David Drake: The Tyrant

His eyes ranged to the north, as if trying to study the unseen village where the First Spear's kinfolk lived. He was fairly certain he'd see much the same thing. A small settlement of freemen, who had managed to carve out a decent life for themselves amidst the steady decay of the Confederacy of Vanbert.

"It's possible they could all be impaled," he stated curtly, "if the worst happens. Not likely, but I can't rule it out. They'd certainly be stripped of their lands and sold into slavery."

Having gotten it out, he added a bit hastily: "But that's if the very worst happens. Which, to be honest, is not all that likely. If for no other reason, simply because things will be such a ratfuck mess that nobody will really know any longer who did what to whom. Your kinfolk would be more or less invisible in the fog."

The First Spear chuckled. "Like that, huh? 'Interesting times,' as they say." He gave the house his own quick examination. "And what if things turn out well?"

"They'll all be sitting pretty," said Demansk. "Good glass in the windows-and houses a lot bigger than this." He almost added: with slaves to keep them clean, but didn't. If Demansk's plans worked out, there wouldn't be any slaves left in the first place.

Whatever happened, Demansk had already decided, he would remain honest with this man. Partly because it would be foolish not to, but mostly because stubbornness did not allow it. His grandfather, full of the virtues of the Vanbert of old, would not have lied to his First Spear. Demansk, even as he destroyed that old regime, would retain at least that much.

The First Spear was silent, for a moment. He worked his jaws slightly, as his eyes moved slowly across his farmland. The crops were filling out well, now. It would be a good season.

"And who knows about the next?" he murmured. His thick chest swelled with another deep breath. Then: "What the hell. 'Interesting times' it is. No way around it, so far as I can see. May as well try to ride a wave as duck from it, since there's nowhere to hide anyway."

He gave Demansk a shrewd look. "Is there, sir?"

The Justiciar shrugged. "Not that I can see."

The First Spear nodded. "You'd make a better new Marcomann than anyone else, that I know of. That is what we're talking about."

The last sentence came as a flat statement, not a question. Demansk was reassured. He found himself also reassessing his plans for the man. He hadn't expected such political acumen from a former First Spear. After this initial assignment was done…

"Can you read?" he asked abruptly. "Well, I mean."

The First Spear shrugged. "Enough to get by, sir. I wouldn't call it 'well.' I'm no scholar, that's for sure."

"I'll have you taught. By Helga herself, at first. She'll have plenty of time on your voyage."

The First Spear's eyed widened. Demansk chuckled.

"Yes, that's your first assignment. I'll have others for you when it's done, First Spear. But, first, you've got to see to it that my daughter gets to Marange safely." His own jaws tightened. "I'll not see her fall into the hands of pirates again, and I've got no way to get her there except by sea."

The First Spear's jaws were working again. Demansk remembered the habit, from old campaigns. The man was chewing on a problem.

"I'm no seaman myself, sir. But you can hire such, easily enough. The trick is having the right escort."

His head swiveled, looking north. Demansk's gaze followed, and he felt his own eyes widen.

I hadn't considered The First Spear verbalized the notion. "Why not use my kinfolk, sir? All of them. It'd cost you some, sure, buying out all the farms. But you'd have to pay loose mercenaries near as much, if you wanted to have good men you can trust. And you still couldn't be sure there weren't any traitors in the bunch. My clansmen, now, them I can vouch for."

Demansk was already captivated by the idea. "How many fighting men, First Spear? And how many people, in total?"

The First Spear rasped a little laugh. "They're all soldiers, sir. Or, if they're too young, training for it already. Nothing else for a freeman to do, in the east. Can't make a go of farming without a retirement bonus to get you started." The heavy jaws worked some more, as he did his calculations. "Thirty-two men with experience, another dozen or so good lads ready to learn. Two first spears and seven file closers amongst 'em. Eight of the men are too old or crippled to fight in the ranks-me being one of them. But there's always other jobs need to be done, anyway. Quarter-mastering and such."

The jaws worked back and forth. "Say, give me a few weeks to organize 'em, and you've got a third of a hundred from my own kin. All fighters, I'm counting, complete with gear and kit. They can make the core, if you need a full hundred. We can get the rest, easily enough. There's plenty of retired and out-of-regiment men hereabouts, most of whom aren't finding that it's all that easy to work a farm. If you let me and my kinfolk pick them, we can get ones to be trusted."

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."