The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

Jonthen Tittle shrugged. “This is really outside my area. But I tend to agree with Forent and Sharlz, Triumvir. And I can say this: a large part of the reason the merchants and guildmasters of Solinga and the other Emerald cities have been so cooperative is that they have decided you can be trusted.” The smile which followed was a bit rueful. “As Sharlz said, trusted to break their necks if they are too obstreperous—just as you did last week with—”

“The man is quite healthy,” interrupted Demansk, mildly. “Amazingly so, in fact, for a convicted swindler.”

“Ha! Healthy, yes. You still stripped him of all his properties which, for a good Emerald merchant, is a fate worse than death.”

A little chuckle swept the room. When Tittle continued, however, his smile was gone. “But you are also trusted not to break necks capriciously, or simply from personal malice. So I think Thicelt and Nappur have the right of it. Don’t think for a moment that your private arrangement with Jeschonyk can remain a secret forever. If nothing else, he will certainly tell his concubines in order to prepare them in case something happens to him. And the concubines will talk to the servants, and the servants . . .”

He left the rest of it unspoken. Most of the world’s elite tended to be oblivious to the fact that servants and slaves were people like anyone else—including the propensity to gossip. But none of the men in that room were so naïve. If they had been, they wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

“It’s decided, then.” Demansk’s tone made clear that there would be no further discussion. So, he was rather surprised to hear Sallivar clear his throat again. His financial adviser normally accepted his decisions with no demurral, once they were definitely made.

Prit held up a hand, indicating that he was not challenging the decision. “That still leaves something else unclear.” He nodded toward Oppricht. “As Kall said, others—Albrecht’s people, to be specific—are certainly plotting along those lines themselves. So, the question is: do we do anything to stop them?”

Demansk turned his head and stared through the open archway onto the balcony. He couldn’t see the ocean itself, from his seated position—not even if it had still been daylight—but he could see the sky above it. Unusually, for this time of year on the northern coast, the sky was cloudless. Even with the lamps burning in the room, he could see the stars quite clearly.

Demansk had always liked watching the stars at night. They seemed so remote, so aloof, from the muck of earthly existence.

He could remember, once, while on campaign, standing next to Jeschonyk and staring up at the vault of the heavens. The old Speaker Emeritus was something of an astronomer; quite famous for it, in fact, even among Emerald scholars. He could remember the enthusiasm with which Ion had pointed out the various constellations and the mysterious stars which, unlike all the others, seemed to move about. “Planets,” Jeschonyk had called them, insisting that they were the actual spirits of the gods themselves.

He sighed, and turned his face back to the room full of plotters. When he spoke, his voice was not much more than a murmur.

“No, Prit, we don’t. Jeschonyk will either protect himself, or he won’t. We will have no hand in whatever happens, but . . . whatever does, of course, you will see to it that the necessary measures are in place and ready to go.”

Sallivar nodded. “I’ll pass the word to Raddek and Gliev in Vanbert.”

“Good enough,” said Demansk. “Let’s move on, then, to the next thing.” With a lift in his voice, as if he were relieved to move on to a straightforward matter of military logistics: “Jonthen, I’m a bit concerned by the state of—”

* * *

They were not done until midnight. And then, politely seeing the others to the door, Demansk steeled himself for still another meeting. A pleasant enough one, to be sure, but he wondered sometimes if he’d ever get enough sleep. He seemed to have a vague memory of a time in the past when he had.

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