The Tyrant

Chapter 17

It took Ion Jeschonyk almost two months to return to Vanbert. Some of that was due to the simple distance-about a thousand miles, in a direct line; and much longer than that, of course, following the actual road. Still, it was a good road, even by Confederate standards. He'd made the trip to Solinga in less than five weeks.

But that had been in the early spring, when the weather was still foul and Jeschonyk had simply wanted to get to his destination as fast as possible. Now, with summer approaching, the countryside was blooming and beautiful. And, deep in his heart, the old man thought this would be the last chance in his life to simply wallow in the beauties of nature. He could remember doing that a lot, growing up as a boy on his family's estate. He wondered, as he had often before, what had happened to that carefree child.

So he ordered his caravan to maintain a slow pace, and stopped often-sometimes for half a day at a time, while he waded barefoot in a brook or simply sat under the shade of a tree and contemplated the meadow flowers. The soldiers escorting him didn't object, of course, much less the drivers of his own coach and the wagons carrying supplies.

By the time he finally arrived in the capital, the reports he brought for the Council were already completely obsolete. The gigantic city, with its one million inhabitants, was abuzz with word that Demansk had launched his attack on the archipelago. The news had been brought by the fast couriers employed by the Confederacy as their elite postal service. Such men could make the trip from Solinga in ten days or less.

In fact, hearing what people were saying in the markets and streets as his caravan worked its way toward his own domicile, Jeschonyk could remember seeing such a special courier galloping past the caravan just a few days past. And he realized, wryly, that his brain had still been working even while he thought it entirely at rest with the waving flowers in the fields. Because Jeschonyk had ignored the courier completely, even though it was now obvious what it had to have meant. And had done so, of course, because that never-sleeping part of his brain had known full well that it was better for the reality to hit the Council before Jeschonyk had to start telling his lies to them.

They wouldn't really believe him anyway, although most of them would want to. And this way, a good three fourths of the recriminations would be dispensed with. What was the point? For good or ill, the die was cast.

To his relief, there wasn't a delegation from the Council at his mansion. Under normal circumstances, there would have been representatives anxiously waiting for him, day and night, for the past two weeks. But now, he had no doubt, all the Councillors were far too preoccupied with their own plotting and scheming.

By the next morning, of course, after the news of his return reached them, half the Council would be pounding on his door. But at least he'd have one final evening of rest and repose.

"Rest and repose," in a manner of speaking. Jeschonyk was actually quite well rested, due to the leisurely way in which he'd made the return journey. And he'd been celibate for a longer stretch than any he could remember in decades. He'd not wanted to bring one of his concubines on such a politically delicate mission, and he no longer found the company of prostitutes very entertaining.

So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.

Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here-just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.

They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.

Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But…

Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure-but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.

Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular-the oldest girl, Kata, the one who'd been with him longest.

Strange, really. She was the only Southron in his harem. Jeschonyk was generally not partial to Southron girls. The problem wasn't their appearance. Female Southrons did not sport the grotesque tattoos of the males, for one thing. And, cleaned up and shorn of those absurd hairstyles, he actually found their pale skins and light hair arousing. It was simply that the practice of female circumcision which was prevalent among the barbarians made their women, in Jeschonyk's quite extensive experience, rather unresponsive. But Kata was from the Reedbottom tribe, who-so she claimed, at least, and the evidence seemed to substantiate it-were one of the few tribes which had never adopted that particularly savage custom.

Kata was the smartest of them, that much Jeschonyk had long been sure of. And she was also the one who was most alert to his own moods. So he was not surprised to see the little frown gathering on her face, as she looked down upon him from her cross-legged position at the foot of the bed. The sight almost dispelled Jeschonyk's melancholy. Not the frown, but the posture. The view was… distracting. Or would have been, if Jeschonyk wasn't so completely and thoroughly satiated.

"Why are you unhappy, master? I thought we-"

"Not that, girl!" He barked a weary laugh. "You were all your usual marvelous selves, I assure you. It's-something else."

He took a slow breath and decided to get it over with. He levered himself upright-two of the girls immediately assisting him in the process-and gave Kata as solemn a look as her pose permitted.

"Things may change soon, Kata-girls. I may… not be here much longer." He shook his head. "No, no, I'm not going anywhere. I simply may no longer be alive. "

Kata's face seemed to grow even paler than usual. One of the other girls-Ursula, that was, the Emerald-emitted a little gasp.

By the gods, I think they are fond of me! A moment later, less happily: Or, of course, it could just be that they'd miss their comforts and luxuries.

Something in their expressions reassured him. He'd never really know, of course, but…

A time for decision, just as Verice says. And there's nothing that prevents me from telling the truth, except the old habits of an old liar.

"I care for you, girls. Very much. So I've made arrangements in case something happens to me. Men will come here-soldiers, probably-from Lady Knecht. Do what they say, go with them."

Several of the younger girls began babbling assurances that nothing untoward could possibly happen-! But not Kata. Perhaps because she was older, or smarter-or simply, like any Southron girl by the age of ten, had seen plenty of relatives hacked down in the tribes' perennial feuding.

"Can we trust them, master?"

"Yes. As long as they are from Lady Knecht. No one else, you hear?"

She bowed her head in obedience. As he had so many times before, Jeschonyk found himself admiring the clean lines of her neck and shoulders, the long blond hair spilling over her breasts, the "I'll be damned," he said, startled. "Once more-at my age? Come here, Kata."

He whispered just one thing that night, the rest of the noises he made being much louder. Into Kata's ear, this, so that none of the others could hear: "You have always been my favorite."

"I know," was her reply, whispered back. And there was something in those two words which let Ion Jeschonyk finally realize that, at least in her case, he no longer had to wonder.

The next morning, at daybreak, half the Council was pounding on his door. He spent the rest of the day-and the next, and the next, and the next-in a whirlpool of deceit and deception and double-dealing. Which had its own quirky pleasure, admittedly. Even at his age-perhaps because of his age-Jeschonyk could lie and deceive and double-deal better than anyone.

All the more so because he knew one secret that none of the other Councillors knew. Of that, he was quite sure. He had not even told Demansk that he knew.

Everyone else thought that Demansk's daughter, Helga, was still in seclusion at their distant estate in the far western province on the coast. Being a female, of course-especially a disgraced one-she was not really of much concern to the great men of Vanbert. But Jeschonyk was no fool. So he, alone, had paid spies to keep an eye on her. And he, alone, knew that she had long since departed for the south, leaving a girl who resembled her a great deal (at least at a distance) to serve as her double.

Where she had gone, exactly, Jeschonyk was not sure. Marange, according to what his spies had been able to learn. Nor did Jeschonyk have any real idea what she was doing down there.

But he could guess. He was one of the few Councillors of Vanbert who had actually seen the bastard. And if that blue-eyed babe with his fuzz of golden hair had been sired by a fat old islander pirate, Jeschonyk would eat his own tunic.

"So what do you think, damnation? Speak up, Ion!"

The half shout from one of the Councillors in the chamber broke Jeschonyk's little reverie. He looked up and saw that the shouter was one of Tomsien's allies.

Slowly, with great dignity, Triumvir Ion Jeschonyk, former Speaker Emeritus of the Confederacy of Vanbert and without question its most prestigious and respected living statesman, rose to his feet and uttered the finest lie of his life.

"Nothing to fear, my fellow Councillors! The balance of power remains intact, does it not?" He gave the man who had shouted at him a stately nod. "Despite the size of the great force Demansk has assembled-which, I remind you all, has even now set forth to rid us once and for all of the predations of piracy-Triumvir Tomsien still retains a larger force in his southern provinces. And what could possibly threaten that army?"

He sat down amidst scattered applause and a collective sigh of relief so loud it could have almost lifted the great rotunda of the chamber. And, while the Council proceeded to its next round of squabbles, went back to his contemplations on bastardy.

A week later, by sea, the same news came to Marange.

"That's it, then," said Helga. Adrian was already heading for the door, wanting to reach Prelotta's pavilion as soon as possible. From the room where he and Ilset made their own quarters, Jessep Yunkers was hurrying also.

"Not so fast, dammit," she growled. When Adrian turned about, looking suitably guilt-faced, Helga gave him a fierce embrace and a kiss. Fierce, but brief. She understood that this was no time for lingering affections. She simply wanted-something.

He gave her an embrace and a kiss just as fierce as her own. So, after the door closed, she was able to face the moment with something close to serenity.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

That was Ilset's voice, coming from behind her. Helga turned and saw that Jessep's wife was standing in the doorway, her own infant in her arms and a questioning smile on her face.

"The gods, no, " growled Helga. "If Adrian finds out I'm pregnant again, he'll never let me out of the wagon. Not once-you watch-in the whole coming campaign."

Ilset shook her head. "Why in the name of the gods would you want to? I mean-when soldiers get into their own lingo-" She made a face. "Gods, and they say women are boring!"

Helga didn't try to answer. There was no way she could explain. Not to someone like Ilset, at any rate. Nor, she suspected, to any woman she knew.

Her brother Trae would have understood, but he had long since departed. Trae, too, came from that ancient line which had never forgotten their duty, however much all others who claimed to be of noble blood might have done so.

She was too young to understand the absurdity of her sentiments. Her father could have explained to her how ridiculous it was to call treason "duty." Yet, all the while, he would have understood her perfectly.

Of course, Demansk also would have forbidden her to leave the wagon during the campaign, had he known she was pregnant. In that, if nothing else, the authoritative father was just as much a creature of custom as the rebel lover. Even if, to the world at large, the two of them were about to turn everything upside down.