The Tyrant

PART II: THE CONQUEROR
Chapter 16

"It's incredible," whispered Jeschonyk. The old Triumvir, formerly Speaker Emeritus, leaned over the railing and stared out at the gigantic fleet assembling below. The balcony was on the top floor of the building which Demansk had purchased for his own residence and headquarters in Solinga, and it fronted directly on the city's huge and splendid harbor.

"Not even the ancients speak of such a fleet," he added. The whispered words carried an undertone of awe… and not a little in the way of fear.

Demansk decided that, within limits, augmenting that fear was to his advantage. "That's not the half of it," he said forcefully. He leaned over the railing himself and pointed to the southeast. The gesture was awkward, since he was actually pointing to someplace behind the building. "Even Solinga's famous harbor isn't big enough to hold them all. I've got as many assembling in the smaller ports of the Emeralds, further down the coast."

Then, he leaned the other way and made the same awkward gesture to the southwest. "And about half as many as this assembling in Rope. When the Roper League started whining about not getting any of the business, I threw a lot of the shipbuilding work in their direction. And they'll be provided their share of the rowers, too.

"In short," he concluded, straightening up, "what you're seeing below is only two fifths-thereabouts-of the force I'll be bringing down on King Casull's head. Which I don't expect that damn pirate will be keeping on his shoulders too much longer. Not unless bad weather saves him."

He looked down at the smaller Triumvir. Jeschonyk's face was pinched. Demansk decided that it was time to leaven fear with reassurance. Or, at least, what passed for it.

"Spit it out, Ion. You look like the proverbial greatbeast who swallowed a plow."

"That's about what my stomach feels like. We didn't expect this, Verice. Not even me, much less Tomsien or the Council. We've been getting reports all through the winter, of course, but I finally had to come and see for myself."

"I have not exceeded my authority," responded Demansk coldly. "And I will point out that I spent most of my own fortune equipping this fleet-without, by the by, engaging in any tax-gouging or swindling."

"Truth to tell, I'd be a lot happier if you had. Engaged in swindling and tax-gouging, that is. That'd be… business as usual. Whereas this "-Jeschonyk gestured with his thumb toward the harbor; then, jerked it over his shoulder-"and, what's even worse, the popularity you've gained with the Emeralds…"

"The economy here is booming, Ion. Simply the normal taxes, fairly applied, bring in more than all the stupid shortsighted tax-gouging and stealing ever could."

The old man's face grew more pinched still. "That's what's really bothering me, Verice. You've not simply put together a much larger military force than anyone expected, but you've also created a real provincial base for yourself. And if most Vanberts sneer at Emeralds for being a lot of limp-wristed aesthetes and faggots, I don't. I'm old enough to have fought in the last war against the Emeralds. They're as tough as anybody, as long as someone else is giving them their orders and doesn't let their incessant bickering get out of hand."

He gave the fleet a glance. "Which, clearly, you haven't. And now, if you don't mind, let's go back inside. I'm an old man, and a thirsty one."

As they walked through the open-air archway which connected the balcony with the building proper-the mild Emerald climate required little in the way of actual doors, beyond what was needed for security and privacy-Jeschonyk laid a cautioning hand on Demansk's arm.

"And I should tell you that Tomsien is more worried than anyone. You should know, if you don't already, that Tomsien's been doing his own amassing of forces. He's got an army assembling in his southern provinces that is twice the size of anything you can put together-even with such a huge fleet as this one."

Demansk nodded. "I expected as much." He went to a side table and poured them each a goblet of wine. There were no servants present. Then, after handing one of the goblets to Jeschonyk, took a sip from his own and added:

" Good. We'll need that army to fend off the Southrons. They'll be coming soon, Ion, don't doubt it. They're just waiting for us to be committed against the islanders. Every spy we've sent down there-you know this even better than I do, since most of them report to you first-says they're creating the largest invasion force they've ever managed to put together. That new Chief of Chiefs of theirs, Norrys, seems quite the dynamic fellow. Charismatic too, from all accounts."

Jeschonyk gave his fellow Triumvir an odd look. Part suspicion, part… wonder, perhaps.

"Actually," he said, clearing his throat, "my spies seem to think that it's really this sub-chief Prelotta who's the driving spirit behind it all. And he's the one, not Norrys, who's got that damned Emerald genius Gellert working for him. Him and his blasted new weapons."

Demansk shrugged. " 'New weapons' are all fine and dandy, Ion. But I don't place too much faith in them. In the end, it's still discipline and organization and numbers that count." He gestured toward the fleet in the harbor with his chin. "Not one of those ships, or its crews, is as handy at sea as any islander pirate. So what? The simplest way to deal with a clever opponent is just to bury him."

"There are a lot of Southrons, Verice," chided Jeschonyk. " 'Burying them' is not as easy as it with a relative handful of islanders."

"So? That's Tomsien's problem, isn't it? And how has he funded this great army he's collected? Not using my methods, I'm sure."

Jeschonyk looked sour. "We're getting complaints and protests filed every day in Vanbert. Have been for months. He's squeezing his provinces dry, Verice. Just as you knew he would."

Demansk shifted his shoulders. The gesture could not quite be called a shrug. "He's set in his ways, yes. Not to mention being a greedy bastard in his own right."

"Which you counted on also. Damn you, Verice, don't pretend! You plotted all this-just as you plotted the fact that I'd cover it for you and be your shield."

The look that Demansk now gave Jeschonyk was icy. "And are you still? My shield, I mean."

For a moment, two of the three most powerful men in the world locked eyes. It was the older and officially most senior of them who first looked away.

"Yes," he whispered, "the gods help me." He took a couple of steps and sat down on a couch; then, sprawled wearily across it. Though not wearily enough, Demansk noted with a bit of amusement, to spill a single drop of his wine. "I feel like a midget locked in a room with two direbeasts about to go for each other's throats. Except one of the direbeasts is really a demon."

Demansk laughed. "A 'demon,' is it? Don't you think that's going a little too far, Ion? I'm not a cruel man, you know. I don't think anyone's ever accused me of that, not even enemies I've defeated in battle."

Jeschonyk took a long swallow of wine, then leaned over and set the goblet down on the floor. Again, without spilling a drop.

"Stop while you're ahead, Verice. Everything you say to 'reassure' me simply makes me more nervous. I know you're not cruel. Gods save us, you're not even particularly ambitious. In all respects, as close to a paragon of the old virtues as any leader we've had in Vanbert in generations. I don't count Marcomann in that, by the way. The gods know he was capable, but the only virtues he had were those of a two-legged direbeast."

Demansk sat on a nearby couch. "So what's the problem, then?"

"Stop playing with me, damnation!" Jeschonyk scowled. "I may not be a scholar, but I have read the classics, you know. Wasn't it Llawat who pointed out that only the virtuous can really plumb the depths of depravity?"

"Prithney," corrected Demansk. "In the third of his Dialogues. I just reread it last week, as it happens. And 'depravity' isn't really the right term. His point wasn't that the virtuous are depraved, simply that only the virtuous have the courage of conviction which comes from lack of depravity to carry through a project to the end-regardless of how much depravity results from it." He cleared his throat. "It's a subtle distinction, perhaps, but… not unimportant to me."

Jeschonyk gave him a long, considering look. "Yes, I can see where it would be. And? Are you prepared to carry things through to the end?"

It was Demansk's turn to look away. He suspected his own face was pinched.

He heard Jeschonyk sigh. "That's what I thought. The gods save us all."

There was silence, for a time. Then, still without looking at him, Demansk said: "Decide, Ion. You have no more choice in that than I do. We live in a time of decision, whether we like it or not."

He heard Jeschonyk slurping wine. Long enough, apparently, to drain the entire goblet. At least, the sound of it clinking back down on the tile floor had an empty aura about it.

Empty-but, in its own way, firm.

"Oh, I decided last year. I guess I really came up here just to make sure my decision had been the right one. Of course, that's not what I told the Council."

Hearing the old man wheeze as he levered himself back upright, Demansk looked at him again. A bit to his surprise, Jeschonyk was smiling. Almost cheerfully, in fact.

"There's this much, anyway," the senior Triumvir chuckled. "My legs and lungs may not be what they used to be, but my brain isn't rotting. At least, I can still tell the difference between a demon and a direbeast, and figure out which one of them is going to gut the other."

After a moment, the humor on Jeschonyk's face faded away, to be replaced by something which might almost be called sadness.

"There is one thing, Verice."

"Yes?"

Jeschonyk's lips twisted. "The one other part of my body that still works just fine, oddly enough, are my loins. I'm sure you know about my, ah… oh, let's be honest and call it my hareem."

Demansk nodded. "Five girls, I've been told."

"Um. Six, actually. I added another two months ago. A luscious little thing I found-ah, never mind. The point is…"

He lowered his head and ran fingers through his thin hair. The year before, at the siege of Preble, that hair had still been gray. Now, most of it was white.

"The point's this, Verice. My wife died years ago and my children are all full grown and long gone. Don't even see much of them any more. So those girls are really all that matters much to me, personally speaking."

He looked up, a pleading look in his eyes. "I'm an old lecher, I'll admit it, but I'm not a pervert. I've never demanded anything from them other than-well, you know. The usual. The truth is, I think they're rather fond of me. I'm certainly very fond of them. So…"

"I'll see to it, Ion. Whatever happens." Demansk cleared his throat. "Though-I suppose this isn't really proper, coming from a 'demon'-I can assure you that I have no intention of doing you any personal harm." A bit of exasperation came into his voice. "Why would I? Damn it, I'm not a casual murderer!"

Jeschonyk shrugged. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Verice. Who knows what you'll have to do? But none of it should require involving half a dozen slave girls, most of them illiterate and not one of them older than twenty." Again, his heavy sensual lips made that wry grimace. "If the word 'innocent' means anything at all in this foul world, they are indeed innocent." His voice grew so low it was almost a whisper. "So. Please. "

"Done. I swear it." He paused, for a moment, thinking. "Though-make sure you tell your girls, so they'll know-I'll make the arrangements through Arsule Knecht."

Jeschonyk almost choked. " Knecht? You've got her on your side too? Gods save us-she's even richer than she is crazy."

Demansk gave him a crooked smile. "Oh, she's not really a lunatic, you know. Just, ah, an enthusiast, let's call it. But she also has a larger body of household troops in the capital than anyone except Albrecht-a lot bigger than yours-and nobody really takes her seriously as a political factor." A bit harshly: "Except me."

Jeschonyk nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll be returning to Vanbert tomorrow. Is there anything special you'd like me to pass on to the Council for you? Other than the usual platitudes, half-truths and outright falsehoods?"

Demansk barked a laugh. "I'd miss you too much for that alone, Ion! There are times-I swear it before the Gray-Eyed Lady-when I think you are the only truly innocent man in the whole Confederacy. The only honest one, for sure."

Seeing the look of outrage on Jeschonyk's face, Demansk held up a placating hand. "Relatively speaking, of course. You are a legendary lecher, Ion, have no fear. And I'm using the term 'honest,' ah, in what the Emeralds would call an 'aesthetic' manner. Lyrically, if you will, not dramatically."

"Damn those limp-wristed faggots, anyway," grumbled Jeschonyk. "Can't even call an honest lie by its right name."

That evening, in the same room, Demansk met with what he had come to think of as his "inner council." These were the handful of men, each of them holding the new title of "Special Attendant to the Triumvir," who served as the fingers for his fist. The fist itself, of course, being the army.

Not all of them were there. Leaving aside Jessep Yunkers, who was-and would be for some time-with Helga in the southern continent, there were two others residing in the Confederacy capital at Vanbert. But all the key ones were present: Prit Sallivar, Forent Nappur, Sharlz Thicelt, of course; and two newer ones: a Vanbert politician distantly related to Demansk by the name of Kall Oppricht, and the Emerald merchant Jonthen Tittle-who, ironically, was distantly related to the Gellert family.

After sketching his meeting with Jeschonyk, Demansk addressed his first remarks to Oppricht. "You'll see to that, Kall? Make whatever arrangements you have to in order to make sure that Ion's girls are put under safe guard in the event… something happens. And while you're at it, see to the safety of Jeschonyk's entire household. Ion didn't mention them, but I know his servants have been with him a long time."

Oppricht nodded. Then, gave Prit Sallivar a quick glance. Something in the way of an appeal, it seemed, as if a subject needed to be raised which he was loath to bring up himself. Unlike Sallivar, Kall Oppricht was not an old friend of the Triumvir's.

Sallivar straightened and opened his mouth. But before he could utter a single word, Demansk was shaking his head.

"No. Absolutely not. Don't even bother raising it, Prit."

"Verice-"

The Triumvir's face was set, his jaws tight. " No, " he rasped. "I understand the logic, Prit. Since an assassination of Jeschonyk by my enemies-coming at the right time-would give us the best possible way to take power in Vanbert with the least possible fuss, the question is naturally posed: why not arrange it ourselves, and place the blame on them?"

"Especially since they're undoubtedly already plotting to do it," murmured Oppricht. Demansk gave him a hard look, but the politician did not flinch. He might not be an old friend of the Triumvir's, but Kall Oppricht would never have agreed to become a special attendant if he hadn't felt he understood Verice Demansk. And part of that understanding was that Triumvir Demansk was not a man who would punish an underling for speaking his mind.

"It's just a fact, sir," he said quietly but firmly. "I'd bet a large sum I could even name the ringleader-Jacreb Quain, one of Albrecht's right hand men." He nodded toward Sallivar. "Prit's equivalent. Quain would just be the paymaster, of course. The actual blood work would probably be done by thugs working for one of Albrecht's tame street gangs."

Demansk sighed, then rubbed his face wearily. "I don't doubt it, Kall. The answer is still 'no.' Some crimes simply can't be done in the name of expediency. In the end, my reputation for being good for my word is worth far more than any clever maneuver would bring us."

"I agree," said Sharlz Thicelt. Sallivar and Oppricht gave the islander a look which was half startlement, half outrage. This-from a pirate?!

Thicelt grinned. "Take the advice of an experienced robber on this. Honor is more important to thieves than anyone, for the good and simple reason that they do not have recourse to the law."

He shook his head with vigor, causing his heavy gold earrings to flop about alarmingly. Fortunately, Thicelt's earlobes were built on the same massive scale as his nose. "Let the suspicion spread that Triumvir Demansk is dishonest as well as ruthless, and you will turn every possible neutral into an enemy-and half your allies into neutrals. He who would be a tyrant must first of all be trusted. Trusted to keep his word as much as trusted to break your neck if you oppose him."

"Well said, Sharlz." This came from Forent Nappur. Oddly enough, in the months they had worked together, the former Islander pirate and the former eastern-province common soldier had become quite good friends. The friendship was all the more odd in that it had begun with a ferocious brawl in a tavern, precipitated by an exchange of racial insults. The giant Forent had won the brawl, of course. But he'd carried a good set of bruises himself, for a number of days afterward.

Demansk was not quite sure how to account for it. To some degree, it was simply the mutual respect of low-class men who had tested each other's manhood and not found it wanting. But he suspected-feared, almost-that it derived mainly from the fact that these two were really the most ruthless of his close advisers, and had formed a natural alliance.

The most ruthless, by far-despite the fact that, as again here, their advice was usually less outwardly cold-blooded than the advice Demansk got from his more cultured and upper-class lieutenants.

But that was, ultimately, the problem. Or, it would be better to say, simply the reality. However much they might be adherents to Demansk's project, such men as Prit Sallivar and Kall Oppricht-even the Emerald Jonthen Tittle-were very much "men of the established order." All of them were wealthy, highly educated, born into good families. They could understand, abstractly, the seething fury at the injustices of Confederate society which bubbled silently in the depths of the poor millions of that society. But they didn't really feel it.

Neither did Demansk himself, for that matter. He was smart enough, however, to recognize its existence. And he knew, without a doubt, that neither Sharlz Thicelt nor Forent Nappur would blink an eye at the complete destruction of much of what the others still held dear. Either Thicelt or Nappur would torch a nobleman's mansion in an instant- any nobleman's, Vanbert or Emerald or Islander-without caring in the least that an excellent library or collection of artwork was going up in flames along with it.

Why should they? Neither one of them had ever been invited to partake of those pleasures of noble society. Thicelt had gone to sea as a destitute waif in the streets of Chalice at the age of six. At the same age, Nappur had been working in the fields of the hardscrabble east.

That was largely what made them so useful to Demansk, of course. Thicelt and Nappur could gain the allegiance and trust of men whom the others could barely even talk to. Such men as Nappur's network of enforcers and spies among common soldiers, who had by now imposed a subtle but iron clamp over the army. Or Thicelt's equivalent network among the sailors of the huge fleet which would transport that army to the Western Isles.

Still, they were a bit scary. Demansk was glad that both of them tended, on a personal level, to be rather phlegmatic in temperament. Even, in the case of Thicelt, flamboyantly good-humored.

It was time to bring this matter to a close. Only the Emerald had not spoken. Demansk looked at him, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.

Jonthen Tittle shrugged. "This is really outside my area. But I tend to agree with Forent and Sharlz, Triumvir. And I can say this: a large part of the reason the merchants and guildmasters of Solinga and the other Emerald cities have been so cooperative is that they have decided you can be trusted." The smile which followed was a bit rueful. "As Sharlz said, trusted to break their necks if they are too obstreperous-just as you did last week with-"

"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 spring 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."