent.
"Oh yes, great lord. I speak Vanbert."
"I'm not 'great lord,' princess. The proper title is 'Triumvir.' Can you read and write?"
Jirri looked doubtful. "Not very well."
"An Island woman," chuckled Thicelt. "What do you expect?"
Demansk ignored him. "You can learn. Can you do arithmetic?"
The princess winced. It was the first open expression Demansk had yet seen on her face. "Not the Vanbert way."
Demansk and Thicelt both chuckled now. "I should think not!" said Demansk. "What a miserable, clumsy thing that is. No, girl, I meant: can you use Islander numbers? The truth is, any Confederate merchant and landlord with half a brain adopted your way of doing arithmetic over a century ago. The only thing anyone uses Vanbert numbers for anymore are official documents."
Her face cleared. "Oh yes, grea-ah, Triumvir. I'm good at numbers. My mother saw to that instruction, so that I could keep an eye out on the slaves who kept the books when I had my own house."
Mention of the mother, whose decapitated head had "adorned" Demansk's quarterdeck not so very long ago, caused him to wince a bit. But the girl's face didn't seem to echo any of that. For all that Demansk could tell, the murder of her mother-following within a day of the death of her father-didn't seem to have affected her much at all.
For a moment, he was alarmed. If the girl was that indifferent to human sentiments…
Thicelt, as so often before, read his thoughts. "You don't understand the reality of a royal hareem, Triumvir. Explain it to him, Jirri."
The girl was confused. "Explain what? Uh, great lord-ah-"
Thicelt grinned. " 'Governor' will do fine." He hooked a thumb at Demansk. "What I meant was, explain to him why you don't seem very upset at the death of your parents. Or your brothers."
Jirri almost goggled at Demansk. "I hardly knew my father, Triumvir. And my mother's not dead. She-oh. You thought she was Queen Yora. No, she was one of the King's concubines." After a moment's hesitation: "To be honest, I was glad they killed Yora. I hated her, and she frightened me. I'm sure-well, almost-that she was planning to have me murdered. Her son, Prince Frand, was starting to sniff around me-even though he was my half brother-and she didn't like it."
Demansk rubbed his face. He'd heard tales from Helga, about the sometimes savage intrigue within hareems. And the hareem Helga had been held captive in was that of an old, tired chieftain. The hareem of a relatively young and dynamic ruler like Casull would, likely enough, resemble a nest of serpents.
"As for my brothers and half brothers," Jirri was continuing, "I either didn't know them or, the ones I did, didn't like them much. Especially Frand. I like my sisters Harra and Tlal a lot-Yuni and Fayr not so much, they're half sisters anyway-but they're all still alive too." There was a little lift in her voice, speaking that last. It seemed as if Princess Jirri had come to the conclusion that her conqueror was not a monster, after all, and so her mother and sisters could expect to stay alive.
Then, her tone grew slightly sullen. "But I don't know why they had to kill Rafta. She was a sweet-tempered thing, even if she couldn't really talk."
Demansk waved his hand. "Never mind, Jirri. I'm satisfied. And now-" He walked over to a nearby table, picked up a stylus and a blank codex, and plopped it on the table in front of her.
"What the Governor and I will now be doing, among other things, is what is called 'logistics.' A lot of that is just recording numbers-which you're going to do for us. In the Confederacy, it's called being a 'secretary.' It's quite a prestigious position, by the way, at least if you're doing it for someone important."
Jirri stared down at the stylus and codex, then looked up at Demansk. Her eyes seemed as wide as saucers.
"You want me to do something?" She was almost gaping. Then, a smile came to her face. And, for the first time since he'd lain eyes on her, Princess Jirri looked like what she really was-a fifteen-year-old girl.
"Oh! That sounds like fun. "
Hours later, Jirri's eyes were starting to droop. She was clearly struggling to remain awake. Suddenly, it dawned on Demansk that the girl couldn't have gotten any sleep at all the night before.
A bit guiltily, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "That's enough, girl. Go to sleep. You'll have to share the bed with me tonight, I'm afraid. But I'll have something made up for tomorrow. I won't wake you, though, I don't think."
Jirri covered her mouth, yawned, and then coughed a little laugh behind her hand. "Don't think so. Everyone always teased me about how heavy a sleeper I am. But my mother says that's because I have a clear conscience."
I wish I did, lass, thought Demansk, as he watched her stumble to the bed and clamber onto it. Within seconds, she was curled against the wall and sound asleep. But I will say that y
ou've helped. With my conscience even more than the numbers.
Thicelt cleared his throat. Demansk looked at him.
"The special courier ship left last night to bring word to Trae. If all works as planned, he will soon have a great accomplishment to his own name. At which point-"
Demansk grinned. "Odd, isn't it, how great minds think alike? At which point, needless to say, it will be time for my youngest son to think about getting married."
Chapter 20
But when Trae reached Chalice, three weeks later, he was anything but filled with self-satisfaction at his martial exploits.
"There wasn't any fighting at all, Father," he complained bitterly. He upended his cup of wine, drained half of it in one gulp, and almost slammed it down on the side table-without, amazingly, spilling anything.
Sourly: "Except for killing some of my own soldiers and sailors. On three of the ships-dammit, I gave clear orders ahead of time! — the bastards started raping the women." He gave Forent Nappur, lounging on a nearby couch, a glance of approval. "Next time, if there is a next time, I'll insist on having some of his men along. They'd have paid attention to them. "
Demansk was not lounging, he was sitting upright. "So what did you do?" he asked. The question was not an idle one. In and of itself, he didn't much care about the travails of refugee women. Those who'd stayed behind on Preble would have suffered a much worse fate at the hands of Albrecht's vengeful troops, after all, when they sacked the island. But the way in which Trae handled such a challenge to his authority was… critical.
Trae shrugged. "What could I do? There were only a handful of marines on each of those ships-which, as it was, were packed full of refugees. And-fucking swine-they were the ones leading the charge anyway. All I had was the steam ram."
