Demansk did choke, hearing that. As it happened—at her insistence, dammit—he had restrained her the night before. Quite literally, with velvet ropes she’d obtained for the purpose. Arsule could be . . . exotic, at times.
After clearing his throat, he said: “Well, I suppose. But it’s a different story with the noblemen. Sure as hell their wives. They know damn good and well that a woman in her position has far more influence in the real world than the fine patriarchal principles of our ancestors allowed for. Even in the old days, much less now.”
Sharbonow shrugged. “Yes, true. And, so what?” He gave Demansk a sidelong glance, as if estimating the limits he dared push a matter. Then, apparently, decided the limits were extensive. “Triumvir, I think you’re allowing yourself to be overly influenced by the aristocracy’s attitudes. Not surprising, really, since you’ve been spending so much time with them lately. And correctly so, let me add, since it’s essential that the upcoming emergency Council meeting goes smoothly. But—”
“Oh, stop being such a damned diplomat, Enry,” grumbled Sallivar. “Verice, you’re getting spooked! Who gives a shit what the noblemen really think? Most of them have rallied to Albrecht anyway—and the ones who’ve taken refuge here under your wing are not about to challenge you. Not as long as you leave them a hole in the corner—and when have you ever failed to do that?”
“Not this time, for sure,” chimed in Kall Oppricht from his seat in the corner. “That proclamation you made last week—the one qualifying the universal citizenship—was a genuine stroke of genius. I thought you were making a mistake at the time, risking all the good will you’ve built up with the Emeralds and the Islanders—not to mention the Haggen and Ropers—but . . . not so. They don’t even seem to be grumbling, and in the meantime—”
He started chortling. “I swear by the gods, I must have had no less than fifty gentrymen approach me by now. Each and every one of them avidly trying to get a recommendation from me for a good Emerald or Roper or Haggen—even Islander!—ah, what’s that new term you favor?”
” ‘Businessman,’ ” replied Demansk.
“Yes, that.” He made a little face. “Crude word, I’ve got to say. They don’t call it that, of course—most gentry prefer ‘reputable tradesman or merchant.’ But, call it what you will, they’ve got money to invest—scared shitless their lands won’t be worth much of anything by next year—not the vaguest idea in the world how to make an investment in manufacturing or trade turn a profit—and plenty of non-citizens eager to leap-frog the five-year waiting period you decreed.”
Demansk nodded toward Gellert, sitting in a different corner. “Credit where credit’s due. It was Adrian’s idea.” As always, he made no mention of his son-in-law’s peculiar triple personality. In fact, Demansk suspected the idea had originated from the one called “Center.” But only he and Helga—and Trae now, too, of course—knew of that secret. Or ever would, except possibly Olver. Here, as elsewhere, Demansk would use his family as the second string to his bow.
Olver himself spoke next—to Adrian, not his father. “Weren’t you worried the Emeralds would have a fit? After Father had promised them immediate citizenship?”
Gellert shook his head. “Not really. I was a bit concerned about how the Ropers and Haggen would react. But since they enjoy auxiliary nation status already, I didn’t think they’d care that much. The Islanders, of course, aren’t about to throw a public tantrum. Not with two regiments in Chalice and another two brigades sitting on the beach a few miles away. The Emeralds . . .”
Demansk wondered if he was the only one in the room who found the smile which came to his son-in-law’s face far too ironic for a man still in his early twenties.
“I’m not sure anyone not an Emerald can ever quite understand the way we lunatics think. You remember the joke about why it takes eight Emeralds to slaughter a pig?”
Everyone nodded, several of them grinning.
“Ah—but you don’t really understand it. Emeralds find that joke funny too, you know—because of the eighth man in the story. The sophist who argues the pig’s side of things.”
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