The giant was back to chortling. " 'So fierce was the countenance of young Trae — so terrifying the very name of Demansk itself — that Albrecht's navy recoiled and fled from his wrath.' We'll start there. By the time we get done with the mutiny, it'll sound like something out of the old ballads."
Even Trae chuckled. Demansk rose to his feet. "And what's more important — much more — is that you'll now have a reputation among the Islanders."
"We're partial to saints, y'know," drawled Sharlz. "It's a most important aspect to the creed of the Lady of the Sea. And Lemare's a far more important goddess to the common run of Islanders than the ones the former kings favored."
His face assumed an unusually solemn expression. "I'm not joking, Trae. 'Pirates' we might have been. But pirates are seamen, first of all, and no one understands better the dangers of the sea — or the blessedness of a man who rescues people from shipwreck. Which you just did on the largest scale in history."
"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."
As if by cue, the sound of heavy chimes ringing somewhere in the city below wafted through the airy windows of the hareem. Through those same windows, Demansk could see the Western Ocean. The waters of the archipelago seemed especially vibrant today.
"Ah, good. I see the temples have gotten the announcement. I had to wait, of course, until you'd actually arrived."
It would be difficult to say which of the two youngsters in the room had the widest eyes, at that moment. Both pairs looked like saucers. Trae was goggling at his father; Jirri was goggling at Trae.
"You didn't warn me!" they both protested simultaneously.
"I'm not ready to get married!" added Trae.
Jirri's protest was less cosmic: "I've got ink on my hands!"
Demansk bestowed a look upon his son which was stern enough to have satisfied the All-Father himself. "There will be no discussion, Trae, and no argument. None. In this, if nothing else, I will stand on ancient custom. I am your father, and you will do as I say. I need this marriage to solidify everything."
He glanced at Jirri, finding it hard not to laugh at her indignation over smudged fingers. "The truth is, I even considered marrying her myself. But that would have been too much of a breach with custom, and besides, I've been thinking — never mind." Firmly: "You're perfect. As my youngest son, you're not likely to be the Demansk heir anyway. The Council will squeal with outrage, but not for long. And, in the meantime, I'll have welded the Islanders to our family inseparably."
He pointed out the window. "Listen to those chimes, Trae. That celebration's not being faked. You're not only my son, but you're the one who just rescued thousands of their kinsfolk from Preble. Wedded, the day after tomorrow, to the surviving unmarried daughter of the previous dynasty. As good a guarantee as my new subjects could ask for. So long as they obey Demansk, that same name will be their shield."
Trae stared out the window. After a moment, his shoulders slumped a little, as a man's will when he accepts something inevitable. Demansk was relieved to see the familiar wry twist come his son's lips. If nothing else, Trae would always have his sense of humor.
"Did Gellert prescribe this too?"
Demansk shook his head. "Not hardly! I don't need mysterious spirits to teach me statecraft, Trae. I learned the principles of that from my own grandfather."
Trae's eyes moved to Jirri. The girl was now clumsily trying to disguise her fingers. But since she only had a thin sheet of paper and a tunic which was not much thicker to hide them in, she wasn't having much success. The expression on her face was one of extreme distress. Her first meeting with her groom! And she was filthy!
The wry smile widened. "A practical lass, is it? Well, that's good. You'll need to be, poor thing, married to me." He gave his sire a look which just bordered on derision. "Or did my scheming august father neglect to mention to you that I was a complete eccentric?"
He stepped over to her and held out his hands. "Stop fidgeting, dammit. It's silly. As good-looking as you are, girl, you'll be bearing our first child within a year — and that'll be a lot messier than a little ink. Show me the fingers."
She did as her husband-to-be commanded. Demansk, watching, thought that her instant obedience was only partly the result of Islander custom. Jirri's eyes, staring up at Trae, were still wide. But Demansk could detect the first traces of trust coming into those dark orbs.