Chapter 3:

Affairs of Granseal

If this was power, then power, Bowie decided tasted unaccountably like tedium. He sighed, refraining from asking for a cup of wine. He sighed, resisting the urge to crane his neck and look out of the open window, into the city of Granseal he had known all his life. He sighed, and admitted to himself that he was perhaps better suited to be a peasant than a lord of high power.

"… Therefore," the droning voice of Minister Graig announced, "our coffers are lower than we should have them, but are in remarkable shape, all things considering."

"Yes, yes," snapped the king. "We have more gold but not enough, you've said so before. Well, I say that we have enough dammit! The festivities continue."

"The cost," the minister began, but King Granseal gave him no time to make a further objection.

"Gods! Say what you will, but I'll have it done! Put your name to the royal command, or I'll find a minister who will!"

The wrinkled corners of the Graig's mouth tightened. "As you command, Your Grace." He bowed his bald head, lapsing into a reproachful silence.

As no one was saying anything, Bowie ignored them all for a moment. Gods, how good it would feel just to get back outside again! This business of ruling was mind-numbing, and he was not accustomed to sitting at a table for all the hours of the day. Even sitting in a cushioned seat all day was enough to get his ass raw and listening to all these people complaining just made his mind into mush.

What was worst, though, was Bowie knew this wasn't how it was supposed to be. If he was to do good by Grans he had to do it like this. And even more, these things they talked of, inventories, economic measures, reports, justice… these were the important things. The lives of people depended on what was said in these chambers. And he just couldn't care. They were so bloody boring.

To do good by Grans… He could still remember that grating, twisted voice. Seize the dream, he said… And even beyond that. There are no crimes when you are the only one left. Despite the heat of the day, Bowie shivered. He had been unable to rid himself of the memory of that duel, that duel he would have lost if not for Sir Astral and Kazin. The duel on which his claim to power was based. The duel he couldn't have won, except for the wildest stroke of luck. I wept. He told me there were no crimes when you are the only one left, and I wept.

Shame flooded the pit of Bowie's stomach, made his skin feel clammy. Zellar was right, damn his petty jealous hide. I was setting up a battle that couldn't be won. But if I was the only one there, was it still a crime? Like so many of the questions he'd asked himself recently, he couldn't answer it.

"Mayhaps," Bowie said abruptly, seeking escape from his oppressive thoughts- weeper- "we could use some refreshment on such a hot day."

King Granseal beamed at the suggestion, his face splotchy and red. "An excellent suggestion Lord Bowie. Wonderful, wonderful." He turned, snapping his fingers at nobody in particular. "Get us some iced wine in here."

Sir Astral smiled, his eyes blinking rapidly. "None for me, Your Grace. I fear that wine no longer agrees with my digestion."

King Granseal waved a vague hand in the court wizard's direction, otherwise ignoring him. "Now then," he announced, seemingly dismissing the matter of refreshment from his mind, "might we return to matters of some import?" He shot a brief glance at Minister Graig. Tugging on his thick white beard he barked, "What's the exact state of our forces, mmm, Mrell?"

The general exploded into a fit of coughing at the abrupt question. Recovering only slightly he hastened to say, "Hum, er, well… accounted for. Never been better!" He nodded earnestly. "That is, er, in um, absolute terms it's still somewhat… recovering if you take my meaning, Your Grace, but insofar as uh…" He coughed several more times, finally saying, "Absolutely."

Minister Graig looked up from the table, his lips still tight. "Yes. As concerns military affairs, I have several suggestions at this point."

Bowie resisted the need to cradle his head. Graig had been minister of Granseal for years, and nobody really liked him. Until joining these councils, Bowie had never really understood why. Graig was pompous and whiny at turns, and he hated any kind of criticism. And he is the most important person in this room, next to His Grace. No wonder Granseal is in such bad shape.

"… A fleet," Graig was saying. "Strength at sea is most essential."

King Granseal looked bored. Sir Astral took up the question, as the king stared moodily at the table, picking his arm. "Surely we have all of the strength we need, minister. We control the harbor that leads most easily to West Parmecia."

"Yes we control it," Graig nearly spat, "but what do we do with it? Nothing. The trade that comes in here is completely unrestricted! And there are rumors that the Runic may turn their attention in this direction… Cypress alone can most like muster a thousand ships!"

This turn in the discussion definitely caught Bowie's ear. "You're not suggesting restricted trade, surely?"

The minister started slightly. "Lord Bowie," he said, a sneer twisting his lips, "I would not expect you to be fully acquainted with all of the details of such a matter, and furthermore-"

"You could start by answering my question." Bowie made sure to keep his voice as neutral as he knew how to, it would not be well to make his dislike of Graig too clear. Bowie was still a newcomer to these meetings, and even if politics bored him stiff, he understood tactics. Until he was surer in his position, he could not risk enmity with a figure as powerful as Minister Graig.

The corners of Graig's mouth turned down. "Yes, restrictions would most like be part of the proposal."

Bowie nearly laughed. "Tell me minister, are you merely stupid or has keeping your head uncovered in the sun addled your brains? You might have a point if any amount of trade actually came through Grans… we barely receive a trickle of trade from the mainland, and what we do get is contraband from arms smugglers. We need to open our ports, not close them, increase trade, increase our wealth. That will do more for our security than any amount of empty ships."

The king guffawed loudly. "I think he has you there, eh Graig? What need have we of ships? If the mainlanders come here, we'll match them man for man and smash 'em!"

Graig's voice was stiff with outrage. "And what of the southerners and their vast armada? What of the fact that Galam's port, though less advantageously placed, is better armed than ours?"

"Mm," grunted the king, tugging on his beard. "There is a point at that. Mayhaps some warships would be prudent."

"I agree, Your Grace," Mrell piped up. "A most prudent measure. Yes! Prudent. The very word." He nodded several times, and echoed Graig's earlier sentiment. "Strength at sea is most essential." The general was an old ally of Graig's; there was nothing remarkable in his parroting.

Sir Astral frowned, stirring unhappily. "Your Grace, I must disagree with my colleagues in this. We have been warned several times that if we make any threatening gestures—"

King Granseal snorted dismissively, cutting the old wizard off. "If Thornwood had the guts to attack us, they'd have done it years ago."

"But if, as the minister says, we have such little coin, how are to build such ships without greater trade?"

"Gods!" The king swore loudly, slamming his hand against the table. "You and Bowie stand alone in this matter, Astral. I'll have it done and Galam's harbor no longer poses a threat."

Yes, Your Grace, Bowie thought sourly. That's something you can understand, isn't it? More war. Bowie had found that his military accomplishments had assured him a seat on this counsel, but he held no love of war. He could scarcely say this though. This was Grans. This was the Granserian way itself he was challenging. He could hear their voices, echoing through his head, like the bursts of lightning he'd seen framing the face of mad old King Galam. Weeper! Cravenly weeper!

The door opened, and a server came in, bearing a tray with goblets and a flagon of iced wine. The man quietly set it on the smooth surface as King Granseal grunted energetically, and retreated.

"Your Grace," Bowie said quickly, rising, struggling to drive unnecessary memories from his mind- there are no crimes when you are the only one left- "I once asked you to trust me. I asked you to give me leave to do something radical; to sail to West Parmecia. To go on my knees to the thin-skinned mainlanders and ask them for help, fighting that mad twisted demon ruling in Galam." He clenched his fist, forgetting the goblet on the table that was for him, locking his eyes on his liege lord. He knew he could take this council session; he could turn it into something better than it was shaping out to be. He'd not ever truly spoken with King Granseal, nor had he had many superficial encounters with him either, for, after all, royalty did not generally associate with peasantry. But he knew the old man pretty well. He knew that if he was firm, if he stood his ground, King Granseal the fourth of his name would likely agree to support his measure. He is not a patient man.

"I asked you," Bowie said into the silence, "to trust me. I asked you to put your faith into your people, sire. I asked you to believe our army could hold out, that I could find allies on the mainland who would look beyond their narrow-minded conceptions of Granserian savages. I asked you for all of this, and you gave it to me. I brought back allies, friends. We fought Galam and we won. We have friends, Your Grace. Friends. We don't have to do this alone. I asked you to have faith in me, to believe even after that, that we should offer the Galamani a chance to acknowledge their own dishonor, to come to us in a delegation, to ask us to help them to their feet. I asked you for this because we had already done all an honorable man could do, and because the Galamani deserved the same chance. I have asked you to trust me before, and always done my best for you, Your Grace. And now I ask you to trust me. Use our friends. Open up trade agreements with the mainland. Forego the building of a fleet."

King Granseal scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable. "Well..." he croaked at last, "seeing as you feel so… so strongly, about it…"

Not a patient man, he thought ruefully. And he doesn't truly care, king or no. If he did, he would tell me to do it or be damned.

General Mrell chuckled right over the king's stammering, sloshing his wine around his mouth. "Permit me to say, Lord Bowie, that I may know a little more of military affairs than even yourself, mmm? Just a smidgeon. And I can tell you, spending more on our security, to prevent the dominance of the Galamani's port…"

Bowie watched Minister Graig closely. He was far the cleverer of the two, and, his icy silences were much more menacing than Mrell's veiled insults and threats could ever be. "General Mrell," he said slowly, "makes an excellent point. And the Galamani, never forget, are our blood enemies now. To not respond to such an outrage…"

"We have responded," Bowie snapped. "We don't need to spend more to insure military dominance. Galam hasn't been stronger than Granseal for centuries. They had the power of the devils in their hands and they still failed to smash us. We are strong. The only response merited by this current situation is one of mercy. The Galamani were dishonored by the devils. They deserve a chance to be let up off of their knees. Granseal is strong as it is. Meaningless gestures don't serve us."

Bowie's eyes bore into the green-robed, bald-headed, hateful old man in front of him for several moments. King Granseal coughed loudly, suddenly, turning his attention to his goblet, his demeanor sullen. "As you see fit, Lord Bowie."

Graig's mouth tightened so hard that the corners of his mouth whitened. But he made not a word of complaint. "You mentioned the Galamani Delegation, Lord Bowie. Mayhaps we would be best served turned our attention to such an important affair."

Bowie sighed and flung himself back into his chair. "They're to arrive today, are they not?"

Graig glared. "Yes, 'they' are. Whoever 'they' may be."

Bowie rubbed savagely at his eyes. They were watering in the heat- Weeper! - and Graig was boring him. It was an old complaint. Surprisingly, Graig had agreed with him and Astral and supported the delegation in the first place, but he had only wanted it under certain conditions. "What would you have us do?" he asked wearily.

"Perhaps," Graig began in that way he reserved for going over old grievances, when the door opened again, and Slade stepped in, lightly, on the balls of his feet. Graig's mouth snapped shut. He rose, unnecessarily saying, "Let me extend our welcome to our…" his lips twisted. "Our Master of Spies."

Slade smiled. "You are kind, Lord Minister." He bowed briefly around the table. "My lords, Your Grace, I do have some small matters that may be of concern to you." The ratman slipped into a chair between Astral and Mrell, nodding and smiling. "The Yeeli seem to have chosen to ignore us entirely, an insult to be sure, but better than an attack, I think we can all agree. Of course, the largest portion of my network is focused in Galam itself. The struggle over the regency is a dominating issue there, and it would seem that Lord Paul Chelsted is up to something or other. Lord Kronos is the one we must needs concern ourselves with, however, for he is leading the delegation."

"Kronos," said Graig, a thoughtful expression replacing the disdain on his face. "That one is… well, shall we say that what I've heard of him is not encouraging. Lord Kronos has never lost a battle."

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, minister?" Bowie drawled. "He's not here to start one, and we're not here to give him an excuse."

Graig ignored him, instead shooting a sharp glance at Slade. "He brings no companions?"

"Alas, my dear minister, but I must answer you in the negative. The only one of the other Lords Declarant we must needs concern ourselves with is Lord Zocc, so-called the Green Baron. The others are all spineless sycophants, but my reports indicate that Lord Zocc has his own aims and his own mind."

A loud grunt from King Granseal interrupted the report. The old king had his chin propped up in one hand, clearly dozing off. Bowie felt a flash of embarrassment at his own impatience and boredom with these affairs. It was bad enough that he felt that way at all, but to see his sentiments so mirrored in his king… And yet, his fellow monarch has been slain. He is the only titan remaining on Grans now. There are no crimes when you are the only one left.

Slade smiled again, though Bowie knew him well enough to see that it was not a true smile. "There is only one other report of any great import, I promise you, Your Grace. We may be facing risks of a reversal due to some turbulence in Thornwood recently, involving the de-"

King Granseal waved an impatient hand. "West Parmecia does not concern us."

Slade bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Your Grace." He turned back to rest of the council table. "I recommend that you send someone with a good deal of tact to escort Lord Kronos to the city. He will most like be abrasive, to better judge us."

Bowie leant forward. "Lord Kazin is already prepared to attend to the arrival, my lords. You will not need to trouble yourselves."

A lazy smile flitted past Slade's face. "How thoughtful of Lord Kazin."

Bowie ignored that. Slade knew that he'd already asked Kazin, he was likely just trying to nettle Graig. And while that was not perhaps wise, it was a sentiment that Bowie could understand very clearly.

General Mrell slammed his wine goblet onto the table, noisily wiping his mouth. "There are, hmm, no ah… reports of domestic crime of any sort?"

Slade bowed his head ironically. "Ah. Of course, General." He shrugged. "Nothing seemed important enough to mention, but if you wish a full report…"

"No, no." He sounded uncertain. "No, I think not. Devote more attention to it, perhaps. We don't want any trouble here at home."

"But…" Bowie cursed himself silently for opening his mouth before he had a measured objection.

"I agree with Lord Bowie," Minister Graig spoke into the momentary silence. "I cannot believe, Mrell, that you would be implying that our own citizens would be capable of such seditious and disgusting behavior. Master Slade's network must not be disturbed for such petty reasons."

Bowie's mouth snapped tight shut. Dammit… they've played me. The two knew him much better than he'd assumed. Graig knew that his argument in support of Bowie was pure sophistry, knew that Bowie knew it as well. And having just pulled his teeth on that subject… "I disagree, Minister Graig," he said, giving in as gracefully as he could. "A few more eyes out for trouble, particularly with such revelry coming up, could not do any long term damage."

"As you wish," Graig said snidely. His eyes were smiling just a little though.

Slade spread out his paws. "My lords, I shall do all in my power to accommodate your requests."

The king snorted, slapping himself a bit in the chin. "Is there anything else?"

"Ahm. One thing, Your Grace." Mrell scratched his moustache. "There have been some reports of bandits. And more rats in the south again. It shouldn't be too troublesome, but might we not send out a patrol to deal with this before it becomes bigger?" He picked up his goblet again, adding, "Should be good experience for some of our rawer recruits." He drank deep of the wine, his throat quivering. "Under a more experienced leader, say." He took another swallow. "Sir Jaha, say. Or mayhaps Sir Chester."

King Granseal grunted. "Do whatever you wan-"

"No," said Bowie, ignoring King Granseal. "Chester and Jaha both worked too hard for this day to just be sent out now. Why not Col…" He nearly bit his tongue, remembering at the last moment that he'd assigned Zellar some duties at the ball.

Mrell's watery blue eyes met Bowie's, unblinking. "We have all worked for this day, my lord. Are you suggesting that you could find a better leader for such a mission than either of those two?"

"Gerhalt then."

Mrell frowned. "I hardly think a Parmecian-"

"A Parmecian who helped saved this kingdom." Bowie shrugged. "He's got experience and is perfect for moving in this kind of terrain. He'll make plenty of your recruits." The more Bowie thought about it, the more splendid it seemed. Gerhalt wouldn't care particularly about missing the festivities anyway. The beastman's interests were in more simple, direct confrontations anyway, and this mission would be good for him.

"Very well," Mrell relented, though with bad grace. "It shall be as you say."

King Granseal rose. "Then we're finally done? Good. Graig, let me know when the preparations are complete." He left the room without further delay, and Mrell was only moments behind him. Graig stayed long enough to make some polite conversation with Slade before he too excused himself.

Astral leant back in his chair, frowning. "You handled much of that poorly," he told Bowie. "You could have kept your respect, and gotten much of your proposals accepted without insulting Graig."

Bowie sighed. He'd known Astral as long as he could remember and he was tired of the way that the old wizard could always see to the heart of things. "Graig's suggestions were contemptible. I'll not play the weakling to avoid hurting his feelings."

"Graig is… a complicated man. You give him too little credit. I've argued with him for years, and I've learned to listen carefully to all his suggestions, no matter what they sound like." The words fell almost like a silence. Astral shrugged, his stern expression melting. "As always, I'm reduced to being your teacher again. Have you met with Luke yet?"

"Oh dammit," Bowie muttered, putting a hand through his hair. "Bedoe… I forgot about that. I need to visit Rhode first. Can you see if he'd mind waiting 'till tomorrow, Astral?"

The wizard smiled sardonically. "And now it's being your errand boy." He chuckled briefly, rising. "But of course, Luke didn't nearly die. I'll see to it." The old man started towards the door. He paused momentarily. "Bowie my boy," he said softly. "I know you and I do want you to be happy. Just don't lose yourself in the work, or the vision of what the work should be. Seize the moment." Then he too was gone.

Bowie sat there, stunned. Seize the destiny; make the world what it should be… there are no crimes when you are the only one left. He clenched his hands so hard that they went numb. Astral had said nearly the same thing as that twisted old demon, and yet the meaning had been almost entirely reversed… A sudden care-free feeling swept through Bowie. Galam's words meant nothing.

"My lord?"

He started lightly, coming back to himself. "I'm fine, Slade." He frowned as it occurred to him. "But perhaps you'd permit me to ask, why do you insist on referring to me as 'lord?' We're friends and always have been. There's no need for it."

The ratman sighed. "That is a long story, my lord, and not a very interesting one. Let me ask you, were you born to poverty?"

"Not quite poverty. Granseal has had enough to go around for a couple hundred years now. And anyway, for all his faults, King Granseal never turned any of his people away from his doors. The city and the people belong to him… and King Granseal likes things that belong to him."

"Then His Grace is a king in a thousand," Slade told him, "regardless of whatever other faults he may have. Most are not near as generous." He waved a paw briefly. "Suffice to say that I was born to crushing poverty and I decided long ago that one never gets anywhere if one doesn't learn how to speak. Syntax has power, my lord. As do courtesies."

"Interesting. I never really thought about it." Bowie lifted his goblet, and took a sip. The vintage wasn't especially good, but it was iced, and on a day as hot as this, that was a blessing. He could feel his tunic clinging to his chest. Shifting, he asked, "You did want something?"

Slade's face was very still, very focused. "Do not let it be said that I did not try to warn you, my lord. A storm is coming."

He frowned. "You mean to say that your spies have picked up some hints of a double game or something? In Granseal? Some kind of treason? It has to be something like that if you're warning me, but why not take your evidence to King Granseal?"

Slade shook his head. "Who knows how the king would react? Besides, my spies can only pick up information from wherever they're at, and only so much of that. Right now, Granseal is a beacon of converging interests, and that always heralds a clash of emotions, intentions…"

"Well, what do you mean? Some kind of conspiracy?"

"I tell you, I don't know. I don't know because I'm not supposed to. But I have my suspicions. Were you… didn't you listen to what was said in the conference today? There is something moving through this city, Bowie, and it will strike at anything. Of that much, I am certain."

Bowie slowly shook his head. "I don't believe that. Not even old Graig would turn traitor, Slade. And you yourself said you don't have anything concrete… and anyway, if you don't have solid information for me to act on, why are you warning me?"

"This is a two-fold warning my lord. Never let it be said that I didn't try to tell you. But I want you to know. If you won't act, my lord… then I will not stand in the way of this."

---

They rode slowly towards the towering, dusty gate. Their eyes were nervous, but no more. Kronos grunted in satisfaction. Looking at the walls, even he had to grudgingly admit that the Gransi had built solid defenses. He shook his head in disgust. The bastards had had the upper hand for too long and now to be on his knees… And Lord Paul would keep us there, if he had his way. Worse than any Gransi, that scum.

He kicked his heels into his horse, spurring it on to a short canter to the head of the column again, beside Lord Zocc. He leant down, clapping his hand onto Shaita's shoulder. The shaman's robe was raggedy as ever. "You're certain," he said in a cold voice, "that this will work?"

The old ratman nodded nervously. "My Lord Kronos, I assure you. I have the capability."

"Yes," Lord Zocc drawled from his other side. "But what exactly is it that you're capable of, I wonder?"

"Shut up," Kronos hissed. "They've seen us." He squinted up at the movement on the wall. He had not been mistaken. Standing there before them, framed in the sunlight, was an indecently good-looking elf. "A mage?" he muttered to Shaita, not that there was much doubt in his mind. The ratman gave one quavering nod.

"The Lords Declarant?" The elf's voice was smooth, educated.

"Aye," roared Kronos. "Aye. Lord Kronos of the Lords Declarant, if it please you."

The elf turned to the side briefly, clearly ordering the gate to be opened. As the sunlight framed his angular face and long blonde hair, Kronos realized who was dealing with. "It must be that one… bah, I can't remember the name. The one who defeated King Galam." He let out a speculative whisper. "Powerful mage."

"That won't be a problem, my lord," Shaita assured him. "Sir Astral is thrice as powerful as Kazin is."

"Obviously, you dolt. I wasn't talking about that. And Kazin, you say? Good. Form up."

Down in the streets, waiting for them, was a small party of soldiers headed by a centaur knight. The knight inclined his head. "I am Sir Eric," he announced. "This is for your protection, Lord Kronos."

Kronos started to smile and answer but Lord Zocc beat him to it. "Of course." The Green Baron grinned devilishly. "Are we dressed well enough for the party?" He laughed aloud at the look on Sir Eric's face. "Very well, lead on sir knight. We'll skip all of that and just get rippingly drunk."