An Islander. The men of Chalice studied Thicelt covertly. Many of them knew him personally, at least to a degree. As a practical matter, of course, that did not reassure them much. An Islander would be even more adept at spotting attempts to circumvent the Confederacy's harsh demands than a foreigner.
Still… he was an Islander. The men in the delegation contained no fools among them. They could see the implications quite clearly. First, at least they would be dealing with one of their own, who would understand how to avoid needless humiliation. Second-more important-Islanders were no great respecters of station, unlike Vanberts. Yet here was the greatest of all living Vanberts, with an Islander as one of his closest subordinates.
The implications were… interesting.
When Demansk entered his cabin, he found the princess huddled in the corner atop his bed. Her hands were making vague little movements, as if she was trying to restrain herself from clutching her garments. Pointless, that would be, under the circumstances.
He started to scowl, but managed to keep from doing so. The girl was likely to misunderstand the expression.
"I am not going to rape you, child. So be at ease on that matter, at least."
She seemed to relax a bit. It was hard to tell. Again, Demansk was impressed by the girl's composure. He suspected, from things Thicelt had told him in the past, that growing up a islander princess was a harsh school in its own right.
There was a knock on the door. "Enter."
Thicelt came in, followed by three sailors returning the writing table and the chair. Sharlz waited until the sailors finished their work and were gone before saying anything.
Then, his first words were spoken in the Islander tongue, and addressed at the princess: "Relax, girl! The august Triumvir's virtue is already a thing of legend." He gave her a friendly leer. "Me, on the other hand… But! You are not in my hands, after all, so there's nothing to fear on that account either."
He turned to Demansk. "I assume you're going to keep her secluded, yes? Or should we have her removed while we continue our plans?"
Demansk studied the girl. The idle thought which had come to him earlier, on the deck, came back in richer color and details. Fascinating possibility…
It was worth exploring, he decided. No point in it if she isn't bright as well as good-looking.
"Come here, Jirri." He pointed to the chair at the table. The princess scuttled off the bed and hurried to do as she was instructed. Only after she had taken her seat did it occur to Demansk, belatedly, to ask if she understood his own language. Apparently so.
But to make sure, since she might simply have interpreted the gesture which accompanied the command, he asked her directly. Speaking in her own language, in which he was competent if not fluent.
"Oh yes, great lord. I speak Vanbert."
"I'm not 'great lord,' princess. The proper title is 'Triumvir.' Can you read and write?"
Jirri looked doubtful. "Not very well."
"An Island woman," chuckled Thicelt. "What do you expect?"
Demansk ignored him. "You can learn. Can you do arithmetic?"
The princess winced. It was the first open expression Demansk had yet seen on her face. "Not the Vanbert way."
Demansk and Thicelt both chuckled now. "I should think not!" said Demansk. "What a miserable, clumsy thing that is. No, girl, I meant: can you use Islander numbers? The truth is, any Confederate merchant and landlord with half a brain adopted your way of doing arithmetic over a century ago. The only thing anyone uses Vanbert numbers for anymore are official documents."
Her face cleared. "Oh yes, grea-ah, Triumvir. I'm good at numbers. My mother saw to that instruction, so that I could keep an eye out on the slaves who kept the books when I had my own house."
Mention of the mother, whose decapitated head had "adorned" Demansk's quarterdeck not so very long ago, caused him to wince a bit. But the girl's face didn't seem to echo any of that. For all that Demansk could tell, the murder of her mother-following within a day of the death of her father-didn't seem to have affected her much at all.
For a moment, he was alarmed. If the girl was that indifferent to human sentiments…
Thicelt, as so often before, read his thoughts. "You don't understand the reality of a royal hareem, Triumvir. Explain it to him, Jirri."
The girl was confused. "Explain what? Uh, great lord-ah-"
Thicelt grinned. " 'Governor' will do fine." He hooked a thumb at Demansk. "What I meant was, explain to him why you don't seem very upset at the death of your parents. Or your brothers."
Jirri almost goggled at Demansk. "I hardly knew my father, Triumvir. And my mother's not dead. She-oh. You thought she was Queen Yora. No, she was one of the King's concubines." After a moment's hesitation: "To be honest, I was glad they killed Yora. I hated her, and she frightened me. I'm sure-well, almost-that she was planning to have me murdered. Her son, Prince Frand, was starting to sniff around me-even though he was my half brother-and she didn't like it."
Demansk rubbed his face. He'd heard tales from Helga, about the sometimes savage intrigue within hareems. And the hareem Helga had been held captive in was that of an old, tired chieftain. The hareem of a relatively young and dynamic ruler like Casull would, likely enough, resemble a nest of serpents.
"As for my brothers and half brothers," Jirri was continuing, "I either didn't know them or, the ones I did, didn't like them much. Especially Frand. I like my sisters Harra and Tlal a lot-Yuni and Fayr not so much, they're half sisters anyway-but they're all still alive too." There was a little lift in her voice, speaking that last. It seemed as if Princess Jirri had come to the conclusion that her conqueror was not a monster, after all, and so her mother and sisters could expect to stay alive.
Then, her tone grew slightly sullen. "But I don't know why they had to kill Rafta. She was a sweet-tempered thing, even if she couldn't really talk."
Demansk waved his hand. "Never mind, Jirri. I'm satisfied. And now-" He walked over to a nearby table, picked up a stylus and a blank codex, and plopped it on the table in front of her.
"What the Governor and I will now be doing, among other things, is what is called 'logistics.' A lot of that is just recording numbers-which you're going to do for us. In the Confederacy, it's called being a 'secretary.' It's quite a prestigious position, by the way, at least if you're doing it for someone important."
Jirri stared down at the stylus and codex, then looked up at Demansk. Her eyes seemed as wide as saucers.
"You want me to do something?" She was almost gaping. Then, a smile came to her face. And, for the first time since he'd lain eyes on her, Princess Jirri looked like what she really was-a fifteen-year-old girl.
"Oh! That sounds like fun. "
Hours later, Jirri's eyes were starting to droop. She was clearly struggling to remain awake. Suddenly, it dawned on Demansk that the girl couldn't have gotten any sleep at all the night before.
A bit guiltily, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "That's enough, girl. Go to sleep. You'll have to share the bed with me tonight, I'm afraid. But I'll have something made up for tomorrow. I won't wake you, though, I don't think."
Jirri covered her mouth, yawned, and then coughed a little laugh behind her hand. "Don't think so. Everyone always teased me about how heavy a sleeper I am. But my mother says that's because I have a clear conscience."
I wish I did, lass, thought Demansk, as he watched her stumble to the bed and clamber onto it. Within seconds, she was curled against the wall and sound asleep. But I will say that you've helped. With my conscience even more than the numbers.
Thicelt cleared his throat. Demansk looked at him.