He scowled. “Stupid, that was. Rafta was unmarried because she was as near brainless as a person can get without having actual roots. She’d been kept secluded in the hareem her whole life.”
“That leaves the youngest daughter unaccounted for,” remarked Demansk. “Princess Jirri, if I remember right.”
The officer who’d led the boarding party cleared his throat. “I think she’s probably on the galley, Triumvir. If she’s about fifteen years old, there’s a girl that age—very finely dressed—in the lot. And looking about as scared as I’ve ever seen a girl look without breaking into actual tears.”
Demansk sighed. “Well, we can put a stop to that, at least. Have the delegation brought on board, Sharlz, if you would.” He gave the small crowd on the galley a quick examination. “There are too many of them to fit in my cabin, so we’ll have to do the negotiations right here on deck.”
He turned to the quinquireme’s captain, but the man was already anticipating the order. “Bring the Triumvir’s chair and desk from his cabin!” he bellowed to several of the sailors waiting on the maindeck below. “And be quick about it!”
* * *
The first thing Demansk did, when the Islander delegation crowded onto the quarterdeck, was crook his finger at the teenage girl in their midst. That she was a princess was obvious, just from the finery of her garments, leaving aside the jewelry. Whether it was her decision or someone else’s, Demansk didn’t know. But clearly enough the girl was prepared to die in her best outfit.
As pale-faced as a dark-complexioned Islander could get, the princess came forward. Demansk was rather impressed, actually. Her face had the tightness of someone trying desperately to show no emotion at all, but her gait was not mincing in the least.
When she came up to him, he said quietly: “No harm will come to you, girl. You have my word on it. But, now, it would be best if you waited for me in my cabin.”
One of the sailors led her away. The other Islanders didn’t even so much as glance in her direction. But, from the vaguely smug looks on several faces—as smug, at least, as defeated men can get—their thoughts were obvious: A concubine for the conqueror. That’s why we left her alive. Smart move.
Demansk had considered the possibility, in fact, once he discovered that there was a surviving female relative of Casull’s. Sexual possession of a defeated enemy’s women was a traditional mark of conquest, after all. But he’d discarded the idea almost instantly. He intended to wound the Islanders, and grievously—but, for that very reason, would avoid rubbing salt into the wound. Wounds heal quickly enough. Humiliation festers.
His decision hadn’t even been shaken by seeing the girl herself. Very pretty, she was, and Demansk was no more immune to feminine beauty than any other healthy middle-aged male. But . . . he’d been more impressed by her composure. A different idea was beginning to form in his mind. One which might advance his project considerably, although it had obvious pitfalls.
He pushed the matter aside. There would be time to think about that later, and discuss it with his advisers. For the moment, there were great bleeding wounds to inflict.
So, his voice as hard as iron, Verice Demansk began laying down his terms of surrender.
“You will be henceforth a province of the Confederacy of Vanbert, by the name of Western Isles.”
The name was important, since it implied all the islands in the Western Ocean—Vase and Preble as well as the archipelago proper. And there wouldn’t be any tomfoolery about “auxiliary nations” here.
“Two full regiments of Confederate troops will be stationed in the city of Chalice itself. You will be responsible for billeting and provisioning them.” He nodded toward the encampment being built on the shore. “As well as providing whatever is necessary for the two brigades which will remain permanently ashore here, along with their fleet.”
That was the first wound, and a big one. Maintaining soldiers was expensive, at best—especially when it included ship maintenance.
But it was also time to offer the first subtle sign that, provided there was no opposition, the occupation would be heavy on Islander purses but not crushing to their souls.