David Drake - Tyrant

That was as good as could be hoped for. The resentment of the Fourth Jallink Regiment was inevitable, and expected. Willech's family were Jallink tribe themselves. But if the men of the regiment hadn't taken up arms by now, they certainly wouldn't do so once the news of Willech's execution reached them. Naturally, that would increase their resentment. But without a clear pole around which opposition could crystallize, all of those soldiers would start thinking about the risks involved if they rebelled and failed. Decimation was the traditional punishment for a unit which broke and ran on the field. The traditional penalty for units which rebelled and were crushed by the "lawful authority" — that being defined by whoever emerged triumphant, of course — was the exact opposite. One man out of ten would be left alive, to spread the word concerning the penalty for mutiny.

"All right, then," said Demansk. "In that case, I think I'll speak with the Emerald merchants right now. The sooner we can get this behind us, and get everyone's mind focused on the money they're making, the better."

* * *

Demansk always found Emerald merchants and guildmasters a bit ridiculous — although he was careful not to let any trace of his amusement show on his face. It wasn't that they weren't good at their business. Emerald merchants were as notorious as Islanders for their sharp and narrow trading practices—"acumen," they liked to call it — and, in most crafts other than weaving and papermaking, their artisans were still the best in the world. Superb jewelers and metalsmiths, for a certainty.

No, it was that same old "philosophical" penchant which made all Emeralds a bit comical to Confederates.

How many Emeralds does it take to slaughter a pig?

Eight. One to hold the beast, one to cut his throat, five — because it's a prime number and thus mystical — to convince the pig that Becoming a rasher is better than Being a swine. And the eighth, of course, to be the sophist arguing the pig's side of things.

At the moment, as it happened, the guildmaster of Solinga's shipwrights was holding forth on the significance of prime numbers. In this case, the mystical superiority of the number seven over the number five. Any resemblance to a lowly fishwife haggling in the marketplace was, of course, purely coincidental.

"It just can't be done for five thousand solingens, august Triumvir. Not a whole great ship like you're asking for, not even" — sourly, this last, since it would leave the sub-guild of decorators squealing like pigs themselves—"with such a simple and crude design." Ponderously: "Need at least seven thousand, and even at that" — more sourly—"a good thousand of it will have to be devoted to alms for the starving decorators."

Demansk decided he'd been polite enough, for long enough. "Bugger the decorators," he growled. "They can turn their skills just as easily to carving mantlepieces and headboards in the mansions of the soon to be rich merchants and tradesmen of the city as they can to carving useless sternposts for warships. I'll allow an extra five hundred just to tide them over the transition, that's all. Five thousand, five hundred per ship. That's assuming , of course, that you can deliver on your promise to build the size fleet I require in the time allowed. If you don't meet the schedule, the price will drop by five hundred solingens for every week you go past the deadline."

As one voice: Per week?? ABSURD!! Pardon, august and mighty (etc. etc.) Triumvir, sir, but you just don't understand—

And so it went, for another four hours. At the end, feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling after a battle, Demansk tottered out of the room back into his command center. By then, he was relieved to see, Prit Sallivar had arrived.

"I held them to six thousand, two hundred," he said weakly. "With a three hundred solingen penalty per fortnight."

Sallivar pursed his lips. " 'Bout what I expected. The penalty's meaningless, of course. Those swindlers will have that fleet ready a month early — you watch — and then start squalling that they deserve a bonus. Six thousand per ship, now. ."

Demansk watched as his banker did some complex calculations in his head. Then Prit shrugged and said: "It'll do, Verice. Not even that tight, really. Willech, the bastard, had a third again more treasure stored up than I'd estimated. We'll have a sizeable cushion." He gave Demansk a wintry smile. "Even enough to hire this bizarre new bodyguard you seem to have your heart set on. Although I hope you don't start trying to put together an entire unit of such trolls. The food bill alone would bankrupt us."

Demansk frowned, puzzled. Sallivar pointed toward the door with his thumb. "Forgotten already? Sad, what age does. The man's been waiting out there for hours."

The sergeant. Demansk had indeed forgotten all about him.

"I'll see him in my private quarters. Give me ten minutes to wash up a bit."

* * *

The sergeant seemed a bit ill at ease when he came into Demansk's salon, but not as much as the Triumvir had expected. Oddly, the giant's uneasiness seemed to increase after Demansk ordered his three regular bodyguards to leave them alone.

"I'd have thought you'd prefer not having armed men standing at your back," he said almost, but not quite, slyly. "What with old village sayings about dead men telling no tales running through your head."

The sergeant seemed to flush a bit. Then, after discreetly clearing his throat: "T'ain't thet, sir. I was na worret 'bout thet."

Demansk found it interesting that the man's eastern accent was so much more pronounced now than it had been when the sergeant was, so to speak, "on stage."

The next words confirmed the guess.

"Don' think tha's a man in tha regiments — nor yars, naebit — what does no trust ya, sar. A soldier's general, yar know'd t'be. 'Tis just. ."

The huge soldier glanced around the room nervously. " 'Tis just tha I don' know wha ta 'spect, sar. No used ta thet. Man o' my station does no speak privately with na gen'ral, naebit less na Triumvir."

His head jerked a bit, as if he was sternly reminding himself of a silent vow. When he spoke again, the thick accent was almost gone and the clean-speaking sergeant of the drama was back.

"Sorry, sir. I imagine the Triumvir would like me — me and my squad — to serve him as bodyguards. That's what my men were thinking, anyway. In the new times a-coming, you'll be having some use for a bigger guard, they're thinking."

Demansk was not surprised to discover that the sergeant had mentioned this upcoming private audience with his men — nor that the squad had apparently spent some time discussing the matter. The squad was the basic unit in the Vanbert army. Except in cases of extreme casualties, soldiers usually served their entire twenty-five-year stretch in the same squad. Half of the men in it would be related by blood, and almost all of them would come from the same village. "Squad deep" was the way Confederate veterans would refer to a man or thing which could be completely trusted.

What Demansk did find a bit surprising — and certainly interesting — was the actual assessment the squad had made. "New times a-coming," indeed. As an officer, even a popular one, he was and had been for years insulated from the quiet thinking which percolated through the ranks. But he'd never made the mistake which many officers made of not realizing that such thinking was going on.

The perspicacity of the squad, and the obvious intelligence of its sergeant, crystallized a decision he'd been weighing in his mind. As it happened, he had originally intended to use them as bodyguards. But he decided he had a better purpose for them.