* * *
Trae and Thicelt left a week later. Only Jessep and the hundred remained behind. On the morning that they left, Trae was quietly taken aside by Helga and handed a sealed and bound codex.
"Give this letter to Father," she said.
Trae hefted the packet. "Letter? This weighs as much as an Emerald tome."
Helga smiled. "Well. . I guess it is, in a way. Adrian wrote most of it. He even gave the thing a title, believe it or not." She shook her head fondly, the way a woman will do at the antics of a man she loves but finds often eccentric.
"A title?" Trae stared down at the package. "I won't read it, of course. But I'm curious. What's the title?"
"He called it Meditations on Successful Tyranny."
"How spiritual sounding!" chortled Trae.
Helga, remembering the "trance-haze" in which her lover had spent many hours writing the thing, knew that the jesting phrase was far more accurate than Trae imagined. Adrian had finally explained to her the nature of his "spirits." Helga didn't really understand it, not fully at least. She wasn't happy at the thought that two other disembodied intelligences were sharing Adrian's mind — certainly not when they were making love! — but she had reconciled herself to the reality. And she understood how valuable their advice would be, to her father even more than Adrian himself.
"Just make sure he gets it," she snapped. "Mind your big sister!"
PART II: THE CONQUEROR
Chapter 16
"It's incredible," whispered Jeschonyk. The old Triumvir, formerly Speaker Emeritus, leaned over the railing and stared out at the gigantic fleet assembling below. The balcony was on the top floor of the building which Demansk had purchased for his own residence and headquarters in Solinga, and it fronted directly on the city's huge and splendid harbor.
"Not even the ancients speak of such a fleet," he added. The whispered words carried an undertone of awe. . and not a little in the way of fear.
Demansk decided that, within limits, augmenting that fear was to his advantage. "That's not the half of it," he said forcefully. He leaned over the railing himself and pointed to the southeast. The gesture was awkward, since he was actually pointing to someplace behind the building. "Even Solinga's famous harbor isn't big enough to hold them all. I've got as many assembling in the smaller ports of the Emeralds, further down the coast."
Then, he leaned the other way and made the same awkward gesture to the southwest. "And about half as many as this assembling in Rope. When the Roper League started whining about not getting any of the business, I threw a lot of the shipbuilding work in their direction. And they'll be provided their share of the rowers, too.
"In short," he concluded, straightening up, "what you're seeing below is only two fifths — thereabouts — of the force I'll be bringing down on King Casull's head. Which I don't expect that damn pirate will be keeping on his shoulders too much longer. Not unless bad weather saves him."
He looked down at the smaller Triumvir. Jeschonyk's face was pinched. Demansk decided that it was time to leaven fear with reassurance. Or, at least, what passed for it.
"Spit it out, Ion. You look like the proverbial greatbeast who swallowed a plow."
"That's about what my stomach feels like. We didn't expect this, Verice. Not even me, much less Tomsien or the Council. We've been getting reports all through the winter, of course, but I finally had to come and see for myself."
"I have not exceeded my authority," responded Demansk coldly. "And I will point out that I spent most of my own fortune equipping this fleet — without, by the by, engaging in any tax-gouging or swindling."
"Truth to tell, I'd be a lot happier if you had. Engaged in swindling and tax-gouging, that is. That'd be. . business as usual. Whereas this" — Jeschonyk gestured with his thumb toward the harbor; then, jerked it over his shoulder—"and, what's even worse, the popularity you've gained with the Emeralds. ."
"The economy here is booming, Ion. Simply the normal taxes, fairly applied, bring in more than all the stupid shortsighted tax-gouging and stealing ever could."
The old man's face grew more pinched still. "That's what's really bothering me, Verice. You've not simply put together a much larger military force than anyone expected, but you've also created a real provincial base for yourself. And if most Vanberts sneer at Emeralds for being a lot of limp-wristed aesthetes and faggots, I don't. I'm old enough to have fought in the last war against the Emeralds. They're as tough as anybody, as long as someone else is giving them their orders and doesn't let their incessant bickering get out of hand."
He gave the fleet a glance. "Which, clearly, you haven't. And now, if you don't mind, let's go back inside. I'm an old man, and a thirsty one."
As they walked through the open-air archway which connected the balcony with the building proper — the mild Emerald climate required little in the way of actual doors, beyond what was needed for security and privacy — Jeschonyk laid a cautioning hand on Demansk's arm.
"And I should tell you that Tomsien is more worried than anyone. You should know, if you don't already, that Tomsien's been doing his own amassing of forces. He's got an army assembling in his southern provinces that is twice the size of anything you can put together — even with such a huge fleet as this one."
Demansk nodded. "I expected as much." He went to a side table and poured them each a goblet of wine. There were no servants present. Then, after handing one of the goblets to Jeschonyk, took a sip from his own and added:
"Good. We'll need that army to fend off the Southrons. They'll be coming soon, Ion, don't doubt it. They're just waiting for us to be committed against the islanders. Every spy we've sent down there — you know this even better than I do, since most of them report to you first — says they're creating the largest invasion force they've ever managed to put together. That new Chief of Chiefs of theirs, Norrys, seems quite the dynamic fellow. Charismatic too, from all accounts."
Jeschonyk gave his fellow Triumvir an odd look. Part suspicion, part. . wonder, perhaps.
"Actually," he said, clearing his throat, "my spies seem to think that it's really this sub-chief Prelotta who's the driving spirit behind it all. And he's the one, not Norrys, who's got that damned Emerald genius Gellert working for him. Him and his blasted new weapons."
Demansk shrugged. " 'New weapons' are all fine and dandy, Ion. But I don't place too much faith in them. In the end, it's still discipline and organization and numbers that count." He gestured toward the fleet in the harbor with his chin. "Not one of those ships, or its crews, is as handy at sea as any islander pirate. So what? The simplest way to deal with a clever opponent is just to bury him."
"There are a lot of Southrons, Verice," chided Jeschonyk. " 'Burying them' is not as easy as it with a relative handful of islanders."
"So? That's Tomsien's problem, isn't it? And how has he funded this great army he's collected? Not using my methods, I'm sure."
Jeschonyk looked sour. "We're getting complaints and protests filed every day in Vanbert. Have been for months. He's squeezing his provinces dry, Verice. Just as you knew he would."
Demansk shifted his shoulders. The gesture could not quite be called a shrug. "He's set in his ways, yes. Not to mention being a greedy bastard in his own right."
"Which you counted on also. Damn you, Verice, don't pretend! You plotted all this — just as you plotted the fact that I'd cover it for you and be your shield."
The look that Demansk now gave Jeschonyk was icy. "And are you still? My shield, I mean."
For a moment, two of the three most powerful men in the world locked eyes. It was the older and officially most senior of them who first looked away.
"Yes," he whispered, "the gods help me." He took a couple of steps and sat down on a couch; then, sprawled wearily across it. Though not wearily enough, Demansk noted with a bit of amusement, to spill a single drop of his wine. "I feel like a midget locked in a room with two direbeasts about to go for each other's throats. Except one of the direbeasts is really a demon."
Demansk laughed. "A 'demon,' is it? Don't you think that's going a little too far, Ion? I'm not a cruel man, you know. I don't think anyone's ever accused me of that, not even enemies I've defeated in battle."
Jeschonyk took a long swallow of wine, then leaned over and set the goblet down on the floor. Again, without spilling a drop.
"Stop while you're ahead, Verice. Everything you say to 'reassure' me simply makes me more nervous. I know you're not cruel. Gods save us, you're not even particularly ambitious. In all respects, as close to a paragon of the old virtues as any leader we've had in Vanbert in generations. I don't count Marcomann in that, by the way. The gods know he was capable, but the only virtues he had were those of a two-legged direbeast."
Demansk sat on a nearby couch. "So what's the problem, then?"
"Stop playing with me, damnation!" Jeschonyk scowled. "I may not be a scholar, but I have read the classics, you know. Wasn't it Llawat who pointed out that only the virtuous can really plumb the depths of depravity?"
"Prithney," corrected Demansk. "In the third of his Dialogues. I just reread it last week, as it happens. And 'depravity' isn't really the right term. His point wasn't that the virtuous are depraved, simply that only the virtuous have the courage of conviction which comes from lack of depravity to carry through a project to the end — regardless of how much depravity results from it." He cleared his throat. "It's a subtle distinction, perhaps, but. . not unimportant to me."
Jeschonyk gave him a long, considering look. "Yes, I can see where it would be. And? Are you prepared to carry things through to the end?"
It was Demansk's turn to look away. He suspected his own face was pinched.
He heard Jeschonyk sigh. "That's what I thought. The gods save us all."