The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

A galley set out from the harbor at Chalice, bearing a statue of Opal, the Goddess of Tranquility, on its foredeck. That was the traditional Islander method for signaling a desire for a peaceful parlay. Demansk had been expecting something of the sort, so the triremes blockading the entrance to the harbor had been given orders to let any such ship pass through unmolested.

As the Islander galley approached Demansk’s flagship, however, Nappur insisted on keeping it at a distance until a boarding party could search the vessel. He admitted it was unlikely that a band of assassins was hiding in the hold, much less a load of explosives, but . . .

Thicelt didn’t even argue the point, beyond making a couple of wisecracks. Nor did Demansk. The simple truth was that Verice Demansk was so critical to everything that any chance of an assassination attempt had to be taken seriously.

The search didn’t take long. It was a small galley, with no area belowdecks except small storage spaces. Outside of the rowers—who were unarmed—and the large delegation of Island notables—most of whom were at least middle-aged, if not older—the only thing the boarding party found was a very large sack. The contents of the sack, once it was opened, proved to be of great interest. But, all the Vanbert soldiers agreed, hardly posed a threat to the Triumvir.

The officer of the boarding party brought the sack aboard the quinquireme, when he made his report to Demansk. Three of his soldiers came behind, two of them hoisting the sack between them with some obvious effort. The officer was grinning coldly; his men seemed to be smirking a little. Oddly enough, the third soldier was carrying a tarpaulin. It looked like it was probably one of the smaller sails from the trireme.

“I’d say they’re lying belly-up and waving their paws, Triumvir.” The officer gestured toward a bare space on the quarterdeck, and the soldier spread the little sail. Then, upending the sack, the other two dumped its contents onto it.

That explained the reason for the tarpaulin. The quarterdeck of the Triumvir’s flagship was kept well-scrubbed and polished. The contents of the sack would have . . . marred it.

Thicelt was down on one knee, casually rolling the severed heads about and making a quick count. Demansk could hear him exclaiming cheerfully: ” . . . three, four—ah! Prince Frand! you’re looking a bit out of sorts today—five, six, seven—Royal Uncle Gander! fancy meeting you here!—eight, nine—where’s . . . ah, there he is, looking as sour as ever—ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen—pardon my fingers in your ear, Queen Yora—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—” A little hiss. “By the Lady, they didn’t have to include her.” The count continued: “—twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . and, twenty-five.”

“How many kids did he have, anyway?” asked Nappur.

Thicelt straightened up. “Seventeen in all, Forent, who survived their childhood diseases. He had several concubines, don’t forget. Ten boys and six girls. The oldest boy”—his lips tightened with remembered distaste—”Prince Tenny that was, died at the siege of Preble.” He pointed to the grisly pile on the tarpaulin. “All the rest of the boys are there. At least, the count’s right. I didn’t know all of them personally, so we’ll have to double-check.”

Demansk did some quick arithmetic. “And the other sixteen heads?” he asked, keeping any trace of disgust out of his voice. That would be hypocritical, leaving aside everything else. If the Islanders hadn’t executed all of Casull’s important relatives themselves, Demansk would have demanded it anyway. But he didn’t have to like the business.

“The rest of Casull’s family, those who matter. Male and female both—his wife, three uncles, a brother, two sisters, an aunt, and seven cousins. Casull relied on his family for his closest advisers and officials. I recognized all of them. And they included, for good measure, Princess Rafta. Not sure why, but probably because she was the only adult unmarried daughter. Four of his daughters are married to notables of one kind or another”—Thicelt pointed with his thumb toward the galley, his heavy lips in a half sneer—”who are probably among that pack of whipped curs, and are trying to keep their wives alive.”

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *