* * *
To Demansk’s surprise, the high priest of the Temple of Jassine had grasped it perfectly. “Do you understand what will happen to the slaves of the east?” he had demanded.
“Yes. They will be driven out, by spear and fire. Murdered outright, any who put up resistance. And the rest—cast into the wilderness, left to starve and roam. Do you have an alternative, Priest?”
The old man had looked away, for a time, studying the image of his goddess.
“Part of one, yes.”
* * *
And so, on the next day—the very eve of the Council meeting—Demansk issued a new proclamation. In light of the misery stalking the land, and out of his deep sense of pity, the Triumvir decreed that anyone who made a donation to the cult of Jassine—properly notarized, of course—would be given twice that amount in the form of a tax forbearance the following year. And, in the case of non-citizens, a reduction in the time needed to qualify for citizenship, the amount of time determined according to a formula whose construction pleased Demansk’s bureaucrats no end.
“Piss on it,” he’d growled afterward to Sallivar. “You know as well as I do that the damn bureaucrats would filch three quarters of the tax collected anyway. I’d rather trust Jassine’s priests to provide food and shelter for ex-slaves than that lot.”
Sallivar hadn’t argued the point. In fact, he’d even used it to urge Demansk—again, and for the sake of peace at home if nothing else—to give his blessing to Arsule’s increasingly strident demand for the formation of what she called a “new and greater Grove.”
“Sure, and the youngsters will learn some foolishness. But at least we’d have a generation of public servants who’d be educated enough to catch each other stealing.”
“Done.”
* * *
Arsule was suitably pleased with her husband. The night before the Council meeting, she kept him up very late indeed.
“I have got to get some sleep.”
“Oh, damnation, I suppose so.” The long fingers stroked his chest, seeming to revel in the sweat. “It’s just . . . I am growing very fond of you, Verice. You excite me, always do.”
“I’m almost a corpse,” he croaked. “Please don’t tell me you’ve decided to experiment with necrophilia.”
She gurgled a laugh into his neck. “I draw the line somewhere, you know. Speaking of which, I got rid of the ropes. I wanted to try it out, but . . . the truth is, I don’t like being immobilized.”
“Pity. At least with your hands tied—will you stop that?”
“Oh—phft! Sleep, sleep, sleep, all you think about any more.”
“That’s a foul and damnable lie,” he wheezed, “and you know it—you of all people.” He managed to lever himself up on an elbow and gaze down on her.
“Truth is, girl, I’m growing very fond of you myself. In between wanting to strangle you, anyway.” Hastily: “No, that’s not a suggestion.”
She smiled lazily. “Oh, good. In that case—yes, yes, tomorrow night, of course, not now—I want to try something out of this marvelous book Sharlz gave me the other day. You know, they may be just barely this side of barbarism, but the islanders do have some interesting customs. For instance . . .”
By the time she finished explaining the “for instance,” Demansk was lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. The look on his face wasn’t quite one of sheer despair. Despair there was, to be sure, and in goodly measure. But there was also—
“Gods, I love that little gleam in your eyes. Don’t lie, Verice!”
“Can’t,” he croaked. “I’m saving all my lies for the morning—which is now not more than three hours away. I have got to get some sleep.”
“Oh, all right.”
* * *
She left off anything but cuddling then; which, as always, got Demansk to sleep quickly and easily. But when he rose at sunrise, he found to his surprise that Arsule was awake also.
“Think of it this way, Verice,” she murmured as he began clothing himself. “This is probably the first Council meeting you’ve ever attended which will seem like a restful occasion.”