and there still wasn't room on those wooden seagoing forts for more than…
At most, one fourth of the Confederation's forces. In practice, given the need to maintain the siege at Preble-and still under Albrecht's command-Demansk simply wouldn't have the forces available to impose himself as a dictator.
All that was needed was the final indirection. Demansk took a sudden step forward-almost a lunge-and extended both arms directly before him, hands clenched into fists. A mighty resolve made. 'I will give you the Islands, fellows of the Council. And I will have my family's vengeance.'
The last sentence was practically snarled. Which, in truth, took no histrionic effort at all. Vengeance was indeed something Demansk would obtain. In passing, to be sure. But given his reputation for simplicity…
What might come after never crossed the Councillors' minds. It was plain to see, as each face grew slightly slack with easing tension. Some so slack as to almost indicate derision. Every man in the Council knew that Demansk's daughter was being held in seclusion on his estates. Shamed, once, by her violation; twice over, by bearing a pirate's bastard.
They had it all now. The assurance of divided power; the most dangerous to be given the smallest spear-and now, even his personal motive, as far as possible from the grandiose dreams of a would-be dictator.
Quaryn himself led the hail which rose from the floor, calling for an immediate vote. Hands stretched wide; left hand in a fist, right extended wide-all in classic style. A pity that he stumbled slightly rising to his feet, true; but the Council was as inclined to be charitable toward small lapses in that moment as was the new Triumvirate itself.
Afterward, of course, the new dispensation took not long to manifest itself. As he strode down the steps of the hall, being almost assaulted by the roar of the crowd in the Forum-the professional rumor-spreaders were already at work-thirty men trotted forward to join his sons at his side.
There would be no pretense of indifference here. The men were all veterans of Demansk's First Regiment, and they took up positions all around him and his heirs. Shields up; assegais ready. No potential assassin was allowed to get within twenty feet of the new Triumvir as he passed across the Forum.
Somewhere along the way, Demansk reminded himself that small errors needed to be corrected along with great ones. He commanded his new First Spear to his side.
When the man trotted up, Demansk considered him a moment. Cut from the same cloth as Jessep Yunkers, obviously. Perhaps not as intelligent, but thoroughly capable at his trade.
'First Spear,' he said, 'what is your name?'
Chapter 10
'I'd feel better about this if you were part of a convoy,' said Demansk. He stared out from the headland at the western ocean. It might just have been his overactive imagination, but the waters seemed to be already turning gray with the change of seasons. The last convoy of the summer had left a week earlier.
'The skies are clear,' said Helga. 'We'll reach Marange well before the first big storm hits. We're only in the early part of autumn.'
'Still-'
'Come on, Father.' She shifted the baby into the crook of her left arm and pointed to the ship moored at the pier below. 'Sharlz Thicelt may be a pirate, but-like all pirates-he knows his ships. That thing must have cost you a small fortune.'
Demansk scowled down at the vessel. As a matter of fact, it had cost him a small fortune. Thicelt had selected the finest 'one and a half' he could find in the ports of the western Confederacy. The 'one and a half'- technically called a demibireme — was a bastard design. In essence, it was a fast, two-banked galley, adapted for both sailing and fighting. The adaptations, which allowed for the quick removal of the second bank of oars as battle approached, required a great deal of expensive detail work. Demibiremes were therefore a rarity. They were only used for precious cargo-and were highly treasured prizes for pirates, for whose depredations the design was perfectly adapted.
It was the latter factor, not the expense, which was really causing Demansk to scowl. Granted, the demibireme was the ideal ship to get his daughter to Marange quickly and give her the best chance of escaping pirates. It was also sure to draw the attention of every pirate ship which spotted her.
Helga was having no difficulty following his train of thought. 'Relax,' she insisted. 'That ship is more than seaworthy enough to stay out of sight of land, except for-'
'Every other night,' growled Demansk. 'Prevailing winds be damned, Thicelt still has to make landfall often enough to determine where he is. Pirates are rife all down the middle portions of the coast, in the no-man's-land between the Confederacy and the powerful Southron tribes of the interior. You know that as well as I do. If you have the bad luck to encounter a pirate nest…'
She shrugged. 'We'll just move out to sea again. Even if the winds aren't favorable, that ship can be rowed almost as fast as a war galley.'
Demansk left off the argument, but kept scowling. Helga was exaggerating the capability of a demibireme under oars. True, it could be rowed much more quickly than a normal merchant ship. It still couldn't hope to match the speed of a light galley, packed full with pirates at the oars. The only real chance it had was to stay far enough ahead of a pirate to exhaust the pursuers. Rowing was brutally hard work, especially at pursuit speed.
But the chance of this demibireme being able to exhaust an enemy crew in a long chase was… almost nonexistent. Most demibiremes carried very light cargoes. Gold, gems, jewels, spices, fine linens, the like. This demibireme would be carrying 'And here they come!' said Helga gaily. 'Come on, Father. Don't tell me that sight doesn't cheer you up.'
Despite himself, Demansk couldn't help smiling. The sight did cheer him up, after all. As well equipped and disciplined a hundred as he'd ever seen, trotting down the long pier toward the waiting ship. Their thick-soled sandals, studded with iron nails, hammered the heavy planking in unison. Left, right, left, right, moving in the quick but orderly manner of experienced troopers.
Not all of them were experienced, of course. Demansk couldn't see much, at this distance, of the faces beneath the helmets. Confederate helmets, unlike Emerald ones, left the nose uncovered. But the cheek flanges, combined with the jutting forehead protector and the lobster-tail flare at the rear, still left the soldiers' features obscure. Probably a good half, judging from what Demansk could determine, were youngsters newly signed up.
But it hardly mattered. The eastern provinces, with their impoverished yeomanry, had been the traditional recruiting ground for the Confederate army for at least two centuries. Every one of those 'newbies' would have been training under the supervision of veteran male relatives since they were eight years old. And, in this hundred even more than most, they were going into combat surrounded by their experienced older brothers, fathers, cousins, uncles and neighbors. What was trotting down the pier below him was as capable and veteran a unit as Demansk had ever seen. To all intents and purposes, that was the hundred his old First Spear had come from.
His eyes scanned the pier and found the man he was looking for. Jessep Yunkers himself, still technically a civilian, was following the soldiers with a group of about forty men wrestling heavy handcarts up the steps leading to the pier's entrance. Seeing those carts-and the man giving the orders to their handlers-Demansk's scowl returned in force.
'Come on, Father.' Helga's tone was just a razor's edge short of a snap. Still most unsuitable, for a daughter addressing her august father. 'You've got no more chance of keeping Trae behind than you do restraining a charging greatbeast with your bare hands. He is a son of Demansk, and since you've kept him out of the army he's not going to pass up this chance of getting properly blooded. You know it as well as I do.'
Demansk tightened his jaws, but made no reply-for the simple reason that he couldn't. However much his youngest son was given to thumbing his nose at tradition, in this at least he was forged on the ancient anvil. Trae, like any scion of Vanbert's aristocracy worthy of the name, would earn his spear. And since, for his own purposes, Demansk had insisted on keeping him out of the army proper…
'Besides,' Helga added, ' I'm certainly happy to have him along. Especially since he's the only one who really
