The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

In one thing, at least, Demansk’s grandfather and father had shared the same attitude: neither of them had had much use for gentrymen, especially ones who were stinking rich. Outside of war, at least, where the grandfather prized their talents. The father, having spent as little time in the army as necessary for a man of his station, had even less use for them than that.

And here I am—in three generations!—scurrying to find their favor.

He suppressed the sour sentiment. True, with the exception of a few like Prit Sallivar, Demansk found the upper crust of the gentry even more distasteful than the aristocracy. Petty beyond belief; grasping; narrow; pompous—their pretensions at being patrons of the arts were rarely matched by any corresponding good taste—bah! There was practically no vice, certainly of the venal sort, of which they were not guilty.

The fact remained that, if Demansk’s plans were to come to fruition, he would need to have that class of men in his camp. Squarely in the middle of it, too, not consigned to the outer ranks. He was about to launch a project never attempted in history—barely even conceived, in truth. A dictatorship built on money instead of land, and not even money gained by bribery and tax-gouging.

* * *

Demansk and his little escort reached the outer gates of the villa. A squad of Knecht household soldiers trotted out to greet them—as well as, of course, to determine their bona fides.

“Tell Lady Knecht that Verice Demansk would enjoy a moment of her time,” he growled. Then, after the squad leader dispatched a man to convey the message, grit his teeth.

And why’d you have to be so curt about it? Stop lying, Verice. It’s not the guard’s fault if the prospect of seeing Arsule again—gods, what’s it been now? ten years?—makes you edgy.

* * *

Arsule herself came down to the gate to let him in. Demansk was not surprised. The woman had so much energy that she’d been rumored to trot into her own kitchens to make herself lunch.

He had no difficulty recognizing her as she strode down the wide entryway leading from the mansion to the gate. First, because the mansion had been designed to take full advantage of Vanbert’s typically splendid sunsets; second, because she was tall; third, because she strode instead of ambled in the accepted style; and fourth, because—

Looks just about the same. Except for that streak of white hair.

Demansk almost laughed. Any other noblewoman in the Confederacy would have covered that streak with dye. Arsule . . . didn’t bother.

It’s rather striking, actually. I’d forgotten that her hair was really black.

She was at the gate, and coming through. Now that she was close, Demansk could see that there were a few lines in her face which hadn’t been there the last time he saw her. Not creases caused by worry or anguish, simply the inevitable effects of aging. Still, she looked much as he remembered her: heftily built, a narrow face which seemed to belong on a more slender woman, close-set dark eyes peering over a long nose.

The ensemble was odd. Taken feature by feature, Arsule was not really that attractive a woman. But, somehow, the whole worked together. Partly that was due to her vibrant personality. But most of it, Demansk thought, was because the personality infused the form shrouding it—which exemplified the word matron—with a kind of animal vitality. Arsule Knecht was one of those middle-aged women whom no one described as “good-looking”; but who, at the same time, most middle-aged men—certainly Demansk—found their eyes drawn toward.

“By the gods! It is you! I thought someone was playing a joke.”

She stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Welcome, Verice! It’s been so many years.”

He took the hands and bowed over them. Then, kissed the knuckles in the approved style. Noticing, not for the first time, how slender and long the fingers were. As if they, like the face, belonged on a woman with much less in the way of a bosom and hips.

“Ha! Precious few times you ever did that. Haven’t you become the proper fellow!”

Before he could say anything, Arsule had him by the elbow and was practically marching him toward the mansion. Talking without surcease all the way—in that, too, she hadn’t changed.