Trae was waiting patiently in a separate room. And continued waiting, out of sight, until Demansk’s lieutenants had all left the building. Not that there was any secret about Trae, exactly. All of Demansk’s special attendants knew of Trae’s work, although only Thicelt really understood it fully. Still, Demansk was a firm believer in the axiom that one should always have a second string to one’s bow. There were his special attendants; and then, there was his family. Three of his four children, at least. The two worked toward the same purpose, but they still worked separately.
Trae had little of the deference of Demansk’s lieutenants. He was already scowling when he came through the door and launched immediately into his protest.
“Father, you promised—”
“Oh, shut up,” growled Demansk. He pointed at one of the nearby tables. “Drown your sorrows in wine, if you must. Trae, it would be idiotic to risk your death or injury in this coming battle with Casull. And your precious steam ram would just get in the way, anyhow. Dammit, there’s not going to be anything fancy about it. I will go after Casull like a man using a sledgehammer on a cornered rat. The last thing I need is complications.
“And,” he continued forcefully, overriding Trae’s protest, “I will need your steam ram for this other matter. As I’ve now explained to you at least three times.”
Sullenly, Trae poured himself a goblet of wine. Even more sullenly, he flung himself onto a couch. Unlike Jeschonyk, however, he did not manage the feat without spilling some wine on his tunic. Fortunately, the garment was the utilitarian one which Trae was in the habit of wearing.
” ‘This other matter,’ ” he quoted. Being almost, but not quite, openly derisive. For Trae, if not his sister, there were certain limits in the way one spoke to one’s august Confederate sire.
“Father, that’s pure speculation—and you know it as well as I do. I may be a callow youth, but I’m not dumb enough to think that a complicated plot is going to work, every step along the way, just as planned. You have no real idea if Albrecht’s going to react—”
“Ha!” barked Demansk, cutting his son short. “Just as bad as your headstrong sister! Presuming to lecture me on matters of strategy and tactics.”
But it was said cheerfully, and Demansk began pouring a convivial goblet for himself as he continued.
“Trae, of course I’m speculating. Although I think the odds that Albrecht will react the way I’m guessing are a lot better than you think. I’ve known the pig since he was a piglet.”
He ambled over to another couch and took a seat. “The thing to remember about Drav Albrecht is that he’s impatient. Don’t ever let that smooth, sophisticated façade of his fool you. Underneath, the man is fundamentally a hothead. The past year—more than that—of leading that miserable siege of Preble will have frayed him to the limit. When he hears of my sudden triumph, and a much bigger one, over Casull . . .” Demansk took a long swallow of wine. “He won’t be able to resist, Trae. Already by now, much less by late spring, he’ll have everything in place to make a final assault. The casualties will be horrendous, of course, which is why he hasn’t done it yet. But Albrecht doesn’t really give a damn about that, not when push comes to shove.”
Trae was still scowling. But, after a moment, the scowl faded a bit. “Actually, Father, I’m not really trying to second-guess you about that part of it. It’s just that I think I understand better than you do what you can, and can’t, realistically expect from my steam ram.”
He waved the hand holding the goblet, managing in the process to spill some of it on the tiles. He didn’t notice, of course. Demansk’s youngest son combined the capacity of focusing more intently on something than anyone Demansk had ever met—while being oblivious to almost everything else around him.
“All of my new ships, for that matter—including the woodclads you’re depending on to protect you from Casull’s new steamships. The thing is, Father, these dazzling fancy boats Gellert designed are damn near useless in anything except good weather. And when I say ‘good,’ I really mean ‘almost perfect.’ Any kind of heavy seas, and . . . you’ll be lucky if you don’t sink outright.” He paused, and then his innate honesty forced him to add: “Well, not with the woodclads, of course. They won’t sink in bad weather. But you’ll never be able to handle them, and the gods help you if you’re near a lee shore.”