Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  His eyes swiveled toward Demansk. Incredibly blue, those eyes were. But what struck Demansk far more was the weird sense that something lurked within them. Something wise as well as pitiless. As if a scholar was inhabited by. .

  Helga's "spirits." The gods save us, she was right. And maybe that's what will do it, since the gods have gone away.

  "Not, at least, in their present form," Gellert continued. "We haven't spoken yet, sir, but I imagine you've already given some thought— Well, that's for later. I think of it as the nobility of the pen, rather than the spear."

  He turned back to Helga. "What matters — this is what your father understands and you don't — is what the gentry thinks. Because you can destroy — cripple, anyway — a small elite. You can't destroy a numerous class of gentrymen. Not, at least, without destroying most of your educated populace. And try building an efficient and civilized realm without them. It could be done, but not without paying a bitter price."

  Demansk felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Took another drink from his goblet — a sip, this time — and leaned back in his own chair.

  Helga was right, bless her. By whatever gods might still exist, I'll forgive her all her trespasses. Just for having had the sense to fall in love with the right man.

  Then, half ruefully: Might even add five years to my lifespan, letting her quarrel with him instead of me.

  "The gentry," Adrian reemphasized. "They're the key. One of them, at any rate. And what's the old saying about the Vanbert gentry? There's nothing they adore more than a crazy aristocrat — who does all the things they'd never dream of doing, and provides them with half their gossip, to boot. Provided, of course, that the aristocrat is a real one. The crust of the upper crust, as it were."

  He glanced at Demansk, then Sallivar. "I'm not personally familiar with the lady, but I get the sense—"

  "Gods, you're serious," exclaimed Helga. She shook her head, as if to clear it. Then, for the first time, seemed to finally consider the question as something other than a joke.

  "Oh, she's that, all right. Adrian, you have no idea. Not only is Arsule Knecht the wealthiest woman in the Confederacy — was, at least, before all this—"

  "Still is," said Sallivar firmly. "She's really not 'crazy,' Helga. In some ways, she's saner than most. She took the precaution, over the past several months, to move almost all of her portable assets and wealth to her estates in Hagga. She's closely connected to the Haggen aristocracy, you know, on her mother's side. And since she's showered the Haggen with philanthropic enterprises for decades — she grew up there, on her mother's family estates — they think most highly of her."

  Now that he was confident of the subject, Prit took the time to rise and refill his goblet. "As for her lands, she also had the good sense to keep them scattered all over the Confederacy. A big chunk in Hagga, another one in the east — still stable, you know? — relatively, at least." Easing back onto his couch, he shrugged. "She'll lose much of it, of course — either through. . Well, never mind. We can discuss that later."

  Very firmly: "But it doesn't matter. She'll still come through all this the richest woman in the world. The richest person, for that matter. At least" — here, his confidence seemed to desert him a bit—"until your father's investments begin to return a profit."

  "So that's it," said Helga. She gave her father a look which was not so much accusatory as speculative. "You're bankrupt, aren't you? Finer trappings than ever — and the coffers empty."

  Demansk grimaced. "Crudely put, but — yes. Though 'bankrupt' isn't really the right word — no, I'm not glossing over anything! — because I'm actually wealthier than ever. But there's almost no cash left, Helga. And I've got a civil war to win — and quickly, before the Southrons return — and soldiers won't fight for promises. Much less some newfangled nonsense called 'stocks.' "

  Sallivar smiled. "I believe your father neglected to mention that Lady Knecht is bringing thirty wagons with her. Only twenty of which are laden down with, ah, her enthusiasms."

  "Wouldn't even put it that way," rumbled Nappur. "I spoke to her myself, when Prit and Enry and I went to Hagga to make the final negotiations." The giant ex-trooper's face was cheerfully grim. "I dare say she's even more enthusiastic on the subject of gutting Albrecht than she is her patronage of the arts. Right at the moment, for damn sure. Old Undreth's her uncle, you know — he's the Watchman who escaped the massacre at the Council — and he went into exile with her. Right horrid stories he's been telling her since. And none of them lies."

  "She always despised Albrecht anyway, Helga," said Demansk. "I can remember, one time when we visited Arsule years ago — she was a friend of your mother's, you might consider that also—" He smiled at the memory of a long-ago conversation at a dinner table. "A very poetic — her rhetoric's excellent — and very detailed comparison of the virtues of Drav Albrecht and one of her pigs. The pig came off the winner, hands down."

  But Helga wasn't really paying attention. Her eyes were a bit unfocused, as a person's get when they're trying to do calculations in their head. "Ten wagons full of cash? How big are the wagons?"

  Firmly, in one voice, Sallivar and Nappur and Sharbonow together: "Big."

  Helga grinned. "I take back anything bad I ever said about the lady. Shocking, the way these slanders spread!"

  Enry looked smug. "Wait'll you see the counteroffensive. I've got printing presses." He began counting off his fingers. "Patron of the arts and philosophies — that'll go down well here, among Emeralds—"

  "Especially since half those wagonloads are sculptures we swiped from the Emeralds in the first place, now being restored." That from Demansk, who was beginning to feel a little smug himself.

  "Indeed so. Then, benefactress of the poor. The rest of the nobility, most of them, never paid this much attention. But the fact is — gods, it's even true, and isn't that a change? — she's been the primary support of the Temple of Jassine for years."

  Helga was startled. Jassine was the Goddess of Mercy. But, for all the official respect paid to her, not one whose temples were frequented by the nobility. "I didn't know that."

  "She never made it public," explained Sallivar. "She's still not happy about changing that, but. . she agreed, after a protracted argument."

  Enry was counting off a third finger. "Then, there's her public denunciation of Albrecht after the massacre. A good third of the aristocracy was appalled by the deed, y'know. Ion Jeschonyk was popular to begin with, and now he's a veritable martyr." He cleared his throat. "Along with courageous Tomsien, of course."

  Hastening past that subject: "But she's the only one had the, ah, balls to denounce Albrecht in public. In the capital, at least. So that makes her a heroine, as well."

  All his fingers were up now, and Enry was clearly prepared to count them all. He was an enthusiast as well as master of propaganda.

  But Demansk cut him off. "Enough, for the moment. We can talk political tactics later. Right now. ."

  His eyes fell on Adrian. The blue eyes, he realized, had never left his own face. For minutes, now, that oddly deep gaze had been studying Demansk to the exclusion of everything.

  "If you'd all do me the favor — you too, Helga — I'd like to spend some time alone with my new son-in-law. We need to become better acquainted, I think."

  A deep gaze. As if, somewhere inside, a man very much like Demansk himself was staring back at him. Blue eyes, bright with youth, which still seemed somehow shadowed. Not by grief, or remorse, or anguish. Simply by. . knowledge.

  "Leave now," commanded the Triumvir. "I need this time alone."

  * * *

  Arsule Knecht arrived three days later. The dual wedding was held the following afternoon.

  It seemed as if the whole city of Solinga turned out to watch. Along with, according to Sharbonow, half the Emeralds from the surrounding countryside.

  And why not? Whatever else happened, for better or worse, the old days of Emerald humiliation were over. Either Verice Demansk
would triumph, and the Emeralds would be able to recast the Confederacy much more to their liking. Or he would go down in defeat, in which case no Emerald doubted at all that Drav Albrecht would inflict much worse than humiliation upon them.

  So, rejoice in the day and celebrate the weddings. And then, on the morn, pour back into the new shops where their lord and master's son and son-in-law were forging the instruments that might save the Emeralds as well as enrich them.

  * * *

  For Demansk himself, the morn seemed a long ways off. The night bid fair to stretch on endlessly.

  He and Arsule were alone, the ceremonies finally over. Alone, in the chambers which she would share with him — officially, at least — and sitting across from each other in the salon. He, on a chair; she, lounging in proper style on a couch. He, groping for words; she—

  Not.

  "Oh, stop ogling me, Verice. Or, at least, don't do it the way a boy ogles the great-great-aunt of the family he's just met for the first time. The one with the ogre's appetite."

  She sniffed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were meeting me for the first time." She glanced down at her robes. "Or have you forgotten how many times you and I and Druzla shared a bath together?"

  As it happened, Demansk was remembering one of those occasions quite vividly. It had been a rather awkward moment, he recalled. Arsule had been telling Druzla, with great enthusiasm, of her latest artistic discovery. Enthusiasm, with Arsule, was always accompanied by many gestures and a considerable amount of bodily movement. Which, since she'd been toweling herself off at the time, had exposed to full view every portion of her extravagantly female form.

  Awkward. Fortunately, the bathhouse was dim and the waters dark, so Demansk's wife hadn't noticed his fierce erection. Not until a bit later, when Arsule had left, by which time he had a perfectly respectable explanation and use for it. Druzla had certainly not complained.

  "Thought so," chuckled Arsule. "You remember that one time? I don't think Druzla did — I made sure to get out of there quickly—"

  "Not that quickly," he grumbled. "You and your damned hobbies. Not to mention the indiscreet way you dry yourself off."

  She smiled. "It's the way I am." The smile began to fade. "And what now, Verice? How do you want it?"

  He swallowed, with a bit more difficulty than he would have expected. "It's a marriage of state and necessity, Arsule. I'm not — not—"

  "What?" she demanded, an eyebrow arched. "Not a rapist? By law, a husband can't rape his wife anyway. Anything he does, anytime he does it, is quite proper."

  " 'Proper' be damned," he snapped. "There was never a time — not once — that Druzla had to be forced—"

  "Oh, stop it! Think I don't know that already? She was a good friend, Verice. There was little we didn't discuss, one time or another."

  She ran her hands down the robe. It was difficult to be certain, due to the rich and heavy fabric, but Demansk thought the flesh beneath still seemed as firm as the flesh he remembered seeing in years gone by. Close, anyway. Arsule was heavily built, yes; but neither flabby nor obese.

  Arsule chuckled again. "As always. 'Verice the Virtuous.' How I sometimes envied Druzla. My own husband was a pleasant enough man, but — gods! — he was a whoremonger. You never even kept any concubines, did you?"

  He shook his head. "I've been a soldier most of my life, Arsule. Most such take advantage of the opportunity. I. . didn't. Maybe it was simply because there was too much of it."

  "Like a man who abstains at a feast, from watching others gorge themselves sick?"

  "Something like that."

  Now, it was more of a laugh than a chuckle. "Gods, isn't that just like the man?" She gave him a very dark-eyed look. "So. Tell me, then. When was the last time you got laid, Verice Demansk?"

  He tried to find the answer, but his mind was blank. Or, rather, seemed too focused on a woman present to remember women past.

  "Thought so. Well, you decide for yourself. But let me tell you what I want."

  She looked away. Unusually, for Arsule, seeming uncertain and almost shy. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I didn't agree to this simply for reasons of state and necessity, Verice. I never had any use for gigolos, either, so. . It's been a long time. As I told you once, I believe, after Toman died I even stopped my own adulteries. Well, almost." Her lips shaped a wry smile. "And even that little self-indulgence is precluded henceforth, needless to say. What the widow — even wife — of a Councillor can get away with is one thing. The wife of a dictator. . nothing."

  She brought her eyes back. They seemed black, now, no longer simply dark. "I always liked you, Verice — quite a bit — even if you were rude, now and then, about my hobbies. And I always thought you were quite handsome." Almost pleadingly: "I'm too old to bear any more children, so you needn't fear complications in the inheritance. I think your children even like me. Trae, anyway. So—"

  "Not worried about that," rasped Demansk. His throat was dry. "I'm planning to adopt a custom my son-in-law told me about—"

  So dry, he had to stop and clear it. "Ah, never mind. Official adoption, leave it at that for the moment. It's got nothing to do with the inheritance, Arsule, it's just that — that—"

  Arsule clapped a hand to her cheek. "By the gods! You didn't even think about it! So damn busy plotting and scheming and calculating everything else—"

  Then, burst into laughter. "Some tyrant you turn out to be! The one time it'd do me the most good!"

  When the laugher stopped, the eyes were still dark. But, also, very warm.

  "Oh, give it a rest. Let me do the planning and plotting and scheming, at least in our own chambers. And the dictating." She patted the couch next to her, very firmly.

  "Come here, husband. Right now. Your wife is filled with lust."

  Chapter 28

  Demansk saw little of Arsule over the next three weeks, except late at night. He was far too busy organizing the campaign against Albrecht and the upcoming emergency session of the "legitimate Council," which was to take place in Solinga by the end of the month. The month in question was the one Vanberts called Dura, the last day of which marked the traditional onset of winter. Emeralds, naturally, had two different names for the same month, not being able to agree with each other even on a common calendar.

  That was the least of the reasons Demansk had to curse Emeralds, however. They gave him more than enough grief on other subjects. Every other subject, it seemed like.

  Luckily, he was able to pass most of that grief onto his son-in-law. Among Adrian Gellert's many other talents, his strange "inner spirits" also gave him superlative diplomatic skills. Which, dealing with squabbling Emerald merchants and manufacturers and politicians, mainly took the form of couching his words in a dialectic which, after the fact, could be interpreted in at least five different ways — no less than three of which were guaranteed to be mutually exclusive.

  Of Trae he saw even less. His youngest son was closeted with Gellert every hour that Gellert was not confusing petitioners. Gellert himself was overseeing the manufacture of the great siege guns which Demansk needed to reduce the walls of Vanbert. Those were being built right here in Solinga. But it would be Trae's job, upon his return to Chalice, to see to it that the large quantity of field guns which Demansk would need for his subsequent campaign against the Southron invaders was ready by next spring.

  Of Helga, he saw even less. Much to Demansk's approval — even glee — Helga's husband had invoked ancient custom and ordered her seclusion in their mansion in Solinga.

  * * *

  Quite outraged, he'd been, when she finally confessed the truth.

  "You were pregnant!? Bad enough you charged up in the first place! But—pregnant?!" Demansk, present at the time, thought Adrian's stomping up and down in the salon of their mansion was a tad undignified. Not to mention the rather wild waving of his arms. But, then, he was an Emerald. One had to make allowances.

  "Jessep says you jumped off the wagon!"
r />   "Did not! Well — I don't think. Couldn't have! It was a good eight feet off the ground. I'm sure—"

  "Silence, woman!" The ensuing pointing of the finger to the private quarters was excellent, Demansk thought. Quite up to Vanbert patriarchal standards of the old school. Admittedly, the fact that he had to physically manhandle Helga thither — which was no easy task, and gave him a black eye in the doing — detracted somewhat from the august majesty of the occasion.

  When Adrian returned, nursing his wounds, Demansk cleared his throat and said: "You realize you won't be able to keep her there."

  "Sure I can! Well, for a few weeks, anyway. After that, she'll be too gravid to climb the walls of the villa." With the eye still open, he peered through the spacious archway which connected the salon with the patio and the grounds beyond. "Um. I think."

  Demansk was already reaching for his purse. Thanks to Arsule, it was bulging again. "No," scowled his son-in-law, "I am not going to place a wager on it."

  * * *

  He did see Arsule at night, however. Without fail.

  Demansk didn't really take her threats if he did otherwise seriously. He'd come to understand Arsule well enough to know that she really wasn't attracted to gigolos. And, even if she were, no gigolo in Solinga — anywhere in the continent — would be insane enough to cuckold Demansk. The story of the pirates bobbing in the harbor was now as well known everywhere as it was in Chalice. And the name Enry Sharbonow, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, was more often than not spoken in whispers.

  The threat of embarrassing him politically was a more serious business. Even without meaning to, Arsule embarrassed him politically often enough as it was. The idea of her trying to do so was. . awesome.

  Mainly, however, he spent every night with her because he enjoyed it. Immensely, truth be told. For all practical purposes, Verice Demansk had been celibate since his wife died. He hadn't realized how much he missed the company of a passionate woman until another one was sharing his bed. And if he didn't feel the same warmth toward Arsule that he had toward Druzla, well. .