by David Drake
She raised her head and studied her father, seated upright on a stool across from her. The room they were in, where Demansk had found her upon his return, was Helga's weaving room. Other than the loom and the small divan on which she was perched, the only piece of furniture available had been her knitting stool. But Helga's father, unlike many such men in the elite of the Confederacy, had not hesitated to use it. Stools not much different, after all — except for the lack of fancy carving and inlaid precious stones — had been his customary seating while on campaign.
"Trae?" she asked.
"He's in. All the way, and with full knowledge. So is that tame pirate of his, Sharlz Thicelt."
Helga frowned. Demansk knew that she was less willing than he was to trust any Islander. Which, given her own personal experiences with the breed, was hardly surprising. But Demansk, in this if not in most things, was more broad-minded than his daughter. And he understood, in a way that she did not and probably never would, the manner in which the concept of "manhood" worked its way through the peculiar customs and habits of the Islesmen.
They were an odd folk, to Confederates — as notorious for their double-dealing in politics as they were for their brigandage.
Well, not that exactly, Demansk admitted. Confederate politics can be just as treacherous. It's the way the Islesmen acknowledge it openly, as if treason were simply a wager rather than a sin. The way they deride an executed schemer for his lack of wits rather than his lack of morals.
He thought about it for a moment. And I can't honestly say, any longer, that their way is worse than ours. At least they're not hypocrites.
He had waited enough time to allow Helga to make any open protest, but she hadn't. Rebellious the girl might be, but she was still smart enough not to quarrel with her father over matters of tactics.
"That's that, then," he said. "You'll be getting a new subordinate of your own, by the way. Jessep Yunkers. He'll be in command of your escort." Demansk conveniently skipped over the awkwardness of explaining that the name would mean nothing to her, since it had meant nothing to him either until a few days ago. "I don't believe you ever met him. Before he got badly injured at Preble, he was the First Spear of my First Regiment. A very good man."
There was no frown of disapproval now, on his daughter's brow. As was true of Demansk himself, Helga was partial to the breed of sturdy peasants who produced the Confederacy's non-commissioned officers. They were the backbone of Vanbert military power, and she knew it as well as he did.
"I'll want to keep Lortz," she said. Her tone made clear that she was prepared for argument.
But Demansk gave her none. He had decided that Helga's insistence on personal combat training was probably just as well. If nothing else, it kept her in superb physical condition. And. . it might someday save her life.
Lortz was the former gladiator whom Helga had hired almost as soon as she returned from captivity. She had kept him busy even during the last trimester of her pregnancy, teaching her such skills as knife-throwing which her swollen belly still permitted. And she had resumed her regular training a mere week after giving birth.
He eyed his daughter's figure, so evident even under the modest garment she was wearing. "Modest" in its cut, at least. Demansk wasn't entirely happy with the sheerness of the thing, but — that was the modern style, after all, especially in summer. And this much he would admit: however modern the style of the garment, the muscles beneath the fabric were as hard as those of any peasant ancestress of the family.
"He'll insist on bringing his, ah, servants with him," Helga added, her lips curling at the euphemism for Lortz's two concubines. "But there should be room. I'll need to find a wet nurse anyway, so they can be company for her."
"I've already found you a wet nurse. Jessep's wife Ilset." He nodded toward the infant in her lap. "They have a baby themselves; just about his age, as it happens."
"A soldier's wife? Good. That'll be handy." She gave her father a sly look. "And I'll bet your entire fortune she's full-breasted. A retired First Spear of the First Regiment — especially with the bonuses you pass out — would have had every peasant family in his province trotting out their daughters for inspection."
Demansk grinned. "Ilset's good-looking, no doubt about it. And, as you guessed, not slender. Precious few soldiers share the taste of aristocratic aesthetes for willowy women. Not Jessep, that's for sure."
He planted his hands on his knees and thrust to his feet. "Now that it's definite, you should start making your preparations. It'll be a few weeks still, though, so you needn't rush anything. Sharlz will need time to find and outfit a ship, and Jessep the same in order to pull the escort together."
"There's really not much that I need to do in the way of preparation. A few days, no more." She chucked the baby softly under his chin. "And he'll need even less. Logistics is simple at his age. Where the tits go, he goes."
"True enough," chuckled Demansk. After a moment, the humor faded. "You'll probably need to comfort Lissel a bit, once the news hits. Which probably won't take long," he added sourly, "knowing Barrett. I'll be seeing him on my way to Preble."
" 'Probably?' " jeered Helga. "No 'probable' about it, Father. The minute Barrett learns he's got a better offer in the making, he'll march into Lissel's rooms and tell her to start packing. You watch — you'll probably even still be there when it happens."
Demansk didn't argue the point. His eldest son was. . not a man he much liked.
Helga was scowling now. "And Lissel will come here straight off, wailing like a babe herself. I'll keep two laundresses busy for a week, just washing the tear-soaked linens."
Her father grimaced. "Do you really think she'll be that upset? It never struck me that there was much affection in the marriage."
"Heh. There isn't any, Father. And what's that got to do with anything? Lissel is a sweet enough girl, but she's got the brains of a. . oh, hell, even pigs are smarter. She's a Vanbert gentry daughter, through and through. Never had an original thought in her brain. For someone of her class, a marriage to a Demansk meant a major leap in status. Being divorced will devastate her. It's got nothing to do with Barrett."
Demansk sighed. "I'll see to it she's well taken care of. Financially, I mean."
Helga shrugged. "She'll survive. And, within a year, be deluged with other marriage proposals. From other gentry, of course, not real noblemen. The combination of her former marital status and a big dowry will be irresistible to that lot." A moment later, grudgingly, she added: "Well, some of them."
Demansk thought his daughter was being a bit uncharitable. He had a higher opinion of the gentry than she did. He'd had more contact with them, for one thing, and on this subject Helga's own unthinking prejudices were peeking through. Whatever the gentry's faults as a class, Demansk had found many of them to be quite admirable as individuals.
The upper class of the Confederacy fell, broadly speaking, into three categories:
At the top, the real nobility of the ancient, great families. All of whom were giant landowners and either stinking rich or up to their eyeballs in debt. This class provided the Confederacy with all of its Council members and speakers and, usually, with the Speaker of the Assembly. The Demansk family was part of that elite, and ranked high even in their midst.
Off to the side, so to speak, were the wealthy merchants, tax farmers, and usurers. Many of them originated from the gentry, but were no longer considered truly part of it. Not in theory, at least, even if in practice they often served the gentry as its "upper crust." These families could sometimes be as wealthy as the nobility but, of course, they shared none of the nobility's social glamour and respectability — except to the degree that, by forging a marriage between one of their own and a noble family far enough in debt to accept the offer, they could lever their way into the genuine aristocracy. Through the back door, of course. But, after two or three generations, no one remembered. Nowadays, at least.
Finally, forming the great base of Vanbert's rulin
g class, came the gentry. Respectable folk, of course — landowners rather than merchants. A number of them were even quite wealthy in their own right. And they provided most of the officers for the Confederacy's army, below the very top ranks.
Personally, Demansk thought the old Vanbert virtues could be found in that class more often than in the actual aristocracy. Certainly more than among the merchants and usurers. Gentrymen were invariably courageous in battle and often made capable, if usually unimaginative, officers.
But, while he thought Helga was being a bit uncharitable, he understood her sentiments well enough. The gentry was even more notorious for its endless and obsessive bickering than the nobility. With some exceptions — always regarded as eccentric — they treasured and gloated over every small increase in status like misers over gold; schemed for it constantly; and took any reverse, no matter how small, as if it were the world's worst natural disaster.
There was a popular legend — which Demansk suspected was probably true — that five gentry families died to the last person in the city of Ghust when the volcano erupted. They were on the outskirts of the disaster, and had plenty of time to flee. But they spent so much time quarreling over which of their carriages should get precedence in the escape that the cloud of gas and ashes overtook them in mid-squabble.
Demansk turned his head and examined the loom in the corner. It pleased him, even though he knew it was an excuse, to liken what he was doing to a weaver's work instead of a butcher's. Though the main color in the cloth he was weaving would be red — blood red — it was still work which would leave something other than ruin at its completion.
Maybe, he admitted. If I do the work extremely well, and the Goddess of Luck favors me.
The gentry, and its attitudes, would play a very big role in that weaving. Demansk was gambling that, when the time came, he could use their ambition and avarice to overcome their natural conservatism. With enough of them, at least, to enable him to hold power while he set about shredding the established ways of the Confederacy.
It would not be easy. The gentry, on their own farms, did not depend on slave labor to the degree that the aristocracy did on the great estates. Emancipation would hurt them economically, to be sure, especially at first. But the more capable and energetic families would also be able to take advantage of the chaos of the transition. Forming alliances with money-lenders and merchants; investing in manufacture — which would now have a large pool of former slave labor to draw on; carving out careers in a suddenly opened and merit-based government apparatus.
On the other hand. . if they didn't need slaves, the gentry treasured their status as slave-holders all the more for it. It gave them the illusion of being noblemen themselves, at least in part.
Avarice against habit; ambition against custom; cold realism against unthinking conservatism. Those were the forces Demansk would manipulate, one against the other, until he had created the fabric he wanted. Or, in the failing, wreck the loom entirely.
"Stop being gloomy, Father," Helga said. As so often, daughter read father's mood to perfection. "It'll work. As well as anything does, anyway." She gave the loom a skeptical glance. "That's just a construct, you know. Something made; a thing with clear parts and sides and limits. The real world's a lot messier."
The baby woke up, and started bawling immediately. "Like this creature here," she added, good cheer mixed with exasperation. "Gobbling like a pig at one end and shitting even worse at the other. About as pretty as a hogpen." She silenced the infant in the time-honored way; wails were replaced by the soft sounds of suckling. "But he works, after all. And in the meantime, he's just so cute."
Demansk's eyes almost goggled. Whatever other metaphor or simile or euphemism he had ever used to describe his project to himself, the word cute had never so much as crossed his mind.
Helga smiled. "It's just like the poet said, Father. 'Only the blood of women runs truly cold.' "
She nodded toward the door. "And now, you'd best be off. You've got hot-blooded man's work to do."
Chapter 8
This was the only time Adrian Gellert was really thankful for the trance-haze. Dealing with his brother Esmond directly, without the shielding buffer which two other minds sharing his brain gave him, was. . painful.
When did it happen? he asked, almost plaintively.
He could sense, if not see, Raj's shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. The sensation was purely one created by his own imagination. He'd never met Raj Whitehall in the flesh. What he knew of him, even the man's appearance, came solely from glimpses which he got from Raj himself. And those were filtered already, because they were Raj's images of himself when he had still been made of flesh and blood. As if a man knew a friend — closer in many ways than any friend he'd ever had — only from seeing him reflected in a mirror.
Who can say? There's never a moment for something like this. Any more than you can say there is a moment when poison kills a man. Hate's a toxin as corrosive and deadly as arsenic, if you take too much of it. And Esmond's been guzzling at that well for a long time now.
Sadly, Adrian stared down at the whimpering creature huddled in a corner of Esmond's tent. From the hair color and what little else Adrian could discern about the battered figure, he thought he came from the northern part of the continent. A "Confederate" in name, even if he was most likely a peasant rather than a true Vanbert. That would be enough to serve as a focus for Esmond's rage.
Adrian estimated the boy was not more than twelve years old. It was hard to be sure, though, because his face was pulpy and bruised and the scrawny body was emaciated from hunger. The manacles on his thin wrists and ankles were quite unnecessary. The boy was obviously so weak he could not even crawl, much less stand. Adrian was not sure he would even be alive the next day.
"We'll see about that," he growled, dropping to one knee next to the child. He reached out his hand and lightly shook a shoulder. There was no response except a soft moan.
Moving as gently as he could, Adrian gave the boy a quick examination. The touch of his fingers brought forth more moans and whimpers. Every part of the child's body seemed bruised or lacerated. A few of the wounds were even still bleeding, although Adrian was relieved to see that none of them seemed to have ruptured any internal organs. At least, there was no blood or fluid leaking from any orifice.
He's got a broken arm and maybe some broken ribs. But he's not bleeding internally, I don't think. And it doesn't look as if Esmond raped him.
Probably not, agreed Raj. Esmond's lusts have gotten much darker than that.
Adrian shook his head. Not in disagreement, simply in sorrow. He could remember a time — remember it well — when he had treasured his older brother. A time when Esmond Gellert's soul had seemed as bronzed-perfect as his superb athlete's body.
But that time was gone, now. Had been for. . at least a year. The death of Esmond's lover Nanya had been the trigger for the change. Or so, at least, Esmond claimed himself on the few occasions when he was willing to talk about the transformation in his character.
Adrian had his doubts. True, Esmond had been besotted with the woman. But many men were besotted with women, and didn't react to their deaths in such a manner. Adrian thought the truth sat at a square angle, so to speak. He thought that Esmond's rage against anything Confederate had not been caused by Nanya's death so much as the fact that Esmond had not been able to prevent it.
Adrian had been standing at Esmond's side when it happened. Watching, along with his brother, the great roof beam in the burning mansion of the traitor Redvers when it collapsed onto Nanya and the other women of the household. They had come so close to saving her from the disaster. But — not close enough.
And so, Adrian suspected, Esmond had deflected his own feelings of guilt and failure onto Vanbert, which he'd already resented deeply for its conquest and exploitation of the Emeralds. Fueling his hatred and rage the same way Adrian's firebombs had fueled the conflagration which took Nanya's life. Firebombs which
Esmond himself had been willing and eager to use in the battle, after all.
You're likely right, came Raj's words into his mind. But who's to say? The human mind is a complicated thing, and doesn't lend itself well to your scholarly methods.
Center spoke for the first time since they'd entered Esmond's tent. that is true. nothing in stochastic analysis has such great variables as what you call "psychology." which is a suspect term to begin with, since it presupposes a "psyche" which may well not exist anyway. so far as i can determine, all that actually exists are electrochemical reactions.
Before Adrian could mentally mutter some curses on Center's typically detached analysis, Center pressed on.
but it is all irrelevant to our purpose. this is very dangerous, what you are doing. the slave belongs to esmond. under both confederate and southron custom, he may do with such as he wishes. in practice if not in legal theory.
Adrian did not argue the point, although he could have. In fact, many Vanbert slaveowners did follow the law when it came to the treatment of their slaves, which forbade physical cruelty for anything other than specified offenses. Many of them even obeyed the spirit of the law, not simply the letter. And while Southron custom was not congealed in any written legal codes, the barbarian tribes were actually more lenient toward their slaves. If nothing else, they did not transmit slave status onto the offspring of slaves. Within a few generations most slaves had become incorporated into their Southron tribes. Incorporated at the bottom of the social pyramid, to be sure, but incorporated nonetheless.
Still, it was a pointless argument. There were more than enough violations of law and custom regarding the treatment of slaves, in all parts of the continent and the Islands, to make the likelihood of a transgressor being punished fairly remote. Especially one who, like Esmond, had achieved high status.
Which he certainly had, in the short time since he and Adrian had planted themselves among the Southrons. In every respect except his skill at handling velipads, Esmond was the southern barbarian's "ideal type." Those few who might have doubted, early on, did so no longer — for the simple reason that they were dead. Honor duels were an established custom, even a hallowed one, among the barbarians. Four warriors, putting too much credence in the tales of effeminate Emeralds, had challenged Esmond within the first two months of their arrival. He'd killed all of them, and each time with a display of martial prowess which had dazzled the onlookers. Leaving aside Esmond's skill with weapons, the body which wielded that skill was that of the near-perfect athlete who had once emerged the victor from the Five Year Games of the Emeralds.