He pointed out the window. “Listen to those chimes, Trae. That celebration’s not being faked. You’re not only my son, but you’re the one who just rescued thousands of their kinsfolk from Preble. Wedded, the day after tomorrow, to the surviving unmarried daughter of the previous dynasty. As good a guarantee as my new subjects could ask for. So long as they obey Demansk, that same name will be their shield.”
Trae stared out the window. After a moment, his shoulders slumped a little, as a man’s will when he accepts something inevitable. Demansk was relieved to see the familiar wry twist come his son’s lips. If nothing else, Trae would always have his sense of humor.
“Did Gellert prescribe this too?”
Demansk shook his head. “Not hardly! I don’t need mysterious spirits to teach me statecraft, Trae. I learned the principles of that from my own grandfather.”
Trae’s eyes moved to Jirri. The girl was now clumsily trying to disguise her fingers. But since she only had a thin sheet of paper and a tunic which was not much thicker to hide them in, she wasn’t having much success. The expression on her face was one of extreme distress. Her first meeting with her groom! And she was filthy!
The wry smile widened. “A practical lass, is it? Well, that’s good. You’ll need to be, poor thing, married to me.” He gave his sire a look which just bordered on derision. “Or did my scheming august father neglect to mention to you that I was a complete eccentric?”
He stepped over to her and held out his hands. “Stop fidgeting, dammit. It’s silly. As good-looking as you are, girl, you’ll be bearing our first child within a year—and that’ll be a lot messier than a little ink. Show me the fingers.”
She did as her husband-to-be commanded. Demansk, watching, thought that her instant obedience was only partly the result of Islander custom. Jirri’s eyes, staring up at Trae, were still wide. But Demansk could detect the first traces of trust coming into those dark orbs.
“I’ll scrub them,” whispered Jirri. “Right away.”
Trae clucked his tongue. “Just for a little ink? Scrape those pretty fingers raw? I don’t think so, girl.” He gave her a smile which was a weird cross between a comfort and a leer. “Come the night after tomorrow, I’ll be wanting those fingers soft and supple, damned if I won’t.”
Jirri choked down a laugh. There was some embarrassment in the sound. But there was also more a trace of anticipation.
“I’ve got some stuff that will work a lot better than pumice and oil,” continued Trae. “You should see the crap I get on my fingers. Ha! You will be seeing it, soon enough. I’ll have the cleansers brought up to the palace.”
And then, even Trae was at a loss for words. Demansk left them there, two youngsters staring at each other. Given the nature of the times, he thought that dirty hands were an appropriate way for a husband and wife to get introduced.
* * *
Thicelt was waiting for him in his own quarters. Not in the private chamber where Demansk slept and where he’d spent hours studying Gellert’s missive, but in the great outer salon which Demansk used for meetings with his close advisers.
“They sound good, no?” asked Sharlz, gesturing with his head to the windows. “I think they’ve got every chime in the city ringing.”
Demansk nodded. “Yes. And now comes the hardest part. Waiting.”
Thicelt studied him. Then, glanced at the door to Demansk’s private chamber. Sharlz had never read Gellert’s treatise, but he knew about it.
“It all depends on him now, I suppose.”
“Not quite.” Demansk lowered himself onto a couch and stretched. He was actually looking forward to the next few days, however much his son and about-to-be daughter-in-law might be full of trepidation. A traditional celebration, with the gaiety and feasting, would be a pure pleasure. And, in truth, he really could afford to ease up for a bit.
“Not quite,” he repeated. “If Gellert fails, I think I could still manage the thing. But it’d be the difference between ruling a realm and ruling a ruin.”