David Drake - Tyrant

Prit held up a hand, indicating that he was not challenging the decision. "That still leaves something else unclear." He nodded toward Oppricht. "As Kall said, others —Albrecht's people, to be specific — are certainly plotting along those lines themselves. So, the question is: do we do anything to stop them ?"

Demansk turned his head and stared through the open archway onto the balcony. He couldn't see the ocean itself, from his seated position — not even if it had still been daylight — but he could see the sky above it. Unusually, for this time of year on the northern coast, the sky was cloudless. Even with the lamps burning in the room, he could see the stars quite clearly.

Demansk had always liked watching the stars at night. They seemed so remote, so aloof, from the muck of earthly existence.

He could remember, once, while on campaign, standing next to Jeschonyk and staring up at the vault of the heavens. The old Speaker Emeritus was something of an astronomer; quite famous for it, in fact, even among Emerald scholars. He could remember the enthusiasm with which Ion had pointed out the various constellations and the mysterious stars which, unlike all the others, seemed to move about. "Planets," Jeschonyk had called them, insisting that they were the actual spirits of the gods themselves.

He sighed, and turned his face back to the room full of plotters. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a murmur.

"No, Prit, we don't. Jeschonyk will either protect himself, or he won't. We will have no hand in whatever happens, but. . whatever does, of course, you will see to it that the necessary measures are in place and ready to go."

Sallivar nodded. "I'll pass the word to Raddek and Gliev in Vanbert."

"Good enough," said Demansk. "Let's move on, then, to the next thing." With a lift in his voice, as if he were relieved to move on to a straightforward matter of military logistics: "Jonthen, I'm a bit concerned by the state of—"

* * *

They were not done until midnight. And then, politely seeing the others to the door, Demansk steeled himself for still another meeting. A pleasant enough one, to be sure, but he wondered sometimes if he'd ever get enough sleep. He seemed to have a vague memory of a time in the past when he had.

Trae was waiting patiently in a separate room. And continued waiting, out of sight, until Demansk's lieutenants had all left the building. Not that there was any secret about Trae, exactly. All of Demansk's special attendants knew of Trae's work, although only Thicelt really understood it fully. Still, Demansk was a firm believer in the axiom that one should always have a second string to one's bow. There were his special attendants; and then, there was his family. Three of his four children, at least. The two worked toward the same purpose, but they still worked separately.

Trae had little of the deference of Demansk's lieutenants. He was already scowling when he came through the door and launched immediately into his protest.

"Father, you promised —"

"Oh, shut up," growled Demansk. He pointed at one of the nearby tables. "Drown your sorrows in wine, if you must. Trae, it would be idiotic to risk your death or injury in this coming battle with Casull. And your precious steam ram would just get in the way, anyhow. Dammit, there's not going to be anything fancy about it. I will go after Casull like a man using a sledgehammer on a cornered rat. The last thing I need is complications.

" And ," he continued forcefully, overriding Trae's protest, "I will need your steam ram for this other matter. As I've now explained to you at least three times."

Sullenly, Trae poured himself a goblet of wine. Even more sullenly, he flung himself onto a couch. Unlike Jeschonyk, however, he did not manage the feat without spilling some wine on his tunic. Fortunately, the garment was the utilitarian one which Trae was in the habit of wearing.

" 'This other matter,' " he quoted. Being almost, but not quite, openly derisive. For Trae, if not his sister, there were certain limits in the way one spoke to one's august Confederate sire.

"Father, that's pure speculation — and you know it as well as I do. I may be a callow youth, but I'm not dumb enough to think that a complicated plot is going to work, every step along the way, just as planned. You have no real idea if Albrecht's going to react—"

"Ha!" barked Demansk, cutting his son short. "Just as bad as your headstrong sister! Presuming to lecture me on matters of strategy and tactics."

But it was said cheerfully, and Demansk began pouring a convivial goblet for himself as he continued.

"Trae, of course I'm speculating. Although I think the odds that Albrecht will react the way I'm guessing are a lot better than you think. I've known the pig since he was a piglet."

He ambled over to another couch and took a seat. "The thing to remember about Drav Albrecht is that he's impatient. Don't ever let that smooth, sophisticated façade of his fool you. Underneath, the man is fundamentally a hothead. The past year — more than that — of leading that miserable siege of Preble will have frayed him to the limit. When he hears of my sudden triumph, and a much bigger one, over Casull. ." Demansk took a long swallow of wine. "He won't be able to resist, Trae. Already by now, much less by late spring, he'll have everything in place to make a final assault. The casualties will be horrendous, of course, which is why he hasn't done it yet. But Albrecht doesn't really give a damn about that, not when push comes to shove."

Trae was still scowling. But, after a moment, the scowl faded a bit. "Actually, Father, I'm not really trying to second-guess you about that part of it. It's just that I think I understand better than you do what you can, and can't, realistically expect from my steam ram."

He waved the hand holding the goblet, managing in the process to spill some of it on the tiles. He didn't notice, of course. Demansk's youngest son combined the capacity of focusing more intently on something than anyone Demansk had ever met — while being oblivious to almost everything else around him.

"All of my new ships, for that matter — including the woodclads you're depending on to protect you from Casull's new steamships. The thing is, Father, these dazzling fancy boats Gellert designed are damn near useless in anything except good weather. And when I say 'good,' I really mean 'almost perfect.' Any kind of heavy seas, and. . you'll be lucky if you don't sink outright." He paused, and then his innate honesty forced him to add: "Well, not with the woodclads, of course. They won't sink in bad weather. But you'll never be able to handle them, and the gods help you if you're near a lee shore."

Demansk started to say something, but Trae cut him off. "Yes, yes, yes — I know you'll be able to guarantee yourself good weather. 'Guarantee,' at least, as much as that word means anything when it comes to weather at sea." Grudgingly: "But, yes, since you're the one who's invading the Isles, you're the one who gets to decide when to do it. And I'll admit that the weather in these northern seas in late spring is about as good — and predictably so — as it ever gets."

Almost wailing, now: "But what about me? I'm not the one who'll make the decision when to use the steam ram. Albrecht'll do that —and he hasn't been consulting with me lately. And the weather as far down the coast as Preble is not predictable, not even in the spring."

"So? The worst that happens is that you can't intervene. In which case, a lot of Islanders will get butchered — who, frankly, deserve it after the massacre of the Vanberts on Preble they carried out last year — and one of my clever schemes goes awry." Demansk shrugged. "None of my plans depends on your success, Trae. Although it would certainly help."