Enry was counting off a third finger. "Then, there's her public denunciation of Albrecht after the massacre. A good third of the aristocracy was appalled by the deed, y'know. Ion Jeschonyk was popular to begin with, and now he's a veritable martyr." He cleared his throat. "Along with courageous Tomsien, of course."
Hastening past that subject: "But she's the only one had the, ah, balls to denounce Albrecht in public. In the capital, at least. So that makes her a heroine, as well."
All his fingers were up now, and Enry was clearly prepared to count them all. He was an enthusiast as well as master of propaganda.
But Demansk cut him off. "Enough, for the moment. We can talk political tactics later. Right now. ."
His eyes fell on Adrian. The blue eyes, he realized, had never left his own face. For minutes, now, that oddly deep gaze had been studying Demansk to the exclusion of everything.
"If you'd all do me the favor — you too, Helga — I'd like to spend some time alone with my new son-in-law. We need to become better acquainted, I think."
A deep gaze. As if, somewhere inside, a man very much like Demansk himself was staring back at him. Blue eyes, bright with youth, which still seemed somehow shadowed. Not by grief, or remorse, or anguish. Simply by. . knowledge.
"Leave now," commanded the Triumvir. "I need this time alone."
* * *
Arsule Knecht arrived three days later. The dual wedding was held the following afternoon.
It seemed as if the whole city of Solinga turned out to watch. Along with, according to Sharbonow, half the Emeralds from the surrounding countryside.
And why not? Whatever else happened, for better or worse, the old days of Emerald humiliation were over. Either Verice Demansk would triumph, and the Emeralds would be able to recast the Confederacy much more to their liking. Or he would go down in defeat, in which case no Emerald doubted at all that Drav Albrecht would inflict much worse than humiliation upon them.
So, rejoice in the day and celebrate the weddings. And then, on the morn, pour back into the new shops where their lord and master's son and son-in-law were forging the instruments that might save the Emeralds as well as enrich them.
* * *
For Demansk himself, the morn seemed a long ways off. The night bid fair to stretch on endlessly.
He and Arsule were alone, the ceremonies finally over. Alone, in the chambers which she would share with him — officially, at least — and sitting across from each other in the salon. He, on a chair; she, lounging in proper style on a couch. He, groping for words; she—
Not.
"Oh, stop ogling me, Verice. Or, at least, don't do it the way a boy ogles the great-great-aunt of the family he's just met for the first time. The one with the ogre's appetite."
She sniffed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were meeting me for the first time." She glanced down at her robes. "Or have you forgotten how many times you and I and Druzla shared a bath together?"
As it happened, Demansk was remembering one of those occasions quite vividly. It had been a rather awkward moment, he recalled. Arsule had been telling Druzla, with great enthusiasm, of her latest artistic discovery. Enthusiasm, with Arsule, was always accompanied by many gestures and a considerable amount of bodily movement. Which, since she'd been toweling herself off at the time, had exposed to full view every portion of her extravagantly female form.
Awkward. Fortunately, the bathhouse was dim and the waters dark, so Demansk's wife hadn't noticed his fierce erection. Not until a bit later, when Arsule had left, by which time he had a perfectly respectable explanation and use for it. Druzla had certainly not complained.
"Thought so," chuckled Arsule. "You remember that one time? I don't think Druzla did — I made sure to get out of there quickly—"
"Not that quickly," he grumbled. "You and your damned hobbies. Not to mention the indiscreet way you dry yourself off."
She smiled. "It's the way I am." The smile began to fade. "And what now, Verice? How do you want it?"
He swallowed, with a bit more difficulty than he would have expected. "It's a marriage of state and necessity, Arsule. I'm not — not—"
"What?" she demanded, an eyebrow arched. "Not a rapist? By law, a husband can't rape his wife anyway. Anything he does, anytime he does it, is quite proper."
" 'Proper' be damned," he snapped. "There was never a time — not once — that Druzla had to be forced—"
"Oh, stop it! Think I don't know that already? She was a good friend, Verice. There was little we didn't discuss, one time or another."
She ran her hands down the robe. It was difficult to be certain, due to the rich and heavy fabric, but Demansk thought the flesh beneath still seemed as firm as the flesh he remembered seeing in years gone by. Close, anyway. Arsule was heavily built, yes; but neither flabby nor obese.
Arsule chuckled again. "As always. 'Verice the Virtuous.' How I sometimes envied Druzla. My own husband was a pleasant enough man, but — gods! — he was a whoremonger. You never even kept any concubines, did you?"
He shook his head. "I've been a soldier most of my life, Arsule. Most such take advantage of the opportunity. I. . didn't. Maybe it was simply because there was too much of it."
"Like a man who abstains at a feast, from watching others gorge themselves sick?"
"Something like that."
Now, it was more of a laugh than a chuckle. "Gods, isn't that just like the man?" She gave him a very dark-eyed look. "So. Tell me, then. When was the last time you got laid, Verice Demansk?"
He tried to find the answer, but his mind was blank. Or, rather, seemed too focused on a woman present to remember women past.
"Thought so. Well, you decide for yourself. But let me tell you what I want."
She looked away. Unusually, for Arsule, seeming uncertain and almost shy. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I didn't agree to this simply for reasons of state and necessity, Verice. I never had any use for gigolos, either, so. . It's been a long time. As I told you once, I believe, after Toman died I even stopped my own adulteries. Well, almost." Her lips shaped a wry smile. "And even that little self-indulgence is precluded henceforth, needless to say. What the widow — even wife — of a Councillor can get away with is one thing. The wife of a dictator. . nothing."
She brought her eyes back. They seemed black, now, no longer simply dark. "I always liked you, Verice — quite a bit — even if you were rude, now and then, about my hobbies. And I always thought you were quite handsome." Almost pleadingly: "I'm too old to bear any more children, so you needn't fear complications in the inheritance. I think your children even like me. Trae, anyway. So—"
"Not worried about that," rasped Demansk. His throat was dry. "I'm planning to adopt a custom my son-in-law told me about—"
So dry, he had to stop and clear it. "Ah, never mind. Official adoption, leave it at that for the moment. It's got nothing to do with the inheritance, Arsule, it's just that — that—"
Arsule clapped a hand to her cheek. "By the gods! You didn't even think about it! So damn busy plotting and scheming and calculating everything else—"
Then, burst into laughter. "Some tyrant you turn out to be! The one time it'd do me the most good!"
When the laugher stopped, the eyes were still dark. But, also, very warm.
"Oh, give it a rest. Let me do the planning and plotting and scheming, at least in our own chambers. And the dictating." She patted the couch next to her, very firmly.
"Come here, husband. Right now. Your wife is filled with lust."
Chapter 28
Demansk saw little of Arsule over the next three weeks, except late at night. He was far too busy organizing the campaign against Albrecht and the upcoming emergency session of the "legitimate Council," which was to take place in Solinga by the end of the month. The month in question was the one Vanberts called Dura, the last day of which marked the traditional onset of winter. Emeralds, naturally, had two different names for the same month, not being able to agree with each other even on a common calendar.
That was the least of the reasons Demansk had to curse Emeralds, however. They gave him more than enough grief on other subjects. Every other subject, it seemed like.
Luckily, he was able to pass most of that grief onto his son-in-law. Among Adrian Gellert's many other talents, his strange "inner spirits" also gave him superlative diplomatic skills. Which, dealing with squabbling Emerald merchants and manufacturers and politicians, mainly took the form of couching his words in a dialectic which, after the fact, could be interpreted in at least five different ways — no less than three of which were guaranteed to be mutually exclusive.