The Tyrant

Chapter 11

The first significant opposition came in Solinga, the capital of the northern province which had once been the independent league of Emerald city-states. Which was perhaps fitting in an ironic sort of way, thought Demansk. The Emeralds themselves figured prominently in his plans for the future-and the opposition came from the Confederate governor of the province.

It was almost as if the man understood that Demansk brought his own ruin in his train. Which, indeed, he did. If Demansk was successful, the status of the Emeralds would undergo a dramatic improvement. Not least of all, because Demansk would eradicate the long-standing evil of the Confederacy's system of tax collection-which, in practice if not in theory, relied on men like Governor Willech to make it work.

Willech, lounging on a couch across the room from Demansk, was a small and wiry man. Hard-faced, tight-featured, and surprisingly fit for a man who made his fortune with abacus and weighing scales rather than a plow or a sword. True, he resembled the popular image of a "tax shark." But Demansk thought it would have been more appropriate if Willech had sported a large, sleek, tapered and finned body-with a wide and whiskered face consisting mostly of jaws and teeth. Just like the breed of sea predators whom the Emeralds, using an ancient word whose original meaning was long lost, called a "shark."

"I'm afraid I can't agree to that, Justiciar Demansk." Willech's words, like his face, were clipped and hard. "One regiment, certainly; perhaps two. But four? That would leave me only two regiments in the entire province. Riot and rebellion would be the certain result."

Demansk did not reply immediately. He returned the little man's stare with a hard stare of his own, allowing Willech time to let his hidden uncertainty mount. And his fears.

Willech had been one of the main creditors of the traitor Redvers, who had led the Confederacy's most recent attempted coup d'etat because the only way he and his cohorts had seen to avert bankruptcy was to usurp state power and repudiate their debts. Demansk had played the key role in crushing that insurrection. And while most people would assume that such men as Willech would be grateful to him for it, the reality was much more complicated.

True, had Redvers and his co-conspirators achieved their aim, Willech would have been ruined-and, most likely, murdered in the bargain. On the other hand…

Redvers' property, as was traditionally the penalty for treason, had been confiscated by the Confederate government. And while some of the money obtained from liquidating what few assets Redvers still had left had been handed over to the creditors, most of it had disappeared into the coffers of the officials charged with overseeing the liquidation. Officials who were every bit as greedy and corrupt as Redvers himself-and Willech-if not as impecunious.

Demansk fought down a harsh grin. He didn't doubt for a moment that Willech assumed that he had swindled a fair share of the Redvers estate. Which, as it happened, was not true. Demansk was one of the few officials in the Confederate government who relied on the workings of his own estates for his fortune.

That, and the merchant establishments and manufactories which Demansk had begun investing in several years earlier, once he came to realize that agriculture alone was a risky basis for maintaining a family fortune. Of course, he'd been careful to use an elaborate network of "cutouts" for the purpose. Partly to protect his investments against his many enemies in the officialdom, but mostly because Vanbert custom did not allow a nobleman to engage in anything as low and disreputable as manufacturing and trade.

Unless, of course, it was the trade in slaves arising from conquest. Over the years, Demansk had augmented his fortune considerably from that particular trade. Like any successful military commander, slaves were part of his booty. But, even as a young man, it had struck him odd that the most savage and bestial of all forms of trade should be the only one acceptable to the Confederate elite. Looking back on it from the perspective of middle age, he thought it was that experience which first began sowing the seeds of doubt in his mind as to the health of his own society.

He decided he'd allowed enough time to lapse in these idle ruminations. When he spoke, his voice was even more clipped and hard than Willech's.

"That's Triumvir Demansk, Governor Willech, and I trust I won't have to remind you of it again. The penalties for disrespect to state officials are severe." As in mutilation for a first offense, he left unspoken. Even though, in practice, a nobleman like Willech would rarely suffer that penalty-not for a first offense-it remained a possibility. More than a few of the noblemen who had been distantly connected with the Redvers rebellion were walking around today with their left arms ending at their wrists rather than their fingertips.

"As for the danger of rebellion," he continued harshly, "that is your problem, not mine. I am charged with the task of conquering the Western Isles-a martial feat which has never been accomplished in the history of the Confederacy. You, on the other hand, are charged with the simple task of maintaining public order in a province-something which any competent governor can manage easily with a bit of thought and effort."

He rose to his feet. Unlike Willech, he had been sitting erect on his couch, and could thus rise easily and quickly. An old soldier's habit, that. "I will also remind you that, not so many years ago, I was the governor of this very province. And I managed to keep order, with no difficulty at all, using only two regiments."

Willech's face was like a nut, now, hard and wrinkled. Demansk gave him a smile which ended just short of a sneer.

"Of course, I used those troops to check the worst depredations of the tax farmers. Instead of using them to enforce outright robbery. I dare say you'll have the same success, if you adopt my methods."

Willech's face, as impossible as it seemed, tightened even further. But he said nothing.

What was there to say? Since becoming governor of the province three years earlier, Willech had attempted to extricate himself from his bad loans by squeezing the Emeralds mercilessly. It was an open secret that Governor Willech was taking a cut from every tax farmer in the northern province. That was illegal, under Confederate law. But, for several generations now, Demansk had been one of the few governors to obey that law. The main attraction to becoming a governor nowadays, in fact, was that the post allowed just such chicanery. The modern Vanbert aristocracy, most of whose members couldn't tell one end of a pig from the other, raised taxes the same way their ancestors raised swine.

Not even that, really. No swineherd was stupid enough to think that the way to get rich was to starve his pigs.

Demansk realized that Willech was going to remain silent. Not saying anything was, ultimately, the last resort the governor had. If he said "no," he would be in open rebellion. Demansk had enough of his own troops in Solinga now to crush all six of Willech's regiments-even assuming they would obey the Governor, which was highly doubtful. And if he said "yes," he would be officially acquiescing to Demansk's demand.

Demansk decided he could live with the silence. By the time Willech could even begin to figure out a way to circumvent Demansk's plans, it would be too late anyway. Unlike the Governor, the Triumvir was popular with the army. And he knew already which four regiments he was going to select. The best, naturally, with the best officers. The commanders of three of those four regiments were former proteges of his, in fact, and he'd already spoken to them privately.

So, matching silence with silence, he turned on his heel and marched out of the Governor's private audience chamber. He even closed the door himself on his way out, before a slave could do so. Partly, because he thought a formal display of politeness was to his advantage. Mostly, because he wanted to test the door a bit-in case it proved necessary to come back through it at the head of a squad of soldiers.

Which, he suspected, would happen very soon. Demansk had plans for Willech's money as well as his soldiers. And unless he was badly mistaken, the Governor would part with the latter far more readily than the former.

The docks were swarming by the time Demansk got there. Not with soldiers, or sailors, but with Emerald workmen drawn by the rumors sweeping the city of a massive new shipbuilding project. Governor Willech's tax farmers had, in a few short years, impoverished half the artisanry of the northern province-along with most of its fishermen and all of its peasants. Most of the workmen teeming on the piers and in the harbor taverns were shipwrights and other skilled craftsmen; or fishermen, whose trade was closely related. But many of them were simply farmers who had abandoned their land, with nothing to sell except a strong back and pair of hands.

Demansk surveyed the scene from the flat top of the building he had sequestered as his temporary headquarters. The building was typical of the better-built edifices of the Emerald country. Mudbrick and wood, true, where Confederates would have used stone. But in the sunny and dry Emerald climate, mudbrick and wood covered with paint was a perfectly durable building material. Especially given the excellence of Emerald tile-making, still the best in the world.

As he stood atop the tiled roof, three stories above street level and with a good view of the city's great harbor, Demansk allowed no trace of satisfaction to show on his face. For the project he had in mind, he would need a lot of strong backs and willing hands. Not simply to make the gigantic fleet he planned to build, but to man the oars on those ships afterward. Demansk took no pleasure in the poverty and misery of others, but he would not hesitate to use it for his purpose. If nothing else, he could assuage his feelings of guilt by remembering that, in the end, he would use the depredations of men like Willech to break them.

The immediate goal of his projected fleet, of course, was the conquest of the Western Isles. But Demansk thought he could show the world a new trick in the old repertoire of dictators. Since he planned, among other things, to use the shipbuilding campaign to create a great industrial center in Solinga, he would demonstrate that workmen could form as effective a mass base as small landholders.

Give a poor and desperate man a stake in the world-any kind of stake-and a stake which depended upon a tyrant's shield for its shelter…

"How many, do you think?" he asked Olver. His son, at Demansk's command, had taken charge of the Triumvir's temporary headquarters while Demansk was visiting the Governor. He was now standing beside his father on the roof of the building, staring down at the mob in the streets below.

"The gods only know," he muttered. "You wouldn't believe how deeply Willech's gouged these people. I just found out he even started taxing the Grove a few months ago."

Despite himself, Demansk was startled. For all their frequently derisive remarks about effete Emerald philosophers, the Confederate aristocracy had long since adopted much of Emerald culture for their own. Every Vanbert nobleman, and most noblewomen, were fluent in the language of the northern province. Demansk was by no means uncommon in having read most of the Emeralds' great poetry, and seen most of their famous dramas. He'd even read a respectable amount of their most important philosophical works.

The Grove, the traditional academy for training Emerald scholars, was thus almost as venerated an institution among Vanberts as it was for the Emeralds themselves-even if not more than a handful of young Confederate noblemen had ever attended the school. The Grove had enjoyed a tax-free status for…

"Since we conquered them," he murmured. "Whatever our other mistakes, we always had enough sense to incorporate the gods of our defeated enemies into our own pantheon-and we never meddled with their most hallowed shrines."

"Willech's an idiot," hissed Olver.

Demansk nodded sternly. He left unspoken the words running through his mind: And a most useful one. I couldn't have asked for anything better.

Demansk thought that Olver already suspected most of his father's ambitions. But his second-oldest son had always been a self-contained and solemn fellow. A very… proper sort of man. Demansk had no doubt at all of Olver's loyalty. But he saw no point in shredding what few illusions-or, perhaps, euphemisms-Olver preferred to maintain over what they were doing. Where Demansk's daughter and youngest son could be, and had been, drawn directly into his conspiracy, it would always suit Olver better to be left at arm's length from it. Still within reach, of course, just… an arm's distance away.

Good enough. Here, too, Demansk would do what was needed.

"I'd like you to take charge of organizing the actual naval project," he said. "Not the technical side of it, of course. You'll be able to find plenty of Emerald master shipbuilders for that. But there'll still be enough work to keep you busy."

Olver smiled. "To say the least. I don't expect I'll be getting much sleep for the next few months." He hesitated; then: "I'll need money, Father. A lot of money. So much, in fact…"

He let the thought trail off. Demansk could finish it with no difficulty. So much money that we'll bankrupt the family as well as empty the coffers the Council sent with us.

Those coffers were full, and there were a lot of them. But Demansk had never specified exactly how he planned to conquer the isles. And so the Council, having nothing to go on but the memory of great naval expeditions of the past, had allotted what seemed to be a suitable portion-and a very large one at that-of the Confederacy's standby war chest.

They'd assumed, Demansk knew, that he intended a long campaign. Two years, maybe three, in the preparations. And then five to ten years in the doing. The oceanic equivalent of a siege, along the lines of what Albrecht was doing at Preble.

Demansk intended to surprise the world here as well. For his long-term purposes, he needed a quick and crushing victory over the Islanders. Partly, that was because he needed to sidestep the inevitable economic exhaustion of a long campaign-which would be absolutely devastating for the islanders themselves. Demansk could not afford that. He needed prosperous Emeralds; and a population of the Islands which, though desperate to appease their conquerors, still had the wherewithal to do so.

And, of course, partly because he would need the aura of martial triumph which such a victory would bring with it. Not the least of a would-be tyrant's job requirements was a reputation for invincibility. It was not enough for Demansk to be respected and admired for his military skills. He already had that much, from his enemies as well as his friends. What he would need in the future was their terror. The kind of bone-deep terror that would make the words "Demansk is coming" enough to end most battles before they began.

That kind of terror could be obtained in only one of two ways. (Or both, as Marcomann had done.) The first was to demonstrate inhuman brutality. The other was to demonstrate frightening skill at war. It was Demansk's hope-perhaps futile-that he could avoid most of the former if he could do well enough at the latter.

Olver's voice broke into his ruminations. "Father? Did you hear what I said? About the money we'll need, I mean."

"I heard. Don't worry about it, son. When the time comes, your august father will provide. And I won't have to bankrupt the family fortune to do it, either." He cleared his throat. "Though I dare say I will have to deplete it quite a bit."

Olver shrugged. "Depleting it doesn't matter, as long as we've got enough seed corn for the next year."

Demansk clapped him on the shoulder. He approved of Olver. Granted, his second-oldest son had little of Helga or Trae's quick wits and humor. But he was a solid boy. He always had been.

Demansk had always said he would trust Olver with his life. Now, he was about to prove it.

"Not to worry, son."

"I'm not worrying about it, Father," came the immediate reply. "Just… wondering a bit, that's all." Before Demansk could say anything, Olver placed his own square hand atop his father's, still resting on the son's shoulder. "Don't tell me. I'd rather not know."

That night, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers, Demansk appointed his third Special Attendant. A small, wiry man, with a face like a claw hammer. Except for its narrowness, in fact, the face looked quite a bit like Willech's.

The man's name was Prit Sallivar, and he had been Demansk's closest and most trusted financial adviser for years. The family's banker, for all practical purposes.

"The Council's going to have a shitfit," he predicted. "Probably be a riot in the Assembly."

Demansk shrugged. "I don't care about the Assembly. Unless they can find a point of clear support in the Council, the 'Assembly' is just a fancy name for the 'mob of Vanbert.' Screw 'em. The Council's the key, right now. And I'm trusting you to keep it locked."

Sallivar made a face. "That's a terrible mixed metaphor. Don't let any Emerald grammarian hear you say things like that, Verice, or you'll be the one facing a provincial rebellion here."

Demansk chuckled. Sallivar was one of the few men close enough to him to use the Triumvir's first name. He was also one of the few who didn't hesitate to gibe at Demansk's not-always-elegant use of language. It was part of the reason Demansk trusted him. That and, of course, the fact that if Demansk fell, Prit Sallivar would be dismembered by their mutual enemies within moments thereafter.

"Use the old man, Prit." Then, scrambling the metaphor hopelessly: "He'll turn the key in the lock for you."

Sallivar's face was now truly sour. "Turn it which way?" he demanded. "Will you please give up the bad poetry and speak in plain and simple prose."

"Jeschonyk will keep the Council under control. He's… not my man, no. But he'll not wish to cross me in this. And since he's not one of Willech's creditors or debtors, he'll have neither a personal grudge nor any need to act impartial in the matter. And you know how well he can give that 'for the good of the Confederacy' speech of his."

"None better," allowed Sallivar. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. Stretched them, rather. It had been a long planning session.

"All right, Verice. I'll do my best. How soon?"

There was no humor on Demansk's face now. "Tomorrow," he said.

"Tomorrow?"

"Why wait?"