Demansk started to say something, but Trae cut him off. “Yes, yes, yes—I know you’ll be able to guarantee yourself good weather. ‘Guarantee,’ at least, as much as that word means anything when it comes to weather at sea.” Grudgingly: “But, yes, since you’re the one who’s invading the Isles, you’re the one who gets to decide when to do it. And I’ll admit that the weather in these northern seas in late spring is about as good—and predictably so—as it ever gets.”
Almost wailing, now: “But what about me? I’m not the one who’ll make the decision when to use the steam ram. Albrecht’ll do that—and he hasn’t been consulting with me lately. And the weather as far down the coast as Preble is not predictable, not even in the spring.”
“So? The worst that happens is that you can’t intervene. In which case, a lot of Islanders will get butchered—who, frankly, deserve it after the massacre of the Vanberts on Preble they carried out last year—and one of my clever schemes goes awry.” Demansk shrugged. “None of my plans depends on your success, Trae. Although it would certainly help.”
For a moment, he was scowling even more fiercely than his son. “And half of me, to be honest, almost hopes you can’t intervene. Yes, it would be handy to have all those desperate—and very skilled—Islanders at my mercy. I need to get the workshops in the main archipelago running at full capacity as soon as possible after the conquest, and having thousands of refugees from Preble would be a big help. But . . .”
Trae laughed softly—softly, but quite harshly. “Once a Vanbert, always a Vanbert. They are a lot of sorry rebels. For which the traditional penalty is well established.”
Demansk took another long swallow from his goblet. “Exactly.” Still scowling: “And it’s not just a matter of tradition. One of the other things I can’t afford is to get too much of a reputation for mercy, either.”
The scowl went away, replaced by a look of sheer weariness. “I suspect, even if all goes well, that I’m going to spend the rest of my life crushing rebellions. I don’t enjoy bloodshed, Trae, but I learned long ago that often the best way to avoid an ocean of blood is to demonstrate that you are instantly willing to spill a lake’s worth of it.”
Trae sat up straight, finished his wine—spilling some down his chin—and set the goblet on the tiles. Then, rubbing his neck: “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. No offense, Father”—with a crooked smile and an upraised hand—”and I’m not trying to teach your august self the principles of tactics, but I really don’t think that before too long there’s going to be anyone in the world except outright lunatics who don’t understand perfectly well that only an outright lunatic would rebel against the new dispensation.”
Demansk’s responding smile was just as crooked. “Well. True enough, I suppose.”
Trae’s sour expression came back in full force. Demansk sighed. “So what is the problem?”
His youngest son’s face, in that moment, resembled that of a five-year-old boy after being told he couldn’t play that day. Demansk almost burst into laughter. He remembered that face very well.
“It’s me! If it doesn’t work out the way you plan, I’ll wind up sitting on the side throughout this whole war!”
Demansk stifled the quip he was about to utter. As silly as Trae’s complaint sounded to him, now that he had the perspective of decades of warfare to look back upon, he could still remember himself at that same age. Eager to prove his mettle in what, for centuries, had been the only real “rite of passage” that meant anything to Vanbert men. Even if, within a short time, he had come to understand that “honor” was a thing with real entrails, and not just a spirit. Spilled ones, usually.
So his response was entirely solemn. “Trae, I need you for this. I can’t possibly detach enough actual warships for the purpose. Carrier ships, plenty of them, yes—to take off the refugees. I lied to Jeschonyk about those ships we’re having built in Rope, by the way. I told him they were part of my own fleet. But Albrecht will be raging, be sure of it, and he won’t let them go peacefully. Those ships will need to be protected, because they aren’t really warships—as you and I both know. Which means your steam ram is the only thing I’ve got which can do the job. Maybe. With you in command—you’re the only one I trust who can do that—and if you do a brilliant job of captaining it.”