Of Trae he saw even less. His youngest son was closeted with Gellert every hour that Gellert was not confusing petitioners. Gellert himself was overseeing the manufacture of the great siege guns which Demansk needed to reduce the walls of Vanbert. Those were being built right here in Solinga. But it would be Trae’s job, upon his return to Chalice, to see to it that the large quantity of field guns which Demansk would need for his subsequent campaign against the Southron invaders was ready by next spring.
Of Helga, he saw even less. Much to Demansk’s approval—even glee—Helga’s husband had invoked ancient custom and ordered her seclusion in their mansion in Solinga.
* * *
Quite outraged, he’d been, when she finally confessed the truth.
“You were pregnant!? Bad enough you charged up in the first place! But—pregnant?!” Demansk, present at the time, thought Adrian’s stomping up and down in the salon of their mansion was a tad undignified. Not to mention the rather wild waving of his arms. But, then, he was an Emerald. One had to make allowances.
“Jessep says you jumped off the wagon!”
“Did not! Well—I don’t think. Couldn’t have! It was a good eight feet off the ground. I’m sure—”
“Silence, woman!” The ensuing pointing of the finger to the private quarters was excellent, Demansk thought. Quite up to Vanbert patriarchal standards of the old school. Admittedly, the fact that he had to physically manhandle Helga thither—which was no easy task, and gave him a black eye in the doing—detracted somewhat from the august majesty of the occasion.
When Adrian returned, nursing his wounds, Demansk cleared his throat and said: “You realize you won’t be able to keep her there.”
“Sure I can! Well, for a few weeks, anyway. After that, she’ll be too gravid to climb the walls of the villa.” With the eye still open, he peered through the spacious archway which connected the salon with the patio and the grounds beyond. “Um. I think.”
Demansk was already reaching for his purse. Thanks to Arsule, it was bulging again. “No,” scowled his son-in-law, “I am not going to place a wager on it.”
* * *
He did see Arsule at night, however. Without fail.
Demansk didn’t really take her threats if he did otherwise seriously. He’d come to understand Arsule well enough to know that she really wasn’t attracted to gigolos. And, even if she were, no gigolo in Solinga—anywhere in the continent—would be insane enough to cuckold Demansk. The story of the pirates bobbing in the harbor was now as well known everywhere as it was in Chalice. And the name Enry Sharbonow, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, was more often than not spoken in whispers.
The threat of embarrassing him politically was a more serious business. Even without meaning to, Arsule embarrassed him politically often enough as it was. The idea of her trying to do so was . . . awesome.
Mainly, however, he spent every night with her because he enjoyed it. Immensely, truth be told. For all practical purposes, Verice Demansk had been celibate since his wife died. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the company of a passionate woman until another one was sharing his bed. And if he didn’t feel the same warmth toward Arsule that he had toward Druzla, well . . .
He reminded himself firmly that it had taken several years of marriage before he and Druzla became truly intimate. That too, after all, had been a marriage arranged for political reasons. He’d hardly even known Druzla before the wedding. And, in his more honest moments, he admitted that for all the passion of her love-making, his former wife had been rather unimaginative about it all. Whereas Arsule was anything but. She’d managed to surprise Demansk more than once—even shock his somewhat staid Vanbert soul—in the nights after their wedding.
Not, he would admit in his most honest moments, that his sense of shock had ever prevented him from enjoying what followed. Even relishing it, more often than not.
Oddest of all, perhaps, was that he woke up every morning feeling refreshed and alert, even though he was getting less sleep than ever. He would spend a few minutes enjoying the lassitude, enjoying the sight and feel of Arsule’s naked and voluptuous form enveloping him—she was a cuddly sort of sleeper—before prying himself loose and rising to the tasks of the day. Occasionally, that awakened Arsule, in which case she would demand that he return to bed for a time. A very pleasurable time. But, not usually. Unlike Demansk, she was a heavy sleeper; and, unlike Demansk, was not accustomed to rising with the sun.