David Drake - Tyrant

For a moment, he was scowling even more fiercely than his son. "And half of me, to be honest, almost hopes you can't intervene. Yes, it would be handy to have all those desperate — and very skilled — Islanders at my mercy. I need to get the workshops in the main archipelago running at full capacity as soon as possible after the conquest, and having thousands of refugees from Preble would be a big help. But. ."

Trae laughed softly — softly, but quite harshly. "Once a Vanbert, always a Vanbert. They are a lot of sorry rebels. For which the traditional penalty is well established."

Demansk took another long swallow from his goblet. "Exactly." Still scowling: "And it's not just a matter of tradition. One of the other things I can't afford is to get too much of a reputation for mercy, either."

The scowl went away, replaced by a look of sheer weariness. "I suspect, even if all goes well, that I'm going to spend the rest of my life crushing rebellions. I don't enjoy bloodshed, Trae, but I learned long ago that often the best way to avoid an ocean of blood is to demonstrate that you are instantly willing to spill a lake's worth of it."

Trae sat up straight, finished his wine — spilling some down his chin — and set the goblet on the tiles. Then, rubbing his neck: "I wouldn't worry too much about that. No offense, Father" — with a crooked smile and an upraised hand—"and I'm not trying to teach your august self the principles of tactics, but I really don't think that before too long there's going to be anyone in the world except outright lunatics who don't understand perfectly well that only an outright lunatic would rebel against the new dispensation."

Demansk's responding smile was just as crooked. "Well. True enough, I suppose."

Trae's sour expression came back in full force. Demansk sighed. "So what is the problem?"

His youngest son's face, in that moment, resembled that of a five-year-old boy after being told he couldn't play that day. Demansk almost burst into laughter. He remembered that face very well.

"It's me! If it doesn't work out the way you plan, I'll wind up sitting on the side throughout this whole war!"

Demansk stifled the quip he was about to utter. As silly as Trae's complaint sounded to him, now that he had the perspective of decades of warfare to look back upon, he could still remember himself at that same age. Eager to prove his mettle in what, for centuries, had been the only real "rite of passage" that meant anything to Vanbert men. Even if, within a short time, he had come to understand that "honor" was a thing with real entrails, and not just a spirit. Spilled ones, usually.

So his response was entirely solemn. "Trae, I need you for this. I can't possibly detach enough actual warships for the purpose. Carrier ships, plenty of them, yes — to take off the refugees. I lied to Jeschonyk about those ships we're having built in Rope, by the way. I told him they were part of my own fleet. But Albrecht will be raging, be sure of it, and he won't let them go peacefully. Those ships will need to be protected, because they aren't really warships — as you and I both know. Which means your steam ram is the only thing I've got which can do the job. Maybe. With you in command — you're the only one I trust who can do that — and if you do a brilliant job of captaining it."

And now, with good cheer: "Look at it this way. If it does happen, you'll come back covered with glory."

Trae tried to maintain the sour expression, but it was obviously difficult. "Oh, bah. Nobody'll understand it anyway. Except a bunch of stinking Islander refugees, and who cares what they think."

"Not your own sailors and soldiers, boy," said Demansk forcefully. " They'll know— they'll understand. Don't think they won't."

He finished his wine, set down the goblet on the table, and ended a long day and night of plotting.

"Learn this much from your father, son. You build the respect of soldiers — real respect, not the shit that passes for it at triumphs — starting with the man next to you. Begin with the core, lad, and the rest will come when it comes. Without that core, it won't come at all."

And now, grinning: "As you and I both will soon be demonstrating to that foul bastard Albrecht."

Chapter 17

It took Ion Jeschonyk almost two months to return to Vanbert. Some of that was due to the simple distance — about a thousand miles, in a direct line; and much longer than that, of course, following the actual road. Still, it was a good road, even by Confederate standards. He'd made the trip to Solinga in less than five weeks.

But that had been in the early spring, when the weather was still foul and Jeschonyk had simply wanted to get to his destination as fast as possible. Now, with summer approaching, the countryside was blooming and beautiful. And, deep in his heart, the old man thought this would be the last chance in his life to simply wallow in the beauties of nature. He could remember doing that a lot, growing up as a boy on his family's estate. He wondered, as he had often before, what had happened to that carefree child.

So he ordered his caravan to maintain a slow pace, and stopped often — sometimes for half a day at a time, while he waded barefoot in a brook or simply sat under the shade of a tree and contemplated the meadow flowers. The soldiers escorting him didn't object, of course, much less the drivers of his own coach and the wagons carrying supplies.

By the time he finally arrived in the capital, the reports he brought for the Council were already completely obsolete. The gigantic city, with its one million inhabitants, was abuzz with word that Demansk had launched his attack on the archipelago. The news had been brought by the fast couriers employed by the Confederacy as their elite postal service. Such men could make the trip from Solinga in ten days or less.

In fact, hearing what people were saying in the markets and streets as his caravan worked its way toward his own domicile, Jeschonyk could remember seeing such a special courier galloping past the caravan just a few days past. And he realized, wryly, that his brain had still been working even while he thought it entirely at rest with the waving flowers in the fields. Because Jeschonyk had ignored the courier completely, even though it was now obvious what it had to have meant. And had done so, of course, because that never-sleeping part of his brain had known full well that it was better for the reality to hit the Council before Jeschonyk had to start telling his lies to them.

They wouldn't really believe him anyway, although most of them would want to. And this way, a good three fourths of the recriminations would be dispensed with. What was the point? For good or ill, the die was cast.

* * *

To his relief, there wasn't a delegation from the Council at his mansion. Under normal circumstances, there would have been representatives anxiously waiting for him, day and night, for the past two weeks. But now, he had no doubt, all the Councillors were far too preoccupied with their own plotting and scheming.

By the next morning, of course, after the news of his return reached them, half the Council would be pounding on his door. But at least he'd have one final evening of rest and repose.

"Rest and repose," in a manner of speaking. Jeschonyk was actually quite well rested, due to the leisurely way in which he'd made the return journey. And he'd been celibate for a longer stretch than any he could remember in decades. He'd not wanted to bring one of his concubines on such a politically delicate mission, and he no longer found the company of prostitutes very entertaining.

So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.