Jeschonyk chimed in. "Your daughter-in-law's family aren't all that well placed, Demansk. They'll say nothing, if they're slipped some quiet bribes."
Demansk had expected this moment to come. So he was a bit surprised at how difficult it was to keep his rage from showing. It helped that he understood the reason. Tomsien, for all his slow way of thinking, had clearly assessed Demansk's oldest son quite accurately.
Barrett was. . not the son that Demansk wished he were. His daughter, the youngest of his four children, seemed to have gotten twice her share of Demansk honor — and all of it taken from the oldest. Barrett Demansk was a typical scion of the modern nobility. Ambitious, greedy, and — Demansk didn't doubt it any more than Tomsien — would be quite willing to discard a wife who had already borne him a child in order to make a more advantageous match.
"Which of your daughters?" he grated.
Tomsien shrugged. "Any of the three. Take your pick. It doesn't matter to me."
Demansk left that problem for a later time. He would allow Barrett to make the choice, in any event. His son would choose unwisely, and that too would further Demansk's scheme.
He took a moment to bid farewell to a piece of his own honor. Then:
"Done," he said softly. "But, now that I've given you the personal assurance you insisted upon, I will demand myself that I be given complete authority over all Confederate naval forces. Every ship, every crew — and whatever else I need to crush the King of the Isles. I will have my vengeance."
Tomsien's hand was too thick to wave languidly, but the fat Justiciar came as close as possible. Now that he had settled the deal in a manner very favorable to himself, he was quite willing to concede the crumbs from the table.
"Whatever you need," he agreed. "So long, of course, as you don't touch my armies, and don't try to extract resources from the southern provinces."
Demansk shrugged irritably. "I wouldn't do it anyway. I am principally motivated by my concerns for the Confederacy, Tomsien, whether you believe it or not. You'll be needing those armies and resources yourself, soon enough. Don't doubt for a moment that the Southrons will begin raiding again, as soon as they hear that we've committed a major expedition to conquering the Western Isles."
Tomsien said nothing. Indeed, he looked away, as if in momentary fear that Demansk might be able to read his thoughts.
Pointless, that. Demansk could read them easily enough. Tomsien was calculating the future. After he broke the Southron probes and launched his own offensive into the southern half of the continent. With its wide rich lands. . And two partners in a triumvirate, one of them old and the other possessed only of naval power. Who was to say that there might not be another dictatorship? Marcomann had done very well for himself, when all was said and done, even if he'd left something of a mess behind him when he died.
Demansk watched as Tomsien, eyes turned away, made the same calculations concerning the future that he had made of his daughters. Any of them. Take your pick. It doesn't matter to me. The havoc he might wreak in the lives of others was irrelevant, so long as it worked to his advantage.
* * *
Three hours later, when the day was almost done, Tomsien left the villa. Demansk remained behind in the chamber for a few minutes. Something in Jeschonyk's expression had made clear that the Speaker Emeritus wanted a few last private words.
"And now that he's gone, Verice, tell me what you're really planning."
Demansk was a bit startled. Jeschonyk hadn't addressed him by his first name in years.
The old man chuckled. "And please — spare me the speeches about the needs of the Confederacy. Not that I doubt you, mind. But nobody is that disinterested."
Demansk frowned. "I don't see where my motives really matter, Ion. You sat through this entire meeting, even if Tomsien and I did most of the talking and the bargaining. You know as well as I do that he came out of it with the most. I'd think you'd be worrying more about him than me."
"Cut it out, Verice. The thing about Marcomann, you see — people forget this because of his brutality — is that he was smart. Without his wits, all his land grants and his armies wouldn't have meant anything. Tomsien's simply not in that league. You are."
It was probably futile, but Demansk decided to try a ferocious scowl. "Dammit, I gave what amounts to a hostage to Tomsien! My eldest son. You know as well as I do that he'll make sure Barrett lives within his reach."
For the first time in hours, Jeschonyk lifted himself up out of the languid, half-reclining position of a true nobleman. He sat up straight and stared at Demansk. Then, sighed heavily and looked away.
"The gods help us, you are motivated by nothing more than principle." His old shoulders seem to shiver a little. "Most dangerous thing in the world, that. Bloodiest, for sure."
Jeschonyk's eyes came back to him. "A 'hostage'? And so what? Tomsien's incapable of understanding the thing, because his own daughters are nothing more to him than bargaining counters. But you—"
It was Demansk's turn to look away. Corrupt those old eyes might be, but they were still wise.
"You refused to pay ransom for her, now didn't you?"
Demansk rose abruptly from his couch. "I don't see any point to this."
Jeschonyk made a little rueful gesture. "You're probably right. Just do me a favor, when the time comes?"
Demansk stared down at him. Jeschonyk chuckled again. It was a very harsh sounding chuckle. "Remember that I am not incorruptible, when it comes down to it. So there's really no need for knifework. A little stipend will do the trick."
He glanced at the ceiling. "Well. . not that little. I do have appearances to keep up. And I'm sure you wouldn't deprive an old man of the chance to find his own preferred way of dying. At my age — tired heart, all that — a healthy young girl is likely to work better than a sword anyway. Especially several at once."
Demansk studied the ceiling. The frescoes really were phenomenally well painted. And phenomenally detailed.
"Done," he said softly. Turned, and left.
Chapter 5
When Demansk left Jeschonyk's villa, it was still before sundown. The villa was on the northern outskirts of the capital city of Vanbert. Demansk realized that he still had time to make another visit before he left the next day on his journey back to his own estates. Which meant that an issue he'd postponed in his mind had to be settled.
After passing through the gate of the villa, he hesitated. The soldier holding his velipad — one of Demansk's personal household troops, not a regular — began bringing the mount up to him. Then, hesitated himself, when he realized the Justiciar was irresolute about something.
Some part of Demansk's brain was mildly amused at the way the soldier's jaw seemed to sag a little. Demansk was famous among his troops for his decisiveness. As well as notorious for it. Seasoned veterans appreciated the trait, on campaign and especially in a battle; generally detested it, at all other times.
He could see the Knecht villa from here, he realized. Given that it was the largest and most splendid villa in the Confederation, perched atop the most prestigious hill in the city, that was not entirely surprising.
"Just do it," he said to himself firmly. "Druzla's shade will never forgive me if I don't."
He took the reins from the soldier, who was the sergeant of the Justiciar's little escort, and nodded toward the distant villa. "We're headed there."
"Ah, yes, sir. Ah—" The soldier, as was true of all the men in his squad, was not very familiar with the capital. In fact, to the best of Demansk's knowledge, this was his first visit to Vanbert. Like all provincials, he was feeling overwhelmed by the place. With a population of a million residents, the city was six times larger than any other in the world.
"Don't worry, Sergeant, I know the way." Demansk smiled. "Just pretend you're riding ahead of me."
"Ah, thank you, sir." The sergeant scurried to his velipad. By the time he'd mounted, Demansk had already started trotting off.
It had been years since Demansk had visited the Knecht villa, and in times past he'd always approached it from another direction — the southeast, where he and Druzla had maintained a large villa of their own in the capital. After his wife died, Demansk had maintained the place — having a prestigious villa in the capital was a necessity for prominent noblemen of the Confederacy — but had henceforth spent little time in the capital.
Druzla had loved Vanbert, with its endless rounds of salon discussions, artistic pursuits and dramatic diversions. So Demansk and his wife had visited the city often, and their villa had become in fact as well as in theory their second home. Demansk had been quite willing to indulge his wife's tastes, even if he didn't particularly share them.
As he moved toward it, down one of the spacious boulevards which graced the richest parts of the city, Demansk studied his destination. The Knecht villa was magnificent, not simply grandiose, and the setting sun illuminated it beautifully. Toman Knecht had employed the finest architects to design it, the best craftsmen to build it — and had then spent a large fortune to fill it with what was, without question, the finest and largest collection of art in the world.
Given the size of his fortune, after all, Toman Knecht could afford to do so. He was thought at the time to be the richest man in the world — even after he built and accoutered the villa — and probably was. Nor, since Toman's death five years earlier, was there any sign that his family's wealth had declined. His widow, Arsule, shared all of Toman's extravagant tastes, true; but she also shared — even exceeded — his uncanny ability to amass and retain the wealth which made it possible. And she employed a financial adviser who was immensely capable, as Demansk well knew. His name was Prit Sallivar, and he was Demansk's own financier as well.
Demansk sighed. That was part of the knot he was trying to untangle — or cut in half, to be precise.
Prit Sallivar, along with many others, occupied a gray area in Confederate society. Vanbert's expansion had, over the past two centuries, produced a rather large class of wealthy men risen from the gentry — risen far above the gentry, measured simply in terms of money. But they were not part of the aristocracy, a fact which was driven home to them whenever, as the expression went, they "acted above their class." Some of them could, given time and the expenditure of half their fortune, leverage their way into the nobility. Albrecht's own grandfather had done so; effectively buying his grandsons — if not himself or his own sons — a seat in the Council by marrying a widow whose splendid title had been turned into a hollow shell by her former husband's profligacy.