“Done. I swear it.” He paused, for a moment, thinking. “Though—make sure you tell your girls, so they’ll know—I’ll make the arrangements through Arsule Knecht.”
Jeschonyk almost choked. “Knecht? You’ve got her on your side too? Gods save us—she’s even richer than she is crazy.”
Demansk gave him a crooked smile. “Oh, she’s not really a lunatic, you know. Just, ah, an enthusiast, let’s call it. But she also has a larger body of household troops in the capital than anyone except Albrecht—a lot bigger than yours—and nobody really takes her seriously as a political factor.” A bit harshly: “Except me.”
Jeschonyk nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll be returning to Vanbert tomorrow. Is there anything special you’d like me to pass on to the Council for you? Other than the usual platitudes, half-truths and outright falsehoods?”
Demansk barked a laugh. “I’d miss you too much for that alone, Ion! There are times—I swear it before the Gray-Eyed Lady—when I think you are the only truly innocent man in the whole Confederacy. The only honest one, for sure.”
Seeing the look of outrage on Jeschonyk’s face, Demansk held up a placating hand. “Relatively speaking, of course. You are a legendary lecher, Ion, have no fear. And I’m using the term ‘honest,’ ah, in what the Emeralds would call an ‘aesthetic’ manner. Lyrically, if you will, not dramatically.”
“Damn those limp-wristed faggots, anyway,” grumbled Jeschonyk. “Can’t even call an honest lie by its right name.”
* * *
That evening, in the same room, Demansk met with what he had come to think of as his “inner council.” These were the handful of men, each of them holding the new title of “Special Attendant to the Triumvir,” who served as the fingers for his fist. The fist itself, of course, being the army.
Not all of them were there. Leaving aside Jessep Yunkers, who was—and would be for some time—with Helga in the southern continent, there were two others residing in the Confederacy capital at Vanbert. But all the key ones were present: Prit Sallivar, Forent Nappur, Sharlz Thicelt, of course; and two newer ones: a Vanbert politician distantly related to Demansk by the name of Kall Oppricht, and the Emerald merchant Jonthen Tittle—who, ironically, was distantly related to the Gellert family.
After sketching his meeting with Jeschonyk, Demansk addressed his first remarks to Oppricht. “You’ll see to that, Kall? Make whatever arrangements you have to in order to make sure that Ion’s girls are put under safe guard in the event . . . something happens. And while you’re at it, see to the safety of Jeschonyk’s entire household. Ion didn’t mention them, but I know his servants have been with him a long time.”
Oppricht nodded. Then, gave Prit Sallivar a quick glance. Something in the way of an appeal, it seemed, as if a subject needed to be raised which he was loath to bring up himself. Unlike Sallivar, Kall Oppricht was not an old friend of the Triumvir’s.
Sallivar straightened and opened his mouth. But before he could utter a single word, Demansk was shaking his head.
“No. Absolutely not. Don’t even bother raising it, Prit.”
“Verice—”
The Triumvir’s face was set, his jaws tight. “No,” he rasped. “I understand the logic, Prit. Since an assassination of Jeschonyk by my enemies—coming at the right time—would give us the best possible way to take power in Vanbert with the least possible fuss, the question is naturally posed: why not arrange it ourselves, and place the blame on them?”
“Especially since they’re undoubtedly already plotting to do it,” murmured Oppricht. Demansk gave him a hard look, but the politician did not flinch. He might not be an old friend of the Triumvir’s, but Kall Oppricht would never have agreed to become a special attendant if he hadn’t felt he understood Verice Demansk. And part of that understanding was that Triumvir Demansk was not a man who would punish an underling for speaking his mind.
“It’s just a fact, sir,” he said quietly but firmly. “I’d bet a large sum I could even name the ringleader—Jacreb Quain, one of Albrecht’s right hand men.” He nodded toward Sallivar. “Prit’s equivalent. Quain would just be the paymaster, of course. The actual blood work would probably be done by thugs working for one of Albrecht’s tame street gangs.”