David Drake - Tyrant

As if by cue, the sound of heavy chimes ringing somewhere in the city below wafted through the airy windows of the hareem. Through those same windows, Demansk could see the Western Ocean. The waters of the archipelago seemed especially vibrant today.

"Ah, good. I see the temples have gotten the announcement. I had to wait, of course, until you'd actually arrived."

It would be difficult to say which of the two youngsters in the room had the widest eyes, at that moment. Both pairs looked like saucers. Trae was goggling at his father; Jirri was goggling at Trae.

"You didn't warn me!" they both protested simultaneously.

"I'm not ready to get married!" added Trae.

Jirri's protest was less cosmic: "I've got ink on my hands!"

Demansk bestowed a look upon his son which was stern enough to have satisfied the All-Father himself. "There will be no discussion, Trae, and no argument. None. In this, if nothing else, I will stand on ancient custom. I am your father, and you will do as I say. I need this marriage to solidify everything."

He glanced at Jirri, finding it hard not to laugh at her indignation over smudged fingers. "The truth is, I even considered marrying her myself. But that would have been too much of a breach with custom, and besides, I've been thinking — never mind." Firmly: "You're perfect. As my youngest son, you're not likely to be the Demansk heir anyway. The Council will squeal with outrage, but not for long. And, in the meantime, I'll have welded the Islanders to our family inseparably."

He pointed out the window. "Listen to those chimes, Trae. That celebration's not being faked. You're not only my son, but you're the one who just rescued thousands of their kinsfolk from Preble. Wedded, the day after tomorrow, to the surviving unmarried daughter of the previous dynasty. As good a guarantee as my new subjects could ask for. So long as they obey Demansk, that same name will be their shield."

Trae stared out the window. After a moment, his shoulders slumped a little, as a man's will when he accepts something inevitable. Demansk was relieved to see the familiar wry twist come his son's lips. If nothing else, Trae would always have his sense of humor.

"Did Gellert prescribe this too?"

Demansk shook his head. "Not hardly! I don't need mysterious spirits to teach me statecraft, Trae. I learned the principles of that from my own grandfather."

Trae's eyes moved to Jirri. The girl was now clumsily trying to disguise her fingers. But since she only had a thin sheet of paper and a tunic which was not much thicker to hide them in, she wasn't having much success. The expression on her face was one of extreme distress. Her first meeting with her groom! And she was filthy!

The wry smile widened. "A practical lass, is it? Well, that's good. You'll need to be, poor thing, married to me. " He gave his sire a look which just bordered on derision. "Or did my scheming august father neglect to mention to you that I was a complete eccentric?"

He stepped over to her and held out his hands. "Stop fidgeting, dammit. It's silly. As good-looking as you are, girl, you'll be bearing our first child within a year — and that'll be a lot messier than a little ink. Show me the fingers."

She did as her husband-to-be commanded. Demansk, watching, thought that her instant obedience was only partly the result of Islander custom. Jirri's eyes, staring up at Trae, were still wide. But Demansk could detect the first traces of trust coming into those dark orbs.

"I'll scrub them," whispered Jirri. "Right away."

Trae clucked his tongue. "Just for a little ink? Scrape those pretty fingers raw? I don't think so, girl." He gave her a smile which was a weird cross between a comfort and a leer. "Come the night after tomorrow, I'll be wanting those fingers soft and supple, damned if I won't."

Jirri choked down a laugh. There was some embarrassment in the sound. But there was also more a trace of anticipation.

"I've got some stuff that will work a lot better than pumice and oil," continued Trae. "You should see the crap I get on my fingers. Ha! You will be seeing it, soon enough. I'll have the cleansers brought up to the palace."

And then, even Trae was at a loss for words. Demansk left them there, two youngsters staring at each other. Given the nature of the times, he thought that dirty hands were an appropriate way for a husband and wife to get introduced.

* * *

Thicelt was waiting for him in his own quarters. Not in the private chamber where Demansk slept and where he'd spent hours studying Gellert's missive, but in the great outer salon which Demansk used for meetings with his close advisers.

"They sound good, no?" asked Sharlz, gesturing with his head to the windows. "I think they've got every chime in the city ringing."

Demansk nodded. "Yes. And now comes the hardest part. Waiting."

Thicelt studied him. Then, glanced at the door to Demansk's private chamber. Sharlz had never read Gellert's treatise, but he knew about it.

"It all depends on him now, I suppose."

"Not quite." Demansk lowered himself onto a couch and stretched. He was actually looking forward to the next few days, however much his son and about-to-be daughter-in-law might be full of trepidation. A traditional celebration, with the gaiety and feasting, would be a pure pleasure. And, in truth, he really could afford to ease up for a bit.

"Not quite," he repeated. "If Gellert fails, I think I could still manage the thing. But it'd be the difference between ruling a realm and ruling a ruin."

He stared out the window. His view was not of the harbor, but of the mountains behind Chalice. Almost the exact opposite direction from the one where his and the world's fate would be largely decided in the next few weeks. But Demansk wasn't even tempted to crane his neck and look toward the south.

That wouldn't do any good at all. He'd only be staring at a wall, in any event. What Demansk needed, now more than ever, was simply a measure of serenity. And for that, his window suited him perfectly. In the center of his view was the Peak of the Sun God, rising majestically into the heavens. With, as always since Demansk had arrived at the archipelago, that steady, steady, steady plume.

"It's a good sign," pronounced Thicelt. He was speaking of the nearby chimes, of course. But Demansk, staring at silent smoke in the distance, found himself in full agreement.

PART III: THE INVADER

Chapter 21

It's always like this, lad, said Raj. Don't let anyone ever feed you any crap about how much more natural it is to live in a state of barbarism.

Adrian was about to protest that he'd never thought any such nonsense — nor, whatever other silliness they sometimes spouted, had any of the philosophers of the Grove. But, catching the little echoes which lay behind Raj's words, he said nothing. Whitehall, he realized, wasn't so much speaking to him as to himself. During the centuries in which the long-dead general's "spirit" had lived side by side with Center, the ancient battle computer had presented to Whitehall the entire panoply of human history, beginning with its origins on a far-distant planet called Earth.

Adrian had never heard of Earth until his ghostly companions told him about it. The birthplace of the human race, apparently — and, certainly, the birthplace of every stupid notion that had ever infected the species.

Did people really think there was such a thing as a "Noble Savage"? he asked, half-incredulously.

Oh, yes. At least one entire school of thought, with plenty of offshoots. Needless to say, not people who'd ever witnessed what you're seeing.