The Tyrant

Chapter 29

Don't be an idiot, Adrian, said Raj Whitehall. He's going to kill his oldest son, the first of his babies who came into the world and whom he can still remember cradling in joy and wonder. Of course he wants his daughter at his side.

The quiet thought jolted Adrian out of his gathering storm of protest. For a moment, he stared at Demansk-and, for the first time since Demansk had advanced his proposal, noticed the tightness in the man's face. His father-in-law was such a formidable person that even his closest friends and allies and relatives tended to forget that he was made of flesh and blood.

Except Arsule. And you can thank whatever gods there are that she shares his bed every night. If we do manage to keep this man sane, in the years to come, she'll play the largest role in the doing. And the gods help the world if we don't.

Adrian remembered the old Emerald saying: "Whom the gods would cast down into madness, they first raise on high." you can find that saying, in one variation or another, on all planets and in all times, added Center. it's the derivative of another famous old saw: power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. what people often fail to understand, however, is that the rot strikes at a man's intellect much faster than it does at his morals. gigo, a later time would call it: garbage in, garbage out. a man with the power to punish anyone never hears anything except what he wants to hear. or, what's worse, what his subordinates think he wants to hear-and they don't dare ask him what it is. such, at least, is the tendency-and it is very hard to counter.

Adrian sighed. "Yes, Father, of course. Helga can come on the campaign with us. And the children too. Jessep's already told me he's bringing Ilset-who's got another new baby of her own, you know. So if Helga needs a wet nurse, we'll have one she trusts at hand."

He was not happy about it. Adrian knew perfectly well how difficult it would be to keep Helga far out of any danger. The damned woman "Damn girl," chuckled Demansk. But the tone had a certain warmth in it, and the harsh lines in his face seemed to be fading a bit. "I know she'll drive us both half insane, but…"

Quietly: "I think I might go insane altogether, if she weren't with me along with Olver. This is going to be… difficult." He placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "I thank you for this, son."

Adrian nodded. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. At some point, he knew, he was going to have to raise openly and straightforwardly with Demansk the dangers of the future. But Not now. Let the man finish the job of becoming a tyrant-the task of a titan already-before you start nattering at him about all the ways he should start unraveling his work. That'll be the last thing he wants to hear at the moment, any more than a man feverishly building a dyke to contain flood waters wants someone prattling in his ear about the danger of future droughts.

"I don't imagine you'll have any trouble getting her ready," said Demansk. The chuckle this time was full of warmth. "Even though the expedition leaves tomorrow."

"Not hardly," said Adrian sourly. "Just remove the bolts and chains and armed guards and hexes and amulets and fetishes and-if that stupid spell had worked right-the demons that were supposed to have been keeping her locked safely away in her chambers."

Demansk laughed. "Which spell was it? Druzla probably tried it herself, years gone by. Didn't work, of course."

He lifted the hand of comfort and thanks from Adrian's shoulder and gave it a hearty clap. Exactly the kind of hearty clap on the shoulder which fathers-in-law have given sons-in-law throughout the ages. Well, boy, she's all yours now. Have fun. I'm going to get some rest.

"Tomorrow morning, then," he added as he turned away. "I'll have Jessep and Uther keep an eye on her, Adrian, I swear. And by the time the siege has settled in, you'll have arrived yourself with the guns and the rest of the train."

The last remark had, at least, the virtue of distracting Adrian from his worries over Helga. Fine for his father-in-law to talk serenely about a "siege train." Since Adrian-not he-was in charge of actually getting the thing to the siege.

"Train." Ha! Remind me again, Center, what a train is supposed to look like.

Now and then, Center had flashes of something close to a sense of humor. He gave Adrian, first, an image of a mechanical behemoth snorting its smooth way across a countryside. Then, the piled-up jumble of a trainwreck.

Yeah, what I thought.

Luckily for Adrian, Center's quasi sense of humor manifested itself but rarely. So, in the weeks which followed, as he struggled and strained and cursed and beat his breast in despair trying to keep huge and ungainly cannons moving-slowly, slowly-across a ravaged countryside in the middle of winter, he was at least not forced to grit his teeth at the computer's witticisms.

Raj Whitehall, of course, was a different matter. Yes, true enough, the former general was also a fount of excellent advice. But Adrian could have done without the jests and wisecracks-much less the disquisitions on the ironies of military life.

— never fails either. Just when the risk of an epidemic ravaging your troops has passed with warm weather, it comes right back again with the hard soil of winter. Nothing soldiers hate worse than digging latrines in winter-grouse about, anyway-but if you don't — lucky at that your winters are so mild. On And so it went, week after week. Excellent advice, yes; which got Adrian out of many a jam. Complete with commentary.

— can't do that, lad, I'm giving you fair warning. You'll have a mutiny within a week — logs as paving. Pile 'em straight down through the muck. It'll work, trust me. I did it during — and the time the only good surgeon got too drunk to work, right in the middle of a battle. Let that be a lesson to you, lad. Always On and on, week after week. By the time Adrian crested the hill overlooking Vanbert, the siege train coming up behind him, he was desperately trying to figure out a way he could make both Whitehall and Center materialize in front of him. So he could strangle the first and turn the great guns on the other.

His thoughts, of course, were no secret to his would-be victims. Center did not deign to comment. And all Raj had to say, when the sight of the enormous city finally loomed before them, was: A good job, lad. Lost only two of the guns along the way, got here in plenty of time-and even managed not to murder anyone, corporeal or otherwise.

That praise was modest compared to the accolades which Demansk heaped upon him. Adrian lost count of the number of times his father-in-law used the word "brilliant" to refer to Adrian's exploit at his staff meetings. "Daring" and "dashing" were tossed around freely also. Not that Adrian could, for the life of him, understand how even an Emerald-much less a stodgy Confederate-could possibly apply such terms to an enterprise that had consisted, for the most part, of sheer drudgery.

But… Adrian didn't really need Raj and Center's commentary to explain it to him. Sieges are a miserable business, under the best of circumstances-which a siege undertaken in winter most certainly was not. Even with their confidence in eventual victory, the morale of Demansk's own soldiers was none too high at the moment. Having Adrian finally show up with the great guns- impressive, they were, to the besiegers who gawked at them as they were hauled into position-gave an enormous boost to their spirits.

And, of course, correspondingly depressed the spirits of the defenders. By now, the arquebusiers whom Adrian and Trae had trained and Demansk had brought with him had inflicted misery enough on the soldiers manning the walls of Vanbert. To see what even unsophisticates such as themselves could immediately recognize as giant versions of arquebuses, training their huge muzzles toward them…

Finally, Adrian realized, his father-in-law was-as always-seeing to it that the "second string" to his bow was kept taut and ready. Now, as before and in the long years to come, Verice Demansk would be leaning heavily on his family. And if he was about to lose a son, he was reminding everyone that he had gained a son-in-law capable of replacing him. Reminding himself, perhaps, more than anyone.

"Let's do it," Demansk ordered. His face was drawn and tight, looking like a mask in the lamplight of the command bunker, but showed no emotion otherwise. "Send in the propaganda teams and the spies tonight, Forent. By now, that wall is like a sieve. For small groups of men, anyway."

Nappur nodded. Adrian was a bit surprised that the giant seemed so placid at the prospect of trying to infiltrate hundreds of men into a city which was supposedly, after all, "under siege." But Raj enlightened him immediately.

Forget the imagery, lad. What's the axiom of your philosopher-can't remember his name at the moment-about not mistaking the portrait for the man? Same's true with a siege. Precious few sieges are really all that tight, especially with a city as enormous as Vanbert. Keep out massed assaults, yes. Keep out spies, deserters-both ways-traders, hell, even housewives looking for husbands and vice versa-not a chance.

Demansk turned to Adrian next. "We'll give the proclamation two days to eat away at Albrecht's troops. Morning of the third, I'll want to start the barrage. Can you manage it?"

On that subject, Adrian had no questions at all. "Yes, easily. I could start by tomorrow night, if you wanted."

Demansk shook his head. "No, the proclamation gives the troops two full days to decide, and I'll stick to it. Whatever I might gain in the way of a tactical surprise wouldn't be worth the political damage. 'Verice Demansk is good for his word.' That's gotten us this far, it'll take us the rest of the way."

And so it proved. To Adrian's immense disgust-combined with relief, admittedly-the siege guns never went into action at all. By noon of the second day, mutinies began erupting among Albrecht's troops. By midafternoon, half the garrison of Vanbert was in full revolt. By late afternoon, the revolt was completely out of control. The gates of the city were being thrown open from within. Civilians began pouring out to plead for mercy and soldiers began pouring out to make a formal surrender-before, still carrying their weapons as Demansk had promised them, they began their own long march back to the eastern provinces from which they came.

Most of the soldiers, at least. Those who had decided to take advantage of Demansk's proclamation that the land of all noblemen under Albrecht's banner-which was a good half of them, taken as a whole, and almost three quarters of those whose estates lay in the east-was forfeit to the state. Which, in its mercy and justice, would allow any yeoman of the rebellious provinces to claim for his own. And would ask no questions regarding the status of their military service.

Enry Sharbonow had even printed up samples of the legal form which would be required to substantiate the new land tenure. A very simple and straightforward form, quite unlike the typical official document of the Confederacy. Even a half-literate foot soldier could study the thing and see how easy it was, and explain it to his fellows who could not read at all. Just grab it and get nine other people to say you're a good and proper fellow. And that's-IT. Okay, guys-we all know each other and there's ten of us. Let's go. Squad deep.

So, three brigades' worth of soldiers began a disorganized race back to their homeland, each and every one of them bound and determined to carve out for himself a farm he could live on and raise a family. And the gods save anyone who got in their way.

Not all of the soldiers, however. Quite a few, either because they were more short-sighted, filled with a more immediate greed, less ambitious, lazier-it was a long way back to the eastern provinces-decided they'd rather keep enjoying the pleasures of the capital, or, simply, were too unpleasant to have nine people ready to vouch for them, decided to take advantage of Demansk's other offer.

And a full land share taken from their estates-or half its equivalent immediately, in cash-to anyone who brings before Verice Demansk, Paramount Triumvir, the heads of any rebellious nobleman. The features must be recognizable.

A separate leaflet-a bound-together cheap little codex, actually-specifically listed the names. That was more in the way of a formality than anything else, however. Forent saw to it that his infiltrators distributed hundreds of those, as well, but precious few people within the city bothered to study the list. After ruling the roost in Vanbert for so many months, Albrecht and his cohorts were quite well known to the populace and its garrison.

Besides, the principal leaflet-distributed in thousands of copies-had the real prizes listed on it.

Double shares for any member of Albrecht's false and traitorous so-called 'Council.' Triple shares for Drav Albrecht himself and his principal conspirators.

That was a short list. Six names, beginning with Jacreb Quain and ending with: Barrett Demansk.

Demansk kept his troops out of the city for the first two days of the massacre. Albrecht's street gangs, of course, were doing most of Demansk's dirty work for him. They were the ones who had the easiest access to Albrecht and his cohorts, the ingrained habits of thuggery to fall back upon, and could most easily intimidate the populace into revealing the hidey-holes of those noblemen who managed to escape the initial slaughter. But, in the nature of things, would also be the most uneasy at the presence of regular soldiers in the city.

On the morning of the third day, by which time most of the heads had been collected in any event, Demansk-in his justice and mercy-heeded the pleas of the city's everyday citizens to put a stop to the brigandage and mayhem which the street gangs had also unleashed on the capital.

So, a new proclamation was issued-and four brigades of regular troops stormed into the city to enforce it. Or, to put things crudely but more truthfully, cash in on it.

The Paramount Triumvir is distressed to discover that criminal elements are running amok in the capital. Therefore he has decreed that any soldier who brings him the head of such a criminal will be entitled to whatever property the criminal possesses. Features must be recognizable.

A new set of codexes was distributed-not many; Enry's portable printing presses were temperamental gadgets-which provided a long list of the names of criminals. The list was even fairly accurate and up to date, since everyone who had turned in a nobleman's head had been required to sign or mark a receipt. True, many of the names on the receipts were fictitious; but an amazing number of street gang members had given their own.

And, again, it hardly mattered. The populace of Vanbert, which had suffered the swaggering abuses of the city's gangs for decades-and never more so than in the past months-were even more adept at leading soldiers to the hidey-holes of criminals than the criminals had been at ferreting out noblemen. Within the first hour, in fact, the transaction became more-or-less standardized. Show us where the bastards are and we'll cut you in-a tenth of whatever the squad gets.

That was perhaps the brightest side of the affair. At least thirty-two marriages came out of those impromptu liaisons between squads and civilians-along with more than twenty adoptions. One street urchin was even, officially, adopted by an entire squad. Which they thought was eminently reasonable and fair, since the shrewd and plucky lad had led them to no less than thirteen hidey-holes. (And never you mind how the boy knew about 'em. How many real crimes could he have committed, anyway, at the age of nine?)

There was a much darker side to it, of course, as Demansk had known full well there would be. Not all of the "criminals" who were pointed out to the soldiers were anything of the sort. It was easy enough, in the chaos and carnage of the moment, for someone to settle an old score or grudge by simply making the claim. Soldiers were not given to asking too many questions, after all, under such circumstances. Unless others-neighbors, friends, relatives-put up a fierce argument on the spot, most squads were ready enough to chop off a head on anybody's say-so. Although, now and again, it did happen that, once convinced a "criminal" was innocent, the soldiers cheerfully decapitated his accuser and brought that head before the Paramount Triumvir.

And… got paid. Demansk was asking no questions. He had not asked any, since the third hour of the slaughter, on the first day, when the head of his son was presented to him.

Helga hissed, faintly, and her hand on her father's shoulder tightened. Olver, standing nearby, looked away and grew wet-eyed. Adrian gave a moment's thanks that Trae was across an ocean in Chalice. But, so far as Adrian could tell-even with the visual acuity Center gave him-Demansk's expression never changed at all.

A face made of iron, that was. Had been, and would be, throughout the crushing of Vanbert. And his voice, as level and even as a road made of stone.

"Yes, I recognize him. Pay the man. Cash or future land grant, whichever he prefers. Next."

How can he do it? Is he already insane?

There was no humor at all in Whitehall's response. Steady, boy. Come this spring, you'll have to do the same. Not until you examine yourself after Esmond's death will you be able to answer that question-or even ask it in the first place.

Adrian would never know the answer, really. In some ways, he was and would always remain too different a man from his father-in-law. An Emerald scholar, ultimately, reared by a merchant father and trained by philosophers; where Verice Demansk was, ultimately, the boy shaped by the harsh Confederate grandfather.

Arsule had enabled Demansk to pass through the ordeal. Not she, really, so much as what she brought with her when she arrived at the siege the day before the garrison broke.

"I told you to stay in Solinga," grated Demansk.

"Oh, Verice, give it a rest." Arsule plumped herself down on the cot which served Demansk for a bed in his command bunker. Then, winced. "Gods, you sleep on this thing?" she muttered. "How are we going to manage-"

She broke off that train of thought, after a glance at Demansk's angry face. Sighing: "Give it a rest, I say. You of all men in the world don't have to maintain your august image. You know it as well as I do. Besides-"

Arsule was quite shrewd enough to have figured out that her graceful hands, in motion, soothed the savage patriarch. So, with a particular flourish, she accompanied her next words with many a gesture.

"Besides, Jonthen Tittle's doing a splendid job of serving the Emeralds as a deputy governor while Adrian's down here with you. The province is quite peaceful and steady, I assure."

Her husband's face was still angry. The hands picked up their tempo, one of them making a come-hither gesture. Not toward Demansk, but toward a figure standing nervously in the crude wooden frame of the doorway.

"Besides, I thought you would need Kata here. So I brought her with me."

Demansk swiveled his head and gazed at the slave girl, rather like a cannon gazes on its target. For a moment, the fair-skinned former concubine of Ion Jeschonyk looked as white as a sheet. And was obviously on the verge of bolting in sheer terror.

But the Paramount Triumvir's angry expression broke, before the girl's fears crested. Demansk's face seemed to cave in, for a moment; then, the way a man rebuilds something precious which has been broken, slowly came back to itself.

In the end, the Demansk who glanced back and forth from slave to wife was the man the wife had come here to salvage. He even managed something that might be called a smile.

"Yes. Thank you. She will be of help."

A real smile, now. "As for the cot, it was never designed for the purpose you're contemplating. Nor would I be in any mood for it, to be honest. But… in a few days, I expect we'll be in more, ah, appropriate quarters."

He turned back to Kata. "Remind me again, girl. The exact words."

Kata cleared her throat. Then, in a little singsong, did her best to give a girl's soprano the rasp of a man grown old from a life filled with duplicity, deceit, and debauchery.

"Just tell him to remember, that's all, and think about it now and again. The word is 'duty,' I believe."

In the days which followed, Adrian wondered from time to time why Demansk had included a slave girl in the small coterie which surrounded him during his ordeal. Not simply included her but even gave her a place next to his own child. Both of them standing just behind him, as he sat dispensing blood in the name of justice. The daughter's hand on one shoulder, the slave's on the other. She was not his concubine, after all, of that much Adrian was quite certain.

Center could have explained it to him. But, for whatever reasons impel a computer's inhuman mentality, chose not to.

It was an old custom. Recreated here on Hafardine independently, to be sure, but drawing its roots from ancient times and places. The Romans, too, had used the trick. Not, perhaps, to any great purpose-but who was to say how crazed their great ones might have become otherwise?

Always a slave, riding with the conqueror in his chariot at the triumph, to whisper in his ear: this, too, shall pass.

And if Kata whispered nothing, the hand did as well. Perhaps better. The hand, after all, served to remind the shoulder bearing the world's grief as well as its brutality, that triumphs produce many forms of madness-but all triumphs fade. Perhaps madness can, too.