Undreth nodded and was gone. As Jeschonyk had suspected, no one really paid any attention to his departure. Between his age and the fact that, as Watchman, he was expected to periodically act as a "sentry," Undreth's absence was not taken too seriously by Jeschonyk's opponents. In truth, Undreth himself was not taken too seriously.
Albrecht's speech went on, thunderously; and, soon enough, began giving the name to the peril.
— deprived me of my rightful victory — collusion with the pirates — now his own son to marry one of the detestable creatures — setting himself up like the tyrants of the epic tales — could not be clearer — must act now before the monster—
This went beyond "disrespect for a public official," far beyond it. Albrecht had said nothing of Jeschonyk, as yet, but it would be only a matter of time before he started to bend his speech in that direction.
But then, to Ion's surprise, Albrecht broke off.
"And what of Tomsien, you ask? Where does he stand? Rather than speak on this matter myself, I ask that the floor be turned over to a man just come from that honest Triumvir's side."
Albrecht did not even bother with the formality of turning to the official chairman of the session. He simply waved a heavy hand, much like a man summons a dog.
When the "dog" rose and trotted forth, Jeschonyk sighed. This, too, Verice foresaw. I thought he was being too gloomy.
Jeschonyk had known, of course, that Barrett Demansk was making ties with Albrecht and his faction. But, until this moment, he had not realized that the ties had become open partisanship.
Demansk's oldest son had little of his father's innate dignity, and even less of Albrecht's practiced public demeanor. Standing in the middle of the chamber, awkwardly assuming the stance of a public speaker, he looked more like a boy playing a role in a drama than anything else.
The opening words sounded stilted, rehearsed — even ridiculous.
— great sadness — my own father — but duty to the nation—
"Blah, blah," muttered Ion. "Get to the point, you treacherous little snot, whatever it might be."
Histrionically, even more so than custom dictated, Barrett plucked a scroll from his robes and held it up.
"I have here, written before my own eyes by my father-in-law at his field headquarters where he valiantly prepares to do battle against the" — here followed a truly ludicrous list of the Southrons' faults and vices. Jeschonyk found it hard not to laugh aloud.
Bestial and filthy, certainly; and for subhuman you could at least make a good case. But cowardly and craven? Not hardly, you ambitious little twerp, or your precious father-in-law wouldn't have taken six brigades with him.
Barrett paused and took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the climax. Then, surprised Ion again. "But rather than read it myself, I insist that Triumvir Jeschonyk do so! For he, as the senior, must take final responsibility for the actions of the Triumvirate!"
So that's it, is it? Place me squarely in the middle between Verice and Tomsien — I can just imagine the lies he told in that scroll — and try to force me to choose publicly.
This time, he really did have to struggle not to laugh. He was surprised that Albrecht was attempting such a crude maneuver. Jeschonyk was just as capable of lying through his teeth and then, a day later, officially changing his mind, as Albrecht himself. He supposed this was Albrecht's sop to whatever was left of Barrett Demansk's "principles." Give the old man a chance to do the right thing.
"No problem, laddie," Ion murmured to himself, as he rose and stepped forward into the center of the chamber. "You're about to see one of the world's champion liars put on a marvelous demonstration of the art."
He was rehearsing his speech even as he took the scroll and began unfolding it. Politely, Barrett stepped aside. Not so politely, Ion turned his back on him.
After I finish reading it — I know what it'll say, whatever the exact words — I'll be shocked and sorrowful, but have no choice but to agree with Tomsien that the Triumvirate failed of its purpose and must be dissolved. Due to the treachery and overweening ambition of Demansk, of course. I'll retire from public life, naturally. The shame and disgrace of it all. Blah blah blah. Tomorrow—
But it was time to read the scroll. Jeschonyk went right into it, not bothering to scan the contents ahead of time. He was as experienced and capable a public speaker as any in the Confederacy, after all.
Nor, once he got into it, were there any surprises.
— great distress when I learned — shocking stab in the back to the august Justiciar at Preble — the Triumvirate now clearly seen to be a mistake — will remain at my post — deal with the barbarians first — full confidence in Justiciar Albrecht as new Speaker—
Jeschonyk almost choked at that part. Not in disgust, simply in disbelief. Is Albrecht a complete idiot? Can't he see that Tomsien is just using him to remove Demansk — so that he can return with ten brigades at his back, after he defeats the Southrons? What good will your street thugs do you against them, you moron?
But he was just playing a part, and so he droned on.
— restore the true traditions of our fatherland — but not enough — must also root out all treason, hidden as well as overt — above all—
Finally, Ion understood. He stopped his recital abruptly, stared out at nothing, and uttered the words which would make him immortal — because the men who heard them never understood they were addressed to an absent twenty-year-old slave girl.
"See? I was right to stick with duty. An escort wouldn't—"
The ceremonial sword slammed into his back just above the kidney, and drove straight through. In that, at least, as well as the good steel and sharp edge of the blade, Barrett Demansk was true to the father he was betraying. The shock drove Jeschonyk to his knees.
For a moment, he stared down at the blood spilling off the tip of the blade protruding from his belly. He recognized a mortal wound, of course, but found that he didn't really care. There were words. .
A curse, rather. I've said what could be said to Kata.
He managed to fall on his side, so he would be looking up at his killer. Barrett was staring down at him, his murderer's hand still outstretched and his mouth half open. Like many men who nerve themselves to commit an unthinkable act, he was almost as much caught up in the shock of the moment as his victim.
Barrett swallowed; then, managed to get out his assigned words — though more in the way of a squeak than a bellow of indignant triumph. "Death to tyrants!"
"Cretin," said Jeschonyk. "The world's champion fool. Did you think—"
Albrecht's ax, hacking his throat, cut short the sentence as well as the life of the speaker. "Death to tyrants!"
Jeschonyk never felt the multitude of other blades which plunged into him, again and again, as Albrecht's partisans scrambled to pledge their new allegiance. Nor, thankfully, did he see the massacre perpetrated on the dozen or so other men in the chamber who had been, for years, his closest allies. Even, here and there, his friends.
The dullness of most of the ceremonial swords and axes which were being wielded in the massacre meant that men were being bludgeoned to death as much as being "cut down." When it was all over, the chamber resembled a charnel house — and of Ion Jeschonyk himself, there was less than a bad butcher would have left of a pig's carcass.
* * *
It would be said later, and grow into legend, that his entrails and ears and private parts were displayed throughout the city by Albrecht's street gangs. The legend was false, as it happens. Only the ears were so displayed, having been cut off for a trophy by one of Albrecht's toadies. The rest was simply cremated.
But it was hard to argue against such a legend. Especially when the man who spread it the most energetically would have printing presses at his disposal.
Those devices, also, were being constructed at Chalice at Verice Demansk's command. His son Trae had brought the design back with him, from Adrian Gellert, along with many others.
* * *
Hearing the tumult in the streets, followed by the bursting of the mansion's front door, the other girls cowered fearfully in a corner of their chambers. Kata did not. She knew, somehow, that the noise meant that Jeschonyk was dead. But—
She had come to trust the old man, as well as grow fond of him. So, when the soldiers came into the room and the other girls began screaming, she just hollered at them.
"Shut up, damn you!"
To the officer who seemed to be in charge:
"Where are we going?"