“I’ve got quite a crowd here tonight, delighted to show you off—and why did you really come, Verice, don’t tell me any lies!—but first you must see my new collection of sculptures, which really aren’t sculptures exactly because they’re carved from wood, they’re icons made by Southrons, believe it or not—wonderful work and how do savages manage that, I wonder?—some new religious cult of theirs called the ‘Young Word’—which, by the way, from what I can tell has some interesting twists to it, at least it’s not the same old ‘god of this, goddess of that’ business—does everybody have to mimic everything?—Prit’s here, by the way—”
That bit of news relieved Demansk. He’d wanted to have a word with Sallivar before he left the capital, and this way he wouldn’t need to use part of the morrow for the purpose.
“—and so is Kall Oppricht—”
Another happy coincidence. Oppricht was one of the few Councillors whom Demansk thought he could trust completely. But he hadn’t seen the man in well over a year. Tonight wouldn’t be the time to broach anything substantive, but he could certainly make a discreet arrangement to have Oppricht talk to Sallivar after Demansk returned to his estate.
They’d reached the door of the mansion. Demansk felt like he’d been marching through mud. He’d forgotten just how exhausting it could be to listen to Arsule Knecht when she prattled.
“—but I’ve been prattling again, haven’t I? And I don’t imagine you’ve come to appreciate that any more than you did in years gone by.” She grinned at him. “Poor Verice. But it was your own fault, you know. That ‘proper virtue’ of yours never gave Druzla a chance to prattle herself.”
“The two of you made up for it, as I recall.” He didn’t quite growl the words.
“Oh, stop growling. It’s not as if we ever had you cornered, except in the baths. Any other time, and you disappeared while Druzla and I enjoyed a real conversation.”
That forced a smile from him. “True enough.” She began motioning one of the servants to open the door. “A moment, Arsule—please, before you drag me into the mob.”
She gave him a quick glance. Then, with another motion, ordered the servant to remain at his post; and drew Demansk off to the side where they could speak without being overheard.
“All right, what is it? I knew there was something other than a social call.” Her close-set eyes were almost crossed. “No lies, Verice. If you came here to get my support for another Marcomann—that being you, of course—my answer is ‘maybe.’ It depends what kind of Marcomann we’re talking about.”
“Ah—” Damn the woman. I’d forgotten how smart she was, under all that jabber. Good thing for her, too—anyone else who spent money as fast as she does would be bankrupt within five years. Prit tells me her fortune has actually grown since Toman died. She’s as shrewd about collecting estates as she is about collecting sculptures.
“Ah—”
“Never mind.” As always, Arsule’s patience for pauses in a conversation was nil. “I suppose we don’t have time tonight for any lengthy discourses, anyway.”
She cocked her head sideways in another mannerism Demansk remembered. It was almost histrionic, like everything about Arsule. And, again, the effect was odd. In almost any other woman, the gesture would seem a silly affectation. But, somehow, she managed to make it seem natural, as people with oversized personalities sometimes can.
“Prit’ll be part of your scheme, of course. So I can get the details later from him—whatever I need to know, at least, which I trust you’ll keep to a minimum.”
He managed a smile which, he suspected, looked more sickly than anything else.
“Ha! ‘You can count on it, lady.’ ” Her grin reappeared. The fact that it was coming at him sideways didn’t make it any less effective. At moments like this, Demansk admitted, Arsule Knecht was a very attractive woman. For all the times she’d annoyed him, during her many visits—and vice versa—to his wife, Demansk could remember other times when he’d been forced to keep a casual demeanor around her. In the baths, especially. Clothed, draped in thick and expensive fabrics, her body just seemed heavy. Nude . . . the proper word was lush.