Double shares for any member of Albrecht's false and traitorous so-called 'Council.' Triple shares for Drav Albrecht himself and his principal conspirators.
That was a short list. Six names, beginning with Jacreb Quain and ending with: Barrett Demansk.
Demansk kept his troops out of the city for the first two days of the massacre. Albrecht's street gangs, of course, were doing most of Demansk's dirty work for him. They were the ones who had the easiest access to Albrecht and his cohorts, the ingrained habits of thuggery to fall back upon, and could most easily intimidate the populace into revealing the hidey-holes of those noblemen who managed to escape the initial slaughter. But, in the nature of things, would also be the most uneasy at the presence of regular soldiers in the city.
On the morning of the third day, by which time most of the heads had been collected in any event, Demansk- in his justice and mercy-heeded the pleas of the city's everyday citizens to put a stop to the brigandage and mayhem which the street gangs had also unleashed on the capital.
So, a new proclamation was issued-and four brigades of regular troops stormed into the city to enforce it. Or, to put things crudely but more truthfully, cash in on it.
The Paramount Triumvir is distressed to discover that criminal elements are running amok in the capital. Therefore he has decreed that any soldier who brings him the head of such a criminal will be entitled to whatever property the criminal possesses. Features must be recognizable.
A new set of codexes was distributed-not many; Enry's portable printing presses were temperamental gadgets-which provided a long list of the names of criminals. The list was even fairly accurate and up to date, since everyone who had turned in a nobleman's head had been required to sign or mark a receipt. True, many of the names on the receipts were fictitious; but an amazing number of street gang members had given their own.
And, again, it hardly mattered. The populace of Vanbert, which had suffered the swaggering abuses of the city's gangs for decades-and never more so than in the past months-were even more adept at leading soldiers to the hidey-holes of criminals than the criminals had been at ferreting out noblemen. Within the first hour, in fact, the transaction became more-or-less standardized. Show us where the bastards are and we'll cut you in-a tenth of whatever the squad gets.
That was perhaps the brightest side of the affair. At least thirty-two marriages came out of those impromptu liaisons between squads and civilians-along with more than twenty adoptions. One street urchin was even, officially, adopted by an entire squad. Which they thought was eminently reasonable and fair, since the shrewd and plucky lad had led them to no less than thirteen hidey-holes. (And never you mind how the boy knew about 'em. How many real crimes could he have committed, anyway, at the age of nine?)
There was a much darker side to it, of course, as Demansk had known full well there would be. Not all of the 'criminals' who were pointed out to the soldiers were anything of the sort. It was easy enough, in the chaos and carnage of the moment, for someone to settle an old score or grudge by simply making the claim. Soldiers were not given to asking too many questions, after all, under such circumstances. Unless others-neighbors, friends, relatives-put up a fierce argument on the spot, most squads were ready enough to chop off a head on anybody's say-so. Although, now and again, it did happen that, once convinced a 'criminal' was innocent, the soldiers cheerfully decapitated his accuser and brought that head before the Paramount Triumvir.
And… got paid. Demansk was asking no questions. He had not asked any, since the third hour of the slaughter, on the first day, when the head of his son was presented to him.
Helga hissed, faintly, and her hand on her father's shoulder tightened. Olver, standing nearby, looked away and grew wet-eyed. Adrian gave a moment's thanks that Trae was across an ocean in Chalice. But, so far as Adrian could tell-even with the visual acuity Center gave him-Demansk's expression never changed at all.
A face made of iron, that was. Had been, and would be, throughout the crushing of Vanbert. And his voice, as level and even as a road made of stone.
'Yes, I recognize him. Pay the man. Cash or future land grant, whichever he prefers. Next.'
How can he do it? Is he already insane?
There was no humor at all in Whitehall's response. Steady, boy. Come this spring, you'll have to do the same. Not until you examine yourself after Esmond's death will you be able to answer that question-or even ask it in the first place.
Adrian would never know the answer, really. In some ways, he was and would always remain too different a man from his father-in-law. An Emerald scholar, ultimately, reared by a merchant father and trained by philosophers; where Verice Demansk was, ultimately, the boy shaped by the harsh Confederate grandfather.
Arsule had enabled Demansk to pass through the ordeal. Not she, really, so much as what she brought with her when she arrived at the siege the day before the garrison broke.
'I told you to stay in Solinga,' grated Demansk.
'Oh, Verice, give it a rest.' Arsule plumped herself down on the cot which served Demansk for a bed in his command bunker. Then, winced. 'Gods, you sleep on this thing?' she muttered. 'How are we going to manage-'
She broke off that train of thought, after a glance at Demansk's angry face. Sighing: 'Give it a rest, I say. You of all men in the world don't have to maintain your august image. You know it as well as I do. Besides-'
Arsule was quite shrewd enough to have figured out that her graceful hands, in motion, soothed the savage patriarch. So, with a particular flourish, she accompanied her next words with many a gesture.
'Besides, Jonthen Tittle's doing a splendid job of serving the Emeralds as a deputy governor while Adrian's down here with you. The province is quite peaceful and steady, I assure.'
Her husband's face was still angry. The hands picked up their tempo, one of them making a come-hither gesture. Not toward Demansk, but toward a figure standing nervously in the crude wooden frame of the doorway.
'Besides, I thought you would need Kata here. So I brought her with me.'
Demansk swiveled his head and gazed at the slave girl, rather like a cannon gazes on its target. For a moment, the fair-skinned former concubine of Ion Jeschonyk looked as white as a sheet. And was obviously on the verge of bolting in sheer terror.
But the Paramount Triumvir's angry expression broke, before the girl's fears crested. Demansk's face seemed to cave in, for a moment; then, the way a man rebuilds something precious which has been broken, slowly came back to itself.
In the end, the Demansk who glanced back and forth from slave to wife was the man the wife had come here to salvage. He even managed something that might be called a smile.
'Yes. Thank you. She will be of help.'
A real smile, now. 'As for the cot, it was never designed for the purpose you're contemplating. Nor would I be in any mood for it, to be honest. But… in a few days, I expect we'll be in more, ah, appropriate quarters.'
He turned back to Kata. 'Remind me again, girl. The exact words.'
Kata cleared her throat. Then, in a little singsong, did her best to give a girl's soprano the rasp of a man grown old from a life filled with duplicity, deceit, and debauchery.
'Just tell him to remember, that's all, and think about it now and again. The word is 'duty,' I believe.'
In the days which followed, Adrian wondered from time to time why Demansk had included a slave girl in the small coterie which surrounded him during his ordeal. Not simply included her but even gave her a place next to his own child. Both of them standing just behind him, as he sat dispensing blood in the name of justice. The daughter's hand on one shoulder, the slave's on the other. She was not his concubine, after all, of that much Adrian was quite certain.
Center could have explained it to him. But, for whatever reasons impel a computer's inhuman mentality, chose not to.
