The Tyrant g-5
Page 35
"— then as soon as any significant portion of the freedmen start abandoning the land, the rest of them will start driving up their share of the arrangement. You know that as well as I do!"
"I'm counting on it," he growled. "The faster the gentry and the nobility-what's left of them, after we're done-start thinking of other ways to secure their fortunes than stupid land deals and tax-farming, the better. Nothing will stop them from looking to the cities either, you know."
She studied him for a moment, then shook her head fondly. "Ah, Verice. I sometimes think you're enchanted with maneuvers for their sake. Well-so be it. I certainly won't embarrass you in public on the subject, of course. I know my wifely place."
He almost choked, hearing that last. Now there would be a miracle…
True, in the days thereafter, Arsule had breathed not a word in public of her opinion on the subject of the much-discussed "Emancipation Proclamation." Unfortunately, Arsule had a very strict definition of the term "public," which did not include her "private" soirees and salons-not one of which failed to draw less than a mob.
Strangely enough, however, neither Prit Sallivar nor Enry Sharbonow nor any of Demansk's other close advisers shared his disquiet over Arsule's conduct.
"Relax, Verice," said Sallivar. "You don't understand-Arsule makes you look good."
"To put it mildly," chuckled Sharbonow. "She's a marvel with the gentry, especially. They and their wives flock to her salons in hordes-imagine! them! sharing an evening with the Premier Lady of the Land! — and then scurry away at the end of the night chattering to each other about that insane noblewoman-and isn't it a blessing she has such a sensible husband to keep her under restraint."
Demansk did choke, hearing that. As it happened-at her insistence, dammit-he had restrained her the night before. Quite literally, with velvet ropes she'd obtained for the purpose. Arsule could be… exotic, at times.
After clearing his throat, he said: "Well, I suppose. But it's a different story with the noblemen. Sure as hell their wives. They know damn good and well that a woman in her position has far more influence in the real world than the fine patriarchal principles of our ancestors allowed for. Even in the old days, much less now."
Sharbonow shrugged. "Yes, true. And, so what?" He gave Demansk a sidelong glance, as if estimating the limits he dared push a matter. Then, apparently, decided the limits were extensive. "Triumvir, I think you're allowing yourself to be overly influenced by the aristocracy's attitudes. Not surprising, really, since you've been spending so much time with them lately. And correctly so, let me add, since it's essential that the upcoming emergency Council meeting goes smoothly. But-"
"Oh, stop being such a damned diplomat, Enry," grumbled Sallivar. "Verice, you're getting spooked! Who gives a shit what the noblemen really think? Most of them have rallied to Albrecht anyway-and the ones who've taken refuge here under your wing are not about to challenge you. Not as long as you leave them a hole in the corner-and when have you ever failed to do that?"
"Not this time, for sure," chimed in Kall Oppricht from his seat in the corner. "That proclamation you made last week-the one qualifying the universal citizenship-was a genuine stroke of genius. I thought you were making a mistake at the time, risking all the good will you've built up with the Emeralds and the Islanders-not to mention the Haggen and Ropers-but… not so. They don't even seem to be grumbling, and in the meantime-"
He started chortling. "I swear by the gods, I must have had no less than fifty gentrymen approach me by now. Each and every one of them avidly trying to get a recommendation from me for a good Emerald or Roper or Haggen-even Islander! — ah, what's that new term you favor?"
" 'Businessman,' " replied Demansk.
"Yes, that." He made a little face. "Crude word, I've got to say. They don't call it that, of course-most gentry prefer 'reputable tradesman or merchant.' But, call it what you will, they've got money to invest-scared shitless their lands won't be worth much of anything by next year-not the vaguest idea in the world how to make an investment in manufacturing or trade turn a profit-and plenty of non-citizens eager to leap-frog the five-year waiting period you decreed."
Demansk nodded toward Gellert, sitting in a different corner. "Credit where credit's due. It was Adrian's idea." As always, he made no mention of his son-in-law's peculiar triple personality. In fact, Demansk suspected the idea had originated from the one called "Center." But only he and Helga-and Trae now, too, of course-knew of that secret. Or ever would, except possibly Olver. Here, as elsewhere, Demansk would use his family as the second string to his bow.
Olver himself spoke next-to Adrian, not his father. "Weren't you worried the Emeralds would have a fit? After Father had promised them immediate citizenship?"
Gellert shook his head. "Not really. I was a bit concerned about how the Ropers and Haggen would react. But since they enjoy auxiliary nation status already, I didn't think they'd care that much. The Islanders, of course, aren't about to throw a public tantrum. Not with two regiments in Chalice and another two brigades sitting on the beach a few miles away. The Emeralds…"
Demansk wondered if he was the only one in the room who found the smile which came to his son-in-law's face far too ironic for a man still in his early twenties.
"I'm not sure anyone not an Emerald can ever quite understand the way we lunatics think. You remember the joke about why it takes eight Emeralds to slaughter a pig?"
Everyone nodded, several of them grinning.
"Ah-but you don't really understand it. Emeralds find that joke funny too, you know-because of the eighth man in the story. The sophist who argues the pig's side of things."
He shrugged. "It's hard to explain. Let's just say that Emeralds appreciate a good maneuver for its own sake." He inclined his head toward Demansk. "Most of them understand well enough what the Triumvir's doing. Giving the Vanbert upper crust a hole in the corner, if you will. You've got five years to find yourselves a partner who needs your blessing to get rich. After that, you'll have to face the grasping, greedy-and very capable-bastards on your own. Because, five years from now, their citizenship will be as good as yours. "
"Crude, crude," chided Oppricht. "Almost as bad as 'businessman.' But-accurate."
Accurate, it was. Every move Demansk made leading up to the emergency Council meeting was designed for the same purpose: turn the world upside down, mix it up, break all the old crusted and rancid layers-while still leaving everyone a hole in the corner.
For the slaves, immediate emancipation for those under Albrecht's rule and at least the hope of eventual emancipation for all others. So much for theory. In practice, Demansk was also creating the economic conditions which would dissolve slavery like so much acid.
For the slaveowners, enough of an illusion that-if loyal to the "legitimate Council"-they could retain their slaves; combined with enough uncertainty to start them thinking about alternatives. So much for theory. In practice, Demansk was also providing them with the alternatives. Sharecropping for some; investments in new enterprises, for others; and-though he hadn't really unveiled this yet, and wouldn't for some time-the prospect for the rising generations of gentrymen to become well-salaried public servants doing useful work instead of a class of drones and tax-farmers, good for nothing except fighting wars.
For the people of the subject nations, he was offering full citizenship. Delayed for five years, true enough-only those who could demonstrate a citizen "sponsor" could skip the waiting period. Still, it was a clear and definite end to what had seemed the endless prospect of Vanbert's iron heel. So much for theory. In practice, most of those folk would not find their lives changing much-and, when it did, often for the worse. For all the aristocratic sneer behind it, the dictum of the old Emerald political philosopher Llawat had more than a grain of truth in it: "Freedom is simply the freedom to starve."
In the name of "justice," Demansk was unleashing much injustice into the world, and knew it perfectly well. But he was not trying to create "j
ustice," in the end. That task was quite beyond his power, great as it was. Justice would have to take care of itself, in the years to come. What Demansk could do was shatter a world which made justice impossible.
Finally, there was his masterstroke. The same "silly" Emancipation Proclamation which Arsule derided because it freed those Demansk could not free and kept enslaved those he could, was the thing-so he thought, at least-which would win him a civil war.
Arsule was a brilliant woman, in many ways. She was certainly capable of grasping things which were normally beyond the imagination of her class. But, ultimately, she was a noblewoman from the top of her glossy black-and-white hair to the soles of her well-manicured and lotioned feet. Hers was a world of bright conversations, and art, and philosophy. She simply didn't understand-couldn't understand-the way the world looked to the men who, when all was said and done, would thrust Demansk to power and keep him there.
Jessep Yunkers; Forent Nappur-and all the men of that hardscrabble, bitter commonality, especially that of the eastern provinces. Men who, generation after generation, had spent the prime of their lives wearing a helmet and hefting a spear in the service of the nobility-the same nobility which, generation after generation, had driven them off their land and replaced them with slave labor on their great plantations.
What Arsule did not understand was that freedom of the slaves also meant freedom from the slaves. And so, what would the soldiers who filled the ranks of Albrecht's army gathering in Vanbert do? When they discovered, by means of Sharbonow's endless supply of leaflets-the papermakers of Solinga were, not accidentally, one of the most prized catches for "sponsors"-that if their enemy triumphed, they could seize back their land now. Whereas if their commander triumphed, they… could look forward to serving out their term, in the hope that the gracious lord might deign to give them a good retirement bonus.
To Demansk's surprise, the high priest of the Temple of Jassine had grasped it perfectly. "Do you understand what will happen to the slaves of the east?" he had demanded.
"Yes. They will be driven out, by spear and fire. Murdered outright, any who put up resistance. And the rest-cast into the wilderness, left to starve and roam. Do you have an alternative, Priest?"
The old man had looked away, for a time, studying the image of his goddess.
"Part of one, yes."
And so, on the next day-the very eve of the Council meeting-Demansk issued a new proclamation. In light of the misery stalking the land, and out of his deep sense of pity, the Triumvir decreed that anyone who made a donation to the cult of Jassine-properly notarized, of course-would be given twice that amount in the form of a tax forbearance the following year. And, in the case of non-citizens, a reduction in the time needed to qualify for citizenship, the amount of time determined according to a formula whose construction pleased Demansk's bureaucrats no end.
"Piss on it," he'd growled afterward to Sallivar. "You know as well as I do that the damn bureaucrats would filch three quarters of the tax collected anyway. I'd rather trust Jassine's priests to provide food and shelter for ex-slaves than that lot."
Sallivar hadn't argued the point. In fact, he'd even used it to urge Demansk-again, and for the sake of peace at home if nothing else-to give his blessing to Arsule's increasingly strident demand for the formation of what she called a "new and greater Grove."
"Sure, and the youngsters will learn some foolishness. But at least we'd have a generation of public servants who'd be educated enough to catch each other stealing."
"Done."
Arsule was suitably pleased with her husband. The night before the Council meeting, she kept him up very late indeed.
"I have got to get some sleep."
"Oh, damnation, I suppose so." The long fingers stroked his chest, seeming to revel in the sweat. "It's just… I am growing very fond of you, Verice. You excite me, always do."
"I'm almost a corpse," he croaked. " Please don't tell me you've decided to experiment with necrophilia."
She gurgled a laugh into his neck. "I draw the line somewhere, you know. Speaking of which, I got rid of the ropes. I wanted to try it out, but… the truth is, I don't like being immobilized."
"Pity. At least with your hands tied-will you stop that?"
"Oh-phft! Sleep, sleep, sleep, all you think about any more."
"That's a foul and damnable lie," he wheezed, "and you know it-you of all people." He managed to lever himself up on an elbow and gaze down on her.
"Truth is, girl, I'm growing very fond of you myself. In between wanting to strangle you, anyway." Hastily: "No, that's not a suggestion."
She smiled lazily. "Oh, good. In that case-yes, yes, tomorrow night, of course, not now-I want to try something out of this marvelous book Sharlz gave me the other day. You know, they may be just barely this side of barbarism, but the islanders do have some interesting customs. For instance…"
By the time she finished explaining the "for instance," Demansk was lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. The look on his face wasn't quite one of sheer despair. Despair there was, to be sure, and in goodly measure. But there was also "Gods, I love that little gleam in your eyes. Don't lie, Verice!"
"Can't," he croaked. "I'm saving all my lies for the morning-which is now not more than three hours away. I have got to get some sleep."
"Oh, all right."
She left off anything but cuddling then; which, as always, got Demansk to sleep quickly and easily. But when he rose at sunrise, he found to his surprise that Arsule was awake also.
"Think of it this way, Verice," she murmured as he began clothing himself. "This is probably the first Council meeting you've ever attended which will seem like a restful occasion."
His lips quirked. "An exaggeration, woman. But… not without some merit."
He came up to the bed, stroked her cheek, and turned to leave. But a hand on his tunic turned him back.
"Come home in triumph, Verice Demansk. Your Vanbert wife demands it."
"And if I do?"
Throughout the day, the ensuing smile kept flashing into his brain-sometimes at the most awkward moment. But return in triumph he did, even if it was late in the evening; and, as he returned, the smile seemed to draw him like one of Gellert's bizarre new "magnets."
"Done, woman," he announced, entering the bedroom. "Triumph indeed. All proclamations ratified by the legitimate Council-which, of course, used the occasion to declare itself such. A new Triumvirate elected. They didn't even choke much at Forent Nappur, though I think one or two of them may die of apoplexy in the next few days contemplating his 'Registry.' Not at all, at Prit Sallivar-ha! Compared to Forent, Prit looks like a blueblood."
Arsule laughed. "What a trio! You, a gentryman, and a plain and simple peasant. Where it all began, after all, so why not?"
"Just what I said, when someone-that verminous little Wrachet-whined that Forent's Registry seemed illegible." He snorted. "It damn well should. Enry hired the best forger in Solinga to draw it up."
"And you?"
He preened histrionically. "As I foretold. 'First among equals,' of course-no more, no more. But they did insist — the vote was unanimous, believe it or not-that I take on a special title." Relaxed, more seriously: "Better that, of course, than plain and simple 'dictator.' "
"So? What was it? Adrian's proposed 'Principal'?"
"No, no-too damn Emerald foppish. These are solid Vanberts, remember. Decadent, to be sure. But this once, at least, they held their breath and seized their ancestors."
He hopped onto the bed-and a goodly portion of Arsule as well. " 'Paramount,' woman! And don't you forget it!"
"Oh, marvelous!" she cried, drawing him down the rest of the way. "Exactly what the book calls for!"
Chapter 29
Don't be an idiot, Adrian, said Raj Whitehall. He's going to kill his oldest son, the first of his babies who came into the world and whom he can still remember cradling in joy and wonder. Of course he wants his daughter at his side.
Except Arsule. And you can thank whatever gods there are that she shares his bed every night. If we do manage to keep this man sane, in the years to come, she'll play the largest role in the doing. And the gods help the world if we don't.
Adrian remembered the old Emerald saying: "Whom the gods would cast down into madness, they first raise on high." you can find that saying, in one variation or another, on all planets and in all times, added Center. it's the derivative of another famous old saw: power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. what people often fail to understand, however, is that the rot strikes at a man's intellect much faster than it does at his morals. gigo, a later time would call it: garbage in, garbage out. a man with the power to punish anyone never hears anything except what he wants to hear. or, what's worse, what his subordinates think he wants to hear-and they don't dare ask him what it is. such, at least, is the tendency-and it is very hard to counter.
Adrian sighed. "Yes, Father, of course. Helga can come on the campaign with us. And the children too. Jessep's already told me he's bringing Ilset-who's got another new baby of her own, you know. So if Helga needs a wet nurse, we'll have one she trusts at hand."
He was not happy about it. Adrian knew perfectly well how difficult it would be to keep Helga far out of any danger. The damned woman "Damn girl," chuckled Demansk. But the tone had a certain warmth in it, and the harsh lines in his face seemed to be fading a bit. "I know she'll drive us both half insane, but…"