by David Drake
Again, Adrian chewed on Raj's words. He was inclined to trust the former general's assessment. Adrian had gained a lot of experience over the past two years, but he knew full well that he wasn't and never would be Raj Whitehall's equal as a military leader. Still. .
But why not bring all ten? I would.
It was always a little weird "hearing" a disembodied and ghostly snort of derision. But that was surely what came to his mind from Whitehall.
Stop thinking like "you." You wouldn't have been squeezing your provinces dry the way Tomsien's been doing. You've got the mind of a scholar and an artisan, not an imperialist grandee.
tomsien can't afford to strip his provinces of his troops, echoed Center. he'll likely have rebellions springing up all over the place. as ruthlessly as he's been ruling his provinces, he may get them anyway — even with four brigades in place to suppress them.
He'll sure as hell get them after he's defeated in battle.
Which remark brought everything back full circle. Adrian sighed. "After he's defeated". . easy for Raj to say. But Whitehall was a ghost, when all was said and done. Defeating Tomsien's great army would have to be done in flesh and blood — with Adrian himself the key to it.
"I hope you and Father know what you're doing," repeated Helga, in a tone which was still surly.
"So do I," muttered Adrian Gellert, former Scholar of the Grove. "So do I."
Chapter 22
"At least take soldiers with you," protested Kata.
Ion Jeschonyk gave his young concubine's cheek a little pat. "T'would be unseemly, girl. Dignity, you know? A Councillor's got to have it, at all times — to say nothing of a Speaker Emeritus and a Triumvir — or his reputation is ruined. Not even Marcomann went to Council meetings with a bodyguard."
Jeschonyk saw no reason to add: Of course, Marcomann was a lot younger than I was, and a deadly man with a blade in his own right. Not to mention being six feet tall, with shoulders like a greatbeast.
Kata was not going to be brushed off. Jeschonyk had suspected as much. She didn't usually accompany him as far as the front gate when he left his mansion. "I don't care. The city's not the same any more. The street gangs are everywhere, now — all the servants say so — bolder than ever. And — and—"
She groped for words. Kata's cloistered existence — using the term "cloistered" loosely — didn't really give her much of a clear understanding of Vanbert's politics. But even a young concubine, whose life experience since her capture from barbarians at the age of fourteen had been restricted to a wealthy nobleman's villa, could sense that the capital had become dangerous. Even for a man as powerful as Jeschonyk. Perhaps especially for a man like Jeschonyk.
For a moment, the old politician simply basked in the warmth of her concern. His relationship with Kata had changed, subtly, over the past few months. He'd even found himself — quite often, in fact — spending his nights alone with her, instead of in his usual orgiastic custom.
Still, she was a concubine. More to the point, she was young — and truly innocent of the ways of the world. So there was really no way that Jeschonyk could explain, in any words that would mean anything to her.
In truth, he barely understood it himself. Rather to his surprise, Ion Jeschonyk had discovered that in the twilight of his life he was giving thought to the future. More thought, and deeper thought, than he ever had before — and, which was especially surprising, thoughts which centered on his nation rather than he himself.
It's called a "sacrifice," sweet girl. Sometimes a nation needs one — and sometimes, whether you like it or not, you're selected for the chore.
A stray memory came to him suddenly, about the customs he'd heard were practiced by Kata's tribe.
"I never asked, now I think about it. Never cared, really. But are you a follower of the Young Word?"
Kata's expression combined puzzlement — and a trace of worry. "Yes. I haven't done the rites much, for many years now. But my clan belonged to the faith. Why?"
"Did you ever wonder why the prophet allowed himself to be murdered? From the way I heard the story, he'd been given a warning and could have fled."
Now, the worry swamped the puzzlement. "What is this you're telling me?" The subservience of a slave concubine vanished, replaced by a scolding finger which would have been the envy of any middle-aged matron of Vanbert. "Stop this nonsense! You're too old, anyway, to be a prophet!"
Jeschonyk laughed. Then, gave Kata a hug. "True enough, true enough. I certainly can't claim to have any eternal words of wisdom. Still. . some things just have to be done, girl." He kissed her on the cheek, then pushed her away firmly. "And that's enough argument. In the event something does happen. ."
How to say it? "Just see to it that a message gets to Verice Demansk. Tell him — oh, what, exactly? Just tell him to remember, that's all, and think about it now and again. The word is 'duty,' I believe."
He turned and passed through the gate. Then, once he reached the street beyond, set off toward the Forum of the Virtuous Matrons and the Council Hall beyond it. Moving, of course, in the stately manner which befitted a man of his stature.
He could sense Kata's eyes following him. And found it rather charming that, after more than sixty years of a life filled with struggle and travails and schemes, not turning around to meet that gaze was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
* * *
The chamber seemed almost like a madhouse. Men were screaming at each other, whispering in knots, scurrying from one clique to another. A fight even broke out at one point, with two Councillors hacking away at each other with their ceremonial short swords. Fortunately, the age and portliness of the men involved — not to mention the dullness of the blades themselves — made the thing more comical than deadly.
Still, in all his decades Jeschonyk had never seen the Council in such complete disarray and showing such a total lack of respect for decorum. In retrospect, he realized that his own insistence on maintaining traditional dignity had been pointless. He could have taken a hundred as his bodyguard, and no one would have noticed.
Of course, the guards wouldn't have let them come into the chamber itself, he mused, so what would have been the point?
Undreth sidled up to him. "The only way we're going to get order here," said the skeletal Watchman of the Door, "is to make a deal with Albrecht and his people. They've got half the Councillors — at least half — lined up with him now."
The old man gave his fellow Watchman a vicious sidelong glance. Potbellied Kirn was clustered with Albrecht himself. "He'll be no help, be sure of it."
As a last resort, the two Watchmen were supposed to establish order in an unruly Council. But, even leaving aside the question of how the two oldest men in the room could do so anyway, the fact that Kirn wasn't even pretending at neutrality made that option unworkable.
Sourly, Jeschonyk bowed to the inevitable. "Make the deal, then. I assume he'll want first speaking privileges."
"That, and no time limit," muttered Undreth. A moment later, the oldster scuttled off.
The extent to which Albrecht now controlled the Council was made clear very quickly. Within a minute after Undreth conferred with Albrecht, the chamber was returning to order. Albrecht was a superb Council politician, whatever his modest achievements as a military leader, and he had his people well organized. Whether through pre-arrangement or simply on-the-spot coercion — prearrangement, was Ion's guess — even the most unruly Councillors were taking their seats and falling into silence.
Jeschonyk saw no reason to bother with the ritual speech which normally opened a Council meeting. He'd already done a quick scan of the chamber and seen that none of Demansk's closest allies had even bothered to come. Not even Kall Oppricht, who rarely missed a Council meeting. Once silence had finally settled over the chamber, he simply nodded at Albrecht. "Councillor Albrecht, I believe, has something he would like to say."
"Indeed so!" Before Jeschonyk had even taken his seat, the leader of the opposition was s
tanding in the middle of the floor beginning his speech.
Quite a speech it was, too. Drav Albrecht was a big man, with just enough fat to make him imposing instead of obese. He had the standard practices of Vanbert oratory down pat, and was quite an excellent speaker. The fact that the speech was sheer drivel — coming, at least, from such as he — didn't make the words seem any less grandiloquent.
— ancient traditions, now in dire peril — mortal danger to the liberties of the fatherland — one Marcomann was enough — nay, too much!—
Undreth had taken a seat just behind Jeschonyk himself. The Triumvir felt the old man's withered, arthritic hand on his shoulder.
"This is worse than I expected," hissed Undreth. "Much worse."
Jeschonyk nodded. I should have listened more carefully to Verice. He always warned me Albrecht was impatient — impatient to the point of recklessness.
"Leave now," he whispered to Undreth. "As Watchman, no one will think it odd. Speak to the captain of the Guard — not the one outside, but his replacement; he'll be in the guards' quarters — and tell him to summon my household troops from their barracks. Dignity be damned, Albrecht's throwing it all to the winds anyway. I'll want an escort leaving here. If Albrecht's being this rash in the chamber, you can be certain he'll have his street thugs stirred up."
Undreth made to leave, but Jeschonyk restrained him with a little tug on his robes. "And don't come back," he whispered. "Don't go to your own villa, either. Go to mine. No — better yet, go to your niece Arsule's. If there's any trouble, there'll be — never mind. I've made arrangements."
Undreth nodded and was gone. As Jeschonyk had suspected, no one really paid any attention to his departure. Between his age and the fact that, as Watchman, he was expected to periodically act as a "sentry," Undreth's absence was not taken too seriously by Jeschonyk's opponents. In truth, Undreth himself was not taken too seriously.
Albrecht's speech went on, thunderously; and, soon enough, began giving the name to the peril.
— deprived me of my rightful victory — collusion with the pirates — now his own son to marry one of the detestable creatures — setting himself up like the tyrants of the epic tales — could not be clearer — must act now before the monster—
This went beyond "disrespect for a public official," far beyond it. Albrecht had said nothing of Jeschonyk, as yet, but it would be only a matter of time before he started to bend his speech in that direction.
But then, to Ion's surprise, Albrecht broke off.
"And what of Tomsien, you ask? Where does he stand? Rather than speak on this matter myself, I ask that the floor be turned over to a man just come from that honest Triumvir's side."
Albrecht did not even bother with the formality of turning to the official chairman of the session. He simply waved a heavy hand, much like a man summons a dog.
When the "dog" rose and trotted forth, Jeschonyk sighed. This, too, Verice foresaw. I thought he was being too gloomy.
Jeschonyk had known, of course, that Barrett Demansk was making ties with Albrecht and his faction. But, until this moment, he had not realized that the ties had become open partisanship.
Demansk's oldest son had little of his father's innate dignity, and even less of Albrecht's practiced public demeanor. Standing in the middle of the chamber, awkwardly assuming the stance of a public speaker, he looked more like a boy playing a role in a drama than anything else.
The opening words sounded stilted, rehearsed — even ridiculous.
— great sadness — my own father — but duty to the nation—
"Blah, blah," muttered Ion. "Get to the point, you treacherous little snot, whatever it might be."
Histrionically, even more so than custom dictated, Barrett plucked a scroll from his robes and held it up.
"I have here, written before my own eyes by my father-in-law at his field headquarters where he valiantly prepares to do battle against the" — here followed a truly ludicrous list of the Southrons' faults and vices. Jeschonyk found it hard not to laugh aloud.
Bestial and filthy, certainly; and for subhuman you could at least make a good case. But cowardly and craven? Not hardly, you ambitious little twerp, or your precious father-in-law wouldn't have taken six brigades with him.
Barrett paused and took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the climax. Then, surprised Ion again. "But rather than read it myself, I insist that Triumvir Jeschonyk do so! For he, as the senior, must take final responsibility for the actions of the Triumvirate!"
So that's it, is it? Place me squarely in the middle between Verice and Tomsien — I can just imagine the lies he told in that scroll — and try to force me to choose publicly.
This time, he really did have to struggle not to laugh. He was surprised that Albrecht was attempting such a crude maneuver. Jeschonyk was just as capable of lying through his teeth and then, a day later, officially changing his mind, as Albrecht himself. He supposed this was Albrecht's sop to whatever was left of Barrett Demansk's "principles." Give the old man a chance to do the right thing.
"No problem, laddie," Ion murmured to himself, as he rose and stepped forward into the center of the chamber. "You're about to see one of the world's champion liars put on a marvelous demonstration of the art."
He was rehearsing his speech even as he took the scroll and began unfolding it. Politely, Barrett stepped aside. Not so politely, Ion turned his back on him.
After I finish reading it — I know what it'll say, whatever the exact words — I'll be shocked and sorrowful, but have no choice but to agree with Tomsien that the Triumvirate failed of its purpose and must be dissolved. Due to the treachery and overweening ambition of Demansk, of course. I'll retire from public life, naturally. The shame and disgrace of it all. Blah blah blah. Tomorrow—
But it was time to read the scroll. Jeschonyk went right into it, not bothering to scan the contents ahead of time. He was as experienced and capable a public speaker as any in the Confederacy, after all.
Nor, once he got into it, were there any surprises.
— great distress when I learned — shocking stab in the back to the august Justiciar at Preble — the Triumvirate now clearly seen to be a mistake — will remain at my post — deal with the barbarians first — full confidence in Justiciar Albrecht as new Speaker—
Jeschonyk almost choked at that part. Not in disgust, simply in disbelief. Is Albrecht a complete idiot? Can't he see that Tomsien is just using him to remove Demansk — so that he can return with ten brigades at his back, after he defeats the Southrons? What good will your street thugs do you against them, you moron?
But he was just playing a part, and so he droned on.
— restore the true traditions of our fatherland — but not enough — must also root out all treason, hidden as well as overt — above all—
Finally, Ion understood. He stopped his recital abruptly, stared out at nothing, and uttered the words which would make him immortal — because the men who heard them never understood they were addressed to an absent twenty-year-old slave girl.
"See? I was right to stick with duty. An escort wouldn't—"
The ceremonial sword slammed into his back just above the kidney, and drove straight through. In that, at least, as well as the good steel and sharp edge of the blade, Barrett Demansk was true to the father he was betraying. The shock drove Jeschonyk to his knees.
For a moment, he stared down at the blood spilling off the tip of the blade protruding from his belly. He recognized a mortal wound, of course, but found that he didn't really care. There were words. .
A curse, rather. I've said what could be said to Kata.
He managed to fall on his side, so he would be looking up at his killer. Barrett was staring down at him, his murderer's hand still outstretched and his mouth half open. Like many men who nerve themselves to commit an unthinkable act, he was almost as much caught up in the shock of the moment as his victim.
Barrett swallowed; then, managed to get out his as
signed words — though more in the way of a squeak than a bellow of indignant triumph. "Death to tyrants!"
"Cretin," said Jeschonyk. "The world's champion fool. Did you think—"
Albrecht's ax, hacking his throat, cut short the sentence as well as the life of the speaker. "Death to tyrants!"
Jeschonyk never felt the multitude of other blades which plunged into him, again and again, as Albrecht's partisans scrambled to pledge their new allegiance. Nor, thankfully, did he see the massacre perpetrated on the dozen or so other men in the chamber who had been, for years, his closest allies. Even, here and there, his friends.
The dullness of most of the ceremonial swords and axes which were being wielded in the massacre meant that men were being bludgeoned to death as much as being "cut down." When it was all over, the chamber resembled a charnel house — and of Ion Jeschonyk himself, there was less than a bad butcher would have left of a pig's carcass.
* * *
It would be said later, and grow into legend, that his entrails and ears and private parts were displayed throughout the city by Albrecht's street gangs. The legend was false, as it happens. Only the ears were so displayed, having been cut off for a trophy by one of Albrecht's toadies. The rest was simply cremated.
But it was hard to argue against such a legend. Especially when the man who spread it the most energetically would have printing presses at his disposal.
Those devices, also, were being constructed at Chalice at Verice Demansk's command. His son Trae had brought the design back with him, from Adrian Gellert, along with many others.
* * *
Hearing the tumult in the streets, followed by the bursting of the mansion's front door, the other girls cowered fearfully in a corner of their chambers. Kata did not. She knew, somehow, that the noise meant that Jeschonyk was dead. But—
She had come to trust the old man, as well as grow fond of him. So, when the soldiers came into the room and the other girls began screaming, she just hollered at them.
"Shut up, damn you!"
To the officer who seemed to be in charge: