David Drake - Tyrant

Olver shrugged. "Depleting it doesn't matter, as long as we've got enough seed corn for the next year."

Demansk clapped him on the shoulder. He approved of Olver. Granted, his second-oldest son had little of Helga or Trae's quick wits and humor. But he was a solid boy. He always had been.

Demansk had always said he would trust Olver with his life. Now, he was about to prove it.

"Not to worry, son."

"I'm not worrying about it, Father," came the immediate reply. "Just. . wondering a bit, that's all." Before Demansk could say anything, Olver placed his own square hand atop his father's, still resting on the son's shoulder. "Don't tell me. I'd rather not know."

* * *

That night, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers, Demansk appointed his third Special Attendant. A small, wiry man, with a face like a claw hammer. Except for its narrowness, in fact, the face looked quite a bit like Willech's.

The man's name was Prit Sallivar, and he had been Demansk's closest and most trusted financial adviser for years. The family's banker, for all practical purposes.

"The Council's going to have a shitfit," he predicted. "Probably be a riot in the Assembly."

Demansk shrugged. "I don't care about the Assembly. Unless they can find a point of clear support in the Council, the 'Assembly' is just a fancy name for the 'mob of Vanbert.' Screw 'em. The Council's the key, right now. And I'm trusting you to keep it locked."

Sallivar made a face. "That's a terrible mixed metaphor. Don't let any Emerald grammarian hear you say things like that, Verice, or you'll be the one facing a provincial rebellion here."

Demansk chuckled. Sallivar was one of the few men close enough to him to use the Triumvir's first name. He was also one of the few who didn't hesitate to gibe at Demansk's not-always-elegant use of language. It was part of the reason Demansk trusted him. That and, of course, the fact that if Demansk fell, Prit Sallivar would be dismembered by their mutual enemies within moments thereafter.

"Use the old man, Prit." Then, scrambling the metaphor hopelessly: "He'll turn the key in the lock for you."

Sallivar's face was now truly sour. "Turn it which way?" he demanded. "Will you please give up the bad poetry and speak in plain and simple prose."

"Jeschonyk will keep the Council under control. He's. . not my man, no. But he'll not wish to cross me in this. And since he's not one of Willech's creditors or debtors, he'll have neither a personal grudge nor any need to act impartial in the matter. And you know how well he can give that 'for the good of the Confederacy' speech of his."

"None better," allowed Sallivar. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. Stretched them, rather. It had been a long planning session.

"All right, Verice. I'll do my best. How soon?"

There was no humor on Demansk's face now. "Tomorrow," he said.

"Tomorrow?"

"Why wait?"

Chapter 12

"I can delay it for another hour," said Thicelt tightly, peering at the vessel half a mile off from the stern of their ship. His eyes were squinted against the sun, which gave his huge-beaked face an even fiercer look than usual. "No longer than that. The wind's not good enough to stay ahead of them before their rowers tire."

Jessep Yunkers gave the pirate ship pursuing them a last glance and turned to Helga.

"It's your decision, ma'am."

Helga hesitated, not sure what to do. Then, an oft-repeated remark of her father's came back to her.

"My father always said to rely on your First Spear's advice when you were unsure of things. So — what is it?"

Jessep's square face creased into a grin of sorts. He turned his head and studied the oncoming pirate vessel. Then, glanced at the sun and gauged its position.

"I can't see any point in waiting." He jerked a thumb at the soldiers of the hundred, who were lying down everywhere on the deck. Out of sight of the pirates in their low galley, true enough, but badly cramped. "Another hour of that, and they'll be too stiff to get to their feet easily when the time comes. Best to do it quickly."

Thicelt glanced at Helga. She nodded. Immediately, the ship's captain began bellowing orders.

Part of the crew swarmed up the rigging and began bringing down the sail. Once that was done, they would see to the backbreaking and risky work of removing the mast. That was always done when a warship was heading into battle — at least, a warship armed with a ram — or the mast would snap off at the impact.

Meanwhile, obeying the new rhythm of the hortator at his wooden drum, the oarsmen began turning the ship. To the pirates pursuing them, it would seem as if the merchant ship was making a desperate attempt to ram them.

And desperate was the right word for it. Unless the pirates handled their ship incredibly badly, they should have no difficulty at all avoiding the clumsier demibireme's assault. Although Helga's was a warship of sorts itself, the pirate vessel was much more maneuverable in a single ship action. Typical of the type used by the freebooters along the coast, it was a light and shallow-draft pure galley. Very wide in proportion to its length, true, in order to accommodate the huge number of rowers aboard her. But still a much handier craft than its prey.

Sure enough, before Thicelt had even finished turning his ship Helga could hear the loud jeers of the pirate crew. There must have been some two hundred men aboard that low galley. Even across the distance — still perhaps four hundred yards — their voices carried well enough.

"Stay right here where they can see you clearly when we get closer," said Jessep. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. But that'll help. . distract them."

Helga's smile was a very crooked thing. " 'Distraction' is one way of putting it. But how are they supposed to get a good look at me? We're back in the stern, First Spear. Sorry, 'Special Attendant.' "

" 'First Spear' is just fine coming from you, ma'am. Think I prefer it some, to be honest."

Helga nodded. " 'First Spear' it stays, then, at least between you and me. But my point is — if you really want them to get a look at me, shouldn't I be up in the bow?"

Jessep shook his head. "That'd be suspicious, ma'am. A lady'd be either way back at the stern or. ."

"Cowering in the hold," finished Helga, "like as not screaming her head off. Speaking of which—"

She took three quick steps and leaned over the hatch. In the semi-darkness below, she could see Polla's pale face staring up at her. Despite the paleness, which was more the product of spending days in the ship's interior than anything else, Polla didn't seem especially worried.

"It'd help if you all did some screaming," said Helga. "When the time comes. I'll give you the signal."

Polla nodded. Then, gave her own version of a crooked smile. "No problem. Won't be the first time any of us have faked it. Although there's probably no need to mention that to my, ah, husband."

Helga chuckled. Then, chuckled again, hearing Ilset's outraged hiss. " I never faked anything! My husband—"

"Oh, shut up, will you?" groused Polla. "If I have to listen to another paean of praise about your precious Jessep, I swear I'll. ."

The rest faded out as Polla disappeared. Helga straightened and went back to Jessep. The middle-aged former First Spear had a very smug look on his face. Apparently, the injury to his head hadn't affected his hearing any.

"Okay," she said. "Now what?"

Yunkers shrugged. "You and I just stand here looking like a rich merchant and his beautiful daughter. With our personal bodyguard." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at Lortz. Helga's personal weapons trainer, looking relaxed if none too happy, was standing near them in full weapons and armor.