David Drake - Tyrant

"And now, up, youngest son of mine!" commanded Demansk. "You haven't got time to wallow in misery. I've got new work for you, and lots of it. First thing tomorrow morning, you're meeting a man named Marzel Therdu — he's the one who wound up in charge of Casull's armament works — along with about a dozen other Islander manufacturers. The owners of the largest foundries and smithies. As a group, they're the core of the new weapons industry Adrian Gellert created for the Islanders."

He headed for the door, with Trae following. "All of them are now destitute, of course, and their employees are even more desperate than they are. So I propose to get them all back to work, and on a larger scale than before. With you in overall charge of coordinating the work."

"We don't have much money left, Father," protested Trae. "The family's coffers are empty, as near as matters."

"Money!" jeered Demansk. "I don't need to use my money, Trae." He stopped in the doorway and pointed a finger back at Thicelt. "As it happens — what a coincidence — the Governor just issued a new decree. Any business in a Western Isle province which is one-third owned by a reputable citizen — which requires three generations of citizenship, so no Islander can qualify — is exempted from paying tribute. They'll still have to pay the regular taxes, of course."

Trae stared at Thicelt. Sharlz smiled seraphically. "What else could I do? My people were starving. "

Trae stared at his father. Who was smiling also, if not seraphically. "You see how it works? Since I'm the most reputable citizen there is — and, what a coincidence, am the only one moving immediately — I estimate that, within a year, I'll own a third of practically everything that makes money in this archipelago. I've even had fishing crews starting to approach me. Even a fruit vendor!"

"But—" Trae was frowning fiercely. "You still need money , Father. Immediately."

And now, Demansk's smile was seraphic. "To be sure. Which I don't have, any longer — but lots of Emerald merchants do. Especially now, when they're flush from all the money I poured into their coffers over the past year. Ropers, too. None of whom, alas — being only partial citizens or auxiliaries — can qualify for the exemption. So the Islanders provide the wherewithal and the skilled labor, the Emeralds and Ropers put up the money, I put the whole thing together." He cleared his throat. "For a modest third."

Trae was almost ogling him. "You — swindler! Um, sorry. 'August father possessed of, ah, extreme acumen.' But still. ."

Demansk took his arm and led him into the corridor beyond. "It'll work, Trae. Okay, I'm guessing again — no conqueror's ever tried to do it this way before, instead of grabbing land — but I'll be surprised if, within a few years, the Demansk family's fortune isn't twice what it was at its best."

Again, he made that modest throat-clearing noise. "Olver, as you know, is the man I appointed the new governor of the Emeralds. And as it happens — what a coincidence — I've just been informed he found it necessary to decree a change in the tax laws. It seems the Emeralds were getting so rich that the sumptuary taxes were eating them alive. So, alert to the needs of his people, he decreed that any wealth accumulated in another province would be exempted from taxation beyond the usual initial levies — provided, of course, that the riches were obtained in a legitimate enterprise. Which — what a coincidence — requires a Vanbert partner." With a chuckle, and a nod toward the northeast, where the harbor lay: "I think half the moneylenders and merchants of Solinga and Rope are here already. The gods know, I've had enough of them clamoring for an audience with me."

They were now entering that portion of the palace which had formerly contained Casull's hareem. The giant eunuchs who once guarded the doors were gone, replaced by two Vanbert infantrymen, and the doors themselves were open instead of being barred. The men came to attention as Demansk and Trae passed through.

"This is the hareem, isn't it? I'd think you'd be more careful," said Trae with a little smirk. "You know Vanbert soldiers."

"I'm counting on it," snorted his father. "If I thought I could get away with it, I'd have already done what the conqueror of legend did — ordered all my men to marry native women. Since that would be too much of a breach with custom, I've done the next best thing. Planted thousands of single men, their purses full, in a place full of destitute and desperate women." He nodded toward the harbor again. "Of which you just brought another huge batch, most of them widows."

"Sounds like a giant whorehouse."

Demansk shrugged. "To a degree, it is. But don't forget that my new regulations apply to the soldiers also. If they marry their new women, they stand to create a retirement for themselves. Which, since there won't be any land grants coming from this conquest, is something that the smartest of them are already figuring out. We had eighteen marriages yesterday. By next month, I think we'll have to start conducting mass ceremonies."

They had entered the innermost chamber of the former hareem. The surroundings were plush and luxurious, if a bit garish for Vanbert tastes. And the shallow pool at the center of the great room was completely at variance with Confederate architecture.

Trae didn't seem put off by it, though. He went over to the pool, squatted down, and dipped his hand in the water.

"Warm. They must have a heating system of some kind. They're clever, Islanders, no doubt about it. They'll make good mechanics. Better than Vanbert ones, probably."

He eyed Demansk over his shoulder. "I don't know, Father. The whole thing sounds weird to me. Wealth out of nothing. Well, not that exactly. But it's still wealth just coming out of. . of. ." He groped for words. "Out of money spinning around. Like that 'perpetual motion machine' the Emerald philosophers all swear is impossible."

Demansk decided it was time to bring Trae all the way in. "It's not impossible, Trae. In fact, it's been done many times before, and on many worlds. I didn't come up with the idea myself, although I'd been groping toward it."

He glanced at the west wall of the chamber. His own private quarters were on the opposite side of that wall, and he could visualize perfectly the writing table on which Adrian Gellert's "letter" rested. Demansk, like Trae himself, found the title Meditations on Successful Tyranny a bit ridiculous. But, unlike Trae, he'd read it. Done much more than read it, in fact — by now, he practically had it memorized.

"Most of it is Gellert's thinking. Helga says—"

He broke off, realizing that he would have to elaborate on the nature of Gellert's bizarre "spirits" at a later time. Something much more pressing was on the agenda at the moment.

Princess Jirri had come into the room, emerging from the door where her own quarters lay. She practically stormed into the room actually, glaring fiercely and waving a sheet of paper clutched in two little fists. Several of her fingers were stained with ink.

"Father, you have got to put a stop to—"

She halted abruptly, staring at Trae. Then, a moment later, her jaw dropped.

Trae rose to his feet and gave Demansk a cocked eyebrow. " 'Father'? Is there something I don't know? A second wife you never told us about?" He gave Jirri a careful inspection. "She doesn't look like one of your offspring. Too gorgeous, for starters."

Demansk coughed. "Well. Actually, Jirri's more or less practicing, I guess you could say. I'm about to become her father. I don't believe I've had a chance to mention yet that you're getting married. The day after tomorrow, as it happens. The ceremony's already been prepared."