David Drake: The Tyrant

More to the point, Enry Sharbonow was there with him, really keeping an eye on things.

But when it came to the two real sources of Demansk's power-money and the assegais of his regiments-there would be no pretense. As the Emeralds would say, the Form of power remained in Vanbert. The Substance… elsewhere.

Demansk's eyes ranged all the way down the long table on the balcony of the palace-the size of a galley on the ocean-taking note of all the officials and notables gathered for the occasion. Their faces were quite well illuminated by the new gas lamps which Adrian had designed and which had first been introduced, outside of Adrian's own palace in Solinga, in Demansk's new capital.

It was… impressive.

He had everyone's attention. It was time to do the thing. And, now that it was, Demansk was immensely relieved to recognize the emotion that swept through him.

Relief itself. I have not gone mad, after all.

"It is time to make a change," he said. Loud enough to be heard easily, but eschewing all traditional histrionics. In that, too, he had created a new style of rulership. Demansk was tired of drama.

"I am nearing sixty." He gave his belly a little pat. Rather a self-satisfied one, truth be told. There still wasn't much fat there. Despite his sedentary existence, Demansk maintained enough of his old exercise regimen to stay in good shape. Arsule certainly Feeling the heat building in his loins, Demansk pushed the idle thought aside. The official robes of office he was wearing were lightweight, as was necessary in the climate of the isthmus. An erection would be quite noticeable, to those seated nearby, and not even Demansk's new style of public rhetoric was that informal.

So, he pushed on firmly to the subject at hand. "Time, in short, for me to start thinking of retirement."

A little stir went around the table. Not much of one, however. Although few of the people at the table had discussed the matter explicitly with Demansk-only four, really; Demansk's own children-he hadn't expected anyone to be that surprised.

And, here too, he realized, his relief was well-founded. It came as a little surprise to recognize that perhaps he alone, of all those closest to him, had ever really worried about Demansk maintaining his sanity.

Well… leaving aside Arsule's frequent pronouncements on the subject. Private pronouncements, of course-but Arsule's definition of "private" hadn't changed in the least over the years, even as her salons and soirees and gala events had trebled and quadrupled in size.

He was startled to feel her hand slide into his, the fingers wrapping around his palm and knuckles and giving them a little squeeze. In public? How undignified! Was she mad?

Probably. But he did not spurn the fingers-even gave them a little responding squeeze of his own. It was a mad world, after all, and Demansk's own definition of sanity had undergone a certain transformation over the world.

Besides, I adore the woman-not that I'd ever say that except privately. And my definition of "private" is-my thoughts alone.

Arsule's thumb, hidden in his palm, began making a little movement which was so far removed from the concept of "august dignity" that it boggled the mind.

Although, I don't think I'm fooling Arsule any. The thumb moved, moved. Which is probably just as well. Best exercise I get.

He cleared his throat noisily. "As I was saying, it's time for a change. The beginnings of one, at any rate."

From there, his speech took on a more formal aspect. For some time, Demansk orated-hoping he wasn't simply "droning"-on the principles of rule. As exemplified in practice-good and bad-by the experience of the Confederacy; as illustrated in theory-good and bad-by the philosophers of the Emeralds. Perhaps more to the point, as deduced by Demansk himself from a lifetime of experience.

He saw no reason to add: a thousand lifetimes, actually, since I've spent more hours than I can remember talking to Adrian about it and, through him, his "spirits."

"— for which reason, until our populace enjoys the wealth and literacy which could make the Speakers' Houses-and the Council, of course-something which truly embodied and represented their desires and interests, it seems best to stabilize the current regime. Which in turn-"

Hours and hours and hours. Sometimes in face-to-face conversation-as weird an experience as any in Demansk's life, talking to one man who was actually three.

"— no desire, none whatsoever, to repeat the endless cycle of factional maneuvering for the mere sake of a year's worth of self-aggrandizement-to call it by its right name, plunder of the public treasury, as often as not-by gaining election to the Speakership-"

No, not that, really. Demansk had come to understand that while two spirits inhabited his son-in-law, they did not possess him. Any more than Demansk's own closest advisers "possessed" him. Adrian Gellert's mind was enhanced, surely. His soul remained his alone.

"— hence the reintroduction of the hereditary principle seems called for, although-"

He gave a quick glance at his daughter, seated just four chairs to his right. And, slightly behind her, the stools and attendants which kept her offspring in something vaguely resembling "order" at a public event. Three of them, now-with, judging from the swell of her midriff, yet another soon to join the world.

Sure as anything, no spirits did that.

As he droned on-orated, rather-Demansk had to repress a grin. He had no doubt his grandfather would have fiercely disapproved most of what Demansk was doing, not least of all the way he was favoring an Emerald son-in-law. But on one subject, at least, the stern old man would have grudgingly given Adrian Gellert his approval. Keep 'em barefoot and pregnant, whatever you do. Barefoot, you can negotiate, now and then.

"— so, to conclude, I propose a modification which, I think, will give us, dealing with present circumstances, the best of all possible worlds."

He was tempted to add: as shown to me by a machine which knows all possible worlds. But he left it unsaid. For almost all of the people gathered around this table, as well-educated and sophisticated as most of them were, the explanation would have been indistinguishable from "magic." Given that Demansk had not yet seen fit to eliminate the laws outlawing magic, that would be… awkward.

He was nearing the end of his speech, which was going to probably be awkward enough.

"— each Triumvirate, therefore, to become a cycle. A training ground, as it were, the senior Triumvirs-with the approval of the others-adopting their own successors. Neither relying on the vagaries of fate-"

As always, the memory of Barrett ached. Not so much, true, yet never absent. But Demansk had long since realized that particular ache was the surest sign he was still sane.

"— nor the whims of factional strife-"

Drone, drone-wrap it up, damnation.

"So, in conclusion, I take this occasion to announce my own successor. A choice which, I might mention, has the full approval of both of my fellow Triumvirs as well as"-here, his voice grew stern: the patriarch in full glory-"my own magnificent sons."

And… that's enough. There'll be endless time for all the squabbling. I'm tired of drama. Have been for a long time.

He simply pointed to Adrian, seated three chairs to his right. With no one between him and Demansk except Olver and Trae.

"Him." And sat down.

Three things happened simultaneously.

Dead silence fell over the small crowd. Except Olver and Trae both shot to their feet, holding up their goblets of wine and calling for a toast.

Arsule leaned over and whispered into his ear: "I thought you'd sworn off drama and histrionics."

The fourth thing which happened, of course, was a given. Far down the table, one of the officials from-Demansk couldn't quite remember which branch of the bureaucracy; some post in the Registry-rose to his feet and began speaking.