David Drake: The Tyrant

Can I keep any secrets from this cursed woman? Demansk asked himself sourly.

"— also a good idea, since it'll bring trade from the islands somewhere other than into the hands of those damned rapacious Emeralds, who are the greediest folk in the world as well as probably the smartest-but, what's more to the point, will also bring Islander artists too. A whole new territory for me to conquer. As it were. So. To get to the point-"

Please!

"— new temple for Jassine is essential. Furthermore-"

"I agree, Arsule, I agree!" The smug look on her face alerted him. "Ah… exactly how big a temple are we-"

"Well, that's just the point. If you hadn't interrupted! Since this will be the temple in the new capital, well-naturally! — it'll have to be of a size and splendor to match. Be a terrible stain on your reputation if it weren't." Sweetly: "Which you can hardly afford now, dearest, seeing as how the only legitimacy you have is based on intestines. Yours and your enemies. In rather different ways, if you see what I mean. Nothing could enhance your reputation more than founding such a magnificent-"

"Enough! I agree!" Gloomily: "I suppose you'll want me to pay for the priests also. Fine. As long as they don't get extravagant."

"Priests of Jassine? Don't be ridiculous, Verice. The most abstemious bunch imaginable." She paused for a moment. Demansk began to heave a sigh of relief.

Short, truncated sigh.

"Of course, while their own needs are modest, they will need help in their charitable works. Quite a bit, too, seeing as how you've bankrupted and ruined half the population. Yes, yes, all in a good cause-no doubt. Still, facts are facts, and the fact is that you could walk from here to Vanbert on the corpses of emaciated children."

That was an exaggeration-rather a gross one, in fact-but…

There was enough truth in it to make him wince. Demansk sighed, not with relief, and resigned himself to a long day. Arsule, clearly enough, was just getting started.

Adrian enjoyed the next day, himself-and several thereafter. Helga was in very good spirits. So was he, for that matter. Since they had no particular duties to distract them until the Paramount decided to return to the capital, they spent much of their time in bed.

When they finally did leave Franness, almost a week later, Adrian was in a better mood than he'd been… in a very long time. And he was pleased-though he was not foolish enough to say so-that Helga had chosen not to wear her sword while she rode alongside him.

He was not entirely pleased by the gaggle of barbarians who were plodding along behind their wagon. But Helga explained that it was a favor she had agreed to do for Prelotta which, since it was a small thing, she'd seen no reason to decline.

Before Adrian could ask exactly who they were, Helga drove on to another subject.

"This notion you have-heh; or should I say Center and Raj? — Father was telling me about it. Dissolving the Assembly entirely and replacing it with local, what did he say you'd called them?"

"Speakers' Houses."

"Yes, that. Interesting idea. Father thinks you're probably crazy, but then he admitted he always think that when he first hears your ideas so maybe you're not. But I don't understand it."

"The Assembly's nothing but a source of trouble, Helga. Might have made sense, back when Vanbert was a small nation. But today? There's simply no way that the commoners can have their voice heard in a single 'popular assembly' in the capital. Even if they're literate, which most of them aren't, they can't afford to make the trip. So, in the real world, the Assembly's just become a place where ambitious politicians can bring mob pressure to bear. Capital loafers, to boot, not farmers."

Helga waved her hand impatiently. "I understand all that! Don't disagree, either-nor does Father. It's the other business. Why the new 'Speakers' Houses'?" Her eyes widened. "And why-especially-this bizarre idea of giving them, rather than the Council, the exclusive right to approve new taxes. That's crazy, Adrian! If you let-"

By now, Adrian was well into the spirit of the argument. "Don't be silly," he growled. "The Council's always going to draw the central powers of the nation into it. Bound to happen. If, in addition, you let them decide on taxes-much less administer the collection! — you'll be right back into the soup. The same crap will happen all over again. I think of it-okay, okay, Raj and Center call it-'separation of powers.' "

The argument went on for most of the day. By the end, Helga was not convinced of the merits of the idea. But she was willing to allow that it would probably, if nothing else, keep her father sane.

"Not him I'm worried about," Adrian said quietly. "Verice Demansk will remain sane, whatever else. So, in all likelihood, will his successor. But after that? The third Paramount-much less fourth, fifth and sixth?"

He shook his head. "A tyrant is one thing, Helga. The world can survive that-even prosper from it. A state of tyranny is something else again. So, anything we can do now, however modest, which starts undermining the logic of what your Father's done-and I helped him do it, mind you, and don't regret it-is all to the good. Will this idea of mine work? Who knows? But it's worth a try."

Helga thought about it, for a time, as they prepared their portion of the army's camp. Then, as evening fell, announced that she would support Adrian in the matter.

"As you said, why not give it a try?"

But Adrian was only half-listening to her. He was watching the Reedbottoms who had accompanied them, preparing their own bedding-but interrupting the work just at sundown in order to engage in a peculiar little ceremony.

Odd, he thought. Is that caterwauling prayer? Reminds me a bit of-but not to this extent-still A sudden suspicion came to him. "Helga, these people Prelotta asked you to bring with us back to Vanbert. I never heard of such a thing, but are they Young Word priests?"

Helga seemed to redden a bit. Hard to tell, though. It might just have been the sunset.

"Well. Yes and no. They're a special kind of priest, not like the ones you and I are familiar with."

"What are they called?"

"Uh, what's the word? Oh, yes. 'Missionaries,' I think."

Demansk, leaning on the balustrade, admired the sunset. In the three years since he'd transferred his capital-in practice, if not in legal theory-to the new city he was having built on the isthmus, he'd come to appreciate the place more. The weather was still too hot and muggy for his tastes, but the sunsets were frequently gorgeous. Granted, he'd been able to enjoy the sight of the sun setting over the ocean on his old estate. But the typically clear skies there didn't produce the same magnificent color patterns.

Hearing someone padding up behind him, Demansk shifted the weight on his elbows and craned his head around.

It was Thicelt, not to his surprise. The big Islander was Demansk's only close associate who actually "padded" when he walked. The old habits of a robber, Demansk wryly suspected.

"So?" demanded Sharlz, waving a hand at the sunset. "Have you finally become reconciled to admiring sunsets instead of sunrises?"

Demansk smiled. He'd still have preferred founding this city on the eastern side of the isthmus. But… that would be a little too near the Reedbottoms. Here, the Confederacy was close enough to crush them if necessary, not so close that the Reedbottoms could overwhelm the new capital with a sudden attack.

He left all that unsaid, however. Thicelt's words, though the admiral had not intended them to do so, gave Demansk the opening he needed.

"As it happens, 'sunsets and sunrises' are the reason I summoned you all here."

Thicelt's face grew still then, even solemn. "Ah." He glanced at Demansk's oldest son-oldest living son-who was seated at the huge table on the balcony, chatting amiably with his sister. Helga had the third of her children, a baby girl, perched in her lap.