Ten brigades, the gods save me. Even allowing for most of them being understrength, that's still something like fifty thousand men. The biggest army ever fielded in the history of the world, leaving aside the tales in ancient legends.
You won't have to face that many, countered Raj. If I were in Tomsien's place — and I've been there, lad — I wouldn't be bringing more than six of those brigades. That'd be more than sufficient, under normal circumstances. Which these aren't, because of the Hussite tactics you'll be using. But Tomsien won't understand that. In fact, he probably doesn't even know about it. From what I can tell, at least, he's been incredibly lax about gathering intelligence.
Center interjected. always a mistake, dealing with barbarians. especially because spies are so easy to hire. one tribe will readily spy on another, and vice versa, for a small amount of money or trade goods. but tomsien suffers from the typical arrogance which afflicts empires in decline.
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 standing 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."