Tyrant g-5 Page 6

  Demansk was doing his own calculations. He needed to get Helga off as soon as possible, before the sailing season ended. That meant, at the latest, two months from now.

  "You'll have to be ready to leave in six weeks," he said firmly.

  The First Spear sloped his shoulders. It was not a gesture of despair; simply one of a man prepared to do whatever work was needed.

  "I'm to be First Spear again, then?"

  Demansk shook his head. "No. You'll stay out of combat. I need you to oversee the business — and give my daughter the advice and counsel she'll need.

  "As far as possible," he added, remembering her headstrong attitude. The First Spear smiled. Clearly enough, he'd heard stories of Helga Demansk's temperament.

  "You pick the First Spear," said Demansk. "I've got a different title for you. A new one." He'd given this some thought. "You're a 'Special Attendant' for Verice Demansk. The first of several, I suspect. The pay is a lot better, I might add."

  The former First Spear pursed his lips. "And what exactly is the authority of such a. . 'Special Attendant'?"

  "Whatever it becomes," replied Demansk flatly. "I'll have a new title myself pretty soon. 'Triumvir.' "

  The new Special Attendant nodded his head. "Good move that, sir, if you'll permit me saying so. Always defeat 'em in detail, when you can."

  A smile came to Demansk's face. He suspected it was not a cheery expression, though. Several species of carnivores smiled also, at times. But his new subordinate's perspicacity pleased him, and besides — carnivores who smiled hunted in packs.

  "I'll need to be off now, Special Attendant. I'll send money to you, as soon as you figure out how much you'll need for everything."

  They had been standing in front of the house the whole time. The Special Attendant had the reins of Demansk's velipad in his fist, since he'd politely helped him dismount when he arrived. He held them out and Demansk took them back.

  As he turned away, preparing to mount, a sudden thought came to him. His face flushed a bit.

  "Special Attendant, what is your name?"

  The man's actual grin, when it finally came, was surprisingly light-hearted. "It's to be the old times again, damn me if it won't!" he exclaimed cheerily. "Jessep, sir. Jessep Yunkers."

  * * *

  Demansk's escort was waiting for him in the tavern of a village nearby. He'd left them there so no one would know exactly where he had gone. The village, Demansk realized as he returned to it, was not the one Jessep had mentioned. Which was just as well, he decided. If spies started retracing his steps, they wouldn't find much here.

  The officer in charge of the escort was a responsible man, so he had kept his men from drinking too much. The party was back on the road within minutes.

  "One more stop before we're home," Demansk told him. Since there would be no way to keep this stop secret — and no need to, for that matter — he added: "Trae's villa. The new one, on the other side of the river."

  * * *

  The new "villa" of Demansk's youngest son Trae was a peculiar sort of thing. The mansion which served as the actual dwelling was standard enough, if a bit on the small side for a scion of such a wealthy family. But the adjoining buildings along the riverside — all of them newly constructed — were not something you'd find on most Confederate noblemen's estates.

  Not on any, qualified Demansk to himself, as he dismounted in front of the largest new building. Trae called it a "workshop." The fact that he'd even call it that was enough to demonstrate the young man's eccentricity. Modern Vanbert noblemen did not engage in such disreputable activity as "work."

  Before he entered the workshop, Demansk walked over to the riverbank and studied the river. Trae's estates were on the northern bank of the estuary of the Wantrell. Demansk could see his own great villa in the distance, perched on a small hill across the river.

  Here, very close to the sea, the river was almost a mile wide. And. .

  Deep enough, Demansk decided. We'll need to build a dock. But Helga's ship, even as big a one as I'll get her, can make moorage here.

  He turned away and studied the workshop. There was nothing to see, really, other than a small door on the side and two great swinging waterdoors in the middle which opened directly on an inlet to the riverside. There were plenty of windows, but all of them began ten feet off the ground — above eye level, except for someone with a ladder.

  And there wouldn't be anything to see, anyway, even if someone did use a ladder. Demansk noted, with approval, the frosty glass which filled all the windows. His son Trae was absent-minded, in some ways, but there was nothing at all wrong with his brains. The interior of the workshop would be better lit than most buildings, during daytime at least, but would be impossible to spy on easily.

  He went over to the small door and gave it a tug. Locked, as he'd expected — and hoped. He gave the door a vigorous pounding with his fist.

  * * *

  The man who opened the door was the one Demansk had come to see. The other one, rather, in addition to his son.

  The foreign face was blank with astonishment. "Justiciar!" the man exclaimed. "We hadn't expected—"

  "Good," grunted Demansk, passing through the door. When he entered the workshop, his eyes fell on the object at its center. Impossible to look anywhere else, really. Even floating in its berth, the thing filled most of the building's interior.

  It was the steam ram which Adrian Gellert had designed for the King of the Isles. The device had caused much grief to the Confederates in the first period of the siege of Preble, before Demansk had managed to capture the bizarre thing.

  Capture it from—

  His eyes moved away from the ship and fell on the man who had opened the door. Sharlz Thicelt, he noted, had given up his turban and was now wearing the garb of a Confederate freeman instead of an Islesman. But the tall former captain of the steam ram still had his head shaved, and still had heavy gold hoops dangling from his ears.

  Demansk decided he approved of that small display of stubbornness. In an odd way, it spoke to a certain integrity in the former Islander naval captain.

  That integrity would be needed. "Islander naval captain" was a term whose distinction from "pirate chieftain" could only be parsed by an Emerald philosopher. Demansk was now facing the old quandary: How do you know that the bandit you're hiring is an honest man?

  Something of his thoughts must have shown. Thicelt's thick lips twisted, and he held up his wrists. "Your son will speak well of me, I think. At least, he removed the manacles weeks ago."

  Trae had come up by then, a tool of some kind in his hand. A tool! Demansk noted. Good thing no one knows, or the whole family would be disgraced in Vanbert's upper crust.

  "He's not a bad pirate, as these things go," said Demansk's youngest offspring cheerfully.

  Demansk saw no reason to dilly-dally around the business. "But will he stay bought?" he demanded.

  Sharlz Thicelt's expressive lips shifted into a different kind of smile. Still wry; but also, somehow, philosophical.

  "Depends on the price," he said, just as bluntly. "If it's a fair one, yes; try and chisel me, you'll live to regret it." He shrugged. "Not a polite way of putting it, of course. But. . there it is."

  Demansk bestowed upon him the carnivore smile. "I dare say you'll have no complaint about the price. Though you might find the risk involved a bit on the steep side."

  Thicelt's whole face was expressive. The smile vanished, the brows lowered, the cheeks thinned. The man was on the verge of taking insult. Whatever else anyone said about the pirates of the Isles, no one accused them of cowardice.

  Demansk headed it off. "I'm not talking about simple risks, Sharlz Thicelt." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Boarding operations, battle — that sort of thing. I'm talking about the kind of risks that might leave you, someday, immured in a dark cellar. Dying slowly on a stake, with no one knowing you are even there except your executioners."

  Thicelt's face cleared. "Ah.
Politics." He ran a long-fingered hand over his shaven skull. Then the wry smile returned. "And why not? Any common pirate can rob and plunder and rape and kill. It takes a great pirate to do politics."

  He squared his shoulders and tapped his chest with a finger. "Here, Justiciar Demansk, you see a great pirate. One of the best! So. What are to be my new responsibilities?"

  "I'm not sure yet, as far as the long term goes. In the short term, I need a captain for a sea voyage." He matched the wry smile with one of his own. "I do know your new title, on the other hand. Special Attendant."

  " 'Special Attendant.' " Thicelt rolled the odd words around in his mouth. " 'Special Attendant.' It has a nice vague sound to it. Splendid! Vague titles are a damnation for a workman; a boon, for the overseer."

  "Exactly," said Demansk. "And for the overseer's master."

  He looked at his son, pointing at the steam ram. "And?"

  Trae shrugged. "We can run it easily enough, Father, as well as fire the cannons. The damage has all been repaired. I think I understand how everything works — even, more or less, why it works. But I hope you're not planning to use it for your mysterious 'sea voyage.' I wouldn't trust this tub in open waters for more than a few hours, and then only in fine weather. Even Sharlz wouldn't."

  The former pirate captain scowled. "A 'tub,' as you say. The damn thing gave me nothing but grief, except in battle. Where" — he grinned at Demansk—"it was a terror to my enemies until that unspeakable imbecile Prince Tenny insisted on taking command."

  Having been one of Thicelt's enemies in that sea battle, Demansk couldn't help but agree. The infernal steam ram, with its armored shell and its cannons, had wreaked havoc among Demansk's own ships. But Prince Tenny, the oldest son of King Casull of the Isles, had been aboard the ram. He had forced Thicelt to abandon the captain's cunning tactics and try to mix it up directly with the Confederate forces.

  The Confederate navy was notoriously clumsy, with none of the superb seamanship of the Islanders. But no one in their right mind ever tried to "mix it up directly" with Confederate naval forces. Those forces consisted mainly of marines, who were the world's experts at turning a sea battle into a land battle. Demansk himself had led the boarding operation which captured the steam ram — and its captain, in the bargain.

  Prince Tenny had been killed in the course of that boarding operation, with a dart through his guts. Demansk could still remember Sharlz Thicelt spitting on the corpse with fury.

  "I've got other plans for the steam ram," said Demansk. "You'll have a good seagoing vessel for your voyage, Special Attendant Thicelt, have no fear of that. In fact, your very first assignment is to select the ship in the first place. I'll give you the money to buy it." Again, he waved his hand. "I'll expect you not to skim more than a modest sum off the top."

  Thicelt grinned. "And then?"

  Demansk hooked his thumb at the ram. "If it's working, does it need you to captain it?"

  Thicelt shook his head. "Any good captain can manage the thing, with some training."

  "Good. Because what I really need is an admiral."

  All the good cheer left Thicelt's face. He studied Demansk very carefully. Then: "An honest pirate, as I said. So I will not lie. The 'price' involves costs as well as rewards. There is only one reason you would need an 'admiral,' and that is to conquer the Isles." The man's long face grew longer still. "I have family on those Isles, Justiciar Demansk. Political loyalties are nothing to me. Family. . is a different thing. People get hurt in conquests. Killed and ravished and maimed. Their property taken and themselves sold into slavery."

  Demansk nodded. "I wouldn't expect your loyalty under such conditions. Nor would I even want it, to be honest." He reached out a hand and seized the taller man by the shoulder. "I can promise you this, Sharlz Thicelt. If you let me know where your family lives — and especially if you can get word to them ahead of time — I will see to their safety and well-being."

  He dropped the hand and shrugged. "I can't promise that none of their properties would be damaged or taken. In war. ."

  "Who knows?" Thicelt completed the thought. "Property can always be replaced. Especially when one of the family members is a 'Special Attendant.' "

  He nodded his head. The gesture had a very formal aura. "It is done, Justiciar Demansk. A bargain, and an honest one."

  "And what about me, Father?" asked Trae. "What do you plan for me?" His youthful face was creased with confusion. "And what is all this business about, anyway?"

  * * *

  Demansk spent the rest of the evening explaining. Trae and Thicelt were his only companions through that long discussion, and Demansk decided to allow Thicelt to remain for all of it. He had known from the beginning that he was taking a risk by employing Thicelt. He had done so because he needed the finest admiral he could get his hands on. And he was quite certain that the canny King of the Isles had chosen his very best captain to command the steam ram.

  Still, it was a risk. With what he learned in the course of that evening's discussion, Thicelt could sell the information to any one of Demansk's enemies — and come out of the sale a rich man as well as a free one.

  But risks have to be taken, at times. And Demansk had always been of the philosophy that there was no point in postponing them. Eventually, he would have had to tell Thicelt, anyway. And there was simply no way to keep under close guard a man whom he intended to load with so much power and authority as well as responsibility. So. . may as well find out quickly.

  By the end of the evening, however, Demansk's lurking fears were allayed. Thicelt, clearly enough, was the kind of man who enjoyed a genuine challenge. No one simply seeking to gain information for a later betrayal would have pitched into the discussion and the planning so eagerly — not to mention advancing so many excellent suggestions himself. Demansk suspected that the man's insistence on his piratical nature was due more to Islander custom than anything else. A role, as it were, rather than the man himself.

  As a servant led him to the sleeping chamber where he would spend the night, after the discussion was over, Demansk found himself thinking about that "role." Not so much Thicelt's alone, as those of millions of men. When all was said and done, what Demansk planned to carry out was a gigantic "mixing of roles."

  All of the Confederacy's decay, he thought, could in the end be reduced to that. The great realm forged by Vanbert had settled into layers, like sludge rotting in a pool. It was time to "mix it up." Break classes as well as nations, and churn new life into the mix.

  And so it begins, he thought, as he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. Verice Demansk, the head of one of Vanbert's oldest and most illustrious families, was already "mixing it up." It was not an accident, he now realized, that outside of his immediate family the first recruits to his conspiracy were a former peasant and a pirate.

  He chewed on the thought for a while. Then, fell to sleep much more easily than he would have suspected. And why not? His own ancestors had been peasants; and pirates, too, for that matter. "Land pirates," of course. Vanberts were not natural seamen.

  Chapter 7

  "I can't stay long," he told Helga. "I've got to get back to the capital in time for the Council session, and I've got to visit the siege of Preble along the way."

  Helga looked down at the baby nestled in her lap. "Are you listening?" she demanded. "No, you're sleeping — lazy little sot! When your grandfather's giving you such excellent lessons in duplicity!

  "This is lesson Number 64, too," she added, clucking her tongue with motherly distress. " 'How To Appear Deeply Concerned By Grave Matters of State.' You'll never be a successful politician without it."

  Demansk's lips quirked. As much as Helga's tongue often annoyed him, he had long ago decided that, on balance, it probably also helped keep him sane. Unseemly as her sarcasm might be — her own father! — it was usually right on target.

  Certainly in this instance. Demansk really had no legitimate reason to visit the Confederate forces maintainin
g the siege of Preble. Jeschonyk's enemies, with Speaker of the Assembly Albrecht leading the pack, had bayed for his dismissal after the initial disasters at Preble the previous year, and his replacement by Albrecht himself. Demansk had been dismissed from his command along with Jeschonyk. Partly because he was seen as Jeschonyk's loyal subordinate, which, in truth, he had been. But mostly because Albrecht wanted no independent top officer on his staff to share the credit for breaking Preble's rebellion — especially not one as famously competent as Demansk. Albrecht wanted no one beside him when he rode in the chariot at the triumph. Or even whispers that someone should have been riding beside him.

  Neither Demansk nor Jeschonyk had made more than a token protest. Jeschonyk, because the old man had become weary in the course of the strenuous siege; Demansk, because his mind had already begun turning to a much more ambitious goal than breaking a single city's rebellion. A goal, and a scheme, which being forced to remain at the site of a long siege would severely hamper — as Albrecht was about to discover himself.

  "That's the one good old custom, if nothing else," he said, "which still remains intact." He bestowed a stern look upon his sleeping grandson and wagged his finger. "Don't forget it, lad! The commander of an army on campaign must remain in the field with his troops until the victory is won.

  "Which," he added cheerily, "is still a long way down the road at Preble. Ha! That arrogant bastard!" Somewhere in Demansk's soul, Albrecht's derisive remarks of the year before still rankled. "He's found out, hasn't he now, just how tough a siege can be against a determined opponent."

  The unheeding, sleeping babe was now subjected to finger-wagging from his mother. "And don't think you'll be able to bribe your way out of it, either, you little rascal! Desertion is desertion. No amount of bribes will keep you from the executioner's blade. Not even if you've got Albrecht's fortune. Forget the blade, for that matter. Nobleman or not, you'll be fit onto a commoner's stake."