David Drake: The Tyrant

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 protege-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-"