"Interesting idea," drawled Ion Jeschonyk. The elderly Speaker Emeritus lifted himself up on an elbow and swiveled his head toward the man lying on a couch directly opposite Demansk. "What do you think, Justiciar Tomsien?"
Tomsien was staring at Demansk, his dark brown eyes shaded by a heavy, lowered brow. Abruptly, he lurched on the couch and came to a full, upright sitting position. He planted thick hands on thick knees and leaned forward. A full but rather solid belly bulged within the expensive fabric of his robes.
"Interesting," he echoed. "But . . ." His brow was now gathered in a massive frown. "It's not that I don't trust you, Demansk—at least as much as I trust anyone in these rotten modern times." Demansk nodded his head in acknowledgement of the praise, as faint as it might be. "But," continued Tomsien, "I don't understand why you're proposing it. What I mean is—"
"What does he get out of it," finished Jeschonyk. The old politician smiled wryly. "Good question. Your answer, Justiciar?"
Demansk shrugged. "Personally, you mean? About what I said. Greatly increased power, obviously. With that will come the usual riches."
Tomsien was shaking his head before he had even finished. "I can't say I like you all that much, Demansk, but you've never seemed especially ambitious to me. And, as rich as you are already, I can't believe you care much about that business either. So stick with the 'good of the Confederacy' explanation. That's actually believable, coming from you."
The heavyset Justiciar was still obviously dissatisfied. "But nobody is that altruistic. There's got to be some personal angle to this you haven't told us. And before I agree to anything, I want to know what it is."
"Me too," chimed in Jeschonyk.
Demansk was now sitting upright himself; and, like Tomsien, had his hands planted firmly on his knees. He leaned back a bit and studied the ceiling. As could be expected in the villa of a man as wealthy as Jeschonyk, the frescoes were magnificent. Although Demansk thought depicting the legend of Wodep and the forest nymphs in such exquisite detail was in questionable taste for a room devoted to anything other than orgies.
Of course, by all accounts, orgies were likely to take place anywhere in one of Jeschonyk's residences. For all his advanced age and long-standing reputation for political sagacity, the Speaker Emeritus was one of Vanbert's more notorious lechers. His frequent thunderous denunciations of "modern decadence" in the Council chamber had never stopped him from indulging his own private vice.
Demansk's thoughts were not particularly condemnatory, however. Lechery was a harmless enough vice, as such things went. And this much could be said of Jeschonyk—the man had never, unlike many Speakers, plundered the public treasury for his own gain.
He lowered his eyes and gave the other men in the chamber a stony gaze. "I have not explained the specifics of my proposal yet. Forming what I'm calling a 'triumvirate' will bring needed stability to the Confederacy—and, no small thing, keep that greedy pig Albrecht from getting his hands on the Speakership again. Which—you both know this as well as I do—he's been spending enough money to pull off if he's not stopped soon."
Mention of Albrecht, as Demansk expected, caused the aura of vague suspicion in the room to change. Or shift, rather, from his own person. Whatever else, the three men in that chamber had one thing in common: a thorough detestation of Drav Albrecht, the current Speaker of the Assembly and, several years back, the Speaker of the Council. Even by the standards of the modern day, Albrecht took corruption to new heights. Not even the traitor Redvers had been—quite—so mindlessly avaricious.
Demansk took advantage of the momentary "meeting of minds" to drive on. "But that's just the beginning. Stabilizing the political situation in the Confederacy is pointless if we don't use that stability to solve some long-standing problems. The worst of which, in my opinion, lies beyond our own borders. Say better: the worst of which is caused by the fact that our borders don't reach far enough."
Jeschonyk and Tomsien froze. With one exceptional episode, Vanbert had ceased being an expansionist power decades ago. And that one exception had been under Sole Speaker Marcomann, who had used his conquest of the western provinces of the northern half of the continent to set himself up as—in fact if not in name—the dictator of the Confederacy. He had been the last man to hold the Speakership of both the Council and the Assembly simultaneously—an ambition which all the men in that room knew was held by Albrecht. If Albrecht obtained his goal, however, it would be by the profligate use of bribery. Which, in the end, was not as dangerous as the means of sheer military power which Marcomann had used.
Demansk's lips twisted into a grimace. Technically, the expression might be called a "smile." But there was no humor in it.
"Relax," he commanded. "I am as well aware as you are of the dangers involved. Which is why my proposal, I believe, accomplishes three salutary goals. It locks out Albrecht, it keeps any of us from becoming a dictator . . . and it allows me the chance to accomplish a personal goal which is rather dear to my heart. Vengeance."
Not surprisingly, it was Jeschonyk who first understood. Tomsien was . . . not stupid, no; but not quick-witted, either.
"Ah," murmured the old Speaker Emeritus. "I see."
"I don't," said Tomsien crossly.
Jeschonyk waved a languid hand. "Demansk will allow you to command the southern provinces, facing the barbarians with most of our army. Since I'm too damn old anyway to take the field any longer—Preble was it, for me—I'll remain here in the capital exercising political control. Which frees him up to put paid to the stinking Islesmen altogether."
Tomsien's eyes widened. It took him longer to see a point, perhaps, but he was quite intelligent enough—experienced enough, at least—to see the implications once he did.
The real threat of a new dictator would come from whichever Confederate official could conquer large new territories on the continent. That alone would provide them with the land grants needed to cement the loyalty of a large enough army. The Western Isles, even all of them put together, did not allow for that even if conquered. The Isles were, and always had been, places for traders and fishermen and pirates. There simply wasn't enough acreage to create a large new layer of propertied men who could serve as the base of support for a dictatorship.
That was not the least of the reasons, of course, that the pirates of the Isles had been tolerated for so long. Yes, they were a pestiferous nuisance. But they posed no real threat to the Confederacy—and there simply wasn't enough to be gained by their conquest to make the effort seem worth it.
Unless . . . the man who led that effort had a serious personal grudge to settle.
Tomsien's eyes grew heavy-lidded, as he studied his fellow Justiciar. Demansk could practically read his thoughts.
What an idiot. She's just a woman, after all, even if she is his daughter. And for that he's willing to give me the lion's share of the army?
Demansk waited. Tomsien was not someone who could be rushed into a decision, anyway. And Demansk was quite sure that Tomsien had heard tales of Demansk's unseemly toleration of his daughter's outlandish ways.
He dotes on her. Always has, the fool. Odd, really, for such a man to have such a weakness. Almost effeminate, for all his skill at war.
When he needed to be, Tomsien could be decisive. "Done!" he barked. "As long as you give me the southern provinces—and a personal assurance."
Demansk frowned. "My word has never—"
"Damn your 'word,' Demansk!" snapped Tomsien. "Don't play the honorable old-style Vanbert nobleman with me. It's a rotten world today—rotten through and through—and you know it as well as I do. Facts are facts. I want a personal assurance. Something a lot more tangible than words."
Demansk ran fingers through his beard. "I see. Very well. My son Olver—"
"No! Your oldest son, Demansk. Barrett it'll be or there's no deal."
"He's already married," protested Demansk. But the tone of the words was mild.
Tomsien's grimace was not quite a sneer. Not quite. "Have him put her aside. He'll do it, don't think he won't. And the courts certainly won't be an obstacle—not after our 'triumvirate' is in place."
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 born 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.