David Drake - The Tyrant

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."