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."
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
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."
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