David Drake: The Tyrant

The thought of Demansk triggered Center. he will make his first move soon. if he has not already done so. probability 89 %, ±3 for the former; 46 %, ±10 for the latter. the variables there are larger.

The humor which bubbled up within Adrian was great enough to momentarily shatter the trance-haze. He burst into open laughter, even feeling the hammer of wet heat coming down on him.

You're so wrong, you all-knowing damn machine. Demansk has already moved, be sure of it.

He waited for Raj's input, wondering what it might be. It was an odd trio they made. A thinking machine called a "computer," the recorded "spirit" of a long-dead general, and he himself-a living man still in his youth.

As a rule, Raj sided with Center in their little three-way debates and discussions. But, not always.

This time, he simply asked a question.

Why are you so sure of that, lad? I would think he'd wait a bit longer. I would, in his position. Unless he understands what you're about, and he has no way The disembodied voice broke off suddenly. A moment later, Adrian sensed a ghostly chuckle echo in his mind.

I'd forgotten. It's been so long since I was a man myself. Adrian caught a momentary glimpse of a beautiful, patrician face, cheek pressed into a pillow and smiling. Raj Whitehall's wife Suzette, he knew. Now long dead herself.

There was no aura of sadness about the memory. Just… nostalgia? Hard to say.

Do you miss her? he asked.

Somehow he could sense a wry shrug, though he could not see it. It's hard to explain, Adrian. My own existence has been in what you call the trance-haze for centuries now. I am no longer really human, even in mind much less in body. Not a computer, of course, like Center. Something… else. I don't know what to call it. An angel, except that would be ludicrous. A spirit, let's say. My only real emotion left is serenity. The thought hardened, as a general's thoughts could do so easily. Not that I shall ever forget her.

Center interrupted. the two of you are prattling again.

Oh, be still, retorted Raj. There are things you do not understand well, if at all. This is one of them.

There was a momentary pause. Then, in a tone which almost had a tone-irritation, frustration-Center said: that business. love interferes greatly with stochastic analysis. nothing else produces such wide variables. not even religious fanaticism, of which I suspect love is a disguised variant.

The trance-haze was back, so Adrian only sensed himself grinning. It was too bad. He would have enjoyed feeling the strain on his cheek muscles directly. It was a very wide grin.

Sourpuss, what you are. Demansk will have moved already, because he KNOWS there is one envoy he can send whom I will trust.

He too deals with variables, Raj chimed in. And here is one he can ignore. Adrian's right, Center. Demansk will have begun the thing.

Adrian knew that the silence which followed was Center, calculating the probabilities. At moments like this, the computer's incredible speed of logical manipulation was both awe-inspiring and… sometimes a bit ridiculous. The computer would factor in everything, matching cause against cause, effect against effect, then rematching them again, over and over, until-within seconds! — it would arrive at a conclusion which, now and then at least, was blindingly obvious to flesh and blood. you are correct, came the pronouncement. probability is now 94 %, ± 2. which means we must move more quickly ourselves.

It was Adrian's eyes which saw the milling, chaotic mass of Southron warriors teeming in the great encampment below; Raj Whitehall's spirit which put words to the observation.

What a frigging, unholy mess. We've got our work cut out for us.

But Adrian was not really paying attention any longer. The trance-haze was breaking, now, shattering into little slivers. His own thoughts were plunging down through every vein and artery in his body, down into his groin. He felt so warm and wet himself that the surrounding air seemed almost frigid.

Another face was vivid in his mind. Also pressed into a pillow, but facing up not sideways. This face, though beautiful as well, was not patrician in the least. Certainly not at that moment of memory, when the auburn hair was tangled, sweaty at the roots; and the mouth was open, hissing wordless cries of ecstasy.

His breath was coming short. His own mouth was no longer closed.

Your brother's coming, with some chieftains in tow. You'd better get that erection under control, lad, or things'll get awkward. These Southrons, y'know, don't share your decadent Emerald tastes. They're likely to misinterpret your state of mind.

Laughter broke passion's rush. So, when Esmond and the chieftains strode up to the tent, Adrian was able to greet them with nothing more than a hand outstretched. But still, during the time which followed, his mind only followed the conversation at its edges.

There was room, really, for just a single thought at the center of it. A different sort of trance-haze had seized him.

She's coming back to me. I know she is.

For the first time, then, he was finally able to let go that rein of honor which had driven him to return her to her family, long months before. Almost a year, now. Let it go, cast it aside-and, with it, all restraint. He had never loved a woman before, and had never allowed himself-quite-to love this one.

Soon enough, he knew, Center and Raj would be back, pouring caution and cunning strategy into his mind. But on this subject, at least, he would listen no longer. He had satisfied honor once. Once was enough, for a lifetime.

"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.