David Drake: Tyrant

Radio?!

* * *

When Arsule made her entrance, however, just in time for the feast which was being prepared on the balcony, Demansk found his gloom lifting. Despite himself, Arsule always had that effect on him. Especially when her dark eyes sparkled so, as she gave him a sultry glance.

Whenever Demansk imposed his authority over her — which happened at least twice a year — Arsule immediately retaliated by locking the doors to her private quarters. Demansk could, of course, have ordered those doors broken down by his soldiery. But. . leaving aside everything else, that would be so undignified.

Besides — also predictably — the doors never stayed locked for more than a few weeks. No matter how often they clashed, the fact was that Arsule and Demansk had grown very intimate over the past three years. As intimate, he would now admit even to himself — more intimate, in some ways — as he had ever been with Druzla. And. .

The feast was starting. The Paramount Triumvir, master of the world, took his seat next to his wife at the head of the huge table. In every aspect, from his stern visage to his ponderous way of moving, he exuded the dignity one expects from such an august personage. All of which was actually quite at odds with the thought uppermost in his mind.

I'm getting laid tonight.

Under the table, unseen by anyone because of the rich cloth spilling over the edge, Arsule's slim fingers stroked his inner thigh.

Oh, yes indeed.

* * *

When the meal was finished, Demansk rose. Silence fell over the table. He gave the crowd gathered there a long and slow examination.

All my family.

His eyes fell on a slim and very pretty blonde young woman, seated not far down the table to his left. She was erect in her chair, very stiff, and looked nervous. Not surprising, of course, since it was the first time she had ever participated in such an affair.

Kata too, now that Arsule finally got the adoption through the bureaucratic maze. His lips quirked a little. He had no doubt at all that Arsule's present warmth was due to the adoption. Demansk himself, at the end, had settled the issue. Amazing, really, what the banishment of one obstreperous official to a remote post had on the efficiency of all others.

There was some sadness, seeing Kata at the table. It reminded him of Ion, whom he was coming to miss all the more as time went by. But not much. Whatever else, Demansk would be able to face Jeschonyk's shade in the afterlife.

Close advisers, most of them. Many of them, I think, now friends as well. Hard to tell, of course, with any except Sharlz.

Prit was there, naturally. As the highest financial official of the Confederacy, Sallivar was resident in the new capital.

So were Forent Nappur and Jessep Yunkers, who were also sitting at the table. Demansk would allow the Council at Vanbert to retain their illusions of still being the "seat of power." His son Olver, who now resided in Vanbert, was always present at the Council to give his father's view on things. And while Olver had come to this gathering, Kall Oppricht had remained behind. To keep on eye on things, so to speak.

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—"