The Tyrant

PART IV: THE DICTATOR
Chapter 27

Demansk went down to the docks to meet them, when word came that their ship had arrived. It was a short distance, after all, and he got little enough in the way of exercise as it was. Most of his life, it seemed, would henceforth be spent sitting on chairs giving orders.

More important, he thought it was imperative to "legitimize" Adrian immediately. Demansk's propagandists had been working day and night toward that end, to be sure. In that work, as well as ferreting out rapists-not to mention organizing treasonous insurrections-Enry Sharbonow had been invaluable. Although he was an Islander himself, the man was a cosmopolitan sophisticate, equally at home in the salons of the Emeralds. Using the new printing presses and the old methods of paying rumormongers, he and his men had spread the word that Adrian Gellert had all along been an agent of Demansk's. Working tirelessly, it seemed, to advance the interests of the Confederacy and rescue Demansk's daughter from captivity.

A nice touch, that last. Not least of all because it allowed Enry to slide through the rumor that Adrian and Helga had been secretly married long since. The maiden-well, best not dwell on that-rescued from durance vile, smitten by her hero, etc., etc., he likewise, etc., etc., a wedding in a cellar while he rescued her from Vase under the guise of helping King Casull conquer it-best not dwell on that, either-and etc., etc.

Utter nonsense, which no Emerald in his right mind would accept for a moment. Emerald men did not "get smitten" by women. But…

The Emeralds were not quite in their right mind, these days. For the first time in history a Vanbert politician was wildly popular with the Emeralds, and in all classes of that society. Anything connected with the name "Demansk" would be accepted as good coin-publicly, at least, which was all Enry or Demansk cared about. The more so since, in this case, the "hero" just happened to be an Emerald himself, and of a well-known and respected family of Solinga at that.

Which not only made their awkward bastard legitimate after the fact, but-hardly a coincidence-enabled Sharbonow to pass off his own treasonous history as being that of Gellert's agent on Preble. The fact that the latter claim was pure gibberish didn't seem to bother anyone either. Not in the northern provinces, at least. And after watching several dozen former pirates bobbing facedown in the harbor waters of Chalice, scavengers and sharks drawn by the blood tearing at their corpses, no Islander in his right mind was going to question much of anything said by Enry Sharbonow.

Albrecht and his faction, from behind the safety of Vanbert's great walls, pointed to all these claims as further proof of Demansk's treachery and duplicity. All of the members of the Confederate aristocracy who were siding with him-which was most of them, at least of the "First Twelve"-were in full agreement. So, of course, was the great mob of the capital's underclass. Who were being showered with favors and festivals by Albrecht, and being disciplined where necessary by Albrecht's street gangs.

Demansk was not really concerned about Vanbert itself, for the moment. He had a different answer to the capital's opinion than printing presses. His son Trae, taking the name from Gellert himself, called them "bombards"-and they fired not broadsheets, but 64-pound balls.

The printing presses would still have their place in the coming civil war, though, and a great one. Because what Demansk was concerned about, deeply and immediately, were the eastern provinces. They held the balance of power now. Demansk had the north and the islands. Albrecht had the capital and the center. The south and the west had dissolved into such chaos that they were irrelevant. That left the east-the source, now as for centuries, of most of the Confederacy's military strength.

But he and his escort had reached the docks now, and Demansk broke off his ruminations on strategy and tactics. All of those figured in his decision to come down to meet the ship now being moored to the pier, to be sure. But, mostly, he'd come down because he wanted to see his daughter.

"Well, she looks healthy, that's for sure," commented Nappur as he watched the pretty, buxom girl mincing her way down the gangplank with a babe in her arms. His tone was full of approval. Easterners, like Southrons, preferred their women with some heft to them. "I thought she'd look a bit older, though."

Demansk chuckled. "That's Ilset Yunkers, Forent. Jessep's wife. Helga-"

A second woman appeared and began striding down the gangplank. Tall, broad-shouldered, her legs-far too much of them displayed in a tunic which suited a warrior, not a lady-well-shaped but definitely on the muscular side. Demansk sighed. The fact that she bore a sword-and a real one, requiring a baldric-didn't help matters in the least.

The giant Forent's eyes were almost bulging. "Is that — " he choked.

"Indeed, so."

Enry Sharbonow was standing to Demansk's left. His own eyes weren't bulging, no. But they were squinted. "Got our work cut out for us," Demansk heard him mutter.

A young man started down the gangplank. No taller than Helga; a bit more broad-shouldered, perhaps; and reedy-looking rather than muscular. He was carrying no weapon of any sort. He did, at least, have a gorgeous head of corn-gold hair.

Demansk sighed. He'd never seen Gellert before, but he'd had him described. He almost winced, waiting for Sharbonow's-inevitable-next words.

"Let me see if I understand the story right. Best I do, since I'm the one who's been spreading it. He is supposed to have rescued her?

"

"He's said to be quite an accomplished slinger," grumbled Demansk. "Just lie, dammit."

"Oh, certainly, certainly. No problem, Triumvir. But…" Even Enry seemed at a loss, for a moment. "Emeralds don't get smitten by women to begin with, much less…"

Demansk ignored the rest. Helga had spotted him and was racing up. In bounding leaps, like an athlete of the Five Year Games, each great stride bringing yet another mutter of despair from Sharbonow.

When she seized her father in a hug and began jiggling him up and down in glee and pleasure-his feet were off the ground, most of the time-Sharbonow's muttering became nonstop.

But Demansk ignored it all. Sharbonow would figure out a way to tell the lies. And, in the meantime, it was one of the great moments of his life.

"You're getting married a few days from now. In a great ceremony at the shrine of the Gray-Eyed Lady of the Stars." Demansk drained his cup. "Remarried, I should say. The priests have agreed that your, ah, secret wedding in the cellar on Vase doesn't preclude a more formal ceremony." He blithely ignored the blank looks on the faces of his daughter and soon-to-be-even-if-he-already-was son-in-law. "Do be sure to get the details from Enry regarding the, ah, earlier wedding. No reason to confuse the priests at this point, seeing as how they're being so cooperative."

He set the cup down on the side table next to him and glanced around the salon. Eyeing, in turn, the other men in the room-Trae, Forent, Prit Sallivar and Enry Sharbonow.

Not a chance. The sole surviving Triumvir could not get one of his cohorts-not even his own son-to meet his gaze.

No help for it. Got to do it myself.

"I'd have preferred to have the wedding tomorrow. But…"

He cleared his throat. "But it'll be a double wedding, as it happens, and the lady who will figure in the second wedding hasn't arrived yet. She's on her way here, from her estate in Hagga where she took refuge after Albrecht's massacres in the capital. I'm not quite sure when she'll get here. I received a letter yesterday from the commander of her escort saying that the journey would take a bit longer than expected. It seems the noble lady, ah, insisted on bringing along several wagonloads of art treasures. Twenty wagonloads, to be precise. Marble sculptures, mostly. And, ah-unusual, this-apparently quite a few wooden ones. Reedbottom carvings, as it happens. Seems that new cult of theirs-what's it called? the 'Young Word'?-is given to religious icons."

"Sculptures?" choked Helga. "Icons?" Her eyes widened. "We're in the middle of the worst civil war in history and some noblewoman is hauling useless crap through the countryside? To a wedding? What kind of lunatic-"

She broke off and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, the gods. Don't tell me. Twenty wagonloads? There's only one woman in the Confederacy rich enough for that. Not to mention crazy enough!"

Demansk thought it was time to pour himself another cup of wine. A full one.

"Well. Yes." He attempted a look of stern fatherly reproof. "Though I believe the proper term for a lady of her station is 'eccentric.' Not, ah, 'crazy.' " The patriarchal cluck of the tongue which followed sounded hollow, even to Demansk. "She's hardly a peasant crone, Daughter. About as respectable and wealthy a widowed matron as exists, anywhere in the land."

Helga chuckled. "To say the least. Wealthy, that is. I'm not sure how many of the Councillors-not to mention their wives-would call Arsule Knecht 'respectable.' "

To Demansk's relief, Prit Sallivar came to the rescue. "None at all, these days. Not in the capital, at any rate. The morning after Ion Jeschonyk and the others were massacred, Lady Knecht mounted a speakers' platform in the Forum of the Virtuous Matrons and denounced Albrecht for a murderer and a traitor. She barely escaped from the city with her life. Wouldn't have, if she hadn't taken the precaution to bring her household troops-and if her husband hadn't been one of the few to maintain his troops up to the legal limit."

And now Enry Sharbonow sallied forth. "And if the lady herself hadn't had the foresight to keep those forces up to strength, in the years since her husband died." He straightened up in his chair. Unlike most of Demansk's close counselors, though not Demansk himself, the Islander preferred chairs to couches. "I've met the lady, as it happens. Several times, the last of them quite recently. She's really not the, ah-" He groped for words.

"Try 'lunatic,' " suggested Helga. "As I recall, that's usually the term I heard people use."

Sharbonow's frown was quite fierce. "A slander! Slander, I say. I admit the woman has her, ah, eccentricities, but-"

Helga waved her hand. "Never mind, never mind. It's not as if I care. I'm just curious. Who here in Solinga is crazy enough to marry her?"

Dead silence fell upon the room. All of Demansk's counselors were studying the tapestries on the walls. Except Trae, who seemed utterly engrossed in the ceiling. Which, as it happened, had not so much as a single fresco painted upon it.

Treacherous bastards. Demansk sighed, drained half his goblet in one long swallow, and set it firmly down upon the table. Most powerful man since Marcomann. Courage!

"I am," he announced.

He was prepared for a ferocious brawl. After Helga stopped laughing, at least. But, to his surprise, his past-and-future son-in-law intervened.

Until that moment, Adrian Gellert had said nothing since he arrived, beyond a few murmured words of polite greeting. So far, at least, Demansk was rather mystified by the man. For someone who'd had such an incredible impact on the world, his daughter's lover seemed more like a distracted Emerald scholar than anything else. The kind of man you wouldn't trust to walk across a small town without getting lost on the way.

"It's a good move," he said firmly. "Might even prove to be a brilliant one."

Helga choked off her laughter and goggled at him. "You have got to be kidding! You've never met her, Adrian. You have no idea-" Another choked-off laugh. "For as long as I can remember, every nobleman in Vanbert has made fun of her. You don't want to know what the matrons say! Especially the time-"

"Who cares what they think?" demanded Adrian. "Helga, don't you understand yet?" He pointed a finger out the window of the airy salon. The southern window, that was. A thousand miles beyond it lay the great capital of the world's greatest empire. "You're talking about the aristocracy, which is finished. "

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."