Of Helga, he saw even less. Much to Demansk's approval — even glee — Helga's husband had invoked ancient custom and ordered her seclusion in their mansion in Solinga.
* * *
Quite outraged, he'd been, when she finally confessed the truth.
"You were pregnant!? Bad enough you charged up in the first place! But—pregnant?!" Demansk, present at the time, thought Adrian's stomping up and down in the salon of their mansion was a tad undignified. Not to mention the rather wild waving of his arms. But, then, he was an Emerald. One had to make allowances.
"Jessep says you jumped off the wagon!"
"Did not! Well — I don't think. Couldn't have! It was a good eight feet off the ground. I'm sure—"
"Silence, woman!" The ensuing pointing of the finger to the private quarters was excellent, Demansk thought. Quite up to Vanbert patriarchal standards of the old school. Admittedly, the fact that he had to physically manhandle Helga thither — which was no easy task, and gave him a black eye in the doing — detracted somewhat from the august majesty of the occasion.
When Adrian returned, nursing his wounds, Demansk cleared his throat and said: "You realize you won't be able to keep her there."
"Sure I can! Well, for a few weeks, anyway. After that, she'll be too gravid to climb the walls of the villa." With the eye still open, he peered through the spacious archway which connected the salon with the patio and the grounds beyond. "Um. I think."
Demansk was already reaching for his purse. Thanks to Arsule, it was bulging again. "No," scowled his son-in-law, "I am not going to place a wager on it."
* * *
He did see Arsule at night, however. Without fail.
Demansk didn't really take her threats if he did otherwise seriously. He'd come to understand Arsule well enough to know that she really wasn't attracted to gigolos. And, even if she were, no gigolo in Solinga — anywhere in the continent — would be insane enough to cuckold Demansk. The story of the pirates bobbing in the harbor was now as well known everywhere as it was in Chalice. And the name Enry Sharbonow, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, was more often than not spoken in whispers.
The threat of embarrassing him politically was a more serious business. Even without meaning to, Arsule embarrassed him politically often enough as it was. The idea of her trying to do so was. . awesome.
Mainly, however, he spent every night with her because he enjoyed it. Immensely, truth be told. For all practical purposes, Verice Demansk had been celibate since his wife died. He hadn't realized how much he missed the company of a passionate woman until another one was sharing his bed. And if he didn't feel the same warmth toward Arsule that he had toward Druzla, well. .
He reminded himself firmly that it had taken several years of marriage before he and Druzla became truly intimate. That too, after all, had been a marriage arranged for political reasons. He'd hardly even known Druzla before the wedding. And, in his more honest moments, he admitted that for all the passion of her love-making, his former wife had been rather unimaginative about it all. Whereas Arsule was anything but. She'd managed to surprise Demansk more than once — even shock his somewhat staid Vanbert soul — in the nights after their wedding.
Not, he would admit in his most honest moments, that his sense of shock had ever prevented him from enjoying what followed. Even relishing it, more often than not.
Oddest of all, perhaps, was that he woke up every morning feeling refreshed and alert, even though he was getting less sleep than ever. He would spend a few minutes enjoying the lassitude, enjoying the sight and feel of Arsule's naked and voluptuous form enveloping him — she was a cuddly sort of sleeper — before prying himself loose and rising to the tasks of the day. Occasionally, that awakened Arsule, in which case she would demand that he return to bed for a time. A very pleasurable time. But, not usually. Unlike Demansk, she was a heavy sleeper; and, unlike Demansk, was not accustomed to rising with the sun.
* * *
In truth, the marriage was turning out to be a blessing, in many ways; and less of a nuisance than he'd expected.
Not that much less. He'd been prepared for Arsule's loquacious tongue; for her obsession with the arts; even for her sometimes salacious sense of humor. What he hadn't been prepared for was the energetic way she threw herself into the politics of the time. Which, given Arsule's measure of energy, could be downright frightening at times.
* * *
"No! No, no no! Damnation, Arsule, I can not extend the emancipation to all the slaves. If I even breathed a word to that effect — damn you, woman, if you even breathe it! — every nobleman who's rallied to me — half the gentry too! — would race back to Albrecht. Are you mad?"
The most infuriating thing about Arsule, he often thought, was the way she responded to his chastisement with nothing more than serenity. The worst kind of serenity, too — the sort a mother bestows on a headstrong and foolish child.
"But it's so silly, Verice. You know as well as I do that once you uproot slavery in half the continent it's bound to collapse everywhere else. Within a generation, I'd say — probably even faster, once your beloved new factories start serving as a beacon for runaway slaves. You know as well as I do—"
"That's not the point. What I know and you know is one thing. What we rub the aristocracy's face in is another."
"— and the same goes for this nonsense you've been telling them about — what do you call it? Sharecropping?" She threw back her head. "Ha! Why in the world would any freedman agree to become a sharecropper when all he has to do is pack up his family and head for the nearest town? Where now—thanks to you — there'll be work for him."
"Plenty of 'em will," replied Demansk sulkily. "You watch." Long enough to let me get away with it, he added to himself mentally. But he saw no reason to say that aloud.
Since Arsule, naturally, said it for him.
"Oh, sure. For a few years, yes. At least those ex-slaves with no previous skills — which, don't forget, many of them have because they're war captives." She waved her hand airily. Despite the heat of the moment, Demansk found the gesture a bit enchanting. Arsule really did have very lovely hands — and adept ones, to boot.
"But so what? Unless you're going to reimpose the same slave laws under a new guise — which you are not, I trust?" This with a frown which intimidated even Demansk; he shook his head quickly.
"— then as soon as any significant portion of the freedmen start abandoning the land, the rest of them will start driving up their share of the arrangement. You know that as well as I do!"
"I'm counting on it," he growled. "The faster the gentry and the nobility — what's left of them, after we're done — start thinking of other ways to secure their fortunes than stupid land deals and tax-farming, the better. Nothing will stop them from looking to the cities either, you know."
She studied him for a moment, then shook her head fondly. "Ah, Verice. I sometimes think you're enchanted with maneuvers for their sake. Well — so be it. I certainly won't embarrass you in public on the subject, of course. I know my wifely place."
He almost choked, hearing that last. Now there would be a miracle. .
* * *
True, in the days thereafter, Arsule had breathed not a word in public of her opinion on the subject of the much-discussed "Emancipation Proclamation." Unfortunately, Arsule had a very strict definition of the term "public," which did not include her "private" soirees and salons — not one of which failed to draw less than a mob.
* * *
Strangely enough, however, neither Prit Sallivar nor Enry Sharbonow nor any of Demansk's other close advisers shared his disquiet over Arsule's conduct.
"Relax, Verice," said Sallivar. "You don't understand — Arsule makes you look good."
"To put it mildly," chuckled Sharbonow. "She's a marvel with the gentry, especially. They and their wives flock to her salons in hordes — imagine! them! sharing an evening with the Premier Lady of the Land! — and then scurry away at the end of the night chattering to each other about that insane noblewoman — and isn't it a blessing she has such a sensible husband to keep her under restraint."
Demansk did choke, hearing that. As it happened — at her insistence, dammit — he had restrained her the night before. Quite literally, with velvet ropes she'd obtained for the purpose. Arsule could be. . exotic, at times.
After clearing his throat, he said: "Well, I suppose. But it's a different story with the noblemen. Sure as hell their wives. They know damn good and well that a woman in her position has far more influence in the real world than the fine patriarchal principles of our ancestors allowed for. Even in the old days, much less now."
Sharbonow shrugged. "Yes, true. And, so what?" He gave Demansk a sidelong glance, as if estimating the limits he dared push a matter. Then, apparently, decided the limits were extensive. "Triumvir, I think you're allowing yourself to be overly influenced by the aristocracy's attitudes. Not surprising, really, since you've been spending so much time with them lately. And correctly so, let me add, since it's essential that the upcoming emergency Council meeting goes smoothly. But—"
"Oh, stop being such a damned diplomat, Enry," grumbled Sallivar. "Verice, you're getting spooked! Who gives a shit what the noblemen really think? Most of them have rallied to Albrecht anyway — and the ones who've taken refuge here under your wing are not about to challenge you. Not as long as you leave them a hole in the corner — and when have you ever failed to do that?"
"Not this time, for sure," chimed in Kall Oppricht from his seat in the corner. "That proclamation you made last week — the one qualifying the universal citizenship — was a genuine stroke of genius. I thought you were making a mistake at the time, risking all the good will you've built up with the Emeralds and the Islanders — not to mention the Haggen and Ropers — but. . not so. They don't even seem to be grumbling, and in the meantime—"
He started chortling. "I swear by the gods, I must have had no less than fifty gentrymen approach me by now. Each and every one of them avidly trying to get a recommendation from me for a good Emerald or Roper or Haggen — even Islander! — ah, what's that new term you favor?"
" 'Businessman,' " replied Demansk.
"Yes, that." He made a little face. "Crude word, I've got to say. They don't call it that, of course — most gentry prefer 'reputable tradesman or merchant.' But, call it what you will, they've got money to invest — scared shitless their lands won't be worth much of anything by next year — not the vaguest idea in the world how to make an investment in manufacturing or trade turn a profit — and plenty of non-citizens eager to leap-frog the five-year waiting period you decreed."