And now, grinning: 'As you and I both will soon be demonstrating to that foul bastard Albrecht.'
Chapter 17
It took Ion Jeschonyk almost two months to return to Vanbert. Some of that was due to the simple distance-about a thousand miles, in a direct line; and much longer than that, of course, following the actual road. Still, it was a good road, even by Confederate standards. He'd made the trip to Solinga in less than five weeks.
But that had been in the early spring, when the weather was still foul and Jeschonyk had simply wanted to get to his destination as fast as possible. Now, with summer approaching, the countryside was blooming and beautiful. And, deep in his heart, the old man thought this would be the last chance in his life to simply wallow in the beauties of nature. He could remember doing that a lot, growing up as a boy on his family's estate. He wondered, as he had often before, what had happened to that carefree child.
So he ordered his caravan to maintain a slow pace, and stopped often-sometimes for half a day at a time, while he waded barefoot in a brook or simply sat under the shade of a tree and contemplated the meadow flowers. The soldiers escorting him didn't object, of course, much less the drivers of his own coach and the wagons carrying supplies.
By the time he finally arrived in the capital, the reports he brought for the Council were already completely obsolete. The gigantic city, with its one million inhabitants, was abuzz with word that Demansk had launched his attack on the archipelago. The news had been brought by the fast couriers employed by the Confederacy as their elite postal service. Such men could make the trip from Solinga in ten days or less.
In fact, hearing what people were saying in the markets and streets as his caravan worked its way toward his own domicile, Jeschonyk could remember seeing such a special courier galloping past the caravan just a few days past. And he realized, wryly, that his brain had still been working even while he thought it entirely at rest with the waving flowers in the fields. Because Jeschonyk had ignored the courier completely, even though it was now obvious what it had to have meant. And had done so, of course, because that never-sleeping part of his brain had known full well that it was better for the reality to hit the Council before Jeschonyk had to start telling his lies to them.
They wouldn't really believe him anyway, although most of them would want to. And this way, a good three fourths of the recriminations would be dispensed with. What was the point? For good or ill, the die was cast.
To his relief, there wasn't a delegation from the Council at his mansion. Under normal circumstances, there would have been representatives anxiously waiting for him, day and night, for the past two weeks. But now, he had no doubt, all the Councillors were far too preoccupied with their own plotting and scheming.
By the next morning, of course, after the news of his return reached them, half the Council would be pounding on his door. But at least he'd have one final evening of rest and repose.
'Rest and repose,' in a manner of speaking. Jeschonyk was actually quite well rested, due to the leisurely way in which he'd made the return journey. And he'd been celibate for a longer stretch than any he could remember in decades. He'd not wanted to bring one of his concubines on such a politically delicate mission, and he no longer found the company of prostitutes very entertaining.
So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.
Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here-just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.
They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.
Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But…
Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure-but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.
Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular-the oldest girl, Kata, the one who'd been with him longest.
Strange, really. She was the only Southron in his harem. Jeschonyk was generally not partial to Southron girls. The problem wasn't their appearance. Female Southrons did not sport the grotesque tattoos of the males, for one thing. And, cleaned up and shorn of those absurd hairstyles, he actually found their pale skins and light hair arousing. It was simply that the practice of female circumcision which was prevalent among the barbarians made their women, in Jeschonyk's quite extensive experience, rather unresponsive. But Kata was from the Reedbottom tribe, who-so she claimed, at least, and the evidence seemed to substantiate it-were one of the few tribes which had never adopted that particularly savage custom.
Kata was the smartest of them, that much Jeschonyk had long been sure of. And she was also the one who was most alert to his own moods. So he was not surprised to see the little frown gathering on her face, as she looked down upon him from her cross-legged position at the foot of the bed. The sight almost dispelled Jeschonyk's melancholy. Not the frown, but the posture. The view was… distracting. Or would have been, if Jeschonyk wasn't so completely and thoroughly satiated.
'Why are you unhappy, master? I thought we-'
'Not that, girl!' He barked a weary laugh. 'You were all your usual marvelous selves, I assure you. It's- something else.'
He took a slow breath and decided to get it over with. He levered himself upright-two of the girls immediately assisting him in the process-and gave Kata as solemn a look as her pose permitted.
'Things may change soon, Kata-girls. I may… not be here much longer.' He shook his head. 'No, no, I'm not going anywhere. I simply may no longer be alive. '
Kata's face seemed to grow even paler than usual. One of the other girls-Ursula, that was, the Emerald- emitted a little gasp.
By the gods, I think they are fond of me! A moment later, less happily: Or, of course, it could just be that they'd miss their comforts and luxuries.
Something in their expressions reassured him. He'd never really know, of course, but…
A time for decision, just as Verice says. And there's nothing that prevents me from telling the truth, except the old habits of an old liar.
'I care for you, girls. Very much. So I've made arrangements in case something happens to me. Men will come here-soldiers, probably-from Lady Knecht. Do what they say, go with them.'
Several of the younger girls began babbling assurances that nothing untoward could possibly happen-! But not Kata. Perhaps because she was older, or smarter-or simply, like any Southron girl by the age of ten, had seen plenty of relatives hacked down in the tribes' perennial feuding.
'Can we trust them, master?'
'Yes. As long as they are from Lady Knecht. No one else, you hear?'
She bowed her head in obedience. As he had so many times before, Jeschonyk found himself admiring the clean lines of her neck and shoulders, the long blond hair spilling over her breasts, the 'I'll be damned,' he said,
