The Tyrant

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."

He grabbed the goblet, drained the rest of it-spilling some on his tunic, this time-and slammed it back down. "Ha! The marines on the first ship I ordered to cease and desist even had the gall to make obscene gestures at me."

For the first time since Trae had stalked into the Governor's Palace, an expression other than sourness came to his face. Granted, it was a young man's snarl, a bit too flamboyant to be fully effective. But… effective enough, Demansk thought.

"So, of course, I rammed the ship. Broke it in half! Then ordered the nearest three ships to pick up the refugees out of the water and leave the marines and the sailors to the sharks. They did it right quick, too, damned if they didn't."

The other men in the room, Demansk and Nappur and Thicelt, burst into laughter. Demansk more loudly than the others.

"Crude, crude," reproved Thicelt, still chuckling, "but I dare say it was effective."

The scowl was back on Trae's face. "I had to do it twice, dammit! The fleet was too big and spread out for all the ships to see what had happened to the first one."

Demansk nodded. "And the third ship?"

Trae jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in the direction of the harbor below the palace. "I had the crew and marines arrested when we came ashore." With some heat: "I'd have had them-"

He broke off the angry statement. "But I'm not in charge here, so I just had them put in custody. Forent's men have them." He looked at Thicelt. "I guess you are, since you're the Governor. I think-"

Nappur's deep, growling voice went through the room like a predator's stalk. "No, he's not in charge, on this matter. I am, since it's a matter of army discipline. Those men disobeyed clear instructions from their commanding officer, given to them beforehand. You did, correct?"

Trae nodded vigorously, almost fiercely. "By the gods, yes! We spent weeks preparing for the expedition-months, rather. I even made a special trip to Rope to meet with the ship captains, all of them."

"Good enough," rumbled Forent. "I'll have the stakes brought out again. Haven't had to use them here since the third day of the occupation, but it won't hurt at all to have a reminder. I'll have them set up on the docks, in plain view of the whole city."

"How did the evacuation itself go?" asked Thicelt. "That must have been pure chaos."

"The gods, yes! It was a madhouse. Still"-he gave Demansk a look of admiration which any Vanbert patriarch would have basked in-"the whole thing went pretty much exactly the way Father predicted. I was surprised, to tell you the truth. I thought…"

He let the disrespectful notion trail off. Even-a rarity, this, to be treasured! — had a guilty look on his face.

Demansk barked a laugh. "I was guessing, Trae, not predicting. An educated and informed guess, true enough. But the whole thing was still a gamble."

Demansk rose, went to a side table, and poured himself a goblet of wine. This would be the first cup of wine he'd allowed himself since the occupation began, weeks ago. But the news of how Trae had handled the mutiny was cause enough for celebration. Demansk was struggling not to let his pride show too openly.

My son! Damn me who will, but this too was my doing. I always knew Trae had the brains-the gods know he's good-humored-but I was never sure he had the steel.

When he turned back, however, his expression was simply one of mild satisfaction. The august patriarch. Approving of his offspring, of course, but still finding it necessary to correct minor errors.

"Albrecht went berserk, didn't he, when he got the news I'd taken the archipelago? I knew he would, the stinking pig. So he ordered an all-out assault across that causeway he's been building for the past year. The kind of frontal attack that produces casualties worse than anything."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Forent wincing. The ex-sergeant knew exactly what Demansk was talking about.

Demansk resumed his seat. "Let me explain a little secret of siegecraft to you, Trae. The thing that usually breaks the defenders' lines, at the end, is when the men on the fortifications start panicking. Not for themselves, but for their families. They know they're going to lose, you see, and so they desert their posts in order to try to find their own folks in the city. And save them-the gods alone know how-from the horrors of the ensuing sack."

Trae was watching him intently. Possibly for the first time in his life, Demansk's youngest son had not a trace of his usual cockiness. "That's what your evacuation prevented," continued Demansk. "Once the Islanders on Preble understood that there was a chance of saving their families-a chance which got better the more fierce a resistance they put up-most of the men would have stayed at their posts. And fought like demons."

"Truth," uttered Nappur. "There really aren't all that many cowards in the world, when the crunch comes down." He winced again. "I don't even want to think what kind of casualties Albrecht's soldiers suffered. But I'll tell you this-anyone Trae didn't evacuate from Preble was dead within a day. Including household pets. That would have been a massacre."

"I got off mostly women, children and old folks," agreed Trae. "Not too many men of fighting age."

"And you were expecting?" growled Thicelt. "No one's ever accused we Islanders of being pussies, you know, whatever else they say about us."

Demansk finished his wine. For a moment, he considered a second cup, but dismissed the idea. Pleased or not, he still had a titan's work ahead of him.

"Let this be a lesson to you, scion of mine. If at all possible, always leave your enemy with an escape route. A cornered rat is dangerous, always is. Whereas a rat huddling in a hole, after you've taken the house, is just a nuisance."

He toyed with the empty cup in his hands, for a moment. "What Albrecht should have done is immediately offered Preble the same kind of terms I gave the Islanders elsewhere. News of my conquest of the archipelago will have reached the defenders of Preble too. They'd know, then, that further resistance was hopeless."

"Why didn't he?" asked Trae. "I know you always said he wouldn't, but why not? He's not really that much of a hothead."

"You might be surprised. Albrecht's cool enough, most of the time. But when he gets jabbed unexpectedly, he tends to react like a maddened boar. I've never been convinced he's fully sane, frankly." Demansk placed the empty cup on the table next to his couch and pushed it aside. "But it doesn't matter, given Albrecht's ambitions. After I'd conquered the archipelago, mostly through negotiations, he needed a 'real victory' at Preble. If he'd settled for a negotiated surrender, he'd just look like a midget version of me. Instead, he can at least claim to be a 'real Vanbert conqueror'-and you can bet everything you own that his people in the capital are already accusing me of being false to our traditions."

"They'll be accusing you of worse than that, Triumvir," chortled Nappur. "For sure, Albrecht will try to claim that you undermined him."

Demansk shrugged. "Let him make the claim. I was careful to leave Jeschonyk a way to murk it all up politically. I didn't interfere at all-directly-with Albrecht's military command. But, as the Triumvir in charge of the new province of Western Isles- all of the islands-I saw fit to provide shelter for the relatives of my own new subjects."

He frowned at Trae. "Which is why, by the way, I'm personally glad you didn't have to attack any of Albrecht's ships. That would have made things a lot harder for Ion in the capital."

Trae's scowl was coming back, introducing itself with a snort of derision. "Them! Only two of his triremes even came around to my side of the island. The rest of his ships were supporting the assault. They took one look at me-they remember this steam ram, for sure, from last year-and kept their distance."

"Speaking of which," said Thicelt, "did it make it across the ocean?"

"Ha! I had to have it towed into Rope, where I left it," grumbled Trae. "Even with this mild weather, the damn thing takes on so much water in the open sea that the whole crew had to spend all its time bailing. Didn't dare keep the boilers going."

The scowl was in full bloom now. "All of which doesn't deal with my problem, Father! Sinking two ships of mutineers is not exactly the kind of reputation I need for-"

"Be quiet, boy." Demansk's tone was stern, almost cold. "Grow up, damn it. Who cares what kind of a reputation you have with Vanbert soldiers? I've got enough of that to do for the whole family-even leaving aside what Forent's men will make of it."

The giant was back to chortling. " 'So fierce was the countenance of young Trae-so terrifying the very name of Demansk itself-that Albrecht's navy recoiled and fled from his wrath.' We'll start there. By the time we get done with the mutiny, it'll sound like something out of the old ballads."

Even Trae chuckled. Demansk rose to his feet. "And what's more important-much more-is that you'll now have a reputation among the Islanders."

"We're partial to saints, y'know," drawled Sharlz. "It's a most important aspect to the creed of the Lady of the Sea. And Lemare's a far more important goddess to the common run of Islanders than the ones the former kings favored."

His face assumed an unusually solemn expression. "I'm not joking, Trae. 'Pirates' we might have been. But pirates are seamen, first of all, and no one understands better the dangers of the sea-or the blessedness of a man who rescues people from shipwreck. Which you just did on the largest scale in history."

"And now, up, youngest son of mine!" commanded Demansk. "You haven't got time to wallow in misery. I've got new work for you, and lots of it. First thing tomorrow morning, you're meeting a man named Marzel Therdu-he's the one who wound up in charge of Casull's armament works-along with about a dozen other Islander manufacturers. The owners of the largest foundries and smithies. As a group, they're the core of the new weapons industry Adrian Gellert created for the Islanders."

He headed for the door, with Trae following. "All of them are now destitute, of course, and their employees are even more desperate than they are. So I propose to get them all back to work, and on a larger scale than before. With you in overall charge of coordinating the work."

"We don't have much money left, Father," protested Trae. "The family's coffers are empty, as near as matters."

"Money!" jeered Demansk. "I don't need to use my money, Trae." He stopped in the doorway and pointed a finger back at Thicelt. "As it happens-what a coincidence-the Governor just issued a new decree. Any business in a Western Isle province which is one-third owned by a reputable citizen-which requires three generations of citizenship, so no Islander can qualify-is exempted from paying tribute. They'll still have to pay the regular taxes, of course."

Trae stared at Thicelt. Sharlz smiled seraphically. "What else could I do? My people were starving. "

Trae stared at his father. Who was smiling also, if not seraphically. "You see how it works? Since I'm the most reputable citizen there is-and, what a coincidence, am the only one moving immediately-I estimate that, within a year, I'll own a third of practically everything that makes money in this archipelago. I've even had fishing crews starting to approach me. Even a fruit vendor!"

"But-" Trae was frowning fiercely. "You still need money, Father. Immediately."

And now, Demansk's smile was seraphic. "To be sure. Which I don't have, any longer-but lots of Emerald merchants do. Especially now, when they're flush from all the money I poured into their coffers over the past year. Ropers, too. None of whom, alas-being only partial citizens or auxiliaries-can qualify for the exemption. So the Islanders provide the wherewithal and the skilled labor, the Emeralds and Ropers put up the money, I put the whole thing together." He cleared his throat. "For a modest third."

Trae was almost ogling him. "You-swindler! Um, sorry. 'August father possessed of, ah, extreme acumen.' But still…"

Demansk took his arm and led him into the corridor beyond. "It'll work, Trae. Okay, I'm guessing again-no conqueror's ever tried to do it this way before, instead of grabbing land-but I'll be surprised if, within a few years, the Demansk family's fortune isn't twice what it was at its best."

Again, he made that modest throat-clearing noise. "Olver, as you know, is the man I appointed the new governor of the Emeralds. And as it happens-what a coincidence-I've just been informed he found it necessary to decree a change in the tax laws. It seems the Emeralds were getting so rich that the sumptuary taxes were eating them alive. So, alert to the needs of his people, he decreed that any wealth accumulated in another province would be exempted from taxation beyond the usual initial levies-provided, of course, that the riches were obtained in a legitimate enterprise. Which-what a coincidence-requires a Vanbert partner." With a chuckle, and a nod toward the northeast, where the harbor lay: "I think half the moneylenders and merchants of Solinga and Rope are here already. The gods know, I've had enough of them clamoring for an audience with me."

They were now entering that portion of the palace which had formerly contained Casull's hareem. The giant eunuchs who once guarded the doors were gone, replaced by two Vanbert infantrymen, and the doors themselves were open instead of being barred. The men came to attention as Demansk and Trae passed through.

"This is the hareem, isn't it? I'd think you'd be more careful," said Trae with a little smirk. "You know Vanbert soldiers."

"I'm counting on it," snorted his father. "If I thought I could get away with it, I'd have already done what the conqueror of legend did-ordered all my men to marry native women. Since that would be too much of a breach with custom, I've done the next best thing. Planted thousands of single men, their purses full, in a place full of destitute and desperate women." He nodded toward the harbor again. "Of which you just brought another huge batch, most of them widows."

"Sounds like a giant whorehouse."

Demansk shrugged. "To a degree, it is. But don't forget that my new regulations apply to the soldiers also. If they marry their new women, they stand to create a retirement for themselves. Which, since there won't be any land grants coming from this conquest, is something that the smartest of them are already figuring out. We had eighteen marriages yesterday. By next month, I think we'll have to start conducting mass ceremonies."

They had entered the innermost chamber of the former hareem. The surroundings were plush and luxurious, if a bit garish for Vanbert tastes. And the shallow pool at the center of the great room was completely at variance with Confederate architecture.

Trae didn't seem put off by it, though. He went over to the pool, squatted down, and dipped his hand in the water.

"Warm. They must have a heating system of some kind. They're clever, Islanders, no doubt about it. They'll make good mechanics. Better than Vanbert ones, probably."

He eyed Demansk over his shoulder. "I don't know, Father. The whole thing sounds weird to me. Wealth out of nothing. Well, not that exactly. But it's still wealth just coming out of… of…" He groped for words. "Out of money spinning around. Like that 'perpetual motion machine' the Emerald philosophers all swear is impossible."

Demansk decided it was time to bring Trae all the way in. "It's not impossible, Trae. In fact, it's been done many times before, and on many worlds. I didn't come up with the idea myself, although I'd been groping toward it."

He glanced at the west wall of the chamber. His own private quarters were on the opposite side of that wall, and he could visualize perfectly the writing table on which Adrian Gellert's "letter" rested. Demansk, like Trae himself, found the title Meditations on Successful Tyranny a bit ridiculous. But, unlike Trae, he'd read it. Done much more than read it, in fact-by now, he practically had it memorized.

"Most of it is Gellert's thinking. Helga says-"

He broke off, realizing that he would have to elaborate on the nature of Gellert's bizarre "spirits" at a later time. Something much more pressing was on the agenda at the moment.

Princess Jirri had come into the room, emerging from the door where her own quarters lay. She practically stormed into the room actually, glaring fiercely and waving a sheet of paper clutched in two little fists. Several of her fingers were stained with ink.

"Father, you have got to put a stop to-"

She halted abruptly, staring at Trae. Then, a moment later, her jaw dropped.

Trae rose to his feet and gave Demansk a cocked eyebrow. " 'Father'? Is there something I don't know? A second wife you never told us about?" He gave Jirri a careful inspection. "She doesn't look like one of your offspring. Too gorgeous, for starters."

Demansk coughed. "Well. Actually, Jirri's more or less practicing, I guess you could say. I'm about to become her father. I don't believe I've had a chance to mention yet that you're getting married. The day after tomorrow, as it happens. The ceremony's already been prepared."

As if by cue, the sound of heavy chimes ringing somewhere in the city below wafted through the airy windows of the hareem. Through those same windows, Demansk could see the Western Ocean. The waters of the archipelago seemed especially vibrant today.

"Ah, good. I see the temples have gotten the announcement. I had to wait, of course, until you'd actually arrived."

It would be difficult to say which of the two youngsters in the room had the widest eyes, at that moment. Both pairs looked like saucers. Trae was goggling at his father; Jirri was goggling at Trae.

"You didn't warn me!" they both protested simultaneously.

"I'm not ready to get married!" added Trae.

Jirri's protest was less cosmic: "I've got ink on my hands!"

Demansk bestowed a look upon his son which was stern enough to have satisfied the All-Father himself. "There will be no discussion, Trae, and no argument. None. In this, if nothing else, I will stand on ancient custom. I am your father, and you will do as I say. I need this marriage to solidify everything."

He glanced at Jirri, finding it hard not to laugh at her indignation over smudged fingers. "The truth is, I even considered marrying her myself. But that would have been too much of a breach with custom, and besides, I've been thinking-never mind." Firmly: "You're perfect. As my youngest son, you're not likely to be the Demansk heir anyway. The Council will squeal with outrage, but not for long. And, in the meantime, I'll have welded the Islanders to our family inseparably."

He pointed out the window. "Listen to those chimes, Trae. That celebration's not being faked. You're not only my son, but you're the one who just rescued thousands of their kinsfolk from Preble. Wedded, the day after tomorrow, to the surviving unmarried daughter of the previous dynasty. As good a guarantee as my new subjects could ask for. So long as they obey Demansk, that same name will be their shield."

Trae stared out the window. After a moment, his shoulders slumped a little, as a man's will when he accepts something inevitable. Demansk was relieved to see the familiar wry twist come his son's lips. If nothing else, Trae would always have his sense of humor.

"Did Gellert prescribe this too?"

Demansk shook his head. "Not hardly! I don't need mysterious spirits to teach me statecraft, Trae. I learned the principles of that from my own grandfather."

Trae's eyes moved to Jirri. The girl was now clumsily trying to disguise her fingers. But since she only had a thin sheet of paper and a tunic which was not much thicker to hide them in, she wasn't having much success. The expression on her face was one of extreme distress. Her first meeting with her groom! And she was filthy!

The wry smile widened. "A practical lass, is it? Well, that's good. You'll need to be, poor thing, married to me. " He gave his sire a look which just bordered on derision. "Or did my scheming august father neglect to mention to you that I was a complete eccentric?"

He stepped over to her and held out his hands. "Stop fidgeting, dammit. It's silly. As good-looking as you are, girl, you'll be bearing our first child within a year-and that'll be a lot messier than a little ink. Show me the fingers."

She did as her husband-to-be commanded. Demansk, watching, thought that her instant obedience was only partly the result of Islander custom. Jirri's eyes, staring up at Trae, were still wide. But Demansk could detect the first traces of trust coming into those dark orbs.

"I'll scrub them," whispered Jirri. "Right away."

Trae clucked his tongue. "Just for a little ink? Scrape those pretty fingers raw? I don't think so, girl." He gave her a smile which was a weird cross between a comfort and a leer. "Come the night after tomorrow, I'll be wanting those fingers soft and supple, damned if I won't."

Jirri choked down a laugh. There was some embarrassment in the sound. But there was also more a trace of anticipation.

"I've got some stuff that will work a lot better than pumice and oil," continued Trae. "You should see the crap I get on my fingers. Ha! You will be seeing it, soon enough. I'll have the cleansers brought up to the palace."

And then, even Trae was at a loss for words. Demansk left them there, two youngsters staring at each other. Given the nature of the times, he thought that dirty hands were an appropriate way for a husband and wife to get introduced.

Thicelt was waiting for him in his own quarters. Not in the private chamber where Demansk slept and where he'd spent hours studying Gellert's missive, but in the great outer salon which Demansk used for meetings with his close advisers.

"They sound good, no?" asked Sharlz, gesturing with his head to the windows. "I think they've got every chime in the city ringing."

Demansk nodded. "Yes. And now comes the hardest part. Waiting."

Thicelt studied him. Then, glanced at the door to Demansk's private chamber. Sharlz had never read Gellert's treatise, but he knew about it.

"It all depends on him now, I suppose."

"Not quite." Demansk lowered himself onto a couch and stretched. He was actually looking forward to the next few days, however much his son and about-to-be daughter-in-law might be full of trepidation. A traditional celebration, with the gaiety and feasting, would be a pure pleasure. And, in truth, he really could afford to ease up for a bit.

"Not quite," he repeated. "If Gellert fails, I think I could still manage the thing. But it'd be the difference between ruling a realm and ruling a ruin."

He stared out the window. His view was not of the harbor, but of the mountains behind Chalice. Almost the exact opposite direction from the one where his and the world's fate would be largely decided in the next few weeks. But Demansk wasn't even tempted to crane his neck and look toward the south.

That wouldn't do any good at all. He'd only be staring at a wall, in any event. What Demansk needed, now more than ever, was simply a measure of serenity. And for that, his window suited him perfectly. In the center of his view was the Peak of the Sun God, rising majestically into the heavens. With, as always since Demansk had arrived at the archipelago, that steady, steady, steady plume.

"It's a good sign," pronounced Thicelt. He was speaking of the nearby chimes, of course. But Demansk, staring at silent smoke in the distance, found himself in full agreement.