His lips quirked. “An exaggeration, woman. But . . . not without some merit.”
He came up to the bed, stroked her cheek, and turned to leave. But a hand on his tunic turned him back.
“Come home in triumph, Verice Demansk. Your Vanbert wife demands it.”
“And if I do?”
* * *
Throughout the day, the ensuing smile kept flashing into his brain—sometimes at the most awkward moment. But return in triumph he did, even if it was late in the evening; and, as he returned, the smile seemed to draw him like one of Gellert’s bizarre new “magnets.”
“Done, woman,” he announced, entering the bedroom. “Triumph indeed. All proclamations ratified by the legitimate Council—which, of course, used the occasion to declare itself such. A new Triumvirate elected. They didn’t even choke much at Forent Nappur, though I think one or two of them may die of apoplexy in the next few days contemplating his ‘Registry.’ Not at all, at Prit Sallivar—ha! Compared to Forent, Prit looks like a blueblood.”
Arsule laughed. “What a trio! You, a gentryman, and a plain and simple peasant. Where it all began, after all, so why not?”
“Just what I said, when someone—that verminous little Wrachet—whined that Forent’s Registry seemed illegible.” He snorted. “It damn well should. Enry hired the best forger in Solinga to draw it up.”
“And you?”
He preened histrionically. “As I foretold. ‘First among equals,’ of course—no more, no more. But they did insist—the vote was unanimous, believe it or not—that I take on a special title.” Relaxed, more seriously: “Better that, of course, than plain and simple ‘dictator.’ ”
“So? What was it? Adrian’s proposed ‘Principal’?”
“No, no—too damn Emerald foppish. These are solid Vanberts, remember. Decadent, to be sure. But this once, at least, they held their breath and seized their ancestors.”
He hopped onto the bed—and a goodly portion of Arsule as well. ” ‘Paramount,’ woman! And don’t you forget it!”
“Oh, marvelous!” she cried, drawing him down the rest of the way. “Exactly what the book calls for!”
Chapter 29
Don’t be an idiot, Adrian, said Raj Whitehall. He’s going to kill his oldest son, the first of his babies who came into the world and whom he can still remember cradling in joy and wonder. Of course he wants his daughter at his side.
The quiet thought jolted Adrian out of his gathering storm of protest. For a moment, he stared at Demansk—and, for the first time since Demansk had advanced his proposal, noticed the tightness in the man’s face. His father-in-law was such a formidable person that even his closest friends and allies and relatives tended to forget that he was made of flesh and blood.
Except Arsule. And you can thank whatever gods there are that she shares his bed every night. If we do manage to keep this man sane, in the years to come, she’ll play the largest role in the doing. And the gods help the world if we don’t.
Adrian remembered the old Emerald saying: “Whom the gods would cast down into madness, they first raise on high.”
you can find that saying, in one variation or another, on all planets and in all times, added Center. it’s the derivative of another famous old saw: power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. what people often fail to understand, however, is that the rot strikes at a man’s intellect much faster than it does at his morals. gigo, a later time would call it: garbage in, garbage out. a man with the power to punish anyone never hears anything except what he wants to hear. or, what’s worse, what his subordinates think he wants to hear—and they don’t dare ask him what it is. such, at least, is the tendency—and it is very hard to counter.
Adrian sighed. “Yes, Father, of course. Helga can come on the campaign with us. And the children too. Jessep’s already told me he’s bringing Ilset—who’s got another new baby of her own, you know. So if Helga needs a wet nurse, we’ll have one she trusts at hand.”
He was not happy about it. Adrian knew perfectly well how difficult it would be to keep Helga far out of any danger. The damned woman—