He heard Jeschonyk slurping wine. Long enough, apparently, to drain the entire goblet. At least, the sound of it clinking back down on the tile floor had an empty aura about it.
Empty — but, in its own way, firm.
"Oh, I decided last year. I guess I really came up here just to make sure my decision had been the right one. Of course, that's not what I told the Council."
Hearing the old man wheeze as he levered himself back upright, Demansk looked at him again. A bit to his surprise, Jeschonyk was smiling. Almost cheerfully, in fact.
"There's this much, anyway," the senior Triumvir chuckled. "My legs and lungs may not be what they used to be, but my brain isn't rotting. At least, I can still tell the difference between a demon and a direbeast, and figure out which one of them is going to gut the other."
After a moment, the humor on Jeschonyk's face faded away, to be replaced by something which might almost be called sadness.
"There is one thing, Verice."
"Yes?"
Jeschonyk's lips twisted. "The one other part of my body that still works just fine, oddly enough, are my loins. I'm sure you know about my, ah. . oh, let's be honest and call it my hareem."
Demansk nodded. "Five girls, I've been told."
"Um. Six, actually. I added another two months ago. A luscious little thing I found — ah, never mind. The point is. ."
He lowered his head and ran fingers through his thin hair. The year before, at the siege of Preble, that hair had still been gray. Now, most of it was white.
"The point's this, Verice. My wife died years ago and my children are all full grown and long gone. Don't even see much of them any more. So those girls are really all that matters much to me, personally speaking."
He looked up, a pleading look in his eyes. "I'm an old lecher, I'll admit it, but I'm not a pervert. I've never demanded anything from them other than — well, you know. The usual. The truth is, I think they're rather fond of me. I'm certainly very fond of them. So. ."
"I'll see to it, Ion. Whatever happens." Demansk cleared his throat. "Though — I suppose this isn't really proper, coming from a 'demon'—I can assure you that I have no intention of doing you any personal harm." A bit of exasperation came into his voice. "Why would I? Damn it, I'm not a casual murderer!"
Jeschonyk shrugged. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Verice. Who knows what you'll have to do? But none of it should require involving half a dozen slave girls, most of them illiterate and not one of them older than twenty." Again, his heavy sensual lips made that wry grimace. "If the word 'innocent' means anything at all in this foul world, they are indeed innocent." His voice grew so low it was almost a whisper. "So. Please."
"Done. I swear it." He paused, for a moment, thinking. "Though — make sure you tell your girls, so they'll know — I'll make the arrangements through Arsule Knecht."
Jeschonyk almost choked. "Knecht? You've got her on your side too? Gods save us — she's even richer than she is crazy."
Demansk gave him a crooked smile. "Oh, she's not really a lunatic, you know. Just, ah, an enthusiast, let's call it. But she also has a larger body of household troops in the capital than anyone except Albrecht — a lot bigger than yours — and nobody really takes her seriously as a political factor." A bit harshly: "Except me."
Jeschonyk nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll be returning to Vanbert tomorrow. Is there anything special you'd like me to pass on to the Council for you? Other than the usual platitudes, half-truths and outright falsehoods?"
Demansk barked a laugh. "I'd miss you too much for that alone, Ion! There are times — I swear it before the Gray-Eyed Lady — when I think you are the only truly innocent man in the whole Confederacy. The only honest one, for sure."
Seeing the look of outrage on Jeschonyk's face, Demansk held up a placating hand. "Relatively speaking, of course. You are a legendary lecher, Ion, have no fear. And I'm using the term 'honest,' ah, in what the Emeralds would call an 'aesthetic' manner. Lyrically, if you will, not dramatically."
"Damn those limp-wristed faggots, anyway," grumbled Jeschonyk. "Can't even call an honest lie by its right name."
* * *
That evening, in the same room, Demansk met with what he had come to think of as his "inner council." These were the handful of men, each of them holding the new title of "Special Attendant to the Triumvir," who served as the fingers for his fist. The fist itself, of course, being the army.
Not all of them were there. Leaving aside Jessep Yunkers, who was — and would be for some time — with Helga in the southern continent, there were two others residing in the Confederacy capital at Vanbert. But all the key ones were present: Prit Sallivar, Forent Nappur, Sharlz Thicelt, of course; and two newer ones: a Vanbert politician distantly related to Demansk by the name of Kall Oppricht, and the Emerald merchant Jonthen Tittle — who, ironically, was distantly related to the Gellert family.
After sketching his meeting with Jeschonyk, Demansk addressed his first remarks to Oppricht. "You'll see to that, Kall? Make whatever arrangements you have to in order to make sure that Ion's girls are put under safe guard in the event. . something happens. And while you're at it, see to the safety of Jeschonyk's entire household. Ion didn't mention them, but I know his servants have been with him a long time."
Oppricht nodded. Then, gave Prit Sallivar a quick glance. Something in the way of an appeal, it seemed, as if a subject needed to be raised which he was loath to bring up himself. Unlike Sallivar, Kall Oppricht was not an old friend of the Triumvir's.
Sallivar straightened and opened his mouth. But before he could utter a single word, Demansk was shaking his head.
"No. Absolutely not. Don't even bother raising it, Prit."
"Verice—"
The Triumvir's face was set, his jaws tight. "No," he rasped. "I understand the logic, Prit. Since an assassination of Jeschonyk by my enemies — coming at the right time — would give us the best possible way to take power in Vanbert with the least possible fuss, the question is naturally posed: why not arrange it ourselves, and place the blame on them?"
"Especially since they're undoubtedly already plotting to do it," murmured Oppricht. Demansk gave him a hard look, but the politician did not flinch. He might not be an old friend of the Triumvir's, but Kall Oppricht would never have agreed to become a special attendant if he hadn't felt he understood Verice Demansk. And part of that understanding was that Triumvir Demansk was not a man who would punish an underling for speaking his mind.
"It's just a fact, sir," he said quietly but firmly. "I'd bet a large sum I could even name the ringleader — Jacreb Quain, one of Albrecht's right hand men." He nodded toward Sallivar. "Prit's equivalent. Quain would just be the paymaster, of course. The actual blood work would probably be done by thugs working for one of Albrecht's tame street gangs."
Demansk sighed, then rubbed his face wearily. "I don't doubt it, Kall. The answer is still 'no.' Some crimes simply can't be done in the name of expediency. In the end, my reputation for being good for my word is worth far more than any clever maneuver would bring us."
"I agree," said Sharlz Thicelt. Sallivar and Oppricht gave the islander a look which was half startlement, half outrage. This — from a pirate?!
Thicelt grinned. "Take the advice of an experienced robber on this. Honor is more important to thieves than anyone, for the good and simple reason that they do not have recourse to the law."
He shook his head with vigor, causing his heavy gold earrings to flop about alarmingly. Fortunately, Thicelt's earlobes were built on the same massive scale as his nose. "Let the suspicion spread that Triumvir Demansk is dishonest as well as ruthless, and you will turn every possible neutral into an enemy — and half your allies into neutrals. He who would be a tyrant must first of all be trusted. Trusted to keep his word as much as trusted to break your neck if you oppose him."
"Well said, Sharlz." This came from Forent Nappur. Oddly enough, in the months they had worked together, the former Islander pirate and the former eastern-province common soldier had become quite good friends. The friendship was all the more odd in that it had begun with a ferocious brawl in a tavern, precipitated by an exchange of racial insults. The giant Forent had won the brawl, of course. But he'd carried a good set of bruises himself, for a number of days afterward.
Demansk was not quite sure how to account for it. To some degree, it was simply the mutual respect of low-class men who had tested each other's manhood and not found it wanting. But he suspected — feared, almost — that it derived mainly from the fact that these two were really the most ruthless of his close advisers, and had formed a natural alliance.
The most ruthless, by far — despite the fact that, as again here, their advice was usually less outwardly cold-blooded than the advice Demansk got from his more cultured and upper-class lieutenants.
But that was, ultimately, the problem. Or, it would be better to say, simply the reality. However much they might be adherents to Demansk's project, such men as Prit Sallivar and Kall Oppricht — even the Emerald Jonthen Tittle — were very much "men of the established order." All of them were wealthy, highly educated, born into good families. They could understand, abstractly, the seething fury at the injustices of Confederate society which bubbled silently in the depths of the poor millions of that society. But they didn't really feel it.
Neither did Demansk himself, for that matter. He was smart enough, however, to recognize its existence. And he knew, without a doubt, that neither Sharlz Thicelt nor Forent Nappur would blink an eye at the complete destruction of much of what the others still held dear. Either Thicelt or Nappur would torch a nobleman's mansion in an instant—any nobleman's, Vanbert or Emerald or Islander — without caring in the least that an excellent library or collection of artwork was going up in flames along with it.
Why should they? Neither one of them had ever been invited to partake of those pleasures of noble society. Thicelt had gone to sea as a destitute waif in the streets of Chalice at the age of six. At the same age, Nappur had been working in the fields of the hardscrabble east.
That was largely what made them so useful to Demansk, of course. Thicelt and Nappur could gain the allegiance and trust of men whom the others could barely even talk to. Such men as Nappur's network of enforcers and spies among common soldiers, who had by now imposed a subtle but iron clamp over the army. Or Thicelt's equivalent network among the sailors of the huge fleet which would transport that army to the Western Isles.
Still, they were a bit scary. Demansk was glad that both of them tended, on a personal level, to be rather phlegmatic in temperament. Even, in the case of Thicelt, flamboyantly good-humored.
It was time to bring this matter to a close. Only the Emerald had not spoken. Demansk looked at him, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow.
Jonthen Tittle shrugged. "This is really outside my area. But I tend to agree with Forent and Sharlz, Triumvir. And I can say this: a large part of the reason the merchants and guildmasters of Solinga and the other Emerald cities have been so cooperative is that they have decided you can be trusted." The smile which followed was a bit rueful. "As Sharlz said, trusted to break their necks if they are too obstreperous — just as you did last week with—"
"The man is quite healthy," interrupted Demansk, mildly. "Amazingly so, in fact, for a convicted swindler."