But she didn't spend much time on the matter. By now, one thought following another, her mind was focused on the brother himself. Adrian Gellert, in whose arms she had spent many a night lying naked — and enjoying every minute of it.
New images came to her, then, of naked male body parts and a male face seen in focus — all of it and not just a leer. But there was no horror in these images. She thought she was done with that horror forever.
She hoped so. The problem she faced now was a problem she hoped she would always face, whenever she had trouble falling asleep. For which there was a simple and practical solution, even if she had found masturbation a poor substitute for the real thing, since she met Adrian Gellert.
Dammit, beloved enemy, if you're not there when I arrive—
I'll kill you. I swear I will.
* * *
She finally managed to get to sleep then, wafted away on new thoughts of vengeance. The methods by which she planned her possible murder of Adrian Gellert varied quite a bit, in their precise details. But all of them involved death from exhaustion.
Chapter 13
Demansk's "tomorrow" had actually turned into four days before he was ready to strike against Governor Willech. He was learning that, in political as well as military maneuvers, logistics was always the lynchpin. It was easy to plan what amounted to a provincial coup d'etat, but actually implementing the deed required time to move the needed bodies around.
Granted, there weren't all that many bodies to move, compared to the forces involved in a major military campaign. And since most of the bodies were already in the provincial capital of Solinga, there wasn't the usual endless difficulty with fodder and supplies. But those advantages were offset by the fact that the bodies in question had minds of their own — and it was a lot harder to get officers to agree to a coup than to a straightforward military assault.
Demansk's own officers, the ones in command of the three brigades he'd brought with him to Solinga, were not the problem. Those three brigades had long been under Demansk's authority. Their officers and even the noncoms down to the First Spears of all the battalions had been personally selected by Demansk.
But, if at all possible, Demansk wanted to keep those troops on the sidelines. For political reasons, things would go much more smoothly — in the Confederate capital, if not here in Solinga — if it was local troops who carried out the purge.
And that would have the further advantage of keeping the bloodshed to a minimum. The two regiments in Solinga which were clearly loyal to Willech would be less likely to resist a coup being carried out by regiments they knew well. By now, many of the soldiers in those two regiments would have formed personal liaisons with the soldiers in the other four. They would have informal ways of getting assurance that the purge wouldn't touch their own ranks — as long as they stayed in their camps and barracks. Whereas dealing with Demansk's own troops, just arrived in the province, they would have no idea what to expect.
Which left the problem, of course, of solidifying the allegiance of the four regiments he wanted to use. Yes, three of the four commanders of those regiments were his own protégés. But a commander could not simply assume that all his officers and noncoms would follow orders, when it came to something as politically risky and irregular as a coup d'etat. So, even with those three regiments, Demansk had to take the time to have quiet private conversations with at least most of the key officers.
He did not bother trying to solidify the allegiance of the fourth regiment. He was quite certain, after meeting the commander of that unit, that the man would keep his soldiers in the barracks and out of the way. Which, for the moment, was quite good enough. Edard Noonan had all the earmarks of a politically savvy officer, the type who got his command in the first place through his efforts in the corridors of power rather than the fields of war. It was clear enough that he had sensed which way the wind was blowing. The last thing Noonan would do was try to protect a corrupt governor from a newly-elected Triumvir arriving in Solinga with the authority of the entire Council behind him.
* * *
Good enough, though Demansk. And who knows? If Noonan proves capable in the field I may even let him keep his command.
He turned his attention to the three officers in the room with him. It was the morning of the fourth day since he'd told Prit Sallivar to prepare for a trip to Vanbert to explain to the Council, on Demansk's behalf, just why he'd found it necessary to remove the provincial governor and assume direct control of the Emerald lands as Triumvir.
"I'll let you decide," he said, giving each of them in turn a steely gaze. At least, he hoped it was steely and not just menacing. Demansk was finding that as his power grew, he could no longer be as certain as he once was exactly how his expressions and mannerisms would be taken by those who saw them. Both pups and full-grown direbeasts yawned, after all. The expression was cute in the first; not, in the other.
"But," he warned, "make sure — whichever one of you is chosen for the post — that you understand clearly my conditions. The new military governor of the province will be my direct representative, not the Council's. So anything you do will reflect upon me, and I will take it badly if I am embarrassed."
He left the rest unsaid. Of all the men in Solinga, these three officers certainly didn't need to have the penalties for "embarrassing" Demansk spelled out in detail. They knew the details, already — had to, since they were about to carry them out.
The oldest of the officers, a trim gray-haired man named Kirn Thatcher, smiled faintly and gave a nod of his head toward the youngest.
"My vote's for Ulrich, then. He's Haggen gentry. They're an incorruptible lot of yokels, not like us decadent Vanberts proper."
That was Ulrich Bratten, whose coarse black hair and dark complexion indicated his heritage. He came from Hagga, the Confederacy's auxiliary nation in the far northeastern peninsula of the continent. Like the Roper League, Hagga retained the formal trappings of being an "independent realm," even if in practice it was simply a vassal of the Confederacy. It was not unusual at all for Haggens and Ropers to ignore the fiction altogether and simply enlist directly in the Vanbert army.
Bratten frowned. "Not sure that's such a good idea. The Emeralds have never been too fond of us Haggens. The gods know how many wars we fought with the bastards before Vanbert stifled the lot of us." He sounded vaguely distressed by the latter, as if the big and vigorous-looking young general officer regretted the passing of those lost days when Haggen and Emerald phalanxes clashed almost annually on the open plains between the two neighboring countries.
"I don't care about that," stated Demansk. "I'm not trying to cater to the Emeralds, just keep them contented." He ignored Thatcher's little snort of derision. It wasn't aimed at him, and he tended to share Thatcher's skepticism concerning the likelihood that the notoriously fractious Emeralds would ever be "content" about much of anything. "As long as the province is governed fairly and firmly, with no more tax-gouging and other illegal levies, that'll be good enough."
"I agree," added the third of the officers. That was Robret Crann. In age somewhere between Thatcher and Bratten, he was much heavier built than the other two general officers. He gave Thatcher a somewhat reproving glance. "I've been here longer than either Kirn or Ulrich. Personally, I've always found Emeralds easy enough to get along with. Sure, they use three words when one would do, and it always takes them an hour to get to the point. But they're not that impractical, when you get right down to it."
The look of reproof segued into a sly smile. "As any commander who's been swindled by an Emerald supplies provisioner can testify."
That brought a little laugh into the room from everyone, even though Thatcher's face was half-scowling. The famous metaphysical penchant of Emeralds did not extend to their merchants, who were stone-cold empiricists to a man.
Demansk planted his hands on his knees and straightened up on his couch. "Ulrich?"
The young officer hesitated for not more than a second. "I'll do it. Even though—" His young face, every line and angle of which practically exuded vigor, was not that of a happy man.
Demansk chuckled. "Relax, son. I'll be very surprised if the Island campaign is the last chance you'll ever have to prove your mettle in the field. Besides, you've already done that anyway — it's the reason you're the youngest brigade commander since. . well, since me. And you didn't have my family connections. That promotion was won on the field, and well deserved."
He rose, took a few steps, and clapped Bratten on the shoulder. "The truth is, the experience will be good for you. You know it as well as I do."
After a moment, Ulrich nodded. Although the rank he held was, in military terms, that of a general commanding a brigade, the formal Vanbert term for it was actually magistrate in arms. Above the level of battalion commander — whose rank was either "battlemaster" or simply "battalion," depending on whether the man who held the command was promoted from the ranks or received his appointment directly from the Council — the Confederacy of Vanbert drew no sharp lines between military and civil posts. Depending on the circumstances of the moment, a Vanbert leader was expected to be able to exercise competent authority in any field of political or martial endeavor.
Ulrich Bratten was one of the rare cases of a man who had risen to high command exclusively through his military ability. A fact which was explained, of course, by his ancestry. The "Confederacy" of Vanbert was theoretically a realm of equal nations, with no distinction made between the original twelve tribes and the various auxiliary nations which had been accreted to it over the centuries. The practical reality was different. With few exceptions, membership in the Council was reserved for those noblemen who could trace their ancestry back to the "First Twelve."
Of course, in the modern Confederacy, "tracing their ancestry" was a lot more complicated than it had been in former times. Here as in so many ways, Emerald philosophy and rhetoric had shaped the culture of their conquerors. The distinction between Being and Becoming had been the first to fall, once Emerald dialecticians got their hands on it.
"You'll need to hire a genealogist," murmured Robret Crann. The sly smile was back on his pudgy face. "I can recommend a very good one, by the way."
Ulrich scowled. Crann and Thatcher both enjoyed teasing the young general about his lowly origins. In Thatcher's case, the teasing had at least a solid basis. Thatcher, like Demansk, came from one of the Confederacy's long-established elite families.
Crann's claim to "noble Twelve blood," on the other hand, was stretched about as thinly as the tunic over his potbelly. If it hadn't been for his undoubted military skills, the claim would probably never have been accepted at all by the Council's Registrar, despite the size of the bribe. Everything about Robret Crann, from his penchant for gourmandizing down to his heavy accent, practically shrieked: peasant from the east! parvenu! lowly soldier risen above his station!
But. . however grudgingly, the Registrar had not challenged the claim. Vanbert was practical, if nothing else. Officers like Crann were almost invariably popular with the soldiers, and nobody really wanted to irritate the army. Marcomann's dictatorship had been occasioned, among other things, by the festering resentment among his troops at the continuing prejudice against the poor easterners who filled most of its lower ranks.
"That's settled, then," said Demansk. He glanced at the hourglass on a small table in the corner of the room. "And it's time. Let's do it."
* * *
Demansk probably wouldn't have had any trouble himself smashing down Willech's door. But, since he had the largest soldier in Crann's regiment assigned to the task, he let him do it. The six-and-a-half-foot-tall giant, with the weight of full armor added to his own, went through the door like so much wet paper. He didn't even seem to break stride.
The other eight men in the squad followed on his heels, pouring into the Governor's luxurious suite like greatbeasts stampeding into a mansion. Demansk heard Willech shout something incoherent, heard a cough and a sigh, another shout — more like a shriek — from Willech, and then came into the room behind his soldiers. Doing his best to move ponderously, as suited a solemn magistrate about his duty, rather than sauntering gaily. Demansk had known Willech since they were both children romping in the corridors of Vanbert's public buildings. He'd detested the seven-year-old boy; the decades which had elapsed since had done nothing except give adult comprehension to the reasons for the detestation.
The first thing he saw, entering the room, was one of Willech's bodyguards. The regular soldier assigned the duty on a daily basis, this one. Demansk was sorry to see it, though not surprised. The soldier was lying on his back, clutching a spear wound in his belly. Blood was gushing through the fingers and spilling onto the plush red-violet carpeting. That had been the cough and sigh he'd heard.
The other bodyguard was Willech's personal one. No soldier, he, but a retired veteran of the arenas. The scar-faced ex-gladiator was standing in a corner of the room, pinned there by two squad members pressing their assegais against his ribs. His hands were raised pacifically, his sword lying on the floor not far from his feet.
Clearly enough, with the reflexes and mercenary nature of such a man, he'd made no attempt to stop the soldiers once he saw the force piling into the room. Willech be damned. Even if his master still hadn't regained his wits, judging from the continued screeching coming out of his mouth, his professional bodyguard had figured it out within a second. A change in power. Time to find a new job.
After a glance, Demansk ignored him. He gave another glance at Willech himself. The Governor was standing up, having apparently risen from a richly-upholstered stool spilled over behind him. The small writing desk at which he'd been working was spilled the other way.
There was nothing "hard and tight" about Willech's face now. The Governor's usually pale complexion was flushed so heavily that he seemed on the verge of outright apoplexy. His small hands were clutched into fists, which he was waving in front of him like an Emerald-style bare-handed fighter — except no real pugilist would have done it so awkwardly. So far, at least, the words coming out of his mouth were too incoherent to make any sense of. More like an animal's bay of fright and fury than a man's cry of distress.