Doing so, in truth, was not difficult. As soon as Thicelt saw the rout, and without waiting for orders from Demansk, he gave the signal to the fleet to break off the action. In most battles, of course—certainly with a general as good as Demansk in command—the pursuit would have been undertaken with ferocity. But Demansk’s strategy was political as much as military, and for his purposes here, a simple defeat was sufficient.
More than sufficient, in fact. It was ideal.
* * *
Demansk turned to Thicelt and clapped his shoulder. “My congratulations, Sharlz. You’ve just won the greatest sea battle ever—and I’ll see to it that the historians so record the thing. And now, you’re fired.”
Thicelt grinned. “Such is fleeting fame.” Then, sighed histrionically. “Back to that inglorious ‘special attendant’ business again.”
Demansk nodded, matching smile to grin. ” ‘Fraid so. You’re a diplomat now. And you know the settlement I want.”
“Settlement,” snorted Thicelt. “Almost as bad as Emeralds, with their ‘acumen.’ ” He clucked his tongue, somehow managing to do it as histrionically as the sigh. “Speak plainly, august Triumvir, just as that grandfather of yours you’ve told me about would have done.” He jerked a thumb toward Chalice. “What you want is that pig skinned. Skinned, gutted, and the meat hung up to dry.”
“Just the meat, Sharlz. You can leave them the skin and the entrails.” He matched Thicelt’s grin with one that was almost as wide. “You watch. Within a generation, your Islanders will be calling me Verice the Merciful.”
* * *
He left the quarterdeck then, heading for his cabin where others would be waiting for new orders. So he never heard Thicelt’s response. The Islander, after watching Demansk’s departure, turned and stared at the still-invisible city where he had been born. The “jewel in a cup,” as his people called it, the beautiful—and often vicious—city which had been the center of the archipelago’s culture for centuries. And which, with one of its own sons as the midwife, was about to give birth to a new world.
“No, lord,” he murmured. “In a generation, they will be calling you the same thing as everyone else. Verice Demansk, the Great.”
Chapter 19
Demansk’s soldiers brought him Casull’s corpse before the day was over. The King of the Isles had been aboard one of the galleys stormed by the Confederate soldiers. The crew of that galley, no doubt because the King was there himself to stiffen their spine, had not surrendered. All of them had been killed, either in the fighting or in the massacre of the wounded afterward. Casull’s body had been found under a pile of corpses. The soldiers hadn’t been entirely sure of his identity—none of them had ever seen Casull in person—but his garments and the accouterments of his office made it clear that, whoever he was, he was someone important. So they brought the body to Demansk.
Thicelt identified him. “That’s Casull, all right.” He inspected the wounds on the corpse. “Say whatever else you will, he was no coward.”
Forent Nappur didn’t seem impressed. “I can say the same for every man in my squad—almost every man in the army, for that matter. So why does a fucking king get special credit for doing something any peasant takes for granted?”
There was no particular heat in the words. But the anger simmering beneath them reminded Demansk, if he needed a reminder, how much bitterness and animosity the selfish and ruthless conduct of the Confederation’s ruling class had stored up in the hearts of its own citizenry.
Sharlz shrugged. “A peasant doesn’t have much choice, Forent. A king does. I guess that’s the difference.” He straightened up from the kneeling posture from which he’d been examining the corpse, and held up a hand in a little placating gesture. “But I’m not trying to start an argument. I can’t say I was all that fond of Casull myself.”
He glanced at Demansk and made a chucking gesture with his thumb. “Over the side?”
Demansk shook his head. “No. We’ll give him an honorable burial—that’s how you do it here in the islands, if I recall? Not cremation?”
Thicelt nodded. But Demansk was really watching Nappur, whose sour expression made clear that he’d personally have been inclined to toss the former king to the sharks.