David Drake - Tyrant

* * *

Arsule herself came down to the gate to let him in. Demansk was not surprised. The woman had so much energy that she'd been rumored to trot into her own kitchens to make herself lunch.

He had no difficulty recognizing her as she strode down the wide entryway leading from the mansion to the gate. First, because the mansion had been designed to take full advantage of Vanbert's typically splendid sunsets; second, because she was tall; third, because she strode instead of ambled in the accepted style; and fourth, because—

Looks just about the same. Except for that streak of white hair.

Demansk almost laughed. Any other noblewoman in the Confederacy would have covered that streak with dye. Arsule. . didn't bother.

It's rather striking, actually. I'd forgotten that her hair was really black.

She was at the gate, and coming through. Now that she was close, Demansk could see that there were a few lines in her face which hadn't been there the last time he saw her. Not creases caused by worry or anguish, simply the inevitable effects of aging. Still, she looked much as he remembered her: heftily built, a narrow face which seemed to belong on a more slender woman, close-set dark eyes peering over a long nose.

The ensemble was odd. Taken feature by feature, Arsule was not really that attractive a woman. But, somehow, the whole worked together. Partly that was due to her vibrant personality. But most of it, Demansk thought, was because the personality infused the form shrouding it — which exemplified the word matron —with a kind of animal vitality. Arsule Knecht was one of those middle-aged women whom no one described as "good-looking"; but who, at the same time, most middle-aged men — certainly Demansk — found their eyes drawn toward.

"By the gods! It is you! I thought someone was playing a joke."

She stepped forward, hands outstretched. "Welcome, Verice! It's been so many years."

He took the hands and bowed over them. Then, kissed the knuckles in the approved style. Noticing, not for the first time, how slender and long the fingers were. As if they, like the face, belonged on a woman with much less in the way of a bosom and hips.

"Ha! Precious few times you ever did that. Haven't you become the proper fellow!"

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—"