Ulrich Bratten was one of the rare cases of a man who had risen to high command exclusively through his military ability. A fact which was explained, of course, by his ancestry. The “Confederacy” of Vanbert was theoretically a realm of equal nations, with no distinction made between the original twelve tribes and the various auxiliary nations which had been accreted to it over the centuries. The practical reality was different. With few exceptions, membership in the Council was reserved for those noblemen who could trace their ancestry back to the “First Twelve.”
Of course, in the modern Confederacy, “tracing their ancestry” was a lot more complicated than it had been in former times. Here as in so many ways, Emerald philosophy and rhetoric had shaped the culture of their conquerors. The distinction between Being and Becoming had been the first to fall, once Emerald dialecticians got their hands on it.
“You’ll need to hire a genealogist,” murmured Robret Crann. The sly smile was back on his pudgy face. “I can recommend a very good one, by the way.”
Ulrich scowled. Crann and Thatcher both enjoyed teasing the young general about his lowly origins. In Thatcher’s case, the teasing had at least a solid basis. Thatcher, like Demansk, came from one of the Confederacy’s long-established elite families.
Crann’s claim to “noble Twelve blood,” on the other hand, was stretched about as thinly as the tunic over his potbelly. If it hadn’t been for his undoubted military skills, the claim would probably never have been accepted at all by the Council’s Registrar, despite the size of the bribe. Everything about Robret Crann, from his penchant for gourmandizing down to his heavy accent, practically shrieked: peasant from the east! parvenu! lowly soldier risen above his station!
But . . . however grudgingly, the Registrar had not challenged the claim. Vanbert was practical, if nothing else. Officers like Crann were almost invariably popular with the soldiers, and nobody really wanted to irritate the army. Marcomann’s dictatorship had been occasioned, among other things, by the festering resentment among his troops at the continuing prejudice against the poor easterners who filled most of its lower ranks.
“That’s settled, then,” said Demansk. He glanced at the hourglass on a small table in the corner of the room. “And it’s time. Let’s do it.”
* * *
Demansk probably wouldn’t have had any trouble himself smashing down Willech’s door. But, since he had the largest soldier in Crann’s regiment assigned to the task, he let him do it. The six-and-a-half-foot-tall giant, with the weight of full armor added to his own, went through the door like so much wet paper. He didn’t even seem to break stride.
The other eight men in the squad followed on his heels, pouring into the Governor’s luxurious suite like greatbeasts stampeding into a mansion. Demansk heard Willech shout something incoherent, heard a cough and a sigh, another shout—more like a shriek—from Willech, and then came into the room behind his soldiers. Doing his best to move ponderously, as suited a solemn magistrate about his duty, rather than sauntering gaily. Demansk had known Willech since they were both children romping in the corridors of Vanbert’s public buildings. He’d detested the seven-year-old boy; the decades which had elapsed since had done nothing except give adult comprehension to the reasons for the detestation.
The first thing he saw, entering the room, was one of Willech’s bodyguards. The regular soldier assigned the duty on a daily basis, this one. Demansk was sorry to see it, though not surprised. The soldier was lying on his back, clutching a spear wound in his belly. Blood was gushing through the fingers and spilling onto the plush red-violet carpeting. That had been the cough and sigh he’d heard.
The other bodyguard was Willech’s personal one. No soldier, he, but a retired veteran of the arenas. The scar-faced ex-gladiator was standing in a corner of the room, pinned there by two squad members pressing their assegais against his ribs. His hands were raised pacifically, his sword lying on the floor not far from his feet.
Clearly enough, with the reflexes and mercenary nature of such a man, he’d made no attempt to stop the soldiers once he saw the force piling into the room. Willech be damned. Even if his master still hadn’t regained his wits, judging from the continued screeching coming out of his mouth, his professional bodyguard had figured it out within a second. A change in power. Time to find a new job.