- Chapter 9

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Chapter 9
Over the centuries, as the twelve villages which formed the original core of Vanbert had expanded to conquer half the world, the edifices of the Confederacy's government had undergone their own massive expansion. Whether torn down and rebuilt, or swollen by modification and accretion, the complex of buildings and plazas had become something of a monstrosity itself.
So, at least, thought Demansk, as he worked his way across the Forum of the Virtuous Matrons toward the still-distant but imposing Council Hall. "Threaded his way" was perhaps a better description. The Forum was filled with a huge crowd, as always after rumors spread of a major oncoming shift in political power in the Council. Most of the mob were simply curious. A large number were street vendors. Still others were taking advantage of the traditional custom of allowing unlimited speech in the Forum to harangue the crowd from jury-rigged speakers' pedestals. Others—
His sons were walking just behind him. He heard Olver whisper to the others: "Careful now; keep an eye out. Some of these fellows are not loitering."
Demansk, as befitted his aloof dignity as a Justiciar, ignored the whisper. He ignored as well the temptation to place his hand on the battle-ax hanging from his waist. At the moment, the temptation was hard to resist. There were a lot of suspicious-looking men here and there in the crowd, under whose robes might be concealed any number of weapons.
The ax was a ceremonial weapon; sized more like a hatchet than an ax. Because of his status as a Justiciar, Demansk was allowed an ax rather than the long knife permitted to simple Councillors. But where most members of the Council carried elaborately carved and inlaid "weapons"—some of them even with silver blades—Demansk's ax of office was perfectly functional. The blade was good steel, and sharpened to a working edge.
Still, he resisted the impulse. Dignity, manifesting itself among other ways in an apparent indifference to danger, was an essential ingredient for the "public aura" of a central Vanbert official. It was for that same reason that Demansk was unaccompanied by any bodyguards. His sons would have to do for that.
Which, when all was said and done, made the task of any would-be assassins quite difficult. All three of Demansk's sons were strong and healthy men. His two oldest, Barrett and Olver, were also experienced soldiers. The youngest, Trae, had only limited experience in battle—a single skirmish against the pirate raid which had resulted in his sister's abduction. But, perhaps oddly given his fascination with gadgetry and natural philosophy, Trae was actually the most athletic of the three. And if his combat experience was slight, the young man had never stinted on his training.
So Demansk was not surprised to see the subtle but careful way in which his sons shielded him as he made his way through the crowd. Nor was he surprised at the manner in which each of the three handled the task of moving people aside. Barrett, brusquely and rudely—he'd knocked down an old woman some fifty paces back; Olver, with his usual stolid firmness; Trae, as often as not, with a smile and a jest.
Another jest now, as he lifted (quite easily) a rather portly matron by the armpits and set her to one side. "Madame, you tempt me too much in my progress! For shame—here in the Forum!"
The matron's squawk of protest choked off into a giggle. She waved the fan vigorously in front of her face, and returned Trae's humor with gleaming eyes which were quite inappropriate for her respectable status. Despite himself, Demansk couldn't entirely force down a smile.
The Forum of the Virtuous Matrons was named after one of the many episodes in Vanbert's early history. The matrons of a small Vanbert village had committed suicide rather than be ravished by a band of raiders from a nearby tribe who had overcome their husbands on the field of battle.
So, at least, according to legend. Demansk had his doubts. The "field of battle" would have been a small meadow, filled for a time by sweaty, shouting pig farmers struggling with sweaty and shouting shepherds. As for the rest, who was to say?
It hardly mattered. Truth or legend, this much was certain: that small tribe of shepherds had been annihilated shortly thereafter. Even in the semi-mythical ancient days, the folk who would become Vanbert had been ruthless with their enemies. Ruthless, yet, in an odd sort of way, not given to holding grudges once their purpose was accomplished. The male shepherds would have been massacred, the women turned into concubines. But the offspring born of those women thereafter would have been, within not more than two generations, accepted without thought as part of the growing Confederacy. Just as would any bastards born of ravished Vanbert women less "virtuous" than the matrons of myth.
Demansk chewed on that thought as he threaded his way toward the Council Hall. Even as he destroyed the Vanbert that was, he realized, he would be bringing back to life some of its ancient ways. Become an empire, Vanbert had begun to hold grudges. Say better, had justified greed with the name of "grudge." Conquered folk now were enslaved, and remained in slavery—generation succeeding generation. A nation born of pig farmers copulating in huts, with little care for the origins of their offspring, had become an empire whose aristocracy was obsessed with "good blood."
His grandfather, he remembered, had not been much impressed with the newer strains of purebred pigs. Dogs, either. "Mongrels are always best," he could remember the old man telling him. "They may not be as fat or as pretty, but they'll last. And there's nothing wrong with chewing tough meat, anyway. Good for your jaws."
* * *
A whisper from Barrett broke his train of thought. "Won't be any trouble today, I don't think. Everybody's still wondering which way things will shake down."
There was an edge of excessive eagerness in his voice that irritated Demansk. But he let no sign of it show on his face.
Barrett was too ambitious. He had been so from at least the age of twelve. And it was an ambition unleavened by any kind of deeper thought. Where solemn Olver had carefully studied the writings of Jasprem and the speeches of Acclide and Lurth—if not the Emerald philosophers whom young Trae cherished—Barrett had never seen any need to add wisdom to intelligence.
Just as Helga had predicted, Barrett had already sent away his wife and prepared divorce proceedings. He was, as the Emerald sage Howark would have put it, entirely a "man of the senses."
So be it. That, too, Demansk would use ruthlessly.
They'd finally reached the short flight of wide marble stairs that led up to the Council Hall. A squad of soldiers kept the people thronging in the Forum from spilling onto the stairs. The stair and the hall itself were reserved for Councillors and their invited guests. The squad leader recognized Demansk at a glance and gave him a tiny nod.
Now that he was through the mob, Demansk felt he could let the pose of august dignity slip a bit. So he took the stairs in his accustomed vigorous stride instead of the leisurely amble which he'd been restricting himself to.
A moment later, he and his sons had passed under the great pillared archway leading into the antechamber of the hall. It was cooler inside, if a bit stuffy. The antechamber, lacking any of the large windows which allowed light into the great central room where the Council met for its deliberations, was rather dark. The faces of the ponderous statues of mythic heroes from Vanbert's past which lined the walls of the antechamber seemed even gloomier than usual.
But Demansk paid the statues little attention. He strode across the antechamber to the wide doorway leading into the chamber. The bronze doors had been flung open, as always when the Council was in official session. The two Council members who held the office of Watchmen stood on either side of the doorway, full-sized battle-axes held in their hands.
Demansk suppressed a smile. The post of "Watchman" was a matter of ritual honor. By a tradition now at least two centuries old, it was given to the most elderly of the Councillors. Neither of these men, nor both put together—potbellied little Kirn and cadaverous Undreth—could have prevented a determined and energetic ten-year-old boy from entering the hall.
The two Watchmen shuffled aside as he came to the doorway. Undreth wheezed a welcome; Kirn, a longtime partisan of Albrecht, satisfied himself with a moue of distaste. To the first, Demansk responded with a polite nod; to the other, not so much as a glance of appraisal. Kirn was a meaningless enemy. His vote was a given, and, for the rest—
Once he was past, where Kirn could not see his face, Demansk's lip curled. There was an old saying, very popular among Vanbert's lower classes: a nobleman's trough is his grave. Kirn, in particular, was notorious for his gluttony. He would be dead anyway, soon enough, from natural causes.
The floor of the chamber was marble, inlaid with large copper and silver medallions. Each of the medallions recorded the name of a victorious battle or siege. A good two thirds of the floor was spackled with the things. Pausing for a moment to scan the Councillors assembling on the tiered stone benches which encircled the floor everywhere except the entrance, Demansk reminded himself of those medallions. Whatever else could be said of today's Vanbert, there was nothing false or illusory about those victories.
Workmen had already prepared a spot for the next. Quite some time ago, now. Demansk's lip curled further, into a gesture of open derision rather than simple humor. Preble, that medallion would read—whenever Albrecht finally managed to reduce it.
His open sneer, and the source of it, had already been noticed by at least a dozen other Councillors. However dull-witted they might be in many respects, Councillors were hypersensitive to political nuances. A number of them grinned; several scowled; several more looked away, feigning indifference.
Albrecht, as the old saying went, had truly hoisted himself on his own assegai. The year before, he had taken advantage of the stunning defeats which Adrian Gellert had inflicted on the Vanbert besiegers of the rebel island to have Jeschonyk and Demansk removed from command—heaping a mass of contumely on the first and a fair portion on the other. And he had also taken the occasion to get himself appointed the new commander of the besieging forces.
A necessity, that, if Albrecht's ambitions were to go any further. The Confederacy might be corrupt, but the rot still only went so far. No Councillor, even in modern times, could hope to attain the Speakership without a modicum of martial glory to his name. Albrecht had been famous for his political maneuvering, not his skills on the field of war. He'd seized the opportunity to have himself elected the commander of the siege precisely in order to remedy that flaw.
Demansk's sneer was now a thing of pure histrionics. He allowed the assembling Councillors to get a full taste of it, while he himself kept his eyes visibly on the spot long-since prepared for the missing medallion of triumph.
Albrecht had discovered, the hard way, that it was much easier to deride besiegers than to surpass them. A year had gone by, and Preble was still in rebel hands. Even after Adrian Gellert and his brother Esmond left the service of the King of the Isles to go to the southern half of the continent, the islanders had been able to keep fending off the Confederate forces.
Albrecht had been handicapped, of course. Needless to say, both Jeschonyk and Demansk himself had used their influence to keep Albrecht from getting the massive resources he needed to end the siege quickly. Jeschonyk simply out of political revenge, Demansk because—even then—he had begun seeing that he might someday need to overthrow the existing order.
The chamber was almost full, now. Only a handful of Councillors were scurrying to take their seats. Demansk left off his sneer and strode to his own accustomed place, on the lowest tier of benches reserved for the Confederacy's ten Justiciars.
When he sat down, he made the ninth present. The tenth was not there, and would not be. Justiciar Albrecht was far away, staring at the island of Preble from a Confederate rampart. And, Demansk had no doubt at all, gnashing his teeth in fury and frustration.
Albrecht's many supporters, of course, would do what they could to advance their patron's interests at this emergency meeting of the Council. But without Albrecht himself there, to guide them with his political cunning and his seemingly bottomless coffers, they would have a much more difficult time of it.
* * *
Their difficulty began almost immediately. Speaker Chollat rose and made the ritual speech which opened a session of the Council. Fortunately, old custom held here still—the speech was mercifully brief. As brief as possible, in fact, which was Chollat's subtle way of indicating his continued neutrality. Chollat was, essentially, a prestigious non-entity. He had been elected Speaker of the Council the year before simply as a compromise between the factions—a position he apparently intended to retain.
No sooner had Chollat finished than one of Albrecht's principal supporters was on his feet. "I urge the Council to declare this session invalid!" he boomed. Quaryn was a big man, tall as well as fat. His voice was positively stentorian.
Speaker Chollat, still standing on the floor of the chamber, opened his mouth to protest at such an abrupt—almost rude—demand for a ruling. But Quaryn overrode whatever he was going to say.
"No debate! An urge for invalidation takes precedence!"
True enough. Demansk glanced toward Jeschonyk. He and Tomsien had agreed to allow the old Speaker Emeritus to be the "gray eminence" of their projected Triumvirate. The purely political maneuvering in the Confederacy's capital was Jeschonyk's domain—and specialty.
Judging from the cheerful smile on the Speaker Emeritus' face as he rose—almost a predatory grin—Demansk relaxed. Whatever his personal vices and limits as a field commander, no one had ever accused Jeschonyk of lacking skills in the endless maneuvers of Vanbert politics.
"Agreed!" shouted Jeschonyk. "No debate! I call for an immediate vote!"
Demansk could see Quaryn's heavy jaws tighten. Clearly enough, Albrecht's man had wanted some squabbling over procedure in the hopes that confusion might fray the ranks of his enemies. The quick and ready willingness of Jeschonyk to move straight to a procedural vote was the old man's own way of clashing assegai against assegai. He was signaling his confidence in victory to the triumvirate's supporters.
Sure enough. The vote rolled in quickly, even following Quaryn's insistence on an individual count of the voices.
For continuing the session: eighty-seven. 
For declaring it invalid: fifty-eight. 
It was as clear a procedural victory as any in recent Council history. And Jeschonyk used the boost of confidence to keep the tide surging.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon before Demansk rose to speak. By then, it was clear, a majority of the Councillors leaned in favor of establishing a new Triumvirate to supercede—temporarily—the authority of the Speakership. Their motives varied, from personal greed and ambition to simply wanting to be on what they perceived as the winning side.
Their concerns varied as well. Many, of course, really didn't care in the least about the troubles ailing the Confederation. But many did, and those concerns ranged from the fear of a slave revolt, to further depredations from the pirates of the Isles and the Southron barbarians.
A handful even thought in terms of the more long-term health of the Confederacy. Not many, to be sure, but some. Demansk made a note to seek them out for private discussions in the weeks to come. He intended to break the power of the aristocracy, but he had no desire to shed more blood than was necessary—and knew as well that the political skills of the noblemen would be needed in the years ahead. Those of them, at least, who could be won over to supporting the new regime.
Still, although the tide was running heavily in favor of Jeschonyk's proposal, at least half of the Councillors were still wavering. Their fear, of course, was of the rise of a new Marcomann. And almost all of them had a single target for those fears: Demansk himself.
He alone, really, presented the possible danger. Jeschonyk was too old, and not enough of a military commander, to make a creditable dictator. As for Tomsien . . . 
Ambitious enough, yes; wealthy enough, yes; and few doubted he was unscrupulous enough. But although Tomsien had a respectable record in terms of military experience and command, it was nothing compared to Demansk's. Among modern leaders of the Confederacy, only Demansk had the aura of Marcomann about him. Not simply the record of success in the field, but—what was even more dangerous—a proven capacity to gain the loyalty and allegiance of the ranks of the army.
So, late in the day, Demansk decided it was time to seize the greatbeast directly and wrestle it to the ground. He stood up, indicating his desire to address the Council. But then, unlike many of his predecessors that day, waited politely for Speaker Chollat to call upon him before speaking. The man who would be tyrant understood perfectly well that politeness and outward modesty were weapons as sharp-edged as any others.
"Justiciar Demansk has the floor," said Chollat.
Demansk stepped into the center of the Chamber. Then, his left hand on hip and his right extended, as was accepted oratorical demeanor, he began his speech.
A very short speech, it would be. Taking a greatbeast by the horns and bringing it down could either be done quickly—or not at all.
"You fear another Marcomann!" he boomed.
Then, he waited. So far that day, no one had posed the fear openly. Circumlocution and euphemism had been the style of oratory and public debate for two decades now. That, too, was a legacy of Marcomann, under whose iron rule few had dared to speak clearly and openly.
Demansk had a reputation for bluntness. Almost to the point of crudeness. A simple soldier, whose skill on the battlefield and in campaign maneuvers was not matched by its political equivalent.
Over the years, Demansk had cultivated that reputation simply because it allowed him to avoid the tedium of endless babble. Now he found it useful for another purpose. Simplicity, like modesty and decorum, was another blade.
"And so do I," he added, loudly enough to be heard throughout the Chamber, but not in the booming tone of his opening statement.
"And so do I." Two strides forward, a half turn; right hand on hip; now the left extended dramatically. "We all know I am the danger."
A polite nod toward Jeschonyk. "The Speaker Emeritus being famous for his prudence and sagacity." A deeper nod, almost a bow, toward Tomsien. "And Justiciar Tomsien for his steadiness."
Steadiness, he thought to himself. Now there's a euphemism worthy of the best politician. Translation: Tomsien would cheerfully undermine the Confederacy and take the power, if he could. But his are the methods of a rising river, allowing time to levee the banks. Only I pose the danger of a tidal wave. 
"And so did the three of us ponder the matter."
Half turn, one stride; pause; quarter turn; left hand back on hip, right hand extended hip-high, index finger pointing dramatically at . . . not much of anything, except marble, but it was nicely done and in the customary style.
"Thus did we agree to allot the portions of power wisely. To Jeschonyk, whose age if nothing else will serve as a check to ambition, goes the direct authority over the state. An equal among three in name, he will exercise the power here in the capital." Now he straightened his back, both hands on hips akimbo—the classic pose for announcing a surprising development.
"We furthermore agreed—and I hereby request that it be included as a provision in the establishment of the Triumvirate—that both Justiciar Tomsien and I be banned by law from entering the city so long as we retain our posts as junior Triumvirs."
The crowd of Councillors was relaxing visibly. Jeschonyk was a familiar figure. Alone in the capital . . . he could be reasoned with, persuaded—bribed, if need be.
Demansk spread his hands wide and took a half step back—then leaned forward. A more surprising development still. Even the legendary orator Hyrthel, who was said to have perfected the stance, could not have done it better.
"Tomsien will then be given the army. Command over all forces except those assigned to naval duty—as well, of course, as household troops permitted to Councillors by law."
He thought that was a nice touch, the last. Very few Councillors, Demansk himself being one of the exceptions, maintained a body of household troops as large as the law permitted. Doing so was extremely expensive, if nothing else. But by reminding them of their rights—whether they chose to exercise them or not—he was subtly reassuring the Councillors.
All eyes were now fixed on him. He turned about, took three strides, and resumed the standard pose: left hand on hip, right hand extended and raised slightly above his head. "And I, you wonder? I ask one thing alone—that I be given command of the naval forces. All of them . . ." He paused for a moment, then added a bit slyly: "except, of course, those which Justiciar Albrecht might need for his continued campaign against Preble."
He let it sink in, for a moment. That latest would further confuse and demoralize Albrecht's now half-routed supporters. Obviously speaking on behalf of all three of the proposed new Triumvirs, Demansk was making it clear that there would be no reprisals against Albrecht—or, by implications, his supporters.
Not immediately, at least. In the longer term, who was to say? But all the men in the Council Hall were experienced maneuverers. "The long run" . . . was later. Today they were looking at a major political defeat, and Demansk had just shown the rats the hole in the corner. He could see the benches stirring as men began whispering new offers and deals to each other.
It was time to drive home the spike. "I repeat: all naval forces—as well as whatever auxiliary support is needed for them. Never before in Vanbert's history has this been done. And do it we must—if I am to lead the expedition which will finally rid us of the pirates of the Isles. For I propose to conquer the Western Isles, and make them a new province of our Confederation."
That statement brought instant silence to the chamber. He could practically see the thoughts racing through the heads of the Councillors.
On the one hand:
Giving Demansk authority over all naval forces would give him considerable military might. The more so when all the possible implications of "whatever auxiliary support is needed" was added onto the balance.
On the other hand:
The Councillors, like all Confederates, thought in terms of armies, nor navies. Navies were simply not capable of conquering half a continent. Not even though a Vanbert navy was really more of an army on ships than a "navy" in the way that islanders thought of it.
It simply didn't matter. Every Councillor knew the basic arithmetic, if not the exact figures. Give Demansk every ship in the Confederate fleet, including the ones besieging Preble—even build as many new ones to add to it—and there still wasn't room on those wooden seagoing forts for more than . . . 
At most, one fourth of the Confederation's forces. In practice, given the need to maintain the siege at Preble—and still under Albrecht's command—Demansk simply wouldn't have the forces available to impose himself as a dictator.
All that was needed was the final indirection. Demansk took a sudden step forward—almost a lunge—and extended both arms directly before him, hands clenched into fists. A mighty resolve made. "I will give you the Islands, fellows of the Council. And I will have my family's vengeance." 
The last sentence was practically snarled. Which, in truth, took no histrionic effort at all. Vengeance was indeed something Demansk would obtain. In passing, to be sure. But given his reputation for simplicity . . . 
What might come after never crossed the Councillors' minds. It was plain to see, as each face grew slightly slack with easing tension. Some so slack as to almost indicate derision. Every man in the Council knew that Demansk's daughter was being held in seclusion on his estates. Shamed, once, by her violation; twice over, by bearing a pirate's bastard.
They had it all now. The assurance of divided power; the most dangerous to be given the smallest spear—and now, even his personal motive, as far as possible from the grandiose dreams of a would-be dictator.
Quaryn himself led the hail which rose from the floor, calling for an immediate vote. Hands stretched wide; left hand in a fist, right extended wide—all in classic style. A pity that he stumbled slightly rising to his feet, true; but the Council was as inclined to be charitable toward small lapses in that moment as was the new Triumvirate itself.
* * *
Afterward, of course, the new dispensation took not long to manifest itself. As he strode down the steps of the hall, being almost assaulted by the roar of the crowd in the Forum—the professional rumor-spreaders were already at work—thirty men trotted forward to join his sons at his side.
There would be no pretense of indifference here. The men were all veterans of Demansk's First Regiment, and they took up positions all around him and his heirs. Shields up; assegais ready. No potential assassin was allowed to get within twenty feet of the new Triumvir as he passed across the Forum.
Somewhere along the way, Demansk reminded himself that small errors needed to be corrected along with great ones. He commanded his new First Spear to his side.
When the man trotted up, Demansk considered him a moment. Cut from the same cloth as Jessep Yunkers, obviously. Perhaps not as intelligent, but thoroughly capable at his trade.
"First Spear," he said, "what is your name?"
 
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