David Drake - Tyrant

* * *

For Demansk himself, the morn seemed a long ways off. The night bid fair to stretch on endlessly.

He and Arsule were alone, the ceremonies finally over. Alone, in the chambers which she would share with him — officially, at least — and sitting across from each other in the salon. He, on a chair; she, lounging in proper style on a couch. He, groping for words; she—

Not.

"Oh, stop ogling me, Verice. Or, at least, don't do it the way a boy ogles the great-great-aunt of the family he's just met for the first time. The one with the ogre's appetite."

She sniffed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were meeting me for the first time." She glanced down at her robes. "Or have you forgotten how many times you and I and Druzla shared a bath together?"

As it happened, Demansk was remembering one of those occasions quite vividly. It had been a rather awkward moment, he recalled. Arsule had been telling Druzla, with great enthusiasm, of her latest artistic discovery. Enthusiasm, with Arsule, was always accompanied by many gestures and a considerable amount of bodily movement. Which, since she'd been toweling herself off at the time, had exposed to full view every portion of her extravagantly female form.

Awkward. Fortunately, the bathhouse was dim and the waters dark, so Demansk's wife hadn't noticed his fierce erection. Not until a bit later, when Arsule had left, by which time he had a perfectly respectable explanation and use for it. Druzla had certainly not complained.

"Thought so," chuckled Arsule. "You remember that one time? I don't think Druzla did — I made sure to get out of there quickly—"

"Not that quickly," he grumbled. "You and your damned hobbies. Not to mention the indiscreet way you dry yourself off."

She smiled. "It's the way I am." The smile began to fade. "And what now, Verice? How do you want it?"

He swallowed, with a bit more difficulty than he would have expected. "It's a marriage of state and necessity, Arsule. I'm not — not—"

"What?" she demanded, an eyebrow arched. "Not a rapist? By law, a husband can't rape his wife anyway. Anything he does, anytime he does it, is quite proper."

" 'Proper' be damned," he snapped. "There was never a time — not once — that Druzla had to be forced—"

"Oh, stop it! Think I don't know that already? She was a good friend, Verice. There was little we didn't discuss, one time or another."

She ran her hands down the robe. It was difficult to be certain, due to the rich and heavy fabric, but Demansk thought the flesh beneath still seemed as firm as the flesh he remembered seeing in years gone by. Close, anyway. Arsule was heavily built, yes; but neither flabby nor obese.

Arsule chuckled again. "As always. 'Verice the Virtuous.' How I sometimes envied Druzla. My own husband was a pleasant enough man, but — gods! — he was a whoremonger. You never even kept any concubines, did you?"

He shook his head. "I've been a soldier most of my life, Arsule. Most such take advantage of the opportunity. I. . didn't. Maybe it was simply because there was too much of it."

"Like a man who abstains at a feast, from watching others gorge themselves sick?"

"Something like that."

Now, it was more of a laugh than a chuckle. "Gods, isn't that just like the man?" She gave him a very dark-eyed look. "So. Tell me, then. When was the last time you got laid, Verice Demansk?"

He tried to find the answer, but his mind was blank. Or, rather, seemed too focused on a woman present to remember women past.

"Thought so. Well, you decide for yourself. But let me tell you what I want."

She looked away. Unusually, for Arsule, seeming uncertain and almost shy. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I didn't agree to this simply for reasons of state and necessity, Verice. I never had any use for gigolos, either, so. . It's been a long time. As I told you once, I believe, after Toman died I even stopped my own adulteries. Well, almost." Her lips shaped a wry smile. "And even that little self-indulgence is precluded henceforth, needless to say. What the widow — even wife — of a Councillor can get away with is one thing. The wife of a dictator. . nothing."

She brought her eyes back. They seemed black, now, no longer simply dark. "I always liked you, Verice — quite a bit — even if you were rude, now and then, about my hobbies. And I always thought you were quite handsome." Almost pleadingly: "I'm too old to bear any more children, so you needn't fear complications in the inheritance. I think your children even like me. Trae, anyway. So—"

"Not worried about that," rasped Demansk. His throat was dry. "I'm planning to adopt a custom my son-in-law told me about—"

So dry, he had to stop and clear it. "Ah, never mind. Official adoption, leave it at that for the moment. It's got nothing to do with the inheritance, Arsule, it's just that — that—"

Arsule clapped a hand to her cheek. "By the gods! You didn't even think about it! So damn busy plotting and scheming and calculating everything else—"

Then, burst into laughter. "Some tyrant you turn out to be! The one time it'd do me the most good!"

When the laugher stopped, the eyes were still dark. But, also, very warm.

"Oh, give it a rest. Let me do the planning and plotting and scheming, at least in our own chambers. And the dictating." She patted the couch next to her, very firmly.

"Come here, husband. Right now. Your wife is filled with lust."

Chapter 28

Demansk saw little of Arsule over the next three weeks, except late at night. He was far too busy organizing the campaign against Albrecht and the upcoming emergency session of the "legitimate Council," which was to take place in Solinga by the end of the month. The month in question was the one Vanberts called Dura, the last day of which marked the traditional onset of winter. Emeralds, naturally, had two different names for the same month, not being able to agree with each other even on a common calendar.

That was the least of the reasons Demansk had to curse Emeralds, however. They gave him more than enough grief on other subjects. Every other subject, it seemed like.

Luckily, he was able to pass most of that grief onto his son-in-law. Among Adrian Gellert's many other talents, his strange "inner spirits" also gave him superlative diplomatic skills. Which, dealing with squabbling Emerald merchants and manufacturers and politicians, mainly took the form of couching his words in a dialectic which, after the fact, could be interpreted in at least five different ways — no less than three of which were guaranteed to be mutually exclusive.

Of Trae he saw even less. His youngest son was closeted with Gellert every hour that Gellert was not confusing petitioners. Gellert himself was overseeing the manufacture of the great siege guns which Demansk needed to reduce the walls of Vanbert. Those were being built right here in Solinga. But it would be Trae's job, upon his return to Chalice, to see to it that the large quantity of field guns which Demansk would need for his subsequent campaign against the Southron invaders was ready by next spring.

Of Helga, he saw even less. Much to Demansk's approval — even glee — Helga's husband had invoked ancient custom and ordered her seclusion in their mansion in Solinga.

* * *

Quite outraged, he'd been, when she finally confessed the truth.

"You were pregnant !? Bad enough you charged up in the first place! But— pregnant ?! " Demansk, present at the time, thought Adrian's stomping up and down in the salon of their mansion was a tad undignified. Not to mention the rather wild waving of his arms. But, then, he was an Emerald. One had to make allowances.