The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

Now that he was confident of the subject, Prit took the time to rise and refill his goblet. “As for her lands, she also had the good sense to keep them scattered all over the Confederacy. A big chunk in Hagga, another one in the east—still stable, you know?—relatively, at least.” Easing back onto his couch, he shrugged. “She’ll lose much of it, of course—either through . . . Well, never mind. We can discuss that later.”

Very firmly: “But it doesn’t matter. She’ll still come through all this the richest woman in the world. The richest person, for that matter. At least”—here, his confidence seemed to desert him a bit—”until your father’s investments begin to return a profit.”

“So that’s it,” said Helga. She gave her father a look which was not so much accusatory as speculative. “You’re bankrupt, aren’t you? Finer trappings than ever—and the coffers empty.”

Demansk grimaced. “Crudely put, but—yes. Though ‘bankrupt’ isn’t really the right word—no, I’m not glossing over anything!—because I’m actually wealthier than ever. But there’s almost no cash left, Helga. And I’ve got a civil war to win—and quickly, before the Southrons return—and soldiers won’t fight for promises. Much less some newfangled nonsense called ‘stocks.’ ”

Sallivar smiled. “I believe your father neglected to mention that Lady Knecht is bringing thirty wagons with her. Only twenty of which are laden down with, ah, her enthusiasms.”

“Wouldn’t even put it that way,” rumbled Nappur. “I spoke to her myself, when Prit and Enry and I went to Hagga to make the final negotiations.” The giant ex-trooper’s face was cheerfully grim. “I dare say she’s even more enthusiastic on the subject of gutting Albrecht than she is her patronage of the arts. Right at the moment, for damn sure. Old Undreth’s her uncle, you know—he’s the Watchman who escaped the massacre at the Council—and he went into exile with her. Right horrid stories he’s been telling her since. And none of them lies.”

“She always despised Albrecht anyway, Helga,” said Demansk. “I can remember, one time when we visited Arsule years ago—she was a friend of your mother’s, you might consider that also—” He smiled at the memory of a long-ago conversation at a dinner table. “A very poetic—her rhetoric’s excellent—and very detailed comparison of the virtues of Drav Albrecht and one of her pigs. The pig came off the winner, hands down.”

But Helga wasn’t really paying attention. Her eyes were a bit unfocused, as a person’s get when they’re trying to do calculations in their head. “Ten wagons full of cash? How big are the wagons?”

Firmly, in one voice, Sallivar and Nappur and Sharbonow together: “Big.”

Helga grinned. “I take back anything bad I ever said about the lady. Shocking, the way these slanders spread!”

Enry looked smug. “Wait’ll you see the counteroffensive. I’ve got printing presses.” He began counting off his fingers. “Patron of the arts and philosophies—that’ll go down well here, among Emeralds—”

“Especially since half those wagonloads are sculptures we swiped from the Emeralds in the first place, now being restored.” That from Demansk, who was beginning to feel a little smug himself.

“Indeed so. Then, benefactress of the poor. The rest of the nobility, most of them, never paid this much attention. But the fact is—gods, it’s even true, and isn’t that a change?—she’s been the primary support of the Temple of Jassine for years.”

Helga was startled. Jassine was the Goddess of Mercy. But, for all the official respect paid to her, not one whose temples were frequented by the nobility. “I didn’t know that.”

“She never made it public,” explained Sallivar. “She’s still not happy about changing that, but . . . she agreed, after a protracted argument.”

Enry was counting off a third finger. “Then, there’s her public denunciation of Albrecht after the massacre. A good third of the aristocracy was appalled by the deed, y’know. Ion Jeschonyk was popular to begin with, and now he’s a veritable martyr.” He cleared his throat. “Along with courageous Tomsien, of course.”

Hastening past that subject: “But she’s the only one had the, ah, balls to denounce Albrecht in public. In the capital, at least. So that makes her a heroine, as well.”

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