Chapter 2:

Claims

Lord Paul Chelsted rose at dawn as was his wont and moved his bowels. After he had finished he went to the battlements as he always did to savor the morning. His hands worked over the familiar rough stones that had created this immense wall, this immense edifice. An impossible town to take was Galam.

Even in the dawn light, the vestiges of the comet could be seen, red in the sky. Redder than the pink dawn light that surrounded it. The Bleeding Star, it had already been named, but Lord Paul Chelsted knew better. It is my comet, he told himself, stretching luxuriously. My comet, come to herald a new age.

Here in the heart of the castle, Lord Paul Chelsted could rest assured on that promise to himself. Galam had over a thousand years worth of culture, of history, art, philosophy, and war. Galam was the cradle of culture, mayhaps, but all that had come before was meaningless. It has all been to prepare for me.

Lord Chelsted stared a moment longer at the Bleeding Star, so red and angry in the sky. He rubbed his small moustache nervously. He had labored so long and so hard for this opportunity, that he could scarce believe that it was finally upon him. The war was over and King Galam was dead. Zeon was also gone. Lord Chelsted had hoped devoutly for such an outcome, and now that it was there… A strong man seizes the opportunity, and I am a strong man. For Lord Paul Chelsted, there were fewer places in the world less welcome than his own memory, but he was duly grateful to his past nonetheless. A strong man grudged no advantage that was at hand.

Chelsted they had called him then, and other names less kind. All of those names had shared one thing in common; they had had the quality of a curse. Harsh eyes, harsher words… they had grudged him his name, and had hated him for it. His mouth tightened, just in the remembering. Inferior little mendicants.

Lord Paul Chelsted contemplated the Bleeding Star for one final moment, and then he turned, sweeping back down the stairs of Galam Castle, making his way to the rooms that the late and largely unlamented King Galam had set aside from him. How unimaginative these dynasties are. Galam… what was it? Galam IX? The tactics of a dying family.

He paused briefly at the door to his apartments, putting a hand through his hair. With a shrug, Lord Paul Chelsted unlatched the door and stepped in. His destiny was upon him and he would not squander it by pondering his former ruler.

"Lord Paul!" His personal aide, Ricketts, was surveying him anxiously. "You have been longer than usual this morning, my lord."

Chelsted made a dismissive gesture. "You chatter like an old woman, Ricketts. I merely wished to contemplate our comet." His eyes moved appreciatively to the table. "The breakfast has been laid out?"

"As you commanded, my lord." Chelsted smiled at the servile tone, seating himself. Any sort of man would take offense at being called an old woman, but Ricketts was a good man. A loyal man. Lord Paul had always thought him a stupid man as well, but the world was full of stupid men. Loyal ones were rarer, and loyalty was a trait that Lord Paul Chelsted rewarded generously.

He poured himself a glass of wine. "Have some breakfast, Ricketts."

Rather than seating himself, Ricketts hovered anxiously over the table. "The Green Baron has not sent the word we were expecting my lord." The older man's gnarled face revealed nothing but concern. Lord Paul Chelsted occasionally wondered what it must be like to be so small-minded, but he was duly grateful to the old soldier nonetheless. He could trust nobody as he trusted Ricketts.

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Has he sent word other than we were expecting?"

Ricketts's jowls quivered as he shook his head. "No, my lord. The Green Baron has not sent word of any kind."

Lord Chelsted took the mouthful of eggs, chewed and swallowed. "Meaningless, in that case. Lord Zocc doubtless hopes to see what I would do if this minor alteration came up. It is no more than a test, Ricketts. It changes nothing." He took a small, dignified sip of wine and said for the second time that morning, "Have some breakfast, Ricketts."

Jowls still quivering, Ricketts bowed deeply before seating himself. "Very good, my lord."

Lord Paul Chelsted smiled thinly, turning his immediate attention back to the laden table. He had commanded the servers to lay out a dozen eggs, some very good bread, and bacon, burnt till it was black. Perhaps Ricketts asked after the bowl of fruit. He savored the feel of eating the best of the food, savored the accompanying strength. It is my comet, my hour, my time.

As he buttered a piece of bread, Lord Paul's eyes drifted lazily over to a small stack of books. "Those are… it?"

Ricketts nodded, hurriedly setting down a goblet of wine. "Indeed, my lord. There was surprisingly little to be seeing to of the… the lineage in the first place, but it seemed to me on reflection that this may not have been a negative quality."

Ricketts's attempts to sound educated rarely failed to amuse Lord Paul, but this morn he had serious matters on his mind. "Less evidence… better, perhaps, but riskier. Had anyone been before you?"

"That would be impossible to say, my lord. Gretchel is a frightful woman, and I doubt she could be bribed to say."

"Paper thin," he muttered, staring at the slim stack of books. "This scheme of ours is as yet, paper thin, Ricketts. And yet, could any of the others make this claim with a straight face without more evidence? Could Kronos fight this?"

"Lord Kronos's claim is tenuous at best, my lord."

Lord Paul glanced sharply at his aide. "And is my claim any less tenuous? We are creating a fiction here, Ricketts. A fiction… for where other men have one name, I have two." An old custom, that. A left over custom from an older time. There were very few persons in the world left whose families stretched back so far and so clearly that they had two names. All the others hated him for that, to be sure, for it made him better. Aye. And that inferiority, that unthinking deference to two names is half the deception. He settled back into his chair, his feeling of invigoration abruptly leaving him. "And yet, why should the regency go to the man with the best claim? Why not the man best-suited for the role?" Why not me?

Lord Paul Chelsted knew it deep in the fathomless reaches of his soul; he was meant for the regency. He was a man like any other perhaps, but he was, he knew unblushingly, as close as to perfection that a man could come. His was to be a glorious destiny.

The only matter left was to seize his destiny. Lord Chelsted was a realistic man. Destiny would not just happen. The high lords would not merely hand him the power. And so, he had to calibrate his plans precisely to circumvent all of those fools who would stand in his way, and only because he saw that the only hope for survival was a break with the past.

He really did hate all of them, Lord Paul Chelsted reflected. All the bloody little people who made up the world… he hated the lot of them. Except for the select few. The very few for whom he had ever felt the slightest bit of affection… And Nikki.

He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, squeezing his hands into fists. He loved her so much. It was his one great weakness, the great flaw in his cleverness… and worst of all, he didn't really care. The one thing he wanted was to make sure that none of the others would ever know about it. At first anyway. Gods, how Lord Zocc laughed…

Lord Paul was dragged back to the present abruptly at the sound of Ricketts's voice. "Hmm?" He arched his brows enquiringly.

"General Tiberius has intimated that he means to call upon you this morning, my lord."

"A tedious man," Lord Paul muttered, lifting his goblet. Still, if it means I may be certain of the man, I'll gladly receive him. "Tell me, Ricketts," he said abruptly. "What would you do if the fate of all of Galam was in your hands? What course would you steer?"

Ricketts's brows knit together in a nearly comical helpless perplexity. "My lord, I…"

"We have been humbled in war, Ricketts! Those Gransi dogs defeated us and cast down our, king, oh yes! But never forget a slight, no matter how many generations it goes back. It has been centuries since the last full-scale war between Galam and Granseal. In that time, we have been fighting the Yeeli, surely we must not forget that long list of insults… and the other clans are sometimes our enemies too! How does one navigate that mire, Ricketts?"

Ricketts frowned, the lines of his wrinkled face deepening in thought. He lightly massaged his thumbs. Finally he said, "But you, yourself, my lord viewed the circumstances of Zeon's revival as a unique situation. Even the death of our king was not…" Ricketts swallowed hard, the tone of his voice dropping. "Not, undesirable."

He smacked the table. "What I think is unimportant, Ricketts. It is the insult that matters. To kill in vengeance… is this not the Granserian way?"

Ricketts blew out a soft puff of air as he considered the point. "Mayhaps… yes. It is. To kill in vengeance… and to kill the ones who attack in their own vengeance to defend the right to kill." Ricketts shrugged. "It has always been our way."

"And yet," suggested Lord Paul Chelsted, "there have been occasions in the past where we have foregone our vengeance. Not many, but a few. When we have been so ashamed of the behavior of our slain kin… And King Galam was possessed by a devil…"

Ricketts frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think," he said slowly, "I do not believe that many will grant credence to that argument, my lord."

Lord Paul Chelsted watched him closely. "But you would?"

"I would follow my lord. It's habit forming."

Lord Paul snorted. He dearly loved a bit of wit, and from Ricketts that was the height of cleverness. I should not think ill of him. Ricketts has always been there, always loyal. A better father than Father ever could have hoped to be. He selected a peach from the table, and bit into it. Juice trickled down his lips. "Life is short for vengeance, Ricketts. May not a generation serve just as well for that purpose?"

Ricketts frowned. "You mean to sue for peace?"

Lord Paul Chelsted took his time answering. If Ricketts would support him on this, it might not mean anything, but if even Ricketts would not, then he had no chance. "Peace is a very final word. I mean to sue for power." He smiled at the slow nod that Ricketts gave. "We need not fight a war we cannot win now. Peace indeed is what I desire… but not uncompromising peace."

Ricketts said slowly, "It seems to me that the best thing to do, mayhap… to rise up in friendship with Gransi so long as it takes to not be on our knees."

Lord Paul nodded. "Precisely." Ricketts didn't know the half of it. Lord Paul Chelsted had little use for the Granserian habit of fratricidal wars. He understood them; he had been raised to understand them. Even logic could not completely erase conditioning. There was a certain amount of the bloodthirsty Granserian in Lord Paul that yearned to protect his honor, to make only true and deeply emotional pledges. Yes, he understood that ruinous impulse. "But what good is it in a changing world"

Ricketts stared at him with watery eyes. "My lord?"

"Imagine me coquettishly raising my eyebrows," he offered quickly. "It is how we shall outmaneuver Lord Kronos."

Ricketts laughed. "Only you, my lord. Only you."

"I do my best," Lord Paul assured him, "to keep you amused." Lord Paul Chelsted turned his contemplations inward. The morning had, thus far, not gone badly, he thought. Ricketts had received the basic premise of Lord Paul's intentions fairly well. The unsettling factor, the one thing he couldn't be sure of was how much of Ricketts's acquiescence laid in his personal loyalty. To be sure, he was partly banking on Granserian honor. If he took the regency, then none in Galam would want to betray him; to do so would be unthinkable.

Unless Ricketts is being influenced by personal loyalty, and they consider peace to be a scandalous, even treacherous suggestion. If they could call me traitor, they'd be all to willing to kill me, regent or no. Worse yet, they'd do it.

The uncertainty was galling, but there was no help for it. Lord Paul would have to trust that he had the right people willing to back him, the right plan, and the right moment to act. The gods sent that comet to herald my new age, he reassured himself. There was nothing to be unduly worried about. Shrewd caution was still called for, but his schemes were progressing as expected.

With my help, Galam can rise above its past. With my help, the riches of the mainland may finally fall on us, if I can bring stability to this cursed island… Lord Paul Chelsted loved Granseal and he wanted to save it from itself.

Granserian honor and nobility were very charming concepts, but they were best left in an earlier age. What would be the fate of the island if they just kept up their bitter blood feuds, while all the rest of the world progressed, grew richer and more powerful? Sooner or later, eventually one of those powers would grow weary of the risk of Granserian violence infecting the mainland and would come and crush the island beneath its heel.

And that was the basic reason that Lord Paul felt justified in doing whatever it took to claim the regency. Granseal was in a perilous position, and if one thing did not finish it off, something else would. It would take a strong man to save the island now. Could Lord Kronos do it? Lord Paul thought not; Kronos was too short-sighted to look to the future, too selfish to believe in sacrifice, and too jealous to share the island with the Yeeli and the Gransi. Could even Lord Bowie of Granseal do it? Not so long as the old king sits the throne, and that could be years. Besides which, Lord Bowie is apparently an honorable man. He doesn't truly understand the need to abandon such obscure reasoning. Could Lord Zocc, the Green Baron, do it? That was equally doubtful. Lord Zocc was a singularly amusing individual to get drunk with, but he lacked the vision to save Granseal. And who did that leave? There is only me.

Lord Paul Chelsted sighed, stretching comfortably, thoroughly enjoying his sacrifice, his truly noble sacrifice. He was prepared to sacrifice nobility itself, for the greater good. Never had there been such a great man as Lord Paul Chelsted.

On the whole, he decided that he was in good spirits. Aside from one or two tangential concerns, things were going as well as he might have hoped. The next step was the delegation that Lord Bowie had asked them to send to Granseal. Whosoever headed that delegation would, for all practical intents and purposes seize the power even aside from being named regent. The regency had to be declared by two thirds of the lords at least, but the lords would follow whoever took the power into his hands.

Lord Paul Chelsted was prepared to lead the delegation himself, after concluding one or two other small matters. His was to be a glorious destiny. He sighed a sigh of pure contentment, considered pouring himself a second glass of wine or enjoying another excellent bit of bacon and bread, and rose to his feet instead.

He stalked over to the side table, leafing through the books that Ricketts had fetched him. He paused, studying one leather-bound tome. The title was dusty and largely faded, but the pages revealed that it was a genealogical text on Galam's royal family. "Ricketts," he called, "do you know how far back this book goes?"

Ricketts hurriedly rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and hobbled over to Lord Paul's side. Lord Paul arched a brow. "Limping, Ricketts?"

Ricketts flushed. "An… an accident, my lord. Of no consequence."

Lord Paul briefly considered answering that, insisting that any such inconvenience was of concern to him, but rejected the notion. This was Ricketts he was speaking to, and Ricketts knew that. He knew he could always apply to Lord Paul, and Lord Paul supposed that if anyone in his service had a right to a few secrets, it was Ricketts.

Lord Paul searched his mind for some kindly comment to make, to steer them past this awkward silence, but realized with a jolt of surprise that he had no kindly comments in his repertoire. A curious oversight and one that would have to be corrected when he had the leisure to attend to it.

Ricketts in the meantime had already moved on. "Ah, yes, my lord. I selected this book very specially. Your eye is discerning to have noted it. This records nearly five hundred years of our kings, my lord. Back to the last period of Galam's ascendancy."

Lord Paul closed the book with a satisfied grunt. "Excellent work, Ricketts. Very discerning of you. This is precisely what we'll need." He turned away from books, contemplated the breakfast again, and walked over to his mirror, studying the man before him. "What do you think of this doublet, Ricketts? Appropriate, for the leader of the Galamani Delegation?"

Ricketts stood at the table, studying Lord Paul with pursed lips. "It is perhaps," he began disapprovingly, but then stopped. "My lord, I believe I have it." He hobbled quickly to Lord Paul's bedchamber, and returned momentarily with a black and gold vest. He helped Lord Paul into it, nodding much in the process. "This goes well with the doublet, my lord, and it gives you a more regal cast."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "Considering that the royal colors of Galam are black and white, and this black and gold? Is that half a statement, Ricketts?"

"This is important, my lord," Ricketts scolded him. "You must look well for meeting with the Gransi, and the manner of this dressing will determine what they think of you and of Galam. The appearance gives you an air of legitimacy as well." Ricketts's jowls started quivering again. "Oh, to serve the Lord Regent," he breathed.

Lord Paul Chelsted felt a small hiccup of triumph rising in his chest. Even allowing that this was only Ricketts, he already thought that it was won. He already saw Lord Paul Chelsted as the Lord Regent of Galam. It will be mine!

Ricketts was muttering to himself, "Now a cloak of course…" He paused his rummaging for a moment, surveying Lord Paul with a critical eye. "Perhaps a small moustache would add something," he mused.

Lord Paul laughed again. "I hardly have the time to grow a moustache, Ricketts."

"Of course, my lord," he said distractedly. "Now about that cloak…"

As Ricketts continued rummaging around in the background, Lord Paul studied the reflection in front of him. He was not a handsome man, no, but his features were regular, pleasant enough to look upon. The grey eyes were too unprepossessing, however. He frowned, thoughtfully. No, he would never be a handsome man, or a hero. He did not possess that fiery Granserian temperament that lent itself to noble acts of heroism, and that was reflected in his features. Not a handsome man, no hero… But his were the features of Galam's future. It was not an entirely welcome thought.

A hard thumping sound came from the door. Without removing his eyes from their slightly morbid contemplation, he ordered, "Ricketts, see to that, would you?"

In only a few moments, he heard the door opening, and he turned, composed to put off whoever this was howsoever he must. Ricketts turned away from the door, bowing deeply. "My lord, General Tiberius."

Lord Paul Chelsted frowned. He could hardly put off Tiberius, but he had forgotten that the man was coming this morning. A tedious man, Lord Paul had always thought him. But success requires tedious men on occasion.

General Tiberius stood awkwardly in the door frame, a bulky, dark figure. General Tiberius was, alas, not a happy looking man. His neck and shoulders were always clenched, and his mouth was made of hard muscles that had never known how to smile. His dark brooding gaze was matched by dark curly hair.

"Lord Chelsted," he said heavily. "We have things to discuss."

"By all means, my dear general," Lord Paul responded. Considering what he needed Tiberius for, it was not, perhaps, the wisest of courses to condescend to him, but Lord Paul had never been able to prevent himself from the petty gesture. General Tiberius was the kind of man who invited such treatment.

Lord Paul gestured carelessly at the table. "Some breakfast, mayhaps?"

"My thanks, but no." Tiberius's eyes were worried. "Might we speak… privily, my lord?"

Lord Paul Chelsted opened his eyes very wide. "I have no secrets from Ricketts, General Tiberius. He is as much a part of these plans as you are."

General Tiberius snapped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth. He always ground his teeth when offended, and that was regrettably often. "Nonetheless," the general said in a gloomy, aggrieved voice, "there are some things not for the ears of aides."

Lord Paul sighed. "Very well. Ricketts, make yourself scarce. The general fears you mean to sell us out."

Ricketts bowed uncertainly, and edged out of the room. General Tiberius ground his teeth, but said nothing. "Well," asked Lord Paul, "what is so important that you must delay me this morning? Surely you could have approached me on the march."

"There are some things," Tiberius repeated, "not meant for the ears of aides… or others. I approach you now for this reason, my lord."

"Indeed," murmured Lord Paul Chelsted. "Perhaps I can offer an educated guess as to your worry. You grow concerned about backing me for the regency."

General Tiberius squirmed uncomfortably in place. "You mean to offer peace, my men tell me."

Lord Paul raised a brow. "Surely you mean Lord Zocc's men, my dear general. I seem to recall that you care not for spying."

Tiberius's face darkened. "Lord Zocc," he said slowly, "is another concern of mine. You put too much faith in that snake. He would be just as happy to see himself as regent. Or Lord Kronos."

Lord Paul shrugged. "You place too little faith in me, Tiberius. Lord Zocc would like nothing better than make himself regent, we agree. However, Lord Zocc is a poor third behind both myself and Lord Kronos. He knows that he must needs support one or the other of us. For the moment, he plays the double game, making both of us think that he is ours, whilst he makes up his mind. If something comes up to discredit both of us, his caution will have allowed him to take the position. If, on the other hand, he merely supports us loyally, he still wins. And he will see that supporting Lord Kronos is folly. Kronos has men, but you have more swords than he does, general. It will be swords that determine this." He paused. "So long as I have you."

General Tiberius ground his teeth, but Lord Paul Chelsted could see that that was merely a concession. He had calibrated that argument very precisely. Tiberius might indeed be feeling doubts, but he would never back out, knowing that then Lord Kronos would likely claim the regency. Tiberius hated Kronos, a general like himself, raised to the style of lord.

"Peace does not serve us," Tiberius said at last. "We have been slighted."

"I agree," said Lord Paul. "Kronos slights us to suggest that we're stupid enough to offer a battle that cannot be won."

"We cannot do nothing," Tiberius warned him. "My men will not support you if you do not meet this insult in the strongest possible terms. The Gransi must be punished."

"Lord Bowie is prepared to offer us much, in exchange for remembering that it was Zeon who dishonored us in the first place, General. We cannot fight Granseal now, and I am not of a mind to oblige your request. Apply to Kronos if you want needless war."

"This would come down to swords, you said. Do you want those swords to be directed against you?"

"Why would they be?" Lord Paul finally looked up into Tiberius's eyes. "Or are we too small-minded, too bitter to accept the truth for what it is? That is the only reason you would threaten me, Tiberius. Galam cannot survive a war like the last one, and we have an excuse not to offer such a battle. You are not betraying either your country or your principles in supporting me, if that's what concerns you. Indeed, you are serving your country more fully."

Tiberius ground his teeth, and turned his gaze away. Lord Paul was satisfied. If Tiberius was unwilling to look him in the eye, if, in other words, the logic was too strong for him, then Lord Paul had already won.

"The others will not be as easy to convince," Tiberius said at last.

"The others will be loath to betray their Lord Regent and an honest general. It is of no matter. The important affair is the Gransi offer. If we go along for that, now, then it is considerably likely we can make it seem as though we stood the Gransi down, intimidated them. It becomes our peace, not theirs and they become the cowards, not us."

General Tiberius let out an explosive sigh and took a seat. "Very well," he said, allowing himself to be reluctantly diverted. "As concerns all other things, I think that first we—"

The door banged open loudly and Ricketts came speeding through. Tiberius nearly jumped, "Bloody hell, man," he started to roar, but Ricketts breathlessly cut him off.

"My apologies, my lords, but… word… word from Lord Zocc. The Green Baron's word has finally come."

"Ah." Lord Paul smiled modestly. "His latest report on Lord Kronos, I should think. Be good enough to read it, Ricketts."

"My lord," said Ricketts anxiously, "that's just it. What is says. It…it…" Ricketts took a deep breath. "Lord Zocc says he regrets to inform you that he rode off with Lord Kronos and other lords of the delegation last night!"

Lord Paul chuckled. "What?" Then it hit him. "He said he's done what?!"

Tiberius shifted uncomfortably. "I did say my lor—"

Lord Paul Chelsted rose to his feet, waving his arms wildly, knocking over a vase. "You said! Dammit Tiberius. We can't claim to be able to rule Galam and not know that things like this are going on. You're making us look like goddamn motherfucking amateurs!"

"My lord," said Ricketts, rushing over, pushing him into a chair. "Calm down, my lord. Surely, surely things are not as dire as all this."

General Tiberius sat silently in his chair, grinding his teeth, his air more aggrieved than ever.

"There is a chance, I suppose," Lord Paul said slowly. "Kronos may have taken all, or the better part of his more fervent supporters with him to insure that the delegation proceeds exactly as he wishes. If that is the case… if this is so, we could press our claims now, so that Lord Kronos will return to an unsympathetic city at best. Though, he'll probably be honored for whatever he's done there!"

Lord Paul slammed his hand against the arm of his chair in frustration. "Clearly we must try anyway. Anything that lessens Lord Kronos's impact upon returning, that's what we want. Confirmed alliances if we can get them. Still," he added, "at least there's one good thing about all of this. Lord Zocc has clearly not entirely forsaken us, or he would not even have left that mockery of a note. Still playing both sides, it would seem…"

Tiberius stirred. "Lord Zocc has betrayed us." His tone was stiff with outrage, though whether it was directed at Lord Zocc, Lord Paul's verbal assault, or both, wasn't entirely clear.

"He has," Lord Paul agreed. "But he's also made it clear that he's the only one we can count on to betray Lord Kronos at all. He's made himself invaluable to both Kronos and I. We must take no action against him for the moment."

Lord Paul Chelsted wearily collapsed back into his chair. His head swam with black thoughts and blacker visions. Played for a fool. They'll look on me and see nothing. Dammit, I'm better than this! But he had been played for a fool… A brief, humorless chuckle found its way past his lips. The day had begun with such promise, but now that he'd been outmaneuvered… It's not too late, dammit. The regency will be mine if I have to kill Lord Kronos myself.