David Drake - Tyrant

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The chamber seemed almost like a madhouse. Men were screaming at each other, whispering in knots, scurrying from one clique to another. A fight even broke out at one point, with two Councillors hacking away at each other with their ceremonial short swords. Fortunately, the age and portliness of the men involved — not to mention the dullness of the blades themselves — made the thing more comical than deadly.

Still, in all his decades Jeschonyk had never seen the Council in such complete disarray and showing such a total lack of respect for decorum. In retrospect, he realized that his own insistence on maintaining traditional dignity had been pointless. He could have taken a hundred as his bodyguard, and no one would have noticed.

Of course, the guards wouldn't have let them come into the chamber itself, he mused, so what would have been the point?

Undreth sidled up to him. "The only way we're going to get order here," said the skeletal Watchman of the Door, "is to make a deal with Albrecht and his people. They've got half the Councillors — at least half — lined up with him now."

The old man gave his fellow Watchman a vicious sidelong glance. Potbellied Kirn was clustered with Albrecht himself. "He'll be no help, be sure of it."

As a last resort, the two Watchmen were supposed to establish order in an unruly Council. But, even leaving aside the question of how the two oldest men in the room could do so anyway, the fact that Kirn wasn't even pretending at neutrality made that option unworkable.

Sourly, Jeschonyk bowed to the inevitable. "Make the deal, then. I assume he'll want first speaking privileges."

"That, and no time limit," muttered Undreth. A moment later, the oldster scuttled off.

The extent to which Albrecht now controlled the Council was made clear very quickly. Within a minute after Undreth conferred with Albrecht, the chamber was returning to order. Albrecht was a superb Council politician, whatever his modest achievements as a military leader, and he had his people well organized. Whether through pre-arrangement or simply on-the-spot coercion — prearrangement, was Ion's guess — even the most unruly Councillors were taking their seats and falling into silence.

Jeschonyk saw no reason to bother with the ritual speech which normally opened a Council meeting. He'd already done a quick scan of the chamber and seen that none of Demansk's closest allies had even bothered to come. Not even Kall Oppricht, who rarely missed a Council meeting. Once silence had finally settled over the chamber, he simply nodded at Albrecht. "Councillor Albrecht, I believe, has something he would like to say."

"Indeed so!" Before Jeschonyk had even taken his seat, the leader of the opposition was standing in the middle of the floor beginning his speech.

Quite a speech it was, too. Drav Albrecht was a big man, with just enough fat to make him imposing instead of obese. He had the standard practices of Vanbert oratory down pat, and was quite an excellent speaker. The fact that the speech was sheer drivel — coming, at least, from such as he — didn't make the words seem any less grandiloquent.

— ancient traditions, now in dire peril — mortal danger to the liberties of the fatherland — one Marcomann was enough — nay, too much!—

Undreth had taken a seat just behind Jeschonyk himself. The Triumvir felt the old man's withered, arthritic hand on his shoulder.

"This is worse than I expected," hissed Undreth. "Much worse."

Jeschonyk nodded. I should have listened more carefully to Verice. He always warned me Albrecht was impatient — impatient to the point of recklessness.

"Leave now," he whispered to Undreth. "As Watchman, no one will think it odd. Speak to the captain of the Guard — not the one outside, but his replacement; he'll be in the guards' quarters — and tell him to summon my household troops from their barracks. Dignity be damned, Albrecht's throwing it all to the winds anyway. I'll want an escort leaving here. If Albrecht's being this rash in the chamber, you can be certain he'll have his street thugs stirred up."

Undreth made to leave, but Jeschonyk restrained him with a little tug on his robes. "And don't come back," he whispered. "Don't go to your own villa, either. Go to mine. No — better yet, go to your niece Arsule's. If there's any trouble, there'll be — never mind. I've made arrangements."

Undreth nodded and was gone. As Jeschonyk had suspected, no one really paid any attention to his departure. Between his age and the fact that, as Watchman, he was expected to periodically act as a "sentry," Undreth's absence was not taken too seriously by Jeschonyk's opponents. In truth, Undreth himself was not taken too seriously.

Albrecht's speech went on, thunderously; and, soon enough, began giving the name to the peril.

— deprived me of my rightful victory — collusion with the pirates — now his own son to marry one of the detestable creatures — setting himself up like the tyrants of the epic tales — could not be clearer — must act now before the monster—

This went beyond "disrespect for a public official," far beyond it. Albrecht had said nothing of Jeschonyk, as yet, but it would be only a matter of time before he started to bend his speech in that direction.

But then, to Ion's surprise, Albrecht broke off.

"And what of Tomsien, you ask? Where does he stand? Rather than speak on this matter myself, I ask that the floor be turned over to a man just come from that honest Triumvir's side."

Albrecht did not even bother with the formality of turning to the official chairman of the session. He simply waved a heavy hand, much like a man summons a dog.

When the "dog" rose and trotted forth, Jeschonyk sighed. This, too, Verice foresaw. I thought he was being too gloomy.

Jeschonyk had known, of course, that Barrett Demansk was making ties with Albrecht and his faction. But, until this moment, he had not realized that the ties had become open partisanship.

Demansk's oldest son had little of his father's innate dignity, and even less of Albrecht's practiced public demeanor. Standing in the middle of the chamber, awkwardly assuming the stance of a public speaker, he looked more like a boy playing a role in a drama than anything else.

The opening words sounded stilted, rehearsed — even ridiculous.

— great sadness — my own father — but duty to the nation—

"Blah, blah," muttered Ion. "Get to the point, you treacherous little snot, whatever it might be."

Histrionically, even more so than custom dictated, Barrett plucked a scroll from his robes and held it up.

"I have here, written before my own eyes by my father-in-law at his field headquarters where he valiantly prepares to do battle against the" — here followed a truly ludicrous list of the Southrons' faults and vices. Jeschonyk found it hard not to laugh aloud.

Bestial and filthy, certainly; and for subhuman you could at least make a good case. But cowardly and craven? Not hardly, you ambitious little twerp, or your precious father-in-law wouldn't have taken six brigades with him.

Barrett paused and took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the climax. Then, surprised Ion again. "But rather than read it myself, I insist that Triumvir Jeschonyk do so! For he, as the senior, must take final responsibility for the actions of the Triumvirate!"

So that's it, is it? Place me squarely in the middle between Verice and Tomsien — I can just imagine the lies he told in that scroll — and try to force me to choose publicly.

This time, he really did have to struggle not to laugh. He was surprised that Albrecht was attempting such a crude maneuver. Jeschonyk was just as capable of lying through his teeth and then, a day later, officially changing his mind, as Albrecht himself. He supposed this was Albrecht's sop to whatever was left of Barrett Demansk's "principles." Give the old man a chance to do the right thing.