David Drake - Tyrant

"You will be required to pay, immediately, an indemnity of six million—"

All the faces began turning pale, as Demansk mercilessly continued to list the booty which he intended to squeeze out of the archipelago. The official justification he gave was "the long history of piracy and other crimes committed against the citizens of the Confederation." Which, in and of itself, was true enough — although he would be squeezing out of the Islanders, in the first month of the occupation alone, a sum larger than everything they had managed to gain from their centuries of piracy.

But the real reason was even cruder: Demansk needed that enormous loot to keep his soldiers happy. Every single one of his men, he had no doubt at all, had been looking forward happily to sacking Chalice. Being deprived of that pleasure would leave them disgruntled, to put it mildly, unless he could shower them with much greater wealth than they would have been able to plunder from a burning city.

"— during the first three years of the occupation, you will also be required to restitute one million—"

Several of the richer-looking delegates were moaning softly, now. The initial booty they could squeeze, to a large extent, out of the commoners on the island. But to keep handing over such huge sums, month after month after month, would bankrupt everyone in the archipelago.

Which, of course, was exactly what Demansk was planning to do. For the simple reason that a man facing bankruptcy takes a very different attitude toward a stranger who proposes a partnership than one who is awash in wealth.

Demansk needed the booty outright for his soldiers. He needed a bankrupt archipelago for his own investments . He was about to demonstrate that there was another way than seizing land for a conqueror to recoup his expenses. Or so, at least, he hoped. Since no conqueror in history had ever done such a thing, it remained to be seen whether it would work. If it didn't. . Demansk himself would be bankrupt, within a few years.

* * *

By the time he was done, the expressions on the faces of the Islander delegates — some of them, at least — were mulish as well as horrified. He decided to squelch that possible resistance immediately.

"Finally, I will remind you all of something." He made a casual gesture toward the huge army encampment on the nearby shore, which was readily visible from the quarterdeck. "I can — quite easily — simply have Chalice sacked. And you know how Vanberts sack a city, since we've done it enough times." Bluntly: "Like a redshark takes a drowning man. In which case, any survivors — what few there are — will not be worrying about their lost treasure. Because they will spend the rest of their lives at work in the fields, and will have far more immediate things to worry about."

He rose from his chair, planted his hands on the table, and leaned forward. His face was bleak, cold, iron. "And if you're wondering whether I'm inclined to do it, the fact is that I'm having a very hard time restraining myself from doing it." In a low, almost hissing, voice: "You stinking bastards ravished my daughter and shamed my family. So go ahead and try to argue with me. Please."

The anger in his voice was only partly feigned. The mulish looks vanished. Most of the delegates were positively ashen-faced, now. The story of Helga's capture was well known in the islands. The captors and rapists had bragged freely about it, at the time, and most Islanders had shared in their glee at inflicting such a humiliation upon the high and mighty Confederates. And now the father of their victim had his hands on their throat, and the hands were those of a giant. .

"Done, lord," choked the old man who seemed to be the leader of the delegation, insofar as anyone was. "It will be done."

Demansk sat back down. He decided it was time to ease up a bit. "Good," he murmured. Then, gestured toward Thicelt. "I am appointing Sharlz Thicelt, an Islander himself, to be the governor of Western Isles province. He will arrive in Chalice tomorrow. Make sure Casull's palace is prepared for him."

An Islander. The men of Chalice studied Thicelt covertly. Many of them knew him personally, at least to a degree. As a practical matter, of course, that did not reassure them much. An Islander would be even more adept at spotting attempts to circumvent the Confederacy's harsh demands than a foreigner.

Still. . he was an Islander. The men in the delegation contained no fools among them. They could see the implications quite clearly. First, at least they would be dealing with one of their own, who would understand how to avoid needless humiliation. Second — more important — Islanders were no great respecters of station, unlike Vanberts. Yet here was the greatest of all living Vanberts, with an Islander as one of his closest subordinates.

The implications were. . interesting.

* * *

When Demansk entered his cabin, he found the princess huddled in the corner atop his bed. Her hands were making vague little movements, as if she was trying to restrain herself from clutching her garments. Pointless, that would be, under the circumstances.

He started to scowl, but managed to keep from doing so. The girl was likely to misunderstand the expression.

"I am not going to rape you, child. So be at ease on that matter, at least."

She seemed to relax a bit. It was hard to tell. Again, Demansk was impressed by the girl's composure. He suspected, from things Thicelt had told him in the past, that growing up a islander princess was a harsh school in its own right.

There was a knock on the door. "Enter."

Thicelt came in, followed by three sailors returning the writing table and the chair. Sharlz waited until the sailors finished their work and were gone before saying anything.

Then, his first words were spoken in the Islander tongue, and addressed at the princess: "Relax, girl! The august Triumvir's virtue is already a thing of legend." He gave her a friendly leer. "Me, on the other hand. . But! You are not in my hands, after all, so there's nothing to fear on that account either."

He turned to Demansk. "I assume you're going to keep her secluded, yes? Or should we have her removed while we continue our plans?"

Demansk studied the girl. The idle thought which had come to him earlier, on the deck, came back in richer color and details. Fascinating possibility. .

It was worth exploring, he decided. No point in it if she isn't bright as well as good-looking.

"Come here, Jirri." He pointed to the chair at the table. The princess scuttled off the bed and hurried to do as she was instructed. Only after she had taken her seat did it occur to Demansk, belatedly, to ask if she understood his own language. Apparently so.

But to make sure, since she might simply have interpreted the gesture which accompanied the command, he asked her directly. Speaking in her own language, in which he was competent if not fluent.

"Oh yes, great lord. I speak Vanbert."

"I'm not 'great lord,' princess. The proper title is 'Triumvir.' Can you read and write?"

Jirri looked doubtful. "Not very well."

"An Island woman," chuckled Thicelt. "What do you expect?"

Demansk ignored him. "You can learn. Can you do arithmetic?"

The princess winced. It was the first open expression Demansk had yet seen on her face. "Not the Vanbert way."

Demansk and Thicelt both chuckled now. "I should think not!" said Demansk. "What a miserable, clumsy thing that is. No, girl, I meant: can you use Islander numbers? The truth is, any Confederate merchant and landlord with half a brain adopted your way of doing arithmetic over a century ago. The only thing anyone uses Vanbert numbers for anymore are official documents."

Her face cleared. "Oh yes, grea — ah, Triumvir. I'm good at numbers. My mother saw to that instruction, so that I could keep an eye out on the slaves who kept the books when I had my own house."