All his fingers were up now, and Enry was clearly prepared to count them all. He was an enthusiast as well as master of propaganda.
But Demansk cut him off. “Enough, for the moment. We can talk political tactics later. Right now . . .”
His eyes fell on Adrian. The blue eyes, he realized, had never left his own face. For minutes, now, that oddly deep gaze had been studying Demansk to the exclusion of everything.
“If you’d all do me the favor—you too, Helga—I’d like to spend some time alone with my new son-in-law. We need to become better acquainted, I think.”
A deep gaze. As if, somewhere inside, a man very much like Demansk himself was staring back at him. Blue eyes, bright with youth, which still seemed somehow shadowed. Not by grief, or remorse, or anguish. Simply by . . . knowledge.
“Leave now,” commanded the Triumvir. “I need this time alone.”
* * *
Arsule Knecht arrived three days later. The dual wedding was held the following afternoon.
It seemed as if the whole city of Solinga turned out to watch. Along with, according to Sharbonow, half the Emeralds from the surrounding countryside.
And why not? Whatever else happened, for better or worse, the old days of Emerald humiliation were over. Either Verice Demansk would triumph, and the Emeralds would be able to recast the Confederacy much more to their liking. Or he would go down in defeat, in which case no Emerald doubted at all that Drav Albrecht would inflict much worse than humiliation upon them.
So, rejoice in the day and celebrate the weddings. And then, on the morn, pour back into the new shops where their lord and master’s son and son-in-law were forging the instruments that might save the Emeralds as well as enrich them.
* * *
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.”