well?"
"They'll all be sitting pretty," said Demansk. "Good glass in the windows—and houses a lot bigger than this." He almost added: with slaves to keep them clean, but didn't. If Demansk's plans worked out, there wouldn't be any slaves left in the first place.
Whatever happened, Demansk had already decided, he would remain honest with this man. Partly because it would be foolish not to, but mostly because stubbornness did not allow it. His grandfather, full of the virtues of the Vanbert of old, would not have lied to his First Spear. Demansk, even as he destroyed that old regime, would retain at least that much.
The First Spear was silent, for a moment. He worked his jaws slightly, as his eyes moved slowly across his farmland. The crops were filling out well, now. It would be a good season.
"And who knows about the next?" he murmured. His thick chest swelled with another deep breath. Then: "What the hell. 'Interesting times' it is. No way around it, so far as I can see. May as well try to ride a wave as duck from it, since there's nowhere to hide anyway."
He gave Demansk a shrewd look. "Is there, sir?"
The Justiciar shrugged. "Not that I can see."
The First Spear nodded. "You'd make a better new Marcomann than anyone else, that I know of. That is what we're talking about."
The last sentence came as a flat statement, not a question. Demansk was reassured. He found himself also reassessing his plans for the man. He hadn't expected such political acumen from a former First Spear. After this initial assignment was done . . .
"Can you read?" he asked abruptly. "Well, I mean."
The First Spear shrugged. "Enough to get by, sir. I wouldn't call it 'well.' I'm no scholar, that's for sure."
"I'll have you taught. By Helga herself, at first. She'll have plenty of time on your voyage."
The First Spear's eyed widened. Demansk chuckled.
"Yes, that's your first assignment. I'll