by David Drake
Good enough. Here, too, Demansk would do what was needed.
"I'd like you to take charge of organizing the actual naval project," he said. "Not the technical side of it, of course. You'll be able to find plenty of Emerald master shipbuilders for that. But there'll still be enough work to keep you busy."
Olver smiled. "To say the least. I don't expect I'll be getting much sleep for the next few months." He hesitated; then: "I'll need money, Father. A lot of money. So much, in fact…"
He let the thought trail off. Demansk could finish it with no difficulty. So much money that we'll bankrupt the family as well as empty the coffers the Council sent with us.
Those coffers were full, and there were a lot of them. But Demansk had never specified exactly how he planned to conquer the isles. And so the Council, having nothing to go on but the memory of great naval expeditions of the past, had allotted what seemed to be a suitable portion-and a very large one at that-of the Confederacy's standby war chest.
They'd assumed, Demansk knew, that he intended a long campaign. Two years, maybe three, in the preparations. And then five to ten years in the doing. The oceanic equivalent of a siege, along the lines of what Albrecht was doing at Preble.
Demansk intended to surprise the world here as well. For his long-term purposes, he needed a quick and crushing victory over the Islanders. Partly, that was because he needed to sidestep the inevitable economic exhaustion of a long campaign-which would be absolutely devastating for the islanders themselves. Demansk could not afford that. He needed prosperous Emeralds; and a population of the Islands which, though desperate to appease their conquerors, still had the wherewithal to do so.
And, of course, partly because he would need the aura of martial triumph which such a victory would bring with it. Not the least of a would-be tyrant's job requirements was a reputation for invincibility. It was not enough for Demansk to be respected and admired for his military skills. He already had that much, from his enemies as well as his friends. What he would need in the future was their terror. The kind of bone-deep terror that would make the words "Demansk is coming" enough to end most battles before they began.
That kind of terror could be obtained in only one of two ways. (Or both, as Marcomann had done.) The first was to demonstrate inhuman brutality. The other was to demonstrate frightening skill at war. It was Demansk's hope-perhaps futile-that he could avoid most of the former if he could do well enough at the latter.
Olver's voice broke into his ruminations. "Father? Did you hear what I said? About the money we'll need, I mean."
"I heard. Don't worry about it, son. When the time comes, your august father will provide. And I won't have to bankrupt the family fortune to do it, either." He cleared his throat. "Though I dare say I will have to deplete it quite a bit."
Olver shrugged. "Depleting it doesn't matter, as long as we've got enough seed corn for the next year."
Demansk clapped him on the shoulder. He approved of Olver. Granted, his second-oldest son had little of Helga or Trae's quick wits and humor. But he was a solid boy. He always had been.
Demansk had always said he would trust Olver with his life. Now, he was about to prove it.
"Not to worry, son."
"I'm not worrying about it, Father," came the immediate reply. "Just… wondering a bit, that's all." Before Demansk could say anything, Olver placed his own square hand atop his father's, still resting on the son's shoulder. "Don't tell me. I'd rather not know."
That night, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers, Demansk appointed his third Special Attendant. A small, wiry man, with a face like a claw hammer. Except for its narrowness, in fact, the face looked quite a bit like Willech's.
The man's name was Prit Sallivar, and he had been Demansk's closest and most trusted financial adviser for years. The family's banker, for all practical purposes.
"The Council's going to have a shitfit," he predicted. "Probably be a riot in the Assembly."
Demansk shrugged. "I don't care about the Assembly. Unless they can find a point of clear support in the Council, the 'Assembly' is just a fancy name for the 'mob of Vanbert.' Screw 'em. The Council's the key, right now. And I'm trusting you to keep it locked."
Sallivar made a face. "That's a terrible mixed metaphor. Don't let any Emerald grammarian hear you say things like that, Verice, or you'll be the one facing a provincial rebellion here."
Demansk chuckled. Sallivar was one of the few men close enough to him to use the Triumvir's first name. He was also one of the few who didn't hesitate to gibe at Demansk's not-always-elegant use of language. It was part of the reason Demansk trusted him. That and, of course, the fact that if Demansk fell, Prit Sallivar would be dismembered by their mutual enemies within moments thereafter.
"Use the old man, Prit." Then, scrambling the metaphor hopelessly: "He'll turn the key in the lock for you."
Sallivar's face was now truly sour. "Turn it which way?" he demanded. "Will you please give up the bad poetry and speak in plain and simple prose."
"Jeschonyk will keep the Council under control. He's… not my man, no. But he'll not wish to cross me in this. And since he's not one of Willech's creditors or debtors, he'll have neither a personal grudge nor any need to act impartial in the matter. And you know how well he can give that 'for the good of the Confederacy' speech of his."
"None better," allowed Sallivar. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. Stretched them, rather. It had been a long planning session.
"All right, Verice. I'll do my best. How soon?"
There was no humor on Demansk's face now. "Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow?"
"Why wait?"
Chapter 12
"I can delay it for another hour," said Thicelt tightly, peering at the vessel half a mile off from the stern of their ship. His eyes were squinted against the sun, which gave his huge-beaked face an even fiercer look than usual. "No longer than that. The wind's not good enough to stay ahead of them before their rowers tire."
Jessep Yunkers gave the pirate ship pursuing them a last glance and turned to Helga.
"It's your decision, ma'am."
Helga hesitated, not sure what to do. Then, an oft-repeated remark of her father's came back to her.
"My father always said to rely on your First Spear's advice when you were unsure of things. So-what is it?"
Jessep's square face creased into a grin of sorts. He turned his head and studied the oncoming pirate vessel. Then, glanced at the sun and gauged its position.
"I can't see any point in waiting." He jerked a thumb at the soldiers of the hundred, who were lying down everywhere on the deck. Out of sight of the pirates in their low galley, true enough, but badly cramped. "Another hour of that, and they'll be too stiff to get to their feet easily when the time comes. Best to do it quickly."
Thicelt glanced at Helga. She nodded. Immediately, the ship's captain began bellowing orders.
Part of the crew swarmed up the rigging and began bringing down the sail. Once that was done, they would see to the backbreaking and risky work of removing the mast. That was always done when a warship was heading into battle-at least, a warship armed with a ram-or the mast would snap off at the impact.
Meanwhile, obeying the new rhythm of the hortator at his wooden drum, the oarsmen began turning the ship. To the pirates pursuing them, it would seem as if the merchant ship was making a desperate attempt to ram them.
And desperate was the right word for it. Unless the pirates handled their ship incredibly badly, they should have no difficulty at all avoiding the clumsier demibireme's assault. Although Helga's was a warship of sorts itself, the pirate vessel was much more maneuverable in a single ship action. Typical of the type used by the freebooters along the coast, it was a light and shallow-draft pure galley. Very wide in proportion to its length, true, in order to accommodate the huge number of rowers aboard her. But still a much handier craft than its prey.
Sure enough, before Thicelt had even finished
turning his ship Helga could hear the loud jeers of the pirate crew. There must have been some two hundred men aboard that low galley. Even across the distance-still perhaps four hundred yards-their voices carried well enough.
"Stay right here where they can see you clearly when we get closer," said Jessep. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. But that'll help… distract them."
Helga's smile was a very crooked thing. " 'Distraction' is one way of putting it. But how are they supposed to get a good look at me? We're back in the stern, First Spear. Sorry, 'Special Attendant.' "
" 'First Spear' is just fine coming from you, ma'am. Think I prefer it some, to be honest."
Helga nodded. " 'First Spear' it stays, then, at least between you and me. But my point is-if you really want them to get a look at me, shouldn't I be up in the bow?"
Jessep shook his head. "That'd be suspicious, ma'am. A lady'd be either way back at the stern or…"
"Cowering in the hold," finished Helga, "like as not screaming her head off. Speaking of which-"
She took three quick steps and leaned over the hatch. In the semi-darkness below, she could see Polla's pale face staring up at her. Despite the paleness, which was more the product of spending days in the ship's interior than anything else, Polla didn't seem especially worried.
"It'd help if you all did some screaming," said Helga. "When the time comes. I'll give you the signal."
Polla nodded. Then, gave her own version of a crooked smile. "No problem. Won't be the first time any of us have faked it. Although there's probably no need to mention that to my, ah, husband."
Helga chuckled. Then, chuckled again, hearing Ilset's outraged hiss. " I never faked anything! My husband-"
"Oh, shut up, will you?" groused Polla. "If I have to listen to another paean of praise about your precious Jessep, I swear I'll…"
The rest faded out as Polla disappeared. Helga straightened and went back to Jessep. The middle-aged former First Spear had a very smug look on his face. Apparently, the injury to his head hadn't affected his hearing any.
"Okay," she said. "Now what?"
Yunkers shrugged. "You and I just stand here looking like a rich merchant and his beautiful daughter. With our personal bodyguard." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at Lortz. Helga's personal weapons trainer, looking relaxed if none too happy, was standing near them in full weapons and armor.
"Nothing else for us to do, really," Jessep continued. "Thicelt's an excellent shiphandler, as he's made obvious by now." He nodded in the direction of one of the soldiers lying on the deck. "My nephew Uther's as good a First Spear as any you'll find, and he's led at least four boarding operations that I know about. Other than that…" He winced slightly.
"Other than that, there's the question of what my hot-blooded and eager young brother wants to do."
At the moment, judging from the evidence, what Trae mainly wanted to do was curse the fates. Such, at least, was Helga's interpretation of his grimaces and gestures. The words themselves were difficult to follow, since there really weren't too many strung together in coherent clauses.
Eventually, as the string of swear words shortened, she was able to make some sense of it. Trae, it seemed, was most unhappy with the decision to end the long stern chase.
By then, he was standing in front of Helga herself and making his sentiments known.
"Dammit, Helga, I wanted to try them out! How in the name of all that's holy am I supposed to get any experience with the guns if-if-you stupid idiot!" His arms were waving about rather wildly now. "Turn the ship back around! I was just about to set the clamps!"
Yunkers hesitated, apparently reluctant to get into a fierce argument with a Demansk scion. Helga, for whom Trae was simply a younger brother, had no such compunction.
"If your precious guns are so finicky they can only be used under perfect conditions," she snarled, "then we might as well have left you behind."
As always, an attack by his older sister brought out the imp in Trae.
"You're just being nasty because these stupid pirates are getting in the way of your rut. For shame. Mother brought you up properly, too. Tried to, anyway."
"You're right," she snapped. "I want to get laid-it's been almost a year, dammit-and these freebooters are not what I had in mind for the purpose." She stared down her younger brother for a few seconds, daring him to carry the jest any further.
Not even Trae was that bold. "Okay," he muttered, reaching up and scratching his head. "Let me think…"
He gave the upper bank of rowers a brief study. "Oarlocks'll get in the way," she heard him mumble, "but even so…"
Trae turned back and looked at Thicelt. "How soon before the pirates lay alongside will you order the oars in?"
Thicelt glanced at the pirate ship. "No way to avoid them now, so any ship captain would already be starting to think in terms of repelling boarders. How much time do you need?"
"Two minutes," came Trae's immediately reply. "Three would be better."
Thicelt shook his head. "Three minutes is too long. In these seas, we'd be wallowing the gods know which way by then. Even two is pushing it. But I can manage that by keeping a third of the oars going until the last minute." Again, he glanced at the pirate ship. "Whatever you're going to do, do it quick. There are archers and slingers on that ship. They'll be starting to bombard us with missiles once they get within fifty yards."
"Fifty yards," sneered Trae. "My guns can-"
"Not on a tossing ship they can't," said Jessep softly. "This isn't like missile fire on land, young sir. You'll be lucky to hit anything until they're almost alongside."
Trae looked a bit startled. For all that he and his gunners had practiced setting the tripod clamps for the arquebuses, they hadn't actually fired any shots so far on the voyage. Trae had wanted to save his ammunition, since he had no way of knowing if he'd be able to replenish it in the Southron lands.
"Of course," added Jessep, "the same applies to the pirates. Most of their arrows and sling bullets will go wild also. All of this missile firing before a boarding operation is mostly show anyway."
The implied insult caused Trae's face to darken a little. Still, he was wise enough not to snarl a rejoinder. Trae understood full well that he and his beloved gunners had yet to prove themselves in action. Brash he might be, but not even Trae was cocky enough to boast about feats he hadn't accomplished yet.
"Make sure you set them up on the lower bank only," interjected Thicelt. He jerked his head toward the pirate ship, which was now not more than two hundred yards away. "As low as that galley is, all of our soldiers will still be boarding from the upper deck. No other way to do it, since that's how the special bridges are designed."
"Pain in the butt, that," growled Jessep. "Having to charge down a steep ramp-loaded with shield and armor and assegai-even leaving aside the fact that we haven't tested the damn contraptions." He gave Thicelt a look which was not entirely filled with admiration. "Wish we had some simple old-fashioned claws."
By "claws," Helga knew, Jessep was referring to the traditional boarding ramps used by the Confederate army in their favored method of naval operation. The "claws" were nothing more complicated than wide planks, held upright and fit into prepared hinges along the rails just before action. And with spikes at the other end, which would drive into the wood of an opposing vessel when the planks were pushed over.
But there had simply been no way to adapt the demibireme to that tactic, which presupposed the large war galleys of the Vanbert regular navy. Instead, what Thicelt had done was redesign portions of the upper deck-already designed to be removed in the event of action-so that they would collapse down onto an enemy vessel alongside. He'd even added fittings for small spikes which could be inserted at the last minute. Those adaptations had not been the least of the cost to her father of getting this ship ready for her voyage.
The end result would be boarding ramps not much different from claws. In theory, at least. But like almost all soldiers, Jessep
was conservative when it came to mayhem. The tried and true methods are best, and be damned to the fancy schemes of amateurs.
"They'll work," said Thicelt firmly. "We've tested them plenty of times."
Jessep left unsaid the obvious rejoinder: not in a real battle, you haven't. There was simply no point now in arguing about the matter. Thicelt's complicated boarding ramps would work or they wouldn't. Either way, Jessep was obviously not concerned about the outcome- a crack Vanbert hundred against twice their number of mangy pirates? surely you jest! — but simply the casualties. With proper claws, the Confederate marines would turn the pirate crew into so much ground meat. With these new-fangled things…
He sighed heavily. "Whatever happens will happen. And now, young sir, you'd best get to it. You don't have much time left."
Trae was gone instantly, shouting orders to his gunners waiting on the deck below. The gunners began scurrying to their newly-designated posts. Helga was a bit puzzled to see how easily they seemed to interpret Trae's orders. Most of the words her younger brother was shouting were simply obscenities.
"That much he's got right," growled Yunkers. The former First Spear grinned at Helga. "Trained soldiers pretty much know what to do anyway. You just have to cuss at 'em to keep their brains working."
Afterward, Trae and his men would be able to boast endlessly. Which, to the regret of everyone else, they did.
The pirate vessel, as Thicelt predicted, had no difficulty eluding the demibireme's ramming attempt. Then, as the one-and-a-half slid by, the pirates pulled feverishly on their oars to close the distance. The one and only benefit of the ramming attempt was that it kept most of the pirate archers and all of their slingers out of the action. There was no room on that crowded vessel, with hundreds of men working at huge oars, for more than a handful of archers to fire a few missiles. Most of which, as Jessep had foreseen, went astray anyway.