“Done, lord,” choked the old man who seemed to be the leader of the delegation, insofar as anyone was. “It will be done.”
Demansk sat back down. He decided it was time to ease up a bit. “Good,” he murmured. Then, gestured toward Thicelt. “I am appointing Sharlz Thicelt, an Islander himself, to be the governor of Western Isles province. He will arrive in Chalice tomorrow. Make sure Casull’s palace is prepared for him.”
An Islander. The men of Chalice studied Thicelt covertly. Many of them knew him personally, at least to a degree. As a practical matter, of course, that did not reassure them much. An Islander would be even more adept at spotting attempts to circumvent the Confederacy’s harsh demands than a foreigner.
Still . . . he was an Islander. The men in the delegation contained no fools among them. They could see the implications quite clearly. First, at least they would be dealing with one of their own, who would understand how to avoid needless humiliation. Second—more important—Islanders were no great respecters of station, unlike Vanberts. Yet here was the greatest of all living Vanberts, with an Islander as one of his closest subordinates.
The implications were . . . interesting.
* * *
When Demansk entered his cabin, he found the princess huddled in the corner atop his bed. Her hands were making vague little movements, as if she was trying to restrain herself from clutching her garments. Pointless, that would be, under the circumstances.
He started to scowl, but managed to keep from doing so. The girl was likely to misunderstand the expression.
“I am not going to rape you, child. So be at ease on that matter, at least.”
She seemed to relax a bit. It was hard to tell. Again, Demansk was impressed by the girl’s composure. He suspected, from things Thicelt had told him in the past, that growing up a islander princess was a harsh school in its own right.
There was a knock on the door. “Enter.”
Thicelt came in, followed by three sailors returning the writing table and the chair. Sharlz waited until the sailors finished their work and were gone before saying anything.
Then, his first words were spoken in the Islander tongue, and addressed at the princess: “Relax, girl! The august Triumvir’s virtue is already a thing of legend.” He gave her a friendly leer. “Me, on the other hand . . . But! You are not in my hands, after all, so there’s nothing to fear on that account either.”
He turned to Demansk. “I assume you’re going to keep her secluded, yes? Or should we have her removed while we continue our plans?”
Demansk studied the girl. The idle thought which had come to him earlier, on the deck, came back in richer color and details. Fascinating possibility . . .
It was worth exploring, he decided. No point in it if she isn’t bright as well as good-looking.
“Come here, Jirri.” He pointed to the chair at the table. The princess scuttled off the bed and hurried to do as she was instructed. Only after she had taken her seat did it occur to Demansk, belatedly, to ask if she understood his own language. Apparently so.
But to make sure, since she might simply have interpreted the gesture which accompanied the command, he asked her directly. Speaking in her own language, in which he was competent if not fluent.
“Oh yes, great lord. I speak Vanbert.”
“I’m not ‘great lord,’ princess. The proper title is ‘Triumvir.’ Can you read and write?”
Jirri looked doubtful. “Not very well.”
“An Island woman,” chuckled Thicelt. “What do you expect?”
Demansk ignored him. “You can learn. Can you do arithmetic?”
The princess winced. It was the first open expression Demansk had yet seen on her face. “Not the Vanbert way.”
Demansk and Thicelt both chuckled now. “I should think not!” said Demansk. “What a miserable, clumsy thing that is. No, girl, I meant: can you use Islander numbers? The truth is, any Confederate merchant and landlord with half a brain adopted your way of doing arithmetic over a century ago. The only thing anyone uses Vanbert numbers for anymore are official documents.”