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.
Yes, some did. And, as was the way of things, typically became the most ferocious defenders of aristocratic privilege thereafter. But most did not. There simply weren't enough eligible marriage prospects; and, while the Council's Registrar could usually be bribed, he did not come cheaply. "Buy a Registration" was another popular slang expression in the Confederacy, used whenever someone referred to a financial enterprise that was either beyond one's wildest fancy or, if it wasn't, would be flat-out ruinous.
Prit Sallivar himself had never bothered with the business. Though he resented the constant little humiliations visited upon him, he had never seen the logic of wasting his wealth in order to obtain a title. He simply kept his social contacts in the aristocracy—outside of business, where any number of noblemen were willing to allow him entry through the back door of their villas—to that relatively small layer of the nobility which had a relaxed attitude about "one's station in life."
Demansk himself was one such. But another—and by far the most prominent—was Arsule Knecht. In this, if not in their shared enthusiasm for art, she and her former husband were diametrically opposite. Toman had employed the best financiers in the Confederacy, Prit Sallivar among them, and had then treated them much like he treated his servants. After his death, Arsule had swung open the front door of their mansion, and invited them in.
Demansk had never attended the salons and soirees and art exhibitions for which Arsule Knecht had become famous—"notorious" was a better word, at least among the aristocracy. His own wife Druzla had been one of Arsule's best friends, and would undoubtedly have enjoyed them. But Druzla had died two years before Toman, and Demansk had turned down all the subsequent invitations. Politely, but firmly. He didn't much enjoy such things himself and since his own prestige in Vanbert society rested on the "traditional virtues," he saw no point in eroding that position simply out of sentimentality.
"Traditional virtues," he muttered under his breath. "I'm the toughest pig farmer in the land, and I can steal anybody's pigs—and do it in broad daylight, which makes me a nobleman instead of a thief."
Gods, I've gotten cynical. He could remember a time when he hadn't been. A time when he'd spent months, as a boy, eagerly trotting alongside his beloved grandfather as the fierce old man went about his business. Which, needless to say, was the business of managing an estate in the countryside—except, in time of war, when the farmer turned into a soldier. And led his huge armies with the same skill and intentness that he managed his huge farm.
In truth, Verice Demansk had been brought up more by his grandfather than his father. His own father had been . . . of a different sort. "More modern," as he would say, on the rare occasions when he tore himself away from the endless squabbling and scheming in the Council to pay a brief visit to the ancestral estate.
In one thing, at least, Demansk's grandfather and father had shared the same attitude: neither of them had had much use for gentrymen, especially ones who were stinking rich. Outside of war, at least, where the grandfather prized their talents. The father, having spent as little time in the army as necessary for a man of his station, had even less use for them than that.
And here I am—in three generations!—scurrying to find their favor.
He suppressed the sour sentiment. True, with the exception of a few like Prit Sallivar, Demansk found the upper crust of the gentry even more distasteful than the aristocracy. Petty beyond belief; grasping; narrow; pompous—their pretensions at being patrons of the arts were rarely matched by any corresponding good taste—bah! There was practically no vice, certainly of the venal sort, of which they were not guilty.
The fact remained that, if Demansk's plans were to come to fruition, he would need to have that class of men in his camp. Squarely in the middle of it, too, not consigned to the outer ranks. He was about to launch a project never attempted in history—barely even conceived, in truth. A dictatorship built on money instead of land, and not even money gained by bribery and tax-gouging.
Demansk and his little escort reached the outer gates of the villa. A squad of Knecht household soldiers trotted out to greet them—as well as, of course, to determine their bona fides.
"Tell Lady Knecht that Verice Demansk would enjoy a moment of her time," he growled. Then, after the squad leader dispatched a man to convey the message, grit his teeth.
And why'd you have to be so curt about it? Stop lying, Verice. It's not the guard's fault if the prospect of seeing Arsule again—gods, what's it been now? ten years?—makes you edgy.
Arsule herself came down to the gate to let him in. Demansk was not surprised. The woman had so much energy that she'd been rumored to trot into her own kitchens to make herself lunch.
He had no difficulty recognizing her as she strode down the wide entryway leading from the mansion to the gate. First, because the mansion had been designed to take full advantage of Vanbert's typically splendid sunsets; second, because she was tall; third, because she strode instead of ambled in the accepted style; and fourth, because—
Looks just about the same. Except for that streak of white hair.
Demansk almost laughed. Any other noblewoman in the Confederacy would have covered that streak with dye. Arsule . . . didn't bother.
It's rather striking, actually. I'd forgotten that her hair was really black.
She was at the gate, and coming through. Now that she was close, Demansk could see that there were a few lines in her face which hadn't been there the last time he saw her. Not creases caused by worry or anguish, simply the inevitable effects of aging. Still, she looked much as he remembered her: heftily built, a narrow face which seemed to belong on a more slender woman, close-set dark eyes peering over a long nose.
The ensemble was odd. Taken feature by feature, Arsule was not really that attractive a woman. But, somehow, the whole worked together. Partly that was due to her vibrant personality. But most of it, Demansk thought, was because the personality infused the form shrouding it—which exemplified the word matron—with a kind of animal vitality. Arsule Knecht was one of those middle-aged women whom no one described as "good-looking"; but who, at the same time, most middle-aged men—certainly Demansk—found their eyes drawn toward.
"By the gods! It is you! I thought someone was playing a joke."
She stepped forward, hands outstretched. "Welcome, Verice! It's been so many years."
He took the hands and bowed over them. Then, kissed the knuckles in the approved style. Noticing, not for the first time, how slender and long the fingers were. As if they, like the face, belonged on a woman with much less in the way of a bosom and hips.
"Ha! Precious few times you ever did that. Haven't you become the proper fellow!"
Before he could say anything, Arsule had him by the elbow and was practically marching him toward the mansion. Talking without surcease all the way—in that, too, she hadn't changed.
"I've got quite a crowd here tonight, delighted to show you off—and why did you really come, Verice, don't tell me any lies!—but first you must see my new collection of sculptures, which really aren't sculptures exactly because they're carved from wood, they're icons made by Southrons, believe it or not—wonderful work and how do savages manage that, I wonder?—some new religious cult of theirs called the 'Young Word'—which, by the way, from what I can tell has some interesting twists to it, at least it's not the same old 'god of this, goddess of that' business—does everybody have to mimic everything?—Prit's here, by the way—"
That bit of news relieved Demansk. He'd wanted to have a word with Sallivar before he left the capital, and this way he wouldn't need to use part of the morrow for the purpose.
"—and so is Kall Oppricht—"
Another happy coincidence. Oppricht was one of the few Councillors whom Demansk thought he could trust completely. But he hadn't seen the man in well over a year. Tonight wouldn't be the time to broach anything substantive, but he could certainly make a discreet arrangement to have Oppricht talk to Sallivar after Demansk returned to his estate.
They'd reached the door of the mansion. Demansk felt like he'd been marching through mud. He'd forgotten just how exhausting it could be to listen to Arsule Knecht when she prattled.
"—but I've been prattling again, haven't I? And I don't imagine you've come to appreciate that any more than you did in years gone by." She grinned at him. "Poor Verice. But it was your own fault, you know. That 'proper virtue' of yours never gave Druzla a chance to prattle herself."
"The two of you made up for it, as I recall." He didn't quite growl the words.
"Oh, stop growling. It's not as if we ever had you cornered, except in the baths. Any other time, and you disappeared while Druzla and I enjoyed a real conversation."
That forced a smile from him. "True enough." She began motioning one of the servants to open the door. "A moment, Arsule—please, before you drag me into the mob."
She gave him a quick glance. Then, with another motion, ordered the servant to remain at his post; and drew Demansk off to the side where they could speak without being overheard.
"All right, what is it? I knew there was something other than a social call." Her close-set eyes were almost crossed. "No lies, Verice. If you came here to get my support for another Marcomann—that being you, of course—my answer is 'maybe.' It depends what kind of Marcomann we're talking about."
"Ah—" Damn the woman. I'd forgotten how smart she was, under all that jabber. Good thing for her, too—anyone else who spent money as fast as she does would be bankrupt within five years. Prit tells me her fortune has actually grown since Toman died. She's as shrewd about collecting estates as she is about collecting sculptures.
"Ah—"
"Never mind." As always, Arsule's patience for pauses in a conversation was nil. "I suppose we don't have time tonight for any lengthy discourses, anyway."
She cocked her head sideways in another mannerism Demansk remembered. It was almost histrionic, like everything about Arsule. And, again, the effect was odd. In almost any other woman, the gesture would seem a silly affectation. But, somehow, she managed to make it seem natural, as people with oversized personalities sometimes can.
"Prit'll be part of your scheme, of course. So I can get the details later from him—whatever I need to know, at least, which I trust you'll keep to a minimum."
He managed a smile which, he suspected, looked more sickly than anything else.
"Ha! 'You can count on it, lady.' " Her grin reappeared. The fact that it was coming at him sideways didn't make it any less effective. At moments like this, Demansk admitted, Arsule Knecht was a very attractive woman. For all the times she'd annoyed him, during her many visits—and vice versa—to his wife, Demansk could remember other times when he'd been forced to keep a casual demeanor around her. In the baths, especially. Clothed, draped in thick and expensive fabrics, her body just seemed heavy. Nude . . . the proper word was lush.
One good thing about Arsule, though. At least you never had to grope for the right words. She'd charge right in and provide them for you.
"But you don't really have Marcomann's lusts, do you? In fact, I've never been sure you had any real lusts at all. Oh, stop frowning. I'm not casting aspersions on your manhood—Druzla never complained, that's for sure." The grin seemed to widen, though it was a bit hard to tell seeing it at a near vertical angle. "You didn't really think women don't talk about such things, did you?"
"Ah—"
"Oh, stop pretending. I'm sure Druzla told you that I satisfied my own lusts with a sculptor, here and there, seeing as how my husband was spending too much time with his whores to do the job properly."
Well, yes, she did. Half in disapproval, and half in amusement. Arsule's carnal lusts seemed to be just as exuberant as her artistic ones.
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—"