by David Drake
She spent the next hour or so getting her own quarters ready. The "quarters" in question consisted of a section of the hold which had been set aside for the women accompanying the expedition. These were Ilset Yunkers, the wives of the four senior noncoms of the hundred, and Lortz's two concubines. Ilset was, by a considerable margin, the youngest of the seven women. And Helga suspected she was probably the only one who was legally a "wife" to begin with. The other four had the appearance of campaign concubines. Veterans themselves, in a manner of speaking. Lortz's women didn't even make a pretense of being anything else.
No others had been allowed to bring female companionship. The soldiers hadn't complained. The veterans were quite confident in their ability to obtain camp followers wherever they went, and the youngsters took their cue from them. Even, Helga had no doubt, looked forward eagerly to that new rite of passage. Southron women, like Islanders, were notorious among Confederates for their loose and passionate ways-which Helga herself found rather amusing, since her experience in an Islander hareem had taught her that foreigners had exactly the same view of Vanbert women. So much seemed ingrained in human nature. The others were always brutes and swindlers, if male; sluts and carriers of disease, if female.
Since Ilset would be the wet nurse for Helga's baby, she and Demansk's daughter shared the most "luxurious" part of the arrangement. The "luxury" amounted to nothing more than a few extra cushions and a thicker cloth to separate them from the rest of the womens' quarters-which, in turn, were separated from the goods in the hold by nothing more than a cloth in the first place. The only reason it took an hour to get her quarters prepared was simply the cramped nature of the space itself. Even something as simple as rearranging a cushion seemed to take forever. Early on, Helga and Ilset agreed that it would be best to set up another partition between them, seeing as how Jessep would be spending his nights with his wife. So Helga's quarters got reduced in size even further.
But, eventually, it was done, just as Helga felt the ship begin to move away from the pier. Coming through the thin planking of the deck above her head-"above" only when she crouched; standing erect, she'd crash her head into it-she could hear the beat of the hortator's mallets pounding the drum which kept the rowers at their rhythm. The "drum" had a distinctive sound. It was a hollow box, actually, rather than the more typical drums which would be used to give signals in a fleet.
She was tempted to go back on deck. To get some fresh air, if nothing else. She resisted the impulse. The women's quarters were already heavy with odor, true enough, but Helga knew that by the end of the voyage the air down here would be well-nigh fetid. The men at their work above wouldn't appreciate having her underfoot; not in the least. And she'd rather save her trespasses on their territory for a later time, when she'd really need fresh air.
She leaned back against one of the cushions and gave Ilset a friendly smile. Jessep's young wife gave her a shy smile in return, but it was very short-lived. They were already catching the first waves of the open sea, and the motion was apparently beginning to bother the girl. Helga found herself wondering if Ilset had ever been on a ship before.
Apparently not, judging from the girl's reaction not five minutes later. Helga managed to get Ilset's head over a bucket soon enough to catch most of it.
Most, but not all. Helga sighed and began rummaging for an old cloth in her belongings. Finding none-she never got seasick herself and hadn't thought to prepare for the problem-she stuck her head through the opening in the cloth which separated her and Ilset from the other women.
"Do any of you-"
One of the women, grinning, was already handing her a rag. Ilset had not been quiet in her distress.
"Bound to happen," said the woman, grinning widely. Helga could see that she was missing a fair number of her teeth. An attractive enough woman, otherwise. Helga thought her buxom build was probably matched by a buxom temperament, and was cheered by the thought.
"It's going to stink down here something awful," she probed.
"Beats dying," came the immediate response, as the woman passed the test with flying colors. "Even if the poor girl thinks she'd rather be dead right now."
"We'll get along," predicted Helga. "What's your name?"
"Polla, ma'am. Polla"-there came a slight hesitation, just a hint-"Hissell. He's the new First Spear. Can I give you a hand?"
"Pfaw! Just to wipe up some puke? Do I look like a prissy noblewoman?"
Polla's grin was now matched by all the other women. "Not exactly, ma'am," said one of them. "A noblewoman, yes. Prissy, no."
Helga grinned herself, ducked back into her quarters, and went to work with the rag. Soon enough, she was half wishing she'd taken Polla up on her offer. But she knew that a small amount of inconvenience was well worth gaining the allegiance and trust of the women of her escort.
Women do all the real work. That makes us smarter.
After nightfall, Trae came into her quarters. Mumbling apologies to the women in the outer quarters, as he groped his way through the half darkness-all that their one little oil lamp allowed-he eventually stumbled through the curtain.
"Uck! Stinks!" he muttered, waving his hand in front of his face. Then, seeing Ilset's wan face in the flickering light shed by Helga's own lamp, his usual good humor returned.
"Be at ease, young lady. I assure you-from bitter experience-that you'll get over it. Eventually."
He turned to face Helga. "You were right, but don't brag about it more than two days. Or I'll sneak down here and piss in your gruel. It would have been easier to design it your way."
The word "gruel" seemed to distress Ilset. She turned her face away and fought down a gag.
"Cheer up!" boomed Trae. "Always eat gruel on your first sea voyage. Easy down, easy up."
Ilset immediately proved his point. Scowling, Helga handed Trae a rag.
"All right, loudmouth. Your turn."
Chapter 11
The first significant opposition came in Solinga, the capital of the northern province which had once been the independent league of Emerald city-states. Which was perhaps fitting in an ironic sort of way, thought Demansk. The Emeralds themselves figured prominently in his plans for the future-and the opposition came from the Confederate governor of the province.
It was almost as if the man understood that Demansk brought his own ruin in his train. Which, indeed, he did. If Demansk was successful, the status of the Emeralds would undergo a dramatic improvement. Not least of all, because Demansk would eradicate the long-standing evil of the Confederacy's system of tax collection-which, in practice if not in theory, relied on men like Governor Willech to make it work.
Willech, lounging on a couch across the room from Demansk, was a small and wiry man. Hard-faced, tight-featured, and surprisingly fit for a man who made his fortune with abacus and weighing scales rather than a plow or a sword. True, he resembled the popular image of a "tax shark." But Demansk thought it would have been more appropriate if Willech had sported a large, sleek, tapered and finned body-with a wide and whiskered face consisting mostly of jaws and teeth. Just like the breed of sea predators whom the Emeralds, using an ancient word whose original meaning was long lost, called a "shark."
"I'm afraid I can't agree to that, Justiciar Demansk." Willech's words, like his face, were clipped and hard. "One regiment, certainly; perhaps two. But four? That would leave me only two regiments in the entire province. Riot and rebellion would be the certain result."
Demansk did not reply immediately. He returned the little man's stare with a hard stare of his own, allowing Willech time to let his hidden uncertainty mount. And his fears.
Willech had been one of the main creditors of the traitor Redvers, who had led the Confederacy's most recent attempted coup d'etat because the only way he and his cohorts had seen to avert bankruptcy was to usurp state power and repudiate their debts. Demansk had played the key role in crushing that insurrection. And while most people would assume that such men as Willech would be gr
ateful to him for it, the reality was much more complicated.
True, had Redvers and his co-conspirators achieved their aim, Willech would have been ruined-and, most likely, murdered in the bargain. On the other hand…
Redvers' property, as was traditionally the penalty for treason, had been confiscated by the Confederate government. And while some of the money obtained from liquidating what few assets Redvers still had left had been handed over to the creditors, most of it had disappeared into the coffers of the officials charged with overseeing the liquidation. Officials who were every bit as greedy and corrupt as Redvers himself-and Willech-if not as impecunious.
Demansk fought down a harsh grin. He didn't doubt for a moment that Willech assumed that he had swindled a fair share of the Redvers estate. Which, as it happened, was not true. Demansk was one of the few officials in the Confederate government who relied on the workings of his own estates for his fortune.
That, and the merchant establishments and manufactories which Demansk had begun investing in several years earlier, once he came to realize that agriculture alone was a risky basis for maintaining a family fortune. Of course, he'd been careful to use an elaborate network of "cutouts" for the purpose. Partly to protect his investments against his many enemies in the officialdom, but mostly because Vanbert custom did not allow a nobleman to engage in anything as low and disreputable as manufacturing and trade.
Unless, of course, it was the trade in slaves arising from conquest. Over the years, Demansk had augmented his fortune considerably from that particular trade. Like any successful military commander, slaves were part of his booty. But, even as a young man, it had struck him odd that the most savage and bestial of all forms of trade should be the only one acceptable to the Confederate elite. Looking back on it from the perspective of middle age, he thought it was that experience which first began sowing the seeds of doubt in his mind as to the health of his own society.
He decided he'd allowed enough time to lapse in these idle ruminations. When he spoke, his voice was even more clipped and hard than Willech's.
"That's Triumvir Demansk, Governor Willech, and I trust I won't have to remind you of it again. The penalties for disrespect to state officials are severe." As in mutilation for a first offense, he left unspoken. Even though, in practice, a nobleman like Willech would rarely suffer that penalty-not for a first offense-it remained a possibility. More than a few of the noblemen who had been distantly connected with the Redvers rebellion were walking around today with their left arms ending at their wrists rather than their fingertips.
"As for the danger of rebellion," he continued harshly, "that is your problem, not mine. I am charged with the task of conquering the Western Isles-a martial feat which has never been accomplished in the history of the Confederacy. You, on the other hand, are charged with the simple task of maintaining public order in a province-something which any competent governor can manage easily with a bit of thought and effort."
He rose to his feet. Unlike Willech, he had been sitting erect on his couch, and could thus rise easily and quickly. An old soldier's habit, that. "I will also remind you that, not so many years ago, I was the governor of this very province. And I managed to keep order, with no difficulty at all, using only two regiments."
Willech's face was like a nut, now, hard and wrinkled. Demansk gave him a smile which ended just short of a sneer.
"Of course, I used those troops to check the worst depredations of the tax farmers. Instead of using them to enforce outright robbery. I dare say you'll have the same success, if you adopt my methods."
Willech's face, as impossible as it seemed, tightened even further. But he said nothing.
What was there to say? Since becoming governor of the province three years earlier, Willech had attempted to extricate himself from his bad loans by squeezing the Emeralds mercilessly. It was an open secret that Governor Willech was taking a cut from every tax farmer in the northern province. That was illegal, under Confederate law. But, for several generations now, Demansk had been one of the few governors to obey that law. The main attraction to becoming a governor nowadays, in fact, was that the post allowed just such chicanery. The modern Vanbert aristocracy, most of whose members couldn't tell one end of a pig from the other, raised taxes the same way their ancestors raised swine.
Not even that, really. No swineherd was stupid enough to think that the way to get rich was to starve his pigs.
Demansk realized that Willech was going to remain silent. Not saying anything was, ultimately, the last resort the governor had. If he said "no," he would be in open rebellion. Demansk had enough of his own troops in Solinga now to crush all six of Willech's regiments-even assuming they would obey the Governor, which was highly doubtful. And if he said "yes," he would be officially acquiescing to Demansk's demand.
Demansk decided he could live with the silence. By the time Willech could even begin to figure out a way to circumvent Demansk's plans, it would be too late anyway. Unlike the Governor, the Triumvir was popular with the army. And he knew already which four regiments he was going to select. The best, naturally, with the best officers. The commanders of three of those four regiments were former proteges of his, in fact, and he'd already spoken to them privately.
So, matching silence with silence, he turned on his heel and marched out of the Governor's private audience chamber. He even closed the door himself on his way out, before a slave could do so. Partly, because he thought a formal display of politeness was to his advantage. Mostly, because he wanted to test the door a bit-in case it proved necessary to come back through it at the head of a squad of soldiers.
Which, he suspected, would happen very soon. Demansk had plans for Willech's money as well as his soldiers. And unless he was badly mistaken, the Governor would part with the latter far more readily than the former.
The docks were swarming by the time Demansk got there. Not with soldiers, or sailors, but with Emerald workmen drawn by the rumors sweeping the city of a massive new shipbuilding project. Governor Willech's tax farmers had, in a few short years, impoverished half the artisanry of the northern province-along with most of its fishermen and all of its peasants. Most of the workmen teeming on the piers and in the harbor taverns were shipwrights and other skilled craftsmen; or fishermen, whose trade was closely related. But many of them were simply farmers who had abandoned their land, with nothing to sell except a strong back and pair of hands.
Demansk surveyed the scene from the flat top of the building he had sequestered as his temporary headquarters. The building was typical of the better-built edifices of the Emerald country. Mudbrick and wood, true, where Confederates would have used stone. But in the sunny and dry Emerald climate, mudbrick and wood covered with paint was a perfectly durable building material. Especially given the excellence of Emerald tile-making, still the best in the world.
As he stood atop the tiled roof, three stories above street level and with a good view of the city's great harbor, Demansk allowed no trace of satisfaction to show on his face. For the project he had in mind, he would need a lot of strong backs and willing hands. Not simply to make the gigantic fleet he planned to build, but to man the oars on those ships afterward. Demansk took no pleasure in the poverty and misery of others, but he would not hesitate to use it for his purpose. If nothing else, he could assuage his feelings of guilt by remembering that, in the end, he would use the depredations of men like Willech to break them.
The immediate goal of his projected fleet, of course, was the conquest of the Western Isles. But Demansk thought he could show the world a new trick in the old repertoire of dictators. Since he planned, among other things, to use the shipbuilding campaign to create a great industrial center in Solinga, he would demonstrate that workmen could form as effective a mass base as small landholders.
Give a poor and desperate man a stake in the world-any kind of stake-and a stake which depended upon a tyrant's shield for its shelter…
"How many, do you think?" he asked
Olver. His son, at Demansk's command, had taken charge of the Triumvir's temporary headquarters while Demansk was visiting the Governor. He was now standing beside his father on the roof of the building, staring down at the mob in the streets below.
"The gods only know," he muttered. "You wouldn't believe how deeply Willech's gouged these people. I just found out he even started taxing the Grove a few months ago."
Despite himself, Demansk was startled. For all their frequently derisive remarks about effete Emerald philosophers, the Confederate aristocracy had long since adopted much of Emerald culture for their own. Every Vanbert nobleman, and most noblewomen, were fluent in the language of the northern province. Demansk was by no means uncommon in having read most of the Emeralds' great poetry, and seen most of their famous dramas. He'd even read a respectable amount of their most important philosophical works.
The Grove, the traditional academy for training Emerald scholars, was thus almost as venerated an institution among Vanberts as it was for the Emeralds themselves-even if not more than a handful of young Confederate noblemen had ever attended the school. The Grove had enjoyed a tax-free status for…
"Since we conquered them," he murmured. "Whatever our other mistakes, we always had enough sense to incorporate the gods of our defeated enemies into our own pantheon-and we never meddled with their most hallowed shrines."
"Willech's an idiot," hissed Olver.
Demansk nodded sternly. He left unspoken the words running through his mind: And a most useful one. I couldn't have asked for anything better.
Demansk thought that Olver already suspected most of his father's ambitions. But his second-oldest son had always been a self-contained and solemn fellow. A very… proper sort of man. Demansk had no doubt at all of Olver's loyalty. But he saw no point in shredding what few illusions-or, perhaps, euphemisms-Olver preferred to maintain over what they were doing. Where Demansk's daughter and youngest son could be, and had been, drawn directly into his conspiracy, it would always suit Olver better to be left at arm's length from it. Still within reach, of course, just… an arm's distance away.