Olver smiled. “To say the least. I don’t expect I’ll be getting much sleep for the next few months.” He hesitated; then: “I’ll need money, Father. A lot of money. So much, in fact . . .”
He let the thought trail off. Demansk could finish it with no difficulty. So much money that we’ll bankrupt the family as well as empty the coffers the Council sent with us.
Those coffers were full, and there were a lot of them. But Demansk had never specified exactly how he planned to conquer the isles. And so the Council, having nothing to go on but the memory of great naval expeditions of the past, had allotted what seemed to be a suitable portion—and a very large one at that—of the Confederacy’s standby war chest.
They’d assumed, Demansk knew, that he intended a long campaign. Two years, maybe three, in the preparations. And then five to ten years in the doing. The oceanic equivalent of a siege, along the lines of what Albrecht was doing at Preble.
Demansk intended to surprise the world here as well. For his long-term purposes, he needed a quick and crushing victory over the Islanders. Partly, that was because he needed to sidestep the inevitable economic exhaustion of a long campaign—which would be absolutely devastating for the islanders themselves. Demansk could not afford that. He needed prosperous Emeralds; and a population of the Islands which, though desperate to appease their conquerors, still had the wherewithal to do so.
And, of course, partly because he would need the aura of martial triumph which such a victory would bring with it. Not the least of a would-be tyrant’s job requirements was a reputation for invincibility. It was not enough for Demansk to be respected and admired for his military skills. He already had that much, from his enemies as well as his friends. What he would need in the future was their terror. The kind of bone-deep terror that would make the words “Demansk is coming” enough to end most battles before they began.
That kind of terror could be obtained in only one of two ways. (Or both, as Marcomann had done.) The first was to demonstrate inhuman brutality. The other was to demonstrate frightening skill at war. It was Demansk’s hope—perhaps futile—that he could avoid most of the former if he could do well enough at the latter.
Olver’s voice broke into his ruminations. “Father? Did you hear what I said? About the money we’ll need, I mean.”
“I heard. Don’t worry about it, son. When the time comes, your august father will provide. And I won’t have to bankrupt the family fortune to do it, either.” He cleared his throat. “Though I dare say I will have to deplete it quite a bit.”
Olver shrugged. “Depleting it doesn’t matter, as long as we’ve got enough seed corn for the next year.”
Demansk clapped him on the shoulder. He approved of Olver. Granted, his second-oldest son had little of Helga or Trae’s quick wits and humor. But he was a solid boy. He always had been.
Demansk had always said he would trust Olver with his life. Now, he was about to prove it.
“Not to worry, son.”
“I’m not worrying about it, Father,” came the immediate reply. “Just . . . wondering a bit, that’s all.” Before Demansk could say anything, Olver placed his own square hand atop his father’s, still resting on the son’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.”
* * *
That night, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers, Demansk appointed his third Special Attendant. A small, wiry man, with a face like a claw hammer. Except for its narrowness, in fact, the face looked quite a bit like Willech’s.
The man’s name was Prit Sallivar, and he had been Demansk’s closest and most trusted financial adviser for years. The family’s banker, for all practical purposes.
“The Council’s going to have a shitfit,” he predicted. “Probably be a riot in the Assembly.”
Demansk shrugged. “I don’t care about the Assembly. Unless they can find a point of clear support in the Council, the ‘Assembly’ is just a fancy name for the ‘mob of Vanbert.’ Screw ’em. The Council’s the key, right now. And I’m trusting you to keep it locked.”