The Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  "I'll want you to accompany the delegation which will be reporting this to the Council," Demansk rasped. "I trust your testimony will be reliable."

  The former bodyguard actually managed a smile. A thin one, true, but a smile nonetheless. "Shocking, sir. Just shocking it was, the way the Governor insulted the Triumvir. And in public, too. 'T'wasn't a gray thing, not in the least."

  Demansk nodded. He'd have Sallivar keep an eye on the man. But he really didn't expect any trouble from that quarter, especially after a suitably discreet bribe. And killing the man would probably cause more problems than it would solve.

  Having made his decision, he turned to the next matter. "Sergeant, please see to it that the magistrates are escorted safely back to their office. And post a guard for them. There's likely to be some tumult in the streets today."

  That was a delicate way of putting it, of course. A guard for the magistrates was just as much a guard over them. Sallivar would be leaving with the magistrates for Vanbert in the morning, and once on the road he'd make sure the magistrates never had a chance to talk to anyone until they reached the capital.

  "Yes, sir." The sergeant started to get his men moving, but Demansk held up his hand.

  "One thing also. Two, actually. First"-he pointed to Willech's head, which had rolled almost to the wall-"please take that and have it stuck on one of the spikes on the fence outside the Governor's Palace. I imagine the crowd in Solinga will be cheered by the sight."

  "My pleasure, sir." Two strides and the sergeant had the grisly object off the floor. It was fortunate that he was such a big man. Willech had favored very close-cropped hair, much too short to hold. But with his enormous grip, the sergeant had no difficulty holding the skull like a normal-sized man would hold a goblet.

  "And the second matter, sir?"

  Demansk studied him for a moment. Then, abruptly: "Come to my quarters this evening. I'd like to speak with you further. You'll probably have to wait around a bit, I'm afraid. Things are likely to be hectic all day."

  For the first time since he'd met him that morning-Crann had recommended the sergeant and his squad-Demansk saw an actual expression on the giant's face. He found the little smile rather interesting. It was not the rueful smile of a veteran acknowledging the army's inevitable "hurry-up-and-wait." There was a real gleam to the thing, as if the sergeant would enjoy whiling away a few hours watching the powers-that-were scrambling frantically out of the way of the powers-that-are.

  From his accent, the man was another easterner, signed up for a twenty-five-year hitch in the army as the only alternative to poverty. Who, with no help at all from Emerald philosophers, had apparently drawn his own conclusions about the dialectic of Being and Becoming.

  When he got there, Demansk's headquarters were just as much in frenzied semi-chaos as he'd expected. By the nature of things, a coup d'etat is a messier business than a straightforward battle in the open field. Even experienced and steady officers will get a little rattled and uncertain, at such a time. Partly because the tasks involved are somewhat new and different; mostly because the penalty for failure is certain to be worse than being defeated by a foreign enemy. A foreigner, at least with noble prisoners, will want ransom. A shaken but surviving old regime will settle for nothing less than heads on spikes on official fences-and then seize all your property for good measure.

  Which, of course, was exactly what Demansk was doing himself.

  "We've got most of it," said Ulrich Bratten as soon as the Triumvir came into the room which served as the nerve center for the coup. "The bulk of it was in the form of bullion in Willech's own mansion. We had to torture Willech's wife-tough bitch, that one-but we got the secret out of her."

  Demansk nodded. He'd hoped the woman would have yielded without resorting to torture, but hadn't really expected it. He'd known Sandru Willech since they were both very young also-she was another child of the elite-and hadn't liked her any more than he had Willech himself. But no one had ever accused the woman of being a coward. Even as a girl, Sandru had been tough as well as nasty.

  "Too bad. I would have preferred returning her to her family. You killed her afterward, yes?"

  Ulrich nodded.

  "So be it," said Demansk. "It's easier to explain a cremated corpse than a mutilated but living matron."

  Since the thing was done, he dismissed it from his mind. "How much?"

  When Ulrich told him, Demansk almost whistled with surprise. He'd known that Willech had been gouging the province mercilessly, but hadn't expected to find that much in the way of hidden treasure.

  "The rest of it?"

  Bratten shrugged. "Good chunks where you'd expect them, both in the Governor's Palace and the Treasury Office. I imagine more will turn up in his warehouses. Not much of that'll be bullion, of course, nor even coins and gems. Goods, mostly. Linens, spices, that sort of thing."

  "Doesn't matter. Emeralds will deal in anything without quibble, as long as they can sell it. Speaking of which-"

  Bratten jerked his head toward a door on the far wall. "Eleven of them are here already, sir. More to come, you can be sure of it. They're practically dancing in the streets out there. I told them you'd speak to them as soon as possible."

  Demansk nodded and looked to Robret Crann. The older brigade commander had been the one Demansk had selected to oversee the purely military side of the coup. He'd saved aristocratic and distinguished-looking Kirn Thatcher to settle the nerves of the Vanbert nobility resident in Solinga. By now, they'd all be as jittery as a herd of greatbeasts with the smell of predator in the air. Demansk didn't mind the jitter-within limits, in fact, he wanted the nobility nervous and unsettled. But he didn't want the mess which an authoritative elite driven to open resistance could create.

  "Things went pretty smoothly," reported Crann, "all things considered. Neither of Willech's regiments ever left their compounds, although the Fourth Jallink did mill around outside the barracks for a bit. They'll need some watching, but I don't expect any real trouble. Not after Willech's head goes up on the fence, for sure."

  That was as good as could be hoped for. The resentment of the Fourth Jallink Regiment was inevitable, and expected. Willech's family were Jallink tribe themselves. But if the men of the regiment hadn't taken up arms by now, they certainly wouldn't do so once the news of Willech's execution reached them. Naturally, that would increase their resentment. But without a clear pole around which opposition could crystallize, all of those soldiers would start thinking about the risks involved if they rebelled and failed. Decimation was the traditional punishment for a unit which broke and ran on the field. The traditional penalty for units which rebelled and were crushed by the "lawful authority"-that being defined by whoever emerged triumphant, of course-was the exact opposite. One man out of ten would be left alive, to spread the word concerning the penalty for mutiny.

  "All right, then," said Demansk. "In that case, I think I'll speak with the Emerald merchants right now. The sooner we can get this behind us, and get everyone's mind focused on the money they're making, the better."

  Demansk always found Emerald merchants and guildmasters a bit ridiculous-although he was careful not to let any trace of his amusement show on his face. It wasn't that they weren't good at their business. Emerald merchants were as notorious as Islanders for their sharp and narrow trading practices-"acumen," they liked to call it-and, in most crafts other than weaving and papermaking, their artisans were still the best in the world. Superb jewelers and metalsmiths, for a certainty.

  No, it was that same old "philosophical" penchant which made all Emeralds a bit comical to Confederates.

  How many Emeralds does it take to slaughter a pig?

  Eight. One to hold the beast, one to cut his throat, five-because it's a prime number and thus mystical-to convince the pig that Becoming a rasher is better than Being a swine. And the eighth, of course, to be the sophist arguing the pig's side of things.

  At the moment, as it happened, the guildmaster of Sol
inga's shipwrights was holding forth on the significance of prime numbers. In this case, the mystical superiority of the number seven over the number five. Any resemblance to a lowly fishwife haggling in the marketplace was, of course, purely coincidental.

  "It just can't be done for five thousand solingens, august Triumvir. Not a whole great ship like you're asking for, not even"-sourly, this last, since it would leave the sub-guild of decorators squealing like pigs themselves-"with such a simple and crude design." Ponderously: "Need at least seven thousand, and even at that"-more sourly-"a good thousand of it will have to be devoted to alms for the starving decorators."

  Demansk decided he'd been polite enough, for long enough. "Bugger the decorators," he growled. "They can turn their skills just as easily to carving mantlepieces and headboards in the mansions of the soon to be rich merchants and tradesmen of the city as they can to carving useless sternposts for warships. I'll allow an extra five hundred just to tide them over the transition, that's all. Five thousand, five hundred per ship. That's assuming, of course, that you can deliver on your promise to build the size fleet I require in the time allowed. If you don't meet the schedule, the price will drop by five hundred solingens for every week you go past the deadline."

  As one voice: Per week?? ABSURD!! Pardon, august and mighty (etc. etc.) Triumvir, sir, but you just don't understand And so it went, for another four hours. At the end, feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling after a battle, Demansk tottered out of the room back into his command center. By then, he was relieved to see, Prit Sallivar had arrived.

  "I held them to six thousand, two hundred," he said weakly. "With a three hundred solingen penalty per fortnight."

  Sallivar pursed his lips. " 'Bout what I expected. The penalty's meaningless, of course. Those swindlers will have that fleet ready a month early-you watch-and then start squalling that they deserve a bonus. Six thousand per ship, now…"

  Demansk watched as his banker did some complex calculations in his head. Then Prit shrugged and said: "It'll do, Verice. Not even that tight, really. Willech, the bastard, had a third again more treasure stored up than I'd estimated. We'll have a sizeable cushion." He gave Demansk a wintry smile. "Even enough to hire this bizarre new bodyguard you seem to have your heart set on. Although I hope you don't start trying to put together an entire unit of such trolls. The food bill alone would bankrupt us."

  Demansk frowned, puzzled. Sallivar pointed toward the door with his thumb. "Forgotten already? Sad, what age does. The man's been waiting out there for hours."

  The sergeant. Demansk had indeed forgotten all about him.

  "I'll see him in my private quarters. Give me ten minutes to wash up a bit."

  The sergeant seemed a bit ill at ease when he came into Demansk's salon, but not as much as the Triumvir had expected. Oddly, the giant's uneasiness seemed to increase after Demansk ordered his three regular bodyguards to leave them alone.

  "I'd have thought you'd prefer not having armed men standing at your back," he said almost, but not quite, slyly. "What with old village sayings about dead men telling no tales running through your head."

  The sergeant seemed to flush a bit. Then, after discreetly clearing his throat: "T'ain't thet, sir. I was na worret 'bout thet."

  Demansk found it interesting that the man's eastern accent was so much more pronounced now than it had been when the sergeant was, so to speak, "on stage."

  The next words confirmed the guess.

  "Don' think tha's a man in tha regiments-nor yars, naebit-what does no trust ya, sar. A soldier's general, yar know'd t'be. 'Tis just…"

  The huge soldier glanced around the room nervously. " 'Tis just tha I don' know wha ta 'spect, sar. No used ta thet. Man o' my station does no speak privately with na gen'ral, naebit less na Triumvir."

  His head jerked a bit, as if he was sternly reminding himself of a silent vow. When he spoke again, the thick accent was almost gone and the clean-speaking sergeant of the drama was back.

  "Sorry, sir. I imagine the Triumvir would like me-me and my squad-to serve him as bodyguards. That's what my men were thinking, anyway. In the new times a-coming, you'll be having some use for a bigger guard, they're thinking."

  Demansk was not surprised to discover that the sergeant had mentioned this upcoming private audience with his men-nor that the squad had apparently spent some time discussing the matter. The squad was the basic unit in the Vanbert army. Except in cases of extreme casualties, soldiers usually served their entire twenty-five-year stretch in the same squad. Half of the men in it would be related by blood, and almost all of them would come from the same village. "Squad deep" was the way Confederate veterans would refer to a man or thing which could be completely trusted.

  What Demansk did find a bit surprising-and certainly interesting-was the actual assessment the squad had made. "New times a-coming," indeed. As an officer, even a popular one, he was and had been for years insulated from the quiet thinking which percolated through the ranks. But he'd never made the mistake which many officers made of not realizing that such thinking was going on.

  The perspicacity of the squad, and the obvious intelligence of its sergeant, crystallized a decision he'd been weighing in his mind. As it happened, he had originally intended to use them as bodyguards. But he decided he had a better purpose for them.

  First, though, he had to see how far he could push the matter.

  "And what do you think of such 'new times' yourself, Sergeant?"

  The giant stared at him for a moment. Then, sloping his shoulders like a greatbeast leaning into a load, he said softly: " 'Twere-it was-a sad day for my folk when Old Marcomann died, sir. Say what they will about his so-called 'tyranny,' but it never touched me or mine. Except to lighten the taxes and give a poor man a chance. All of which went like the dew when the sattra- uh, noblemen and their Council got back on top of things."

  The choked off word had been sattrasacht. An old word in the eastern dialects, it translated as "gutworms"-a type of intestinal parasite which was prevalent in poverty-striken agricultural regions of the Confederacy. It was the private term which the Confederacy's peasantry used to refer to the Vanbert aristocracy.

  "Marcomann did leave something of a mess behind, Sergeant." Demansk's words were spoken in the tone of an observation, not a reproof.

  The sergeant shrugged. Then, for the second time that day, Demansk saw the little gleam in a troll's smile.

  "Yes, sir. But me and my boys figure you're a lot smarter than Old Marcomann, even if he was a great man and all."

  Demansk nodded abruptly. "Done, then. I've a different job for you than bodyguard, Sergeant. I need you to keep an eye on Willech's old regiments for me, especially the Fourth Jallink. I'll give you and your squad the authority to sit in on all staff meetings, armed, and oversee everything they do." He stifled a yawn. "It's too late tonight to go into the details-truth is, I have to figure them out myself-but that's the gist of it."

  The uncertainty was back on the giant's face. So was the accent in his voice. "Tha will no hart'ly allow no sergeant na 'is squad to do thet, sar."

  "Three things, Sergeant. First, let's start with your name. What is it?"

  The sergeant blinked. "Ma name? 'Tis Forent Nappur, sar."

  "Second. I'll need you to keep that accent under control. Outside of your squad quarters, at any rate. Can you do that?"

  Another blink. "Ah-yes, sir. I can do that. Sorry, sir. I'm just a bit unsettled at the moment."

  Demansk waved the apology aside. "I understand. Not a problem, as long as you keep an eye on it. You know the sattrasacht, Forent Nappur. They'll forgive much, but never poor diction."

  The sergeant choked off a little laugh. Demansk smiled, and then finished the day's work.

  "And-third thing-it'll not be sergeant any longer. It's Forent Nappur, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, from this moment forward."

  Chapter 14

  That explains it, said Raj. No wonder he's much more sophistica
ted than you'd expect. yes, chimed in Center. the taking of hostages is common practice in iron age cultures.

  Adrian ignored them both, as he had learned to do easily enough in the many months since the odd duo had entered his mind. He kept his concentration entirely on Prelotta. Mostly, he kept his concentration on the imperative need not to burst into open laughter.

  The young chief's statement was still reverberating in his mind. Adrian was trying to picture Prelotta spending five years as a boy in Vanbert, the capital city of the Confederacy. The hairdo alone…

  Something in his tight face must have been interpreted correctly by the leader of the Reedbottom tribe. Prelotta's scarred face crinkled.

  "No, no-I assure you! Not even a rash and foolhardy Southron boy was stupid enough to wear his native dress in Vanbert. Other than my pale skin and light hair, I appeared quite the normal civilized young lad."

  His fingers brushed along his forehead. "Of course, the tattoos were already there, so the disguise really fooled no one. But at least I hadn't had the ceremonial scars added yet."

  That made sense, Arian realized. Prelotta would have had the scars added later than usual. The normal custom among Southrons, although the specific practices varied from tribe to tribe, was to have boys tattooed at the age of four and undergo the other, more brutal, ceremonies upon reaching puberty. Prelotta had been turned over as a hostage to the Confederacy at the age of twelve, following a clash between the Southrons and the Vanberts which went badly for the tribesmen. That meant he wouldn't have been able to undergo the tribal "coming of age" ceremonies until he was seventeen.

  Which, for the most part, was probably an advantage. A seventeen-year-old would have had an easier time dealing with the pain than a younger one. Except He winced. Prelotta, showing the perceptiveness which Adrian had come to expect from him, grinned widely. Then, grabbed his crotch in an exaggerated protective gesture.