by David Drake
Adrian sensed a little smile on his face. No woman of the north, not even a prostitute, would have paraded about publicly in such a costume — bare from the waist up, and with nothing more than a string loincloth elsewhere. Watching her heavy buttocks sway as she waddled past, he sensed the smile widen. Certainly not a woman with such a dumpy figure.
The men wore even less. Nothing more than what Adrian thought of as a codpiece. Not even in battle, often enough. The warriors of most Southron tribes tended to scorn armor, other than whatever protection was provided by the quivers which held their arrows and, of course, the great velocipad-hide shields they favored. They considered armor effeminate and cowardly. Going into battle stark naked, covered only with wild and extravagant paint, was by no means uncommon.
The semi-nudity of the Southrons was natural enough, given the climate. At first, Adrian had assumed it was because of the heat. But after experiencing the constant rainfall, he and his brother had shed most of their own clothing. Skin dried quickly, once the rain stopped. The humidity was bad enough without being covered in soaked garments.
If he hadn't been in the trance-haze, he would have sighed then. In truth, he detested the south — the barbarism of its inhabitants even more than the climate. What made it worse was that Adrian could not simply relegate the Southrons to the status of "barbarians" and then ignore their crudities, much as a man ignores the toiletry of animals.
Adrian could see past the surface, in a way that most civilized people could not. The Southrons were not "barbarians," really. At bottom, they were people not much different from Adrian himself. The same intelligence — capacity for it, at least; the same emotions — mixed slightly differently, perhaps, but the same for all that. Hopes, fears, yearnings — all the same.
They were simply people, mired in centuries of barbarism. But it was still aggravating, for all that he understood the phenomenon.
"The Mission." It had driven him to this place, whether he liked it or not. And, whether he liked it or not, had presented him with the Southrons as the raw material for his next work. Did a blacksmith "like" iron? It was irrelevant whether he did or not. Without iron, he had no work.
You'd have made a good general , came a thought from Raj. Adrian began to shape a witty denial, but let it go. Perhaps Raj was right. Whitehall had been a general himself, after all, when he had been alive. A great one, from what Adrian could tell, who had completed this same "mission" on his own planet extraordinarily well. So perhaps he knew whereof he spoke.
And that, too, was irrelevant. Raj and Center had not chosen Adrian for his martial prowess. There was no shortage of that on Hafardine, for a certainty. His brother Esmond provided enough of that for both of them — and, north of the narrow isthmus where the great Confederacy of Vanbert held sway over half the continent, there was already a man whose grim talents at war had become famous.
The thought of Demansk triggered Center. he will make his first move soon. if he has not already done so. probability 89 %, ±3 for the former; 46 %, ±10 for the latter. the variables there are larger.
The humor which bubbled up within Adrian was great enough to momentarily shatter the trance-haze. He burst into open laughter, even feeling the hammer of wet heat coming down on him.
You're so wrong, you all-knowing damn machine. Demansk has already moved, be sure of it.
He waited for Raj's input, wondering what it might be. It was an odd trio they made. A thinking machine called a "computer," the recorded "spirit" of a long-dead general, and he himself — a living man still in his youth.
As a rule, Raj sided with Center in their little three-way debates and discussions. But, not always.
This time, he simply asked a question.
Why are you so sure of that, lad? I would think he'd wait a bit longer. I would, in his position. Unless he understands what you're about, and he has no way—
The disembodied voice broke off suddenly. A moment later, Adrian sensed a ghostly chuckle echo in his mind.
I'd forgotten. It's been so long since I was a man myself. Adrian caught a momentary glimpse of a beautiful, patrician face, cheek pressed into a pillow and smiling. Raj Whitehall's wife Suzette, he knew. Now long dead herself.
There was no aura of sadness about the memory. Just. . nostalgia? Hard to say.
Do you miss her? he asked.
Somehow he could sense a wry shrug, though he could not see it. It's hard to explain, Adrian. My own existence has been in what you call the trance-haze for centuries now. I am no longer really human, even in mind much less in body. Not a computer, of course, like Center. Something. . else. I don't know what to call it. An angel, except that would be ludicrous. A spirit, let's say. My only real emotion left is serenity. The thought hardened, as a general's thoughts could do so easily. Not that I shall ever forget her.
Center interrupted. the two of you are prattling again.
Oh, be still, retorted Raj. There are things you do not understand well, if at all. This is one of them.
There was a momentary pause. Then, in a tone which almost had a tone — irritation, frustration — Center said: that business. love interferes greatly with stochastic analysis. nothing else produces such wide variables. not even religious fanaticism, of which I suspect love is a disguised variant.
The trance-haze was back, so Adrian only sensed himself grinning. It was too bad. He would have enjoyed feeling the strain on his cheek muscles directly. It was a very wide grin.
Sourpuss, what you are. Demansk will have moved already, because he KNOWS there is one envoy he can send whom I will trust.
He too deals with variables, Raj chimed in. And here is one he can ignore. Adrian's right, Center. Demansk will have begun the thing.
Adrian knew that the silence which followed was Center, calculating the probabilities. At moments like this, the computer's incredible speed of logical manipulation was both awe-inspiring and. . sometimes a bit ridiculous. The computer would factor in everything, matching cause against cause, effect against effect, then rematching them again, over and over, until — within seconds! — it would arrive at a conclusion which, now and then at least, was blindingly obvious to flesh and blood.
you are correct, came the pronouncement. probability is now 94 %, ± 2. which means we must move more quickly ourselves.
It was Adrian's eyes which saw the milling, chaotic mass of Southron warriors teeming in the great encampment below; Raj Whitehall's spirit which put words to the observation.
What a frigging, unholy mess. We've got our work cut out for us.
But Adrian was not really paying attention any longer. The trance-haze was breaking, now, shattering into little slivers. His own thoughts were plunging down through every vein and artery in his body, down into his groin. He felt so warm and wet himself that the surrounding air seemed almost frigid.
Another face was vivid in his mind. Also pressed into a pillow, but facing up not sideways. This face, though beautiful as well, was not patrician in the least. Certainly not at that moment of memory, when the auburn hair was tangled, sweaty at the roots; and the mouth was open, hissing wordless cries of ecstasy.
His breath was coming short. His own mouth was no longer closed.
Your brother's coming, with some chieftains in tow. You'd better get that erection under control, lad, or things'll get awkward. These Southrons, y'know, don't share your decadent Emerald tastes. They're likely to misinterpret your state of mind.
Laughter broke passion's rush. So, when Esmond and the chieftains strode up to the tent, Adrian was able to greet them with nothing more than a hand outstretched. But still, during the time which followed, his mind only followed the conversation at its edges.
There was room, really, for just a single thought at the center of it. A different sort of trance-haze had seized him.
She's coming back to me. I know she is.
For the first time, then, he was finally able to let go that rein of honor which had driven him to return her to her family,
long months before. Almost a year, now. Let it go, cast it aside — and, with it, all restraint. He had never loved a woman before, and had never allowed himself — quite — to love this one.
Soon enough, he knew, Center and Raj would be back, pouring caution and cunning strategy into his mind. But on this subject, at least, he would listen no longer. He had satisfied honor once. Once was enough, for a lifetime.
Chapter 4
"Interesting idea," drawled Ion Jeschonyk. The elderly Speaker Emeritus lifted himself up on an elbow and swiveled his head toward the man lying on a couch directly opposite Demansk. "What do you think, Justiciar Tomsien?"
Tomsien was staring at Demansk, his dark brown eyes shaded by a heavy, lowered brow. Abruptly, he lurched on the couch and came to a full, upright sitting position. He planted thick hands on thick knees and leaned forward. A full but rather solid belly bulged within the expensive fabric of his robes.
"Interesting," he echoed. "But. ." His brow was now gathered in a massive frown. "It's not that I don't trust you, Demansk — at least as much as I trust anyone in these rotten modern times." Demansk nodded his head in acknowledgement of the praise, as faint as it might be. "But," continued Tomsien, "I don't understand why you're proposing it. What I mean is—"
"What does he get out of it," finished Jeschonyk. The old politician smiled wryly. "Good question. Your answer, Justiciar?"
Demansk shrugged. "Personally, you mean? About what I said. Greatly increased power, obviously. With that will come the usual riches."
Tomsien was shaking his head before he had even finished. "I can't say I like you all that much, Demansk, but you've never seemed especially ambitious to me. And, as rich as you are already, I can't believe you care much about that business either. So stick with the 'good of the Confederacy' explanation. That's actually believable, coming from you."
The heavyset Justiciar was still obviously dissatisfied. "But nobody is that altruistic. There's got to be some personal angle to this you haven't told us. And before I agree to anything, I want to know what it is."
"Me too," chimed in Jeschonyk.
Demansk was now sitting upright himself; and, like Tomsien, had his hands planted firmly on his knees. He leaned back a bit and studied the ceiling. As could be expected in the villa of a man as wealthy as Jeschonyk, the frescoes were magnificent. Although Demansk thought depicting the legend of Wodep and the forest nymphs in such exquisite detail was in questionable taste for a room devoted to anything other than orgies.
Of course, by all accounts, orgies were likely to take place anywhere in one of Jeschonyk's residences. For all his advanced age and long-standing reputation for political sagacity, the Speaker Emeritus was one of Vanbert's more notorious lechers. His frequent thunderous denunciations of "modern decadence" in the Council chamber had never stopped him from indulging his own private vice.
Demansk's thoughts were not particularly condemnatory, however. Lechery was a harmless enough vice, as such things went. And this much could be said of Jeschonyk — the man had never, unlike many Speakers, plundered the public treasury for his own gain.
He lowered his eyes and gave the other men in the chamber a stony gaze. "I have not explained the specifics of my proposal yet. Forming what I'm calling a 'triumvirate' will bring needed stability to the Confederacy — and, no small thing, keep that greedy pig Albrecht from getting his hands on the Speakership again. Which — you both know this as well as I do — he's been spending enough money to pull off if he's not stopped soon."
Mention of Albrecht, as Demansk expected, caused the aura of vague suspicion in the room to change. Or shift, rather, from his own person. Whatever else, the three men in that chamber had one thing in common: a thorough detestation of Drav Albrecht, the current Speaker of the Assembly and, several years back, the Speaker of the Council. Even by the standards of the modern day, Albrecht took corruption to new heights. Not even the traitor Redvers had been — quite — so mindlessly avaricious.
Demansk took advantage of the momentary "meeting of minds" to drive on. "But that's just the beginning. Stabilizing the political situation in the Confederacy is pointless if we don't use that stability to solve some long-standing problems. The worst of which, in my opinion, lies beyond our own borders. Say better: the worst of which is caused by the fact that our borders don't reach far enough."
Jeschonyk and Tomsien froze. With one exceptional episode, Vanbert had ceased being an expansionist power decades ago. And that one exception had been under Sole Speaker Marcomann, who had used his conquest of the western provinces of the northern half of the continent to set himself up as — in fact if not in name — the dictator of the Confederacy. He had been the last man to hold the Speakership of both the Council and the Assembly simultaneously — an ambition which all the men in that room knew was held by Albrecht. If Albrecht obtained his goal, however, it would be by the profligate use of bribery. Which, in the end, was not as dangerous as the means of sheer military power which Marcomann had used.
Demansk's lips twisted into a grimace. Technically, the expression might be called a "smile." But there was no humor in it.
"Relax," he commanded. "I am as well aware as you are of the dangers involved. Which is why my proposal, I believe, accomplishes three salutary goals. It locks out Albrecht, it keeps any of us from becoming a dictator. . and it allows me the chance to accomplish a personal goal which is rather dear to my heart. Vengeance."
Not surprisingly, it was Jeschonyk who first understood. Tomsien was. . not stupid, no; but not quick-witted, either.
"Ah," murmured the old Speaker Emeritus. "I see."
"I don't," said Tomsien crossly.
Jeschonyk waved a languid hand. "Demansk will allow you to command the southern provinces, facing the barbarians with most of our army. Since I'm too damn old anyway to take the field any longer — Preble was it, for me — I'll remain here in the capital exercising political control. Which frees him up to put paid to the stinking Islesmen altogether."
Tomsien's eyes widened. It took him longer to see a point, perhaps, but he was quite intelligent enough — experienced enough, at least — to see the implications once he did.
The real threat of a new dictator would come from whichever Confederate official could conquer large new territories on the continent. That alone would provide them with the land grants needed to cement the loyalty of a large enough army. The Western Isles, even all of them put together, did not allow for that even if conquered. The Isles were, and always had been, places for traders and fishermen and pirates. There simply wasn't enough acreage to create a large new layer of propertied men who could serve as the base of support for a dictatorship.
That was not the least of the reasons, of course, that the pirates of the Isles had been tolerated for so long. Yes, they were a pestiferous nuisance. But they posed no real threat to the Confederacy — and there simply wasn't enough to be gained by their conquest to make the effort seem worth it.
Unless. . the man who led that effort had a serious personal grudge to settle.
Tomsien's eyes grew heavy-lidded, as he studied his fellow Justiciar. Demansk could practically read his thoughts.
What an idiot. She's just a woman, after all, even if she is his daughter. And for that he's willing to give me the lion's share of the army?
Demansk waited. Tomsien was not someone who could be rushed into a decision, anyway. And Demansk was quite sure that Tomsien had heard tales of Demansk's unseemly toleration of his daughter's outlandish ways.
He dotes on her. Always has, the fool. Odd, really, for such a man to have such a weakness. Almost effeminate, for all his skill at war.
When he needed to be, Tomsien could be decisive. "Done!" he barked. "As long as you give me the southern provinces—and a personal assurance."
Demansk frowned. "My word has never—"
"Damn your 'word,' Demansk!" snapped Tomsien. "Don't play the honorable old-style Vanbert nobleman with me. It's a rotten world today — rotte
n through and through — and you know it as well as I do. Facts are facts. I want a personal assurance. Something a lot more tangible than words."
Demansk ran fingers through his beard. "I see. Very well. My son Olver—"
"No! Your oldest son, Demansk. Barrett it'll be or there's no deal."
"He's already married," protested Demansk. But the tone of the words was mild.
Tomsien's grimace was not quite a sneer. Not quite. "Have him put her aside. He'll do it, don't think he won't. And the courts certainly won't be an obstacle — not after our 'triumvirate' is in place."
Jeschonyk chimed in. "Your daughter-in-law's family aren't all that well placed, Demansk. They'll say nothing, if they're slipped some quiet bribes."
Demansk had expected this moment to come. So he was a bit surprised at how difficult it was to keep his rage from showing. It helped that he understood the reason. Tomsien, for all his slow way of thinking, had clearly assessed Demansk's oldest son quite accurately.
Barrett was. . not the son that Demansk wished he were. His daughter, the youngest of his four children, seemed to have gotten twice her share of Demansk honor — and all of it taken from the oldest. Barrett Demansk was a typical scion of the modern nobility. Ambitious, greedy, and — Demansk didn't doubt it any more than Tomsien — would be quite willing to discard a wife who had already borne him a child in order to make a more advantageous match.
"Which of your daughters?" he grated.
Tomsien shrugged. "Any of the three. Take your pick. It doesn't matter to me."
Demansk left that problem for a later time. He would allow Barrett to make the choice, in any event. His son would choose unwisely, and that too would further Demansk's scheme.
He took a moment to bid farewell to a piece of his own honor. Then:
"Done," he said softly. "But, now that I've given you the personal assurance you insisted upon, I will demand myself that I be given complete authority over all Confederate naval forces. Every ship, every crew — and whatever else I need to crush the King of the Isles. I will have my vengeance."