"I can't stay long," he told Helga. "I've got to get back to the capital in time for the Council session, and I've got to visit the siege of Preble along the way."
Helga looked down at the baby nestled in her lap. "Are you listening?" she demanded. "No, you're sleeping—lazy little sot! When your grandfather's giving you such excellent lessons in duplicity!
"This is lesson Number 64, too," she added, clucking her tongue with motherly distress. " 'How To Appear Deeply Concerned By Grave Matters of State.' You'll never be a successful politician without it."
Demansk's lips quirked. As much as Helga's tongue often annoyed him, he had long ago decided that, on balance, it probably also helped keep him sane. Unseemly as her sarcasm might be—her own father!—it was usually right on target.
Certainly in this instance. Demansk really had no legitimate reason to visit the Confederate forces maintaining the siege of Preble. Jeschonyk's enemies, with Speaker of the Assembly Albrecht leading the pack, had bayed for his dismissal after the initial disasters at Preble the previous year, and his replacement by Albrecht himself. Demansk had been dismissed from his command along with Jeschonyk. Partly because he was seen as Jeschonyk's loyal subordinate, which, in truth, he had been. But mostly because Albrecht wanted no independent top officer on his staff to share the credit for breaking Preble's rebellion—especially not one as famously competent as Demansk. Albrecht wanted no one beside him when he rode in the chariot at the triumph. Or even whispers that someone should have been riding beside him.
Neither Demansk nor Jeschonyk had made more than a token protest. Jeschonyk, because the old man had become weary in the course of the strenuous siege; Demansk, because his mind had already begun turning to a much more ambitious goal than breaking a single city's rebellion. A goal, and a scheme, which being forced to remain at the site of a long siege would severely hamper—as Albrecht was about to discover himself.
"That's the one good old custom, if nothing else," he said, "which still remains intact." He bestowed a stern look upon his sleeping grandson and wagged his finger. "Don't forget it, lad! The commander of an army on campaign must remain in the field with his troops until the victory is won.
"Which," he added cheerily, "is still a long way down the road at Preble. Ha! That arrogant bastard!" Somewhere in Demansk's soul, Albrecht's derisive remarks of the year before still rankled. "He's found out, hasn't he now, just how tough a siege can be against a determined opponent."
The unheeding, sleeping babe was now subjected to finger-wagging from his mother. "And don't think you'll be able to bribe your way out of it, either, you little rascal! Desertion is desertion. No amount of bribes will keep you from the executioner's blade. Not even if you've got Albrecht's fortune. Forget the blade, for that matter. Nobleman or not, you'll be fit onto a commoner's stake."
She raised her head and studied her father, seated upright on a stool across from her. The room they were in, where Demansk had found her upon his return, was Helga's weaving room. Other than the loom and the small divan on which she was perched, the only piece of furniture available had been her knitting stool. But Helga's father, unlike many such men in the elite of the Confederacy, had not hesitated to use it. Stools not much different, after all—except for the lack of fancy carving and inlaid precious stones—had been his customary seating while on campaign.
"Trae?" she asked.
"He's in. All the way, and with full knowledge. So is that tame pirate of his, Sharlz Thicelt."
Helga frowned. Demansk knew that she was less willing than he was to trust any Islander. Which, given her own personal experiences with the breed, was hardly surprising. But Demansk, in this if not in most things, was more broad-minded than his daughter. And he understood, in a way that she did not and probably never would, the manner in which the concept of "manhood" worked its way through the peculiar customs and habits of the Islesmen.
They were an odd folk, to Confederates—as notorious for their double-dealing in politics as they were for their brigandage.
Well, not that exactly, Demansk admitted. Confederate politics can be just as treacherous. It's the way the Islesmen acknowledge it openly, as if treason were simply a wager rather than a sin. The way they deride an executed schemer for his lack of wits rather than his lack of morals.
He thought about it for a moment. And I can't honestly say, any longer, that their way is worse than ours. At least they're not hypocrites.
He had waited enough time to allow Helga to make any open protest, but she hadn't. Rebellious the girl might be, but she was still smart enough not to quarrel with her father over matters of tactics.
"That's that, then," he said. "You'll be getting a new subordinate of your own, by the way. Jessep Yunkers. He'll be in command of your escort." Demansk conveniently skipped over the awkwardness of explaining that the name would mean nothing to her, since it had meant nothing to him either until a few days ago. "I don't believe you ever met him. Before he got badly injured at Preble, he was the First Spear of my First Regiment. A very good man."
There was no frown of disapproval now, on his daughter's brow. As was true of Demansk himself, Helga was partial to the breed of sturdy peasants who produced the Confederacy's non-commissioned officers. They were the backbone of Vanbert military power, and she knew it as well as he did.
"I'll want to keep Lortz," she said. Her tone made clear that she was prepared for argument.
But Demansk gave her none. He had decided that Helga's insistence on personal combat training was probably just as well. If nothing else, it kept her in superb physical condition. And . . . it might someday save her life.
Lortz was the former gladiator whom Helga had hired almost as soon as she returned from captivity. She had kept him busy even during the last trimester of her pregnancy, teaching her such skills as knife-throwing which her swollen belly still permitted. And she had resumed her regular training a mere week after giving birth.
He eyed his daughter's figure, so evident even under the modest garment she was wearing. "Modest" in its cut, at least. Demansk wasn't entirely happy with the sheerness of the thing, but—that was the modern style, after all, especially in summer. And this much he would admit: however modern the style of the garment, the muscles beneath the fabric were as hard as those of any peasant ancestress of the family.
"He'll insist on bringing his, ah, servants with him," Helga added, her lips curling at the euphemism for Lortz's two concubines. "But there should be room. I'll need to find a wet nurse anyway, so they can be company for her."
"I've already found you a wet nurse. Jessep's wife Ilset." He nodded toward the infant in her lap. "They have a baby themselves; just about his age, as it happens."
"A soldier's wife? Good. That'll be handy." She gave her father a sly look. "And I'll bet your entire fortune she's full-breasted. A retired First Spear of the First Regiment—especially with the bonuses you pass out—would have had every peasant family in his province trotting out their daughters for inspection."
Demansk grinned. "Ilset's good-looking, no doubt about it. And, as you guessed, not slender. Precious few soldiers share the taste of aristocratic aesthetes for willowy women. Not Jessep, that's for sure."
He planted his hands on his knees and thrust to his feet. "Now that it's definite, you should start making your preparations. It'll be a few weeks still, though, so you needn't rush anything. Sharlz will need time to find and outfit a ship, and Jessep the same in order to pull the escort together."
"There's really not much that I need to do in the way of preparation. A few days, no more." She chucked the baby softly under his chin. "And he'll need even less. Logistics is simple at his age. Where the tits go, he goes."
"True enough," chuckled Demansk. After a moment, the humor faded. "You'll probably need to comfort Lissel a bit, once the news hits. Which probably won't take long," he added sourly, "knowing Barrett. I'll be seeing him on my way to Preble."
" 'Probably?' " jeered Helga. "No 'probable' about it, Father. The minute Barrett learns he's got a better offer in the making, he'll march into Lissel's rooms and tell her to start packing. You watch—you'll probably even still be there when it happens."
Demansk didn't argue the point. His eldest son was . . . not a man he much liked.
Helga was scowling now. "And Lissel will come here straight off, wailing like a babe herself. I'll keep two laundresses busy for a week, just washing the tear-soaked linens."
Her father grimaced. "Do you really think she'll be that upset? It never struck me that there was much affection in the marriage."
"Heh. There isn't any, Father. And what's that got to do with anything? Lissel is a sweet enough girl, but she's got the brains of a . . . oh, hell, even pigs are smarter. She's a Vanbert gentry daughter, through and through. Never had an original thought in her brain. For someone of her class, a marriage to a Demansk meant a major leap in status. Being divorced will devastate her. It's got nothing to do with Barrett."
Demansk sighed. "I'll see to it she's well taken care of. Financially, I mean."
Helga shrugged. "She'll survive. And, within a year, be deluged with other marriage proposals. From other gentry, of course, not real noblemen. The combination of her former marital status and a big dowry will be irresistible to that lot." A moment later, grudgingly, she added: "Well, some of them."
Demansk thought his daughter was being a bit uncharitable. He had a higher opinion of the gentry than she did. He'd had more contact with them, for one thing, and on this subject Helga's own unthinking prejudices were peeking through. Whatever the gentry's faults as a class, Demansk had found many of them to be quite admirable as individuals.
The upper class of the Confederacy fell, broadly speaking, into three categories:
At the top, the real nobility of the ancient, great families. All of whom were giant landowners and either stinking rich or up to their eyeballs in debt. This class provided the Confederacy with all of its Council members and speakers and, usually, with the Speaker of the Assembly. The Demansk family was part of that elite, and ranked high even in their midst.
Off to the side, so to speak, were the wealthy merchants, tax farmers, and usurers. Many of them originated from the gentry, but were no longer considered truly part of it. Not in theory, at least, even if in practice they often served the gentry as its "upper crust." These families could sometimes be as wealthy as the nobility but, of course, they shared none of the nobility's social glamour and respectability—except to the degree that, by forging a marriage between one of their own and a noble family far enough in debt to accept the offer, they could lever their way into the genuine aristocracy. Through the back door, of course. But, after two or three generations, no one remembered. Nowadays, at least.
Finally, forming the great base of Vanbert's ruling class, came the gentry. Respectable folk, of course—landowners rather than merchants. A number of them were even quite wealthy in their own right. And they provided most of the officers for the Confederacy's army, below the very top ranks.
Personally, Demansk thought the old Vanbert virtues could be found in that class more often than in the actual aristocracy. Certainly more than among the merchants and usurers. Gentrymen were invariably courageous in battle and often made capable, if usually unimaginative, officers.
But, while he thought Helga was being a bit uncharitable, he understood her sentiments well enough. The gentry was even more notorious for its endless and obsessive bickering than the nobility. With some exceptions—always regarded as eccentric—they treasured and gloated over every small increase in status like misers over gold; schemed for it constantly; and took any reverse, no matter how small, as if it were the world's worst natural disaster.
There was a popular legend—which Demansk suspected was probably true—that five gentry families died to the last person in the city of Ghust when the volcano erupted. They were on the outskirts of the disaster, and had plenty of time to flee. But they spent so much time quarreling over which of their carriages should get precedence in the escape that the cloud of gas and ashes overtook them in mid-squabble.
Demansk turned his head and examined the loom in the corner. It pleased him, even though he knew it was an excuse, to liken what he was doing to a weaver's work instead of a butcher's. Though the main color in the cloth he was weaving would be red—blood red—it was still work which would leave something other than ruin at its completion.
Maybe, he admitted. If I do the work extremely well, and the Goddess of Luck favors me.
The gentry, and its attitudes, would play a very big role in that weaving. Demansk was gambling that, when the time came, he could use their ambition and avarice to overcome their natural conservatism. With enough of them, at least, to enable him to hold power while he set about shredding the established ways of the Confederacy.
It would not be easy. The gentry, on their own farms, did not depend on slave labor to the degree that the aristocracy did on the great estates. Emancipation would hurt them economically, to be sure, especially at first. But the more capable and energetic families would also be able to take advantage of the chaos of the transition. Forming alliances with money-lenders and merchants; investing in manufacture—which would now have a large pool of former slave labor to draw on; carving out careers in a suddenly opened and merit-based government apparatus.
On the other hand . . . if they didn't need slaves, the gentry treasured their status as slave-holders all the more for it. It gave them the illusion of being noblemen themselves, at least in part.
Avarice against habit; ambition against custom; cold realism against unthinking conservatism. Those were the forces Demansk would manipulate, one against the other, until he had created the fabric he wanted. Or, in the failing, wreck the loom entirely.
"Stop being gloomy, Father," Helga said. As so often, daughter read father's mood to perfection. "It'll work. As well as anything does, anyway." She gave the loom a skeptical glance. "That's just a construct, you know. Something made; a thing with clear parts and sides and limits. The real world's a lot messier."
The baby woke up, and started bawling immediately. "Like this creature here," she added, good cheer mixed with exasperation. "Gobbling like a pig at one end and shitting even worse at the other. About as pretty as a hogpen." She silenced the infant in the time-honored way; wails were replaced by the soft sounds of suckling. "But he works, after all. And in the meantime, he's just so cute."
Demansk's eyes almost goggled. Whatever other metaphor or simile or euphemism he had ever used to describe his project to himself, the word cute had never so much as crossed his mind.
Helga smiled. "It's just like the poet said, Father. 'Only the blood of women runs truly cold.' "
She nodded toward the door. "And now, you'd best be off. You've got hot-blooded man's work to do."