"With you guarding us in the courts, and Esmondi's sword, my husband and I are quite safe," she said, and snapped her fingers.
Two maids in long plain gowns — plain Western Isle cotton that would have bought two good riding velipads — came from somewhere they'd been discreetly waiting. Lady Redvers swept away in a waft of lilac scent.
Adrian calmly walked along the row of scrolls and found Smanton's Commentaries on Early Popular Assembly Edicts and Precedents Thereunto, sat on the couch and began reading, scrolling left to right.
"Bit distracting, all that perfume," he said after a moment. "And are there foundation garments under that sheer silk? I find it hard to believe they stay up like that naturally."
He looked up sharply at his brother's growl. "Something's wrong," he said, a statement rather than a question.
"Of course something's wrong," Esmond growled, flushing and rubbing at his neck. "I didn't come here to be a he-whore, for one thing."
"No, you came to be a weapons trainer," Adrian said. "Maybe you can teach our esteemed patron to use his double chin to throttle his opponents."
"Wilder Redvers would fall down with an apoplexy if he ran three times around a training track, much less fought a bout in armor," Esmond said bitterly. "It's the fashion to have an Emerald weapons trainer, a victor of the Five Year Games. Next year it'll be philosophers, or dancing dogs. And his wife—"
Adrian grinned. "Come now, it's not as if she was eighty — and bodyguard is a perfectly respectable job here." Insofar as being anything but a wealthy Confederate citizen was respectable. "And Wilder Redvers would fall down dead if he had to do that, as well."
His smile died as Esmond looked around, making a careful sweep of the nearby parts of the library. "Brother, that isn't why I asked you to meet me here—she just happened in, damn it. You've got to listen to me. This is serious."
"What is serious?" Adrian said. "Beyond our patron's imminent bankruptcy, conviction for extortion and malfeasance in office, and cordial invitation from the Conciliary Court to open his veins in the bath? And that's the talk of the law courts, let me tell you."
"Because Redvers isn't going to sit and wait for the man with the dagger," Esmond said bluntly. "Listen." His voice dropped to a whisper. "This morning. ."
* * *
"Admit the Emerald," a voice said from beyond the doorway.
The guards weren't Redvers family slaves, Esmond saw. They were Confed Army veterans, grizzled stocky men with legs and arms like knotted trees. Not the smooth athlete's muscle Esmond wore, but perfectly servicable. . and the assegais that glittered in their hands had seen plenty of use.
"Sort of a tall, tow-haired one, looks like a pansy with a sword, sir?" one of the veterans said, grinning and leaning on his shield. "Give us a kiss, pretty boy."
"Admit him, I said, you oaf!"
"Shall we take his sword, sir?"
"Admit him!"
The veterans straightened to a braced attention. "Sir, yessir!" the other barked. They slapped the blades of their assegais across the bosses of their shields. "Pass, Emerald!"
Esmond straightened his shoulders and walked through the fretted-bronze doors. He'd never been in to Redvers private apartments; they were less gaudy than he'd expected. . although that was probably his wife's taste. High coffered ceilings, decent murals — by an Emerald artist, of course — and geometric-pattern floors. Pillars gave out onto balconies overlooking a courtyard of rosebushes and palms, with fountains in the shape of seagods. A dozen silk-cushioned couches of silver-inlaid bronze surrounded a table with cherries, figs, and ewers of wine; a dozen Confederate nobles lounged at their ease. The only thing missing was the bodyslaves who should have been hovering behind the couches, ready to fill cups or fan away a fly or run an errand.
The Emerald brought a fist to his chest and bowed. "Lord," he said, suddenly conscious of his native accent. "You summoned me?"
His eyes flicked across the assembled nobility. A good ten or twelve million arnkets around the low table. . but at least twice that in debts. Young Mark Silva, who'd managed to assemble the slowest stable of racing velipads in Vanbert, and bet the family estates on them. Johun Audsley, a famous general and famously bitter former associate of Ark Marcomann, an even more famous general who'd died in retirement and not left a thing to his right-hand man. Tows Annersun, who'd run for every elective office and managed to offend so many highly-placed people that he'd won none of them, despite a fortune in bribes and games and free wine. . and his esteemed patron Wilder Redvers himself, ex-governor of Solinga Province for the Confederacy, extortionist and thug. A fleshy balding man just on the wrong side of fifty; muscled like a bull greatbeast when he was young, and now with a great sagging belly and wobbly undersides to his arms.
But not entirely a fool, Esmond reminded himself. He'd even been a competent general once, in the western wars a decade back.
He'd also spent every penny he'd wrung out of his province on trying to be elected Speaker of the Popular Assembly, one of the two magistrates who ruled the Confederacy, as much as anyone did. Virtually every well-established noble family in and around the city must have thrown their influence and clientage against him, for him to have lost after spending that kind of money.
And without the opportunities of a Speaker, he was doomed. If his creditors didn't get him, the lawsuits of the provincials would — they'd be able to attract more than enough patrons in the capital, anxious to bring Redvers down and feed on the estates that would go on the block.
"Do sit down, over there, Esmondi," Redvers said. "Pour me some wine, and yourself, my boy."
Little Esmond, the little Emerald, Esmond thought, grinding his teeth as he smiled and obeyed.
"We've brought you here to discuss a little matter of politics," the Confederate noble said.
Esmond managed not to choke on the wine. Politics were for Confederate citizens—rich Confederate citizens, if you went beyond the level of the dole-feeders selling their Popular Assembly votes. Vision took on the clarity of desperation, the same bright hopping focus he'd had before the Five Year Games. One or two. . no, three of the guests weren't what they appeared. Purple-edged tunics and robes, yes, but those hard furtive eyes didn't have the lordly arrogance of the nobles beside them. Gang bosses, he thought. The type who could deliver a ward for a patron, or see that the other side's canvasers hurt bad or just disappeared. Some of them were as powerful as many Justiciars or generals. .
The others murmured among themselves, nibbling on little pastries rich with nuts and creamed bananas, sipping at their wine. And looking at me, Goddess be my shield.
"My lord honors me beyond my worth," he said smoothly. I may not be a rhetorician, but I've been listening to Adrian all my life. "If my lord will open his mind to me, I will assuredly do my poor best to aid him."
Redvers nodded. "As you may know," he began, "I was recently cheated — foully cheated — of my legitimate election as Speaker of the Popular Assembly. By corruption! Unprecedented, extra-constitutional corruption! Interference from the Council!"
Esmond darted a quick look at Audsley. Audsley's mentor Marcomann had been the one who ended the last round of civil wars, and he'd restored the powers of the Council and restricted those of the Popular Assemblies. . Audsley smiled and nodded.
"To cleanse the State, a fire is needed. Drastic measures! Only thus can justice, peace and good order be restored!"
Grave nods, glittering eyes.
"My lord, may the gods themselves aid your enterprise." Esmond shot to his feet, then went to one knee, drawing and offering his sword. "I see that a new age is about to dawn for the Confederacy!"
"Well, well, that's very handsome of you, Esmondi," Redvers said. "Each one of us has a part to play, you see. Councillor Audsley is collecting a sufficient force among Marcomann's veterans — many of them living in poverty, despite their many services to the State."
Having blown their loot and land grants on whores, dice and wine, Esmond thought. They'd come back from the Western provinces staggering under the gold. . or rather the innumerable slaves they'd taken had staggered. Marcomann had used them to climb to the highest office. Usually the Confederacy had two Speakers, one for the Popular Assembly and one for the Council; Marcomann had been Sole Speaker from the day his troops marched in and the proscriptions began to the utterly unexpected day of his retirement. He'd died in bed, too, which was a strong argument for the belief that the gods did intervene in human affairs.
"These other gentlemen will rise in arms on the appointed day. Some will seize the public buildings; others will start fires and riots to distract the City Companies. And you, my dear Esmondi. ." Redvers smiled. "It struck me just now. . there are so many foreigners in Vanbert these days. Emeralds especially; why, there are twenty or thirty Emeralds in my household, aren't there? And you're what passes for a great and famous man among them, aren't you?"
"I have some small influence, yes, my lord," Esmond said. A Five Year victor did have a fair number who knew his name. That wasn't exactly what Redvers was looking for, but Esmond had no intention of lessening his value. He'd already heard far too much to live if they suspected for an instant he wasn't with them or wasn't useful.
"And you'll be rewarded for it," Redvers nodded. "Why, even Confederate citizenship. . perhaps the narrow stripe and a modest estate in the provinces." He beamed, the furrows beside his fleshy beak nose deepening. "All you must do is call on the Emeralds and whatnot to rise and kill the leading corruptionists on the appointed day. Won't that cause confusion!"
"My lord, it's brilliant," Esmond said, his voice hushed and sincere. "But please. . pardon my ignorance. . what will Councillor Ion Jeschonyk be doing? I've never seen the Speaker of the Council abroad in the streets without two dozen of his retainers, many of them army veterans or games fighters. And if any of the magistrates should escape and reach loyal garrisons. . loyal to them, I mean. ."
"Clever, these Emeralds," one of the men drawled.
"Well, my boy, all these things have been considered," Redvers said indulgently. "Indeed, mine is the hand — along with a few of my friends here — who will strike down the tyrant Jeschonyk. We'll call on him at home, you see, in the third hour of the morning, before his clients arrive to pay their respects. We'll stab him as he comes to greet us, and with him dead nobody will dare lift a hand against so many Fathers of the State. And Justiciar Demansk has twenty thousand men under arms not far from the capital, the levy for the coming Island campaign."
"Justiciar Demansk is of your party, my lord?" Esmond strove to put worshipful admiration in his tone. Don't overdo it, he warned himself. But then, dealing with these people it was nearly impossible to overdo it. . on the other hand, the gang bosses were less likely to be taken in. If Demansk was with them, they actually had a chance to bring this off.
"Justiciar Demansk. ." Redvers smiled, "is a man of ambition, shall we say, who has been. . approached. So. What do you say, Esmondi my lad?"
Esmond stood and gave Redvers a salute, fist to chest. "Command me, lord, and success is ordained as if the gods themselves had spoken."
* * *