He could see Supi Magna’s jaw tightening, but none of them responded to his disrespect. He laughed inwardly, a joyless echo in his own mind. Speaking of arrogance, was he even listening to himself? This was how the old Demir had spoken to the Assembly. Had he really not changed?
Gregori spoke up. “The Grent have every advantage at this moment. Kerite can roll over our fortresses and stab straight to the heart of Ossa, or she can simply rage around the countryside unopposed, destroying our industry, flooding Ossa with refugees, and cutting us off from reinforcement or resupply. She has already cut our line of communication with Harbortown, and her fleet has it under blockade.” Harbortown was officially a district of Ossa, though it was some ten miles to the northwest on the coast, connected by canal, so that Ossa didn’t need to always go through Grent to reach the ocean.
“We don’t need to stop her,” Supi Magna said, his tone dripping exasperation, “we just need to slow her down. We’ve summoned the provincial brigades. If we can buy a month, or even just a few weeks, we’ll have enough soldiers to overwhelm her. Surely the Lightning Prince can slow down a single mercenary general?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit your stately cheekbones, Supi,” Demir said. The quip was half-hearted, his thoughts now turning to this impossible task. And it was impossible. Slow down Devia Kerite, the greatest strategic mind of any modern military? If he had all the powers of his younger self he could have bought them a single week at best.
“Hah!” Gregori slapped his knee. “I missed you, Demir. Everyone else takes us all too seriously.”
“You mean everyone else has respect,” Sammi said.
It was clear now which members of the Inner Assembly actually wanted Demir there. Curious that Aelia had voted for Demir, considering what she’d done. Demir kept all his doubts inward. They might be so tired and frayed that they showed him their weaknesses, but he’d be damned if he showed them his. This was not, he realized, a choice. It was either accept command of whatever remnants of the Foreign Legion still remained and do his best, or flee the damned country before Kerite could raze Ossa.
“What would I have to work with?” Demir asked, ignoring Sammi.
Father Vorcien resumed the briefing. “The Foreign Legion was badly battered. We won’t know just how badly until the morning, but we estimate eight thousand remaining troops. We have a few battalions of cavalry that just arrived tonight, and we can bring up sixty thousand National Guardsmen.”
“The National Guardsmen are only slightly above useless in a real battle,” Demir said.
“Agreed.”
“And Kerite?”
“Ten thousand mercenaries and twenty thousand Grent troops, fresh off their victory with minimal casualties. News has already leaked of both the assassination and the loss, so there will be panic in the streets of Ossa tomorrow. We need you to keep Kerite from sacking Harbortown, or from destroying our forts. If she does either of those things, we won’t be able to control the populace.”
Demir’s fingers itched to pull out his witglass, to churn through the thousands of possibilities in mere minutes, analyzing hypothetical battles like a human thinking machine. He put his hand in his pocket, brushing his fingers across the godglass within. He could feel when he touched the witglass, and shied away from it. “You are sending me to fail,” he said.
“Others would fail worse,” Father Vorcien stated quietly.
It did not sound like a ringing endorsement, but it did mean something coming from Father Vorcien. The old toad had always seemed bemused by Demir, and though he’d never been a proper mentor, during Demir’s political career he’d always thought of himself as Father Vorcien’s one-day successor on the Inner Assembly. It was a long-shattered dream now, but knowing that he had Father Vorcien’s backing to defend the capital made this … well, not exactly possible, but perhaps palatable.
Demir found himself chewing on all this and realized that the knowledge that he was guaranteed to fail made this whole thing a little less terrifying. Leading troops, giving commands; it was all quite scary. But if he cracked like he had at Holikan, what was the consequence? The capital would burn anyway. It was a cynical thought, but comforting in some twisted way.
A smart man would have flipped them all a rude gesture and then gone home to pack up the entire hotel, fleeing the city by morning. Demir wished he were that smart. “If I agree, I want assurances that the Assembly isn’t plotting behind my back while I’m gone. Dispel any call for censure for what happened with the forgeglass riot earlier today, and publicly call me a hero for dispersing the mob peacefully. Make it a front-page story in all the newspapers tomorrow.”
Supi snorted loudly. “Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.
“It’s a simple request, all things considered,” Demir shot back. “If I don’t at least try to slow down Kerite, tens of thousands of Ossan citizens will die. I got a glimpse of the street fighting in Grent, and if I can minimize that happening in Ossa, then I will have succeeded.”
“The property damage–” Aelia began.
“Means nothing to me,” Demir cut her off gently. “I will do this to save people, not any of your mills or tenements or glassworks. Take that into account when giving me command: I will not accept the meddling of the Assembly. I won’t divert resources to save some precious guild-family holding or move a battalion through a neighborhood flying a silic sigil to make one of you look good. Accept that, or be damned.”
Gregori and Aelia both frowned, perhaps regretting their votes. Sammi appeared not to be listening. Father Vorcien didn’t so much as blink. “Done and done.”
“You know my methods,” Demir continued. “I want everything.”
“That’s vague,” Aelia drawled.
“I analyze information,” Demir said. “To do so I need every single scrap. Every spy report, every copied ledger, every single piece we have on both their forces and ours. I want to know the last time the Grent infantry were issued new boots all the way up to Kerite’s favorite breakfast. Not just official reports, mind you, but information gathered by your own personal spymasters.”
“That information,” Supi Magna said sharply, “is not available.”
“Gah!” Father Vorcien retorted. “It is a small price to pay for a chance at victory.”
“But our spy reports are guild-family property,” Aelia protested.
Father Vorcien thumped his fist on the armrest of his chair. “We will give him everything we have – all of us – and if I suspect anyone has held back I will conduct an audit myself.” The other four, even Gregori, grumbled in response, but none seemed willing to stand up to him further.
“Good,” Demir said. “I’ll take command immediately. I’ll need a direct line of communication to those new cavalry battalions that just arrived. I’ll deliver the rest of my demands to this room within the hour. Supi, may I speak with you for a moment?”
The Magna patriarch glanced at his colleagues in surprise, then uncoiled his thin body from his chair and followed Demir into the far corner of the hall. His shoulders were stiff, his chin raised as Demir turned toward him.
“I trust you have some news of your investigation into the incident at the Ivory Forest Glassworks?” Demir asked quietly.
The question seemed to take Supi off guard. “Investigation? It’s been just two days and one of those was spent dealing with that damned riot. Half the glassworks burned down. There are still prisoners unaccounted for, fled into the forest! I want…” Supi glanced back toward his colleagues and lowered his voice. “I want a full shackleglass inquiry and I will call you to answer.”