The Tyrant g-5 Read online

  "Ah-" Damn the woman. I'd forgotten how smart she was, under all that jabber. Good thing for her, too-anyone else who spent money as fast as she does would be bankrupt within five years. Prit tells me her fortune has actually grown since Toman died. She's as shrewd about collecting estates as she is about collecting sculptures.

  "Ah-"

  "Never mind." As always, Arsule's patience for pauses in a conversation was nil. "I suppose we don't have time tonight for any lengthy discourses, anyway."

  She cocked her head sideways in another mannerism Demansk remembered. It was almost histrionic, like everything about Arsule. And, again, the effect was odd. In almost any other woman, the gesture would seem a silly affectation. But, somehow, she managed to make it seem natural, as people with oversized personalities sometimes can.

  "Prit'll be part of your scheme, of course. So I can get the details later from him-whatever I need to know, at least, which I trust you'll keep to a minimum."

  He managed a smile which, he suspected, looked more sickly than anything else.

  "Ha! 'You can count on it, lady.' " Her grin reappeared. The fact that it was coming at him sideways didn't make it any less effective. At moments like this, Demansk admitted, Arsule Knecht was a very attractive woman. For all the times she'd annoyed him, during her many visits-and vice versa-to his wife, Demansk could remember other times when he'd been forced to keep a casual demeanor around her. In the baths, especially. Clothed, draped in thick and expensive fabrics, her body just seemed heavy. Nude… the proper word was lush.

  One good thing about Arsule, though. At least you never had to grope for the right words. She'd charge right in and provide them for you.

  "But you don't really have Marcomann's lusts, do you? In fact, I've never been sure you had any real lusts at all. Oh, stop frowning. I'm not casting aspersions on your manhood-Druzla never complained, that's for sure." The grin seemed to widen, though it was a bit hard to tell seeing it at a near vertical angle. "You didn't really think women don't talk about such things, did you?"

  "Ah-"

  "Oh, stop pretending. I'm sure Druzla told you that I satisfied my own lusts with a sculptor, here and there, seeing as how my husband was spending too much time with his whores to do the job properly."

  Well, yes, she did. Half in disapproval, and half in amusement. Arsule's carnal lusts seemed to be just as exuberant as her artistic ones.

  She leaned a bit closer. "It's odd, though. Since Toman died-he did get killed in a whorehouse brawl, you know, the rumor's quite accurate-I've led quite the proper widow's life. I suspect I was mostly just retaliating. Well, almost. There was one sculptor, a couple of years ago, for about a month-"

  "Arsule!" Despite everything, Demansk was still enough of an old-style Vanbert nobleman to feel a little shocked. Not by her history itself, so much as her ready willingness to talk about it.

  "Oh, stop pretending to be shocked. Verice, the only difference between me and half the rich bitches in this city is that at least I picked my lovers for their other talents. Never been a single gigolo-not one-who wormed himself into my bed."

  That was probably true, he thought. In this as in everything, Arsule Knecht would make the world fit her tastes, not the other way around.

  "Enough," she proclaimed, the grin fading into a smile. "I dare not test the famous Demansk virtue any further, I can tell. All right, Verice. I'll listen to whatever you have Prit say to me. Truth is, I suspect I'll agree- but!"

  There was no smile now, and her face came back level. "One condition-tonight. The high priest of the Temple of Jassine is here, and I insist that you speak with him."

  Demansk couldn't prevent the grimace. Jassine was the goddess of mercy, and her temples provided whatever there was in the Confederation by way of poverty relief. Which…

  Wasn't much.

  "They're getting overwhelmed, Verice," she said softly. "Every year, it gets worse and worse."

  "Yes, Arsule, I know. But-"

  Now, she was cross-eyed. "Oh, stop it! Do you think I'm an idiot? Obviously, if you're to be a new Marcomann you'll be spending your own money like water on other things. I don't want your money, Demansk, I want your mind. " For a moment-miraculously-there was a pause. She even seemed to swallow a bit. Then, very softly: "Most of all, I suppose, I want your soul. I trust you, Verice Demansk, believe it or not. Druzla would never have married a monster in the first place, much less spent two happy decades with him. If I didn't, I wouldn't even consider this. But you must promise me you'll think about what the high priest has to tell you."

  That much he could do. Think, yes-even if no answer came.

  "Done," he said.

  An instant later, she was sweeping him through the door. "Everyone-look who's here! Verice, this is my latest protege-Gaorg's the most brilliant dramatist, the evening's devoted to him, in fact-have you seen his latest tragedy? — no, of course not-don't mind him, Gaorg, he's not really a boor he just pretends very well-"

  Chapter 6

  As Demansk's velipad approached the little house, he felt a certain awkwardness coming over him. Almost shame, truth be told. He had always meant to visit the First Spear after the man retired, but…

  In the months since the siege of Preble where the First Spear sustained his career-ending injury, something always seemed more pressing. It was not as if Demansk and the First Spear had been personally close. He didn't even know the man's name.

  Still, there had been a certain bond forged between them, in those days of savage struggle against the Islanders armed with Gellert's bizarre and frightening new weaponry. And Demansk was acutely aware of the fact that his grandfather would have known the First Spear's name-that of every First Spear in his regiments, in fact-and would have visited the man, long before this.

  And wouldn't have had an ulterior motive for doing it, either.

  Perhaps to assuage his own feelings of guilt, Demansk's first words were blunt and honest.

  "I'm afraid I came for a reason, First Spear. Though I should have come earlier, for which I apologize."

  The former First Spear of Demansk's First Regiment lowered his head, his heavy-jawed face flushing a bit with embarrassment. The motion brought the man's scalp into Demansk's view. He was pleased to see that the wound seemed to have healed well enough, even if the scarring was heavy and the coarse black hair almost nonexistent in its vicinity.

  "You needn't, sir," mumbled the First Spear. "I hadn't expected you to."

  Demansk suppressed a sigh. No, the man wouldn't have expected it. But his own grandfather would have. There was a time when Vanbert bonds had run deep.

  He couldn't repress a second sigh entirely. The First Spear, he knew, came from the eastern provinces of the Confederacy. At one time, he would have retired there, settling in for a comfortable old age among his own folk. Now Demansk's eyes scanned the flat terrain which surrounded the house. Flat, and just a bit arid. Typical of the farmland available in the recently conquered western provinces. The farmland in the east was better, but most of it had long since been gobbled up by the expanding slave-operated great estates of Vanbert's aristocracy. So, when the chirurgeons informed Demansk that his First Spear would survive the wound but would never be able to serve in battle again, Demansk had given him this land out of his own great estates.

  "Any of your kinfolk nearby?" he asked abruptly.

  The First Spear, obviously relieved to have the awkward apology behind them, raised his head and smiled. "Yes, sir. Quite a few." He pointed a thick finger to the north. "A good chunk of my clan lives up that way. When I told them-"

  He hesitated for a moment. Then: "Well, sir, it's like this. I guess you told your land manager for the area to run easy on the prices, for me and mine. So a goodly number of my kinfolk moved here from back home. Got a little village up there now and everything. Even our own temple. Nothing fancy, of course."

  Demansk felt his feelings of guilt ease. He'd forgotten that he'd given those instructions. Eyeing the still-
muscular figure of the First Spear, he found himself smiling faintly. Between Demansk's instructions and, he had no doubt at all, the veiled threats of the First Spear and his clansmen, the land manager had clearly decided not to apply the usual gouging tactics.

  He heard a little noise behind the First Spear's shoulder and lifted his eyes. The figure of a young woman had appeared in the doorway of the house, with an infant cradled in her arms.

  Demansk chuckled. "I see you didn't waste any time."

  The First Spear turned his head. The smile which came to his lips seemed at odds with the blocky, brutal-looking face.

  "Saw no reason to, sir. That's Ilset, the daughter of my second cousin Polter. I'd had my eye on her since she was no more than eight years old. Always made it a point to visit whenever I went home between campaigns." He tapped the scar on his head. "By the time this happened, she was already sixteen. So's as soon as I could move about I got home quick before someone else could sneak in ahead of me. Polter was willing, since I wasn't asking for much in the way of a dowry."

  He jerked his head to the north. "As it happens, Polter wound up moving out here too. Things in the east are… not good, anymore." For a moment, his face darkened. "A free farmer doesn't stand a chance there, these days."

  The young woman-not much more than a girl, really-gave Demansk a timid smile. He returned it quite cheerfully.

  Better and better, he thought, giving her lush figure a quick and discreet inspection. Helga will need a wet nurse anyway, and if the First Spear's willing…

  He cleared his throat. "As I said, I didn't really come here on a simple visit, First Spear. I need to ask you if you'd be willing to come back into my service again." Hastily: "Not as a troop leader, mind. Not exactly, anyway. I wouldn't expect you to do any actual fighting."

  The First Spear winced and rubbed the scar on his scalp. " 'Fraid I can't. Fight, I mean. I can do most anything else-didn't even seem to lose any of my wits. But the chirurgeon told me that my skull's not up to any more blows. Kill me straight up, he said."

  His dark eyes studied Demansk for a moment. Then, he turned his head again and looked at his new wife. "I dunno, sir," he mumbled. "I wouldn't mind, myself. Been kind of bored, to tell you the truth. But Ilset's not really old enough to run the farm on her own, and…" He swallowed. "Truth is, I'd miss her something terrible."

  The last remarked warmed Demansk-and, perhaps oddly, reassured him. The one uncertainty he'd had in coming here was the First Spear's temperament. As a troop leader, the man had been superb. It was no accident that he'd risen to the highest slot a ranker could be promoted to. But the inevitable social distance between someone like him and a noble Justiciar in the modern Confederacy had made his actual personality an unknown factor to Demansk.

  What pleased him was not so much that the man obviously doted on his wife. That was not really uncommon, for all the officially patriarchal nature of Confederate society. It was the fact that he was so readily able and willing to admit it. That spoke both to the First Spear's deep self-confidence as well as his lack of concern for long-standing custom.

  Both of which he's going to need, thought Demansk, if he agrees to my assignment.

  "That's not a problem," he said. "As it happens, I'd prefer it if your wife accompanied you anyway." He rushed ahead, forestalling the next objection. "And you needn't worry about the farm. I'll buy it back from you for twice what you paid for it-including extra for improvements-and I'll set aside a large retirement bonus for when the assignment's done."

  Honesty forced him to add: "Though I can't tell you how soon that would be. Several years, most likely."

  Again, the First Spear's dark eyes studied Demansk. Then, without taking his eyes from the Justiciar, he turned his head a bit and growled: "Go back into the house, Ilset. And close the door."

  She obeyed promptly. Clearly enough, however much the First Spear doted on his wife, he retained the usual authority of a Confederate husband in his own family.

  After he heard the door close, he took a long, slow breath. "Begging your pardon, sir-I realize it's not really my place to ask-but… how dangerous is this assignment really going to be, if I take it? Not for me, but for my kinfolk."

  Demansk was impressed by the man's intelligence. All high-ranking troopers, of course, were adept in the skills of war. But most of them gave little thought, if any, to the complexities of political maneuver.

  Demansk didn't answer immediately. He examined the house, for a moment. A typical yeoman farmer's dwelling, thatch roof over mudbrick construction. A bit larger and better made than most. There were panes in the two small windows in addition to the shutters, even if they were made of the cloudy glass which was all anyone except noblemen could afford.

  His eyes ranged to the north, as if trying to study the unseen village where the First Spear's kinfolk lived. He was fairly certain he'd see much the same thing. A small settlement of freemen, who had managed to carve out a decent life for themselves amidst the steady decay of the Confederacy of Vanbert.

  "It's possible they could all be impaled," he stated curtly, "if the worst happens. Not likely, but I can't rule it out. They'd certainly be stripped of their lands and sold into slavery."

  Having gotten it out, he added a bit hastily: "But that's if the very worst happens. Which, to be honest, is not all that likely. If for no other reason, simply because things will be such a ratfuck mess that nobody will really know any longer who did what to whom. Your kinfolk would be more or less invisible in the fog."

  The First Spear chuckled. "Like that, huh? 'Interesting times,' as they say." He gave the house his own quick examination. "And what if things turn out well?"

  "They'll all be sitting pretty," said Demansk. "Good glass in the windows-and houses a lot bigger than this." He almost added: with slaves to keep them clean, but didn't. If Demansk's plans worked out, there wouldn't be any slaves left in the first place.

  Whatever happened, Demansk had already decided, he would remain honest with this man. Partly because it would be foolish not to, but mostly because stubbornness did not allow it. His grandfather, full of the virtues of the Vanbert of old, would not have lied to his First Spear. Demansk, even as he destroyed that old regime, would retain at least that much.

  The First Spear was silent, for a moment. He worked his jaws slightly, as his eyes moved slowly across his farmland. The crops were filling out well, now. It would be a good season.

  "And who knows about the next?" he murmured. His thick chest swelled with another deep breath. Then: "What the hell. 'Interesting times' it is. No way around it, so far as I can see. May as well try to ride a wave as duck from it, since there's nowhere to hide anyway."

  He gave Demansk a shrewd look. "Is there, sir?"

  The Justiciar shrugged. "Not that I can see."

  The First Spear nodded. "You'd make a better new Marcomann than anyone else, that I know of. That is what we're talking about."

  The last sentence came as a flat statement, not a question. Demansk was reassured. He found himself also reassessing his plans for the man. He hadn't expected such political acumen from a former First Spear. After this initial assignment was done…

  "Can you read?" he asked abruptly. "Well, I mean."

  The First Spear shrugged. "Enough to get by, sir. I wouldn't call it 'well.' I'm no scholar, that's for sure."

  "I'll have you taught. By Helga herself, at first. She'll have plenty of time on your voyage."

  The First Spear's eyed widened. Demansk chuckled.

  "Yes, that's your first assignment. I'll have others for you when it's done, First Spear. But, first, you've got to see to it that my daughter gets to Marange safely." His own jaws tightened. "I'll not see her fall into the hands of pirates again, and I've got no way to get her there except by sea."

  The First Spear's jaws were working again. Demansk remembered the habit, from old campaigns. The man was chewing on a problem.

  "I'm no seaman myself, sir. But you can hire such, ea
sily enough. The trick is having the right escort."

  His head swiveled, looking north. Demansk's gaze followed, and he felt his own eyes widen.

  I hadn't considered The First Spear verbalized the notion. "Why not use my kinfolk, sir? All of them. It'd cost you some, sure, buying out all the farms. But you'd have to pay loose mercenaries near as much, if you wanted to have good men you can trust. And you still couldn't be sure there weren't any traitors in the bunch. My clansmen, now, them I can vouch for."

  Demansk was already captivated by the idea. "How many fighting men, First Spear? And how many people, in total?"

  The First Spear rasped a little laugh. "They're all soldiers, sir. Or, if they're too young, training for it already. Nothing else for a freeman to do, in the east. Can't make a go of farming without a retirement bonus to get you started." The heavy jaws worked some more, as he did his calculations. "Thirty-two men with experience, another dozen or so good lads ready to learn. Two first spears and seven file closers amongst 'em. Eight of the men are too old or crippled to fight in the ranks-me being one of them. But there's always other jobs need to be done, anyway. Quarter-mastering and such."

  The jaws worked back and forth. "Say, give me a few weeks to organize 'em, and you've got a third of a hundred from my own kin. All fighters, I'm counting, complete with gear and kit. They can make the core, if you need a full hundred. We can get the rest, easily enough. There's plenty of retired and out-of-regiment men hereabouts, most of whom aren't finding that it's all that easy to work a farm. If you let me and my kinfolk pick them, we can get ones to be trusted."

  Demansk was doing his own calculations. He needed to get Helga off as soon as possible, before the sailing season ended. That meant, at the latest, two months from now.

  "You'll have to be ready to leave in six weeks," he said firmly.

  The First Spear sloped his shoulders. It was not a gesture of despair; simply one of a man prepared to do whatever work was needed.

  "I'm to be First Spear again, then?"

  Demansk shook his head. "No. You'll stay out of combat. I need you to oversee the business-and give my daughter the advice and counsel she'll need.