She leaned a bit closer. "It's odd, though. Since Toman died — he did get killed in a whorehouse brawl, you know, the rumor's quite accurate — I've led quite the proper widow's life. I suspect I was mostly just retaliating. Well, almost. There was one sculptor, a couple of years ago, for about a month—"
"Arsule!" Despite everything, Demansk was still enough of an old-style Vanbert nobleman to feel a little shocked. Not by her history itself, so much as her ready willingness to talk about it.
"Oh, stop pretending to be shocked. Verice, the only difference between me and half the rich bitches in this city is that at least I picked my lovers for their other talents. Never been a single gigolo — not one — who wormed himself into my bed."
That was probably true, he thought. In this as in everything, Arsule Knecht would make the world fit her tastes, not the other way around.
"Enough," she proclaimed, the grin fading into a smile. "I dare not test the famous Demansk virtue any further, I can tell. All right, Verice. I'll listen to whatever you have Prit say to me. Truth is, I suspect I'll agree—but!"
There was no smile now, and her face came back level. "One condition — tonight. The high priest of the Temple of Jassine is here, and I insist that you speak with him."
Demansk couldn't prevent the grimace. Jassine was the goddess of mercy, and her temples provided whatever there was in the Confederation by way of poverty relief. Which. .
Wasn't much.
"They're getting overwhelmed, Verice," she said softly. "Every year, it gets worse and worse."
"Yes, Arsule, I know. But—"
Now, she was cross-eyed. "Oh, stop it! Do you think I'm an idiot? Obviously, if you're to be a new Marcomann you'll be spending your own money like water on other things. I don't want your money, Demansk, I want your mind." For a moment — miraculously — there was a pause. She even seemed to swallow a bit. Then, very softly: "Most of all, I suppose, I want your soul. I trust you, Verice Demansk, believe it or not. Druzla would never have married a monster in the first place, much less spent two happy decades with him. If I didn't, I wouldn't even consider this. But you must promise me you'll think about what the high priest has to tell you."
That much he could do. Think, yes — even if no answer came.
"Done," he said.
An instant later, she was sweeping him through the door. "Everyone — look who's here! Verice, this is my latest protégé—Gaorg's the most brilliant dramatist, the evening's devoted to him, in fact — have you seen his latest tragedy? — no, of course not — don't mind him, Gaorg, he's not really a boor he just pretends very well—"
Chapter 6
As Demansk's velipad approached the little house, he felt a certain awkwardness coming over him. Almost shame, truth be told. He had always meant to visit the First Spear after the man retired, but. .
In the months since the siege of Preble where the First Spear sustained his career-ending injury, something always seemed more pressing. It was not as if Demansk and the First Spear had been personally close. He didn't even know the man's name.
Still, there had been a certain bond forged between them, in those days of savage struggle against the Islanders armed with Gellert's bizarre and frightening new weaponry. And Demansk was acutely aware of the fact that his grandfather would have known the First Spear's name — that of every First Spear in his regiments, in fact — and would have visited the man, long before this.
And wouldn't have had an ulterior motive for doing it, either.
* * *
Perhaps to assuage his own feelings of guilt, Demansk's first words were blunt and honest.
"I'm afraid I came for a reason, First Spear. Though I should have come earlier, for which I apologize."
The former First Spear of Demansk's First Regiment lowered his head, his heavy-jawed face flushing a bit with embarrassment. The motion brought the man's scalp into Demansk's view. He was pleased to see that the wound seemed to have healed well enough, even if the scarring was heavy and the coarse black hair almost nonexistent in its vicinity.
"You needn't, sir," mumbled the First Spear. "I hadn't expected you to."
Demansk suppressed a sigh. No, the man wouldn't have expected it. But his own grandfather would have. There was a time when Vanbert bonds had run deep.
He couldn't repress a second sigh entirely. The First Spear, he knew, came from the eastern provinces of the Confederacy. At one time, he would have retired there, settling in for a comfortable old age among his own folk. Now—
Demansk's eyes scanned the flat terrain which surrounded the house. Flat, and just a bit arid. Typical of the farmland available in the recently conquered western provinces. The farmland in the east was better, but most of it had long since been gobbled up by the expanding slave-operated great estates of Vanbert's aristocracy. So, when the chirurgeons informed Demansk that his First Spear would survive the wound but would never be able to serve in battle again, Demansk had given him this land out of his own great estates.
"Any of your kinfolk nearby?" he asked abruptly.
The First Spear, obviously relieved to have the awkward apology behind them, raised his head and smiled. "Yes, sir. Quite a few." He pointed a thick finger to the north. "A good chunk of my clan lives up that way. When I told them—"
He hesitated for a moment. Then: "Well, sir, it's like this. I guess you told your land manager for the area to run easy on the prices, for me and mine. So a goodly number of my kinfolk moved here from back home. Got a little village up there now and everything. Even our own temple. Nothing fancy, of course."
Demansk felt his feelings of guilt ease. He'd forgotten that he'd given those instructions. Eyeing the still-muscular figure of the First Spear, he found himself smiling faintly. Between Demansk's instructions and, he had no doubt at all, the veiled threats of the First Spear and his clansmen, the land manager had clearly decided not to apply the usual gouging tactics.
He heard a little noise behind the First Spear's shoulder and lifted his eyes. The figure of a young woman had appeared in the doorway of the house, with an infant cradled in her arms.
Demansk chuckled. "I see you didn't waste any time."
The First Spear turned his head. The smile which came to his lips seemed at odds with the blocky, brutal-looking face.
"Saw no reason to, sir. That's Ilset, the daughter of my second cousin Polter. I'd had my eye on her since she was no more than eight years old. Always made it a point to visit whenever I went home between campaigns." He tapped the scar on his head. "By the time this happened, she was already sixteen. So's as soon as I could move about I got home quick before someone else could sneak in ahead of me. Polter was willing, since I wasn't asking for much in the way of a dowry."
He jerked his head to the north. "As it happens, Polter wound up moving out here too. Things in the east are. . not good, anymore." For a moment, his face darkened. "A free farmer doesn't stand a chance there, these days."
The young woman — not much more than a girl, really — gave Demansk a timid smile. He returned it quite cheerfully.
Better and better, he thought, giving her lush figure a quick and discreet inspection. Helga will need a wet nurse anyway, and if the First Spear's willing. .
He cleared his throat. "As I said, I didn't really come here on a simple visit, First Spear. I need to ask you if you'd be willing to come back into my service again." Hastily: "Not as a troop leader, mind. Not exactly, anyway. I wouldn't expect you to do any actual fighting."
The First Spear winced and rubbed the scar on his scalp. " 'Fraid I can't. Fight, I mean. I can do most anything else — didn't even seem to lose any of my wits. But the chirurgeon told me that my skull's not up to any more blows. Kill me straight up, he said."
His dark eyes studied Demansk for a moment. Then, he turned his head again and looked at his new wife. "I dunno, sir," he mumbled. "I wouldn't mind, myself. Been kind of bored, to tell you the truth. But Ilset's not really old enough to run the farm on her own, and. ." He swallowed. "Truth is, I'd miss her something terrible."
The last remarked warmed Demansk — and, perhaps oddly, reassured him. The one uncertainty he'd had in coming here was the First Spear's temperament. As a troop leader, the man had been superb. It was no accident that he'd risen to the highest slot a ranker could be promoted to. But the inevitable social distance between someone like him and a noble Justiciar in the modern Confederacy had made his actual personality an unknown factor to Demansk.
What pleased him was not so much that the man obviously doted on his wife. That was not really uncommon, for all the officially patriarchal nature of Confederate society. It was the fact that he was so readily able and willing to admit it. That spoke both to the First Spear's deep self-confidence as well as his lack of concern for long-standing custom.
Both of which he's going to need, thought Demansk, if he agrees to my assignment.
"That's not a problem," he said. "As it happens, I'd prefer it if your wife accompanied you anyway." He rushed ahead, forestalling the next objection. "And you needn't worry about the farm. I'll buy it back from you for twice what you paid for it — including extra for improvements — and I'll set aside a large retirement bonus for when the assignment's done."
Honesty forced him to add: "Though I can't tell you how soon that would be. Several years, most likely."
Again, the First Spear's dark eyes studied Demansk. Then, without taking his eyes from the Justiciar, he turned his head a bit and growled: "Go back into the house, Ilset. And close the door."
She obeyed promptly. Clearly enough, however much the First Spear doted on his wife, he retained the usual authority of a Confederate husband in his own family.
After he heard the door close, he took a long, slow breath. "Begging your pardon, sir — I realize it's not really my place to ask — but. . how dangerous is this assignment really going to be, if I take it? Not for me, but for my kinfolk."