Chapter 8

Matters of Pride

Lord Paul Chelsted stared at the cracked, dingy ceiling of the brothel. He had failed utterly. It wounded his pride, even now. Lord Zocc the Green Baron had played him, and Kronos had succeeded before his very eyes. And what had Lord Paul's response to that been? He had fled. Fled the failure, fled the castle, fled his allies, fled it all away, into Nikki's arms.

It had rained throughout the night, and he had not even bothered to take his cloak with him. No, he had ridden through the rain-soaked streets, heedless of the water, wanting only to reach the brothel. To reach Nikki's arms. Here, at least he was wanted. Here at least…

She was still sleeping. Restlessly, he turned away from her. It always filled him with a deep shame, afterwards. Every morning after… I am a man. Is it not natural that I should need such comfort? That I should take it? Nikki was the only one who never judged him. The only one who had ever accepted Lord Paul Chelsted as he was. Why then, the shame?

Dammit, I'm like a lovesick boy. She's a whore… it's my gold she loves, not my cock. He wasn't certain if he believed that though. He knew that he didn't want to. Nikki was always so… He sat up restlessly, consciously resisting looking at her sleeping face. She's what I pay her to be.

He pushed the covers off, paced over to the open window. He stared at the dull grey sky. Mayhaps the rains were not over yet. He glanced over his shoulder at her again, and his resistance melted. It always does. The thought was not as bitter as it should have been, nor was it angry. It never was.

It was not beauty that she had, it was not beauty that sparked this sickness devouring his soul, his shame, his honor. Nikki was compelling, brilliant, maddeningly attractive, but she was not beautiful. She was just taller than he himself, her glossy auburn hair was short. In his haste, he'd jerked the thin coverlet off of her. He stood there, watching her breathe softly, studying the rise and fall of her breasts.

He turned away again. I should leave, now. Instead, he paced moodily over towards the rickety wooden table in the corner of the room. He lifted the flagon of wine, feeling the weight of it, sloshing what liquid remained around. He had always hated to see the wine there. It was a custom of the house, he knew, and probably a custom of every other godforsaken brothel anyway. Those are worse though, because they do not have her.

Lord Paul Chelsted never touched the wine when he came to visit Nikki. He was never there strictly for the bloody custom as it was called anyway. Well… He was. Of course he was. But he was really there to see her. To talk to her, to be comforted by her, to sleep with her, and yes, he supposed, to love her. His hand tightened threateningly against the jug. Yes, he came to here to love her. That was a mistake, a weakness, an irrational impulse, but he had given into it, hadn't he?

And still, always the wine that he never drank was here. The wine that her other patrons drank. His jaw trembled. He would have liked nothing better than to crush the flagon in his hand, but Nikki was still sleeping.

Gods, Chelsted. What a fool you are. His hands shook a little as he fumbled with the earthenware cup on the table. If others could do it, why not he? She had never let him do anything else for her, damn her. One cup. Just one cup, for courage.

Hands still shaking, he raised the vessel to his lips. The slightest drop splashed onto his tongue, and he started trembling violently. He had never needed the wine before. It wasn't as though he was just a bloody patron of the house, he was there to… He crushed the cup with an abrupt, enraged squeeze. "Fuck!"

He swore softly, the earthenware shards cutting into his palm. The wine stung against his blood. His mood increasingly dark, he strode over to the window, staring out at the foggy streets of Galam. With a sigh, he fumbled for his cock; Lord Paul Chelsted entertained no notions of using the disgusting privy of this place. Once had been quite sufficient for him.

Damn you Kronos, he thought, but even that lacked the heat that it should have had. Kronos's victory, Tiberius's need of a leader, Zocc's treachery, Galam itself… what did any of it matter next to her? How could he focus on any of that, with Nikki before him, the problem she presented to him?

Dammit, she's a whore. Galam needs me, more than ever now, and I ride off to a night with a whore. He shook the last droplets off, and cradled his head. Gods help him, but he would ask her again. He would have to ask her again. In an abrupt rage, he swung away from the window, shielding his eyes.

Another failure of my father. He should have provided for this; he should have made some kind of alliance for the family. I wouldn't be here if not for him! With a sigh that contained a little more purpose to it, he looked at the bed again. Nikki was yawning lightly, stretching a little. His heart melted in a shameful daze.

He swallowed. "N…" He couldn't even say it. The very sight of her, awake again, after the night they had spent together brought a lump to his throat.

She looked up, her grey-green eyes welcoming. "Paul." She smiled lazily, sitting up. The coverlets slipped off of her. Lord Paul Chelsted felt some interest stirring between his legs, but he didn't encourage it.

"It's cold over here," he declared abruptly. Now why did I say that? Bloody pointless…

She smiled. "It's a cold morning, that's an open window, and you're naked. You should expect it."

Her charm, her sincere good humor, it only served to blacken his mood. He strode abruptly back to the table, studying the wine. "Does it always have to be like this?" he finally asked, hoarsely. "Always this bloody flagon? I never drink the damn stuff. You don't."

He didn't look at her. He didn't have to. He knew that her face would be pained, but gentle. He couldn't face that. "Yes," she told him, her voice soft.

He stood there, staring. "Oily stuff," he said at last. His voice was thick with grief, though, giving the lie to his attempts at banality. "It could have been beautiful here once. My father would have liked that. A beautiful brothel." He snorted. "I suppose a fool loves a foolish thing." He spun around, looked at her. Her face was interested, engaged. But her eyes still stung of pity. He did not have to ask after the cause. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes. Dammit. She's a whore… but mine, nonetheless.

"You never speak of your mother," Nikki finally said. His mouth tightened. There was no apology in that, no apology for not refusing the wine. For not refusing the rest. Is there something so imperfect about this union, Chelsted you bloody fool?

Lord Paul Chelsted shrugged, crossed the last few paces to the bed and sat down. He clamped a hand on her left breast. It was small, but he liked the firmness of it. "She was just some woman. Most of them are."

She sat up, and his palm slid away. '"Some woman?"'

Lord Paul sighed. "I suppose that was in bad taste. I apologize." He rose again, more restless than ever. "If you coul…" He bit back the words. It was always too much. Life demanded too much. "And when a man encounters that truth, he builds mountains," he murmured, wanting little more than to fall to his knees and weep.

"Paul?"

He turned back towards her and he looked at her. Really looked at this woman he coveted. Her skin was soft, but her palms were still hardened by the realities of lower class life. Her face was lightly scattered with pimples, her hair was short, almost mannish in appearance. Her body was lanky, yes, but it was warm. "Nikki." His voice was hoarse, hoarser than he had ever heard it. How many countless times had it come to this? How many times had he done this, slid his hands around her waist, reached up to give her breast a squeeze? How many times? And did she ever truly enjoy his touch? Or was she just a whore?

"Nikki," he repeated, his ardor for her being replaced by another hunger. He blinked back the tears fiercely. Oh please, why? Why must everything always happen to me? He approached the bed, his hands trembling again. Always this dammed trembling afflicted him in her presence. How many hundreds of times must he have started to ask this question in its different ways? This was a weakness. But Lord Paul Chelsted didn't care. He sat down beside her, his hands coming to cup her face. That lovely, yearning, treacherous face! "Please," he almost whispered.

He stared helplessly into her green-grey eyes. "Come back with me."

Nikki stared back at him, a sickly pallor slowly creeping through her cheeks. She slowly moved a little back on the bed, and his fingers came away from his face. They were cold now. "I've told you before," she finally said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, but he could still hear the hurt in it.

"Damn it," he burst out, "but why?" The pleading whine in his voice would have made him flinch under any other circumstance. The childishness of the question reverberated around in his skull for a moment. What need had Lord Paul Chelsted of debasing himself? But Nikki is not one of them, blast it. And it isn't as though I don't have enough bloody coin to keep her. Enough for any bloody whore. "And I'm asking you," he said, making an effort to keep the trembling from entering his voice. "What does it matter, Nikki? No one will…" His lips twisted as he searched for the right phrase to come to him. "No one will hold it against you. More than half the lords at court keep bedwarmers; it's me they'll blame."

"Bedwarmers," Nikki repeated, her voice bitter. "Bedwarmers, whores, courtesans… cunts in the end."

His hand twitched. The objection was nearly on his tongue, that that was not the way of it between them, there was much more than the sex… He looked away. "You are making me beg, Nikki. It is not mete that I should beg."

"And is that all this is?" she burst out, rising to her full, magnificent height. Despite himself, Lord Paul could not keep himself from looking back at her. His mouth went dry at the sight of her beauty, her body. "Your pride?" It took him a moment to understand the question. A slow flush crept up his neck. "You want me to come back to court with you… as a matter of pride, of cocks and cunts." She strode over to him, her hand sliding down and with one quick squeeze she had him hard. Rubbing herself up against him, she breathed, "Is this all that I am to you?"

His lips quivered. "Stop it." No words had ever been harder than that.

'"Stop it,"' she mocked him. "That's not what he says," she sneered giving him another squeeze, "and he's the one talking about this."

Lord Paul Chelsted abruptly rose to his feet. "Enough," he snapped. "What matters all of this to you? I have ask… no, I've begged you and you give me nothing more than excuses. If there's any shallow influence here, it's none of my making." The words he meant to say caught in his throat. Is it enough that I love you? That I've always loved you despite myself? That you're perfect? Or is it that I'm not?

Why had she always insisted on receiving other custom, after Lord Paul Chelsted had found her? She was at least attached to him, and he had the gold that she would not go wanting. Why? "If you cast me off," he said, trying to mask his pain, "then I renounce you."

Her eyes softened, but her mouth was still hard. "And if you would do that now… then why not later, after you'd bored of me?"

He nearly choked at the suggestion. "Bore-"

"What would I do, after months as your concubine? There is no sorrier sight than a cast off whore, Paul."

"You fear that I would abandon you?" His voice was incredulous. "I…" he took a half step backwards. "Why?" Is it because… I failed? I am not the Lord Regent, she would have heard that, damn her. I… The vulnerability of her questions was too raw, next to his weaknesses. But why else refuse him? Because, Chelsted, you bloody fool, she's a whore and she's laughing at you.

"When it's your pride talking to me," she flung back at him, "why wouldn't I?"

Lord Paul shook his head slowly, trying to conceal his shakiness. After a moment, he sank down into the single chair in the room. He had made a reasonable enough request, and she had refused him. What had he said to so enrage her? How was he being… prideful? I did not truly speak of my weakness whereas she… Dammit, man! He clenched his fist. I have given her reason enough, and she wants me to beg. To kneel before her. If those reasons are not sufficient, then why should I bloody well do so?

But he could not just let her refuse him. He had betrayed his upbringing, by coming here. By loving her. He had betrayed himself, his wits, the only gift the gods had bestowed upon him, by loving her. He had betrayed all his responsibilities by coming here now, to ask her. She had already forced him to beg, and she had still… He jerked to his feet, his fist clenched so hard that he was gouging his already open wound. Then he relaxed his grip, with an effort.

He fumbled with his discarded clothes for a moment, searching out a gold coin. Clumsily, he tossed it over to the bed. "If it's the practicalities that are bothering you… then think on that."

Trembling openly, he gathered up his bundle of clothing, sweeping out of the room. He heard her once. "Paul…" He did not turn back. I will not beg. I will not. He stalked down the stairs, too angry to be concerned about the stares, some appreciative and others merely curious, the various occupants of the front room shot him, in his naked state. He dressed quickly, throwing an angry coin at the counter for the mistress of the house.

He stepped out into the cobbled streets of Galam, and the wind picked up. Within minutes it was raining and he had at least a twenty minute ride back to the castle. The gods, he thought blackly, are laughing at me now.

He folded his arms against the damp chill in the air, looking back for a moment at the brothel. Well. So much for that. If the foolish woman cannot see that it's for her own good… His eyes jerked away from their morbid contemplation.

The chill was setting deeply into his bones. He shuddered. The chill in the castle will be worse. Kronos's now… A dark surge of anger ate through him. It was not jealousy that he felt, considering the rise of Kronos. That was far too… petty and insignificant a response for a great man such as Lord Paul Chelsted to feel, not to mention completely unnecessary. No, it was not jealousy. Dismay, perhaps. Alarm certainly.

Kronos was an appalling man and his policies would likely follow suit. And there is no reason that he should be Lord Regent, dammit. What did he offer you, Green Baron? What could he possibly have offered that you would not have had from the hand of the greatest man this realm has ever known?

It must be destiny. Lord Paul had to believe that. The gods had sent him his comet, so they must have meant this ascension. But Kronos will oversee the death of Galam, if he's unchecked. The whole bloody island. Worse yet, me. Nikki.

But if the gods meant for a terrible ruler to come first then that they must. The better to teach me, by negative example? That was scarcely credible, but the alternative was unpalatable. He was meant to rule, and he would. That he had not yet seized the power meant that… that this, also must be destined. He sat for a moment, lost in thought, then kicked his heels sharply against his horse's flanks, and rode through the rain-soaked streets.

---

His eyes flickered open. The air was dank, humid. He sat there, staring avidly at the stones of the wall, trying to work them out. Too rough to have been actual stonework and not nearly closely mortared enough to be a dungeon, he determined. Nor was the air cool enough to be a dungeon. All the same, the stones were a little too regular, too florid, to be completely random. Obviously somebody had cut them, so that left a cave out of it. Pondering the mystery for a few moments, he finally decided that he was in the foundations of a larger structure. Or an aged temple.

He tried to turn his head, to see if he could discover more clues and found that he could not. Other men might have panicked. Other men probably would have panicked immediately upon waking to such an unfamiliar situation. But not Sir Astral of Granseal.

Iron control. It was the first principle of magic, always. Iron control. And his whole life had taught him the value of patience. He could afford to be patient, anyway. He was in no great hurry to unravel this mystery. If he could not move his neck even, then he was likely either wounded or hostage. And in either case, undue haste would be the death of him.

Instead he closed his eyes again in reflective thought. Bowie and King Granseal… yes. He had been asserting himself in the council. Too forcefully. Minister Graig… yes, that was it. Bowie seemed well on the way to becoming enemies with Graig… They were cordial at the feast. Ah, yes! The feast! Astral considered. What did he remember of the feast? Massive, and most of the food too rich for him. Aye, and near everyone at the high dais drunk, save myself. And Graig and Elis of course.

And then? He wasn't certain. He had wanted to speak to that grey-robed mage, he remembered. That one's power had felt unusual. Indeed, alarming would not have been too extreme a word. And he had wanted to find Kazin, talk with him about Lord Kronos…

Kronos, yes. His father was a great butcher, I remember. He and Mrell got along very well. The general… he did not recall. Drunk, likely as not. And it did not matter. Mrell coveted power, but he was too clumsy to obtain it and on the off-chance that he did, he would have no idea what to do with it. Kronos, though, something about Kronos…

He cast his mind further back than the feast. Kronos had come to the feast, yes, he remembered the Delegation. And there had been seven, no, eight others with him? Astral wasn't certain. It seemed as though there were something important there… Unease? Yes, he remembered feeling that… King Granseal… drunk. Not unusual, but what then? Slowly Astral smiled, remembering. Isolated, of course. That's it. He was drunk, and who was there to protect him? Mrell was drunk, Bowie was drunk, Graig is old… Slade was not there.

It hit him like a thunderbolt. Slade. Slade was a ratman. A ratman. The shaman. The shaman had wanted to speak to him, and there had been energy released and now… Captured, he realized dully. Well, that had never been in serious question. If he had merely been wounded somebody would have been around by now. He'd been conscious at least five minutes, and in such a serious case guards at least were never far.

A chill settled into his bones, as the worse thought occurred to him, the logical conclusion of his capture. The high dais. The most capable people were drunk… I don't even remember Bowie being around at that point… Zellar milling around. All of them milling around. Slade wasn't there. Mrell was drunk, the king was drunk. Isolation. Graig and Elis though… Elis was dancing with a Galamani… The thought was monstrous, but there it was. Elis was cold-blooded enough, that was certain. But, was she just a catspaw in a more subtle scheme? But the soldiers, he realized…

"Awake then, wizard!" The voice bellowed in his ears, it reverberated around in his skull. It tasted of power.

"My senses," Astral rasped. "Muted. I didn't realize you were there…"

"Ah," boomed the voice, an amused note to it. "I wasn't. You and I shall talk, wizard. In fact," the voice continued, the roar of it suddenly dropping to a soft silkiness, "we're going to do a good many things. But the talk must come first."

Astral took a few deep, reflective breaths. The power he felt in this presence was very nearly overwhelming, and that left open defiance out of the question. "About what?"

The voice chuckled. "Clever. Yes, very clever." The air solidified. Shifted. Hardened. Eventually a figure took form before Astral, and he drew in his breath sharply.

His face was very pale, and a great curling beard spilled from his chin. The figure was dressed in the elaborate faded blue uniform of a soldier. And his eyes…

"A devil," Astral rasped. "How? Zeon… Galam, they're both dead."

The figure laughed contemptuously. "Those oafs?" And then the blow fell. Astral cried out hoarsely, or at least he thought he did. He could still feel the power of it reverberating around his skull. The force of the sorcery, nearly blinding his sense of power, nearly shattering his strength, only served to make him certain. A devil. He was facing a devil.

The figure stared at him with burning eyes. "That nearly overwhelmed you, I see. And I can do it again. I can easily keep you alive as well," the devil said, "so save yourself a bit of pain. There are only two rules. You tell me everything I wish to know. And you will never," a lighter blow struck at his mind as the devil stressed the word, "call me a devil again. I've spent too long being belittled by that name."

"Why," Astral gasped, trying to regain some of his shaken strength, "would you deny your nature? Only a devil could do this to me."

"You…!" The devil raised its hand, and then stopped, the jaw twitching. After another moment, it stepped back, nodding again. "Clever, yes, as I said. You wish to provoke me, to avoid being forced to speak." It shook its head. "And don't flatter yourself. You're certainly powerful for a human mage, but there are beings of power in this world. Ones other than devils as you will well know. Why should I not be one of them?"

Astral frowned, for a moment drawn to the question. "You don't seem to hold your masters of Galam in any great regard," he admitted.

'"Masters?' Oh, that's rich. I am aloof from them, for neutrality was all that the others left me." The voice dropped into bitterness. "I don't suppose you know what I'm talking about? Well you shouldn't. If you knew what I was about, what I'm really after, you'd love me for it. You'd swear yourself to my service, you'd be a convert, a prophet amongst the insects inhabiting this world. No," the figure shook its head, "I can't have it. They would notice if that happened, and so would he." The figure cursed. "Neutrality! That was never the first option, nor was it the best one. Had my brothers not proven so very weak, when the first splintering occurred, all might have been saved, but acting was beyond them. Passive resistance is worse than neutrality, which is why I'm taking the active hand they were too weak to take on. They cast me out and now it is to me to do that work." It shook its head again. "Very well, that ought to pacify you, wizard. Will you tell me what I need?"

Astral tried not to laugh. That had been obviously staged, the loss of control, the long lecture. Was it supposed to intrigue him into sharing indiscreet tidings, to weaken his resolve? "You will forgive me," he rasped, his throat dry as a bone, "but capturing me does not appear to be… neutral."

"Don't mock me with that," the devil snapped. "You've already called me a devil, is that not enough? It is from that very creed, that very neutrality that I took my new name."

Astral frowned slowly. "You… what creed?"

The figure smiled. "Ah," it said softly. "You do know quite a bit don't you? Very well, you mentioned Zeon. I want you to tell me everything you know about him. About all the old legends. The birth of the world. The ancient wars. Otrant of Manarina and the existence of magic. All of it, Astral of Granseal. And then I may help you."

Astral stared, uncertain. Was this a trick of some kind? He licked his lips nervously, unresolved.

---

Lord Paul Chelsted strode into his apartments, his mood so black that he fancied the whole castle was shaking with his impotent rage. "Bloody rain," he swore, flinging his cloak off.

Ricketts stared at him, open-mouthed. "Lord Paul," he squeaked. "You're… you're soaked to the bone. What can I do, my lord? Some mulled wine?"

"Yes. Very well. Whatever you deem necessary." He flung himself down into a chair, pushing his dripping hair off of his forehead. His skin felt clammy and cold, but Lord Paul Chelsted's nerves were burning, they were on fire.

The indignities he had suffered by leaving the castle for Nikki's bed were bad enough, but then there was also the small matter that the whole thing had been pointless. Damn me. She's just a woman and Galam needs the greatest hand it could have. With Kronos as our dear Lord Regent…

Ricketts was still staring at him, an uncertain expression on his face. Lord Paul took a breath, then another. "Some wine, yes, I think so. And perhaps a bite to eat. There's much to consider… where's Tiberius?"

Ricketts swallowed, bobbed his head a few times, and finally managed. "My lord. That is just the… the…" He hopped from one foot to the other. "The other lords are here," he finished lamely.

"The other…" Lord Paul Chelsted's jaw twitched. "Of course," he said softly. "They will not all have forsaken me." He wasn't certain how to take that. How much help would five or so lords be able to offer him against the rest of Galam? Tiberius. I still have Tiberius and the swords that he commands. Kronos cannot disregard that. But will these others all support me? Or are they here to threaten, to cajole, to persuade? As I tried to do for Nikki… He curled his fists up. "Damn them," he muttered

With a grunt of irritation, he surged up out of the chair. "Here," he asked, "in the apartments?"

Ricketts opened and closed his mouth. The aide hopped onto one foot, and then the other. "I… I told them you were out, my lord, but they bade me give them room to wait. A little longer and they may-"

"No. If they leave now, they'll see me and that will be worse, for them to see me in the leaving than for me to meet them like this." He gestured at his rain spattered cloak and doublet in disgust.

"Your hand," Ricketts murmured.

Lord Paul frowned for a moment, glancing down. Of course. The palm was bleeding again. "It is of no matter," he said. "The lords, Ricketts. Take me to them."

Ricketts bowed his head, quickly, and hobbled for the door to the inner apartments. Lord Paul Chelsted followed, composing his expression as best he could. He would need all his eloquence, all his grandeur to sway them to remain at his side. He would require all of his inherent greatness, for the demands of such greatness were great.

He glared at the back of Ricketts's servile head. Bloody fool, letting them here like this. I ought to take his head for that. He wouldn't, of course. He needed Ricketts, he trusted and relied on him. They are all such liars, all of them but Ricketts. The old man had always been there, he had always been strong where Father had been weak, he had always been wise in the ways of the world where Father had been merely clever.

Ricketts had always been loyal. And anyway, it was my error, not instructing him for this possibility. And all because of Nikki… the one flaw in the tapestry. Kronos means nothing, I can outmaneuver him yet, yet Nikki… He shrugged his shoulders. That flaw would either be woven properly into the tapestry or consigned to the flames. She is only a woman and there are more than enough of those… though only one of her… His jaw twitched, and Ricketts stepped aside for him to come forward, murmuring, "My lords, Lord Paul Chelsted."

Five they were, the faces pale and guarded. Lord Paul Chelsted could taste the uncertainty in the air, but he paid it no mind. There was no cause to pay it mind. If Lord Paul Chelsted gave in, the uncertainty would be his, not theirs. As it was, he knew that he was more vital than every man in the town, even though he was soaked and bleeding. It is their weakness, and theirs it shall remain. So long as I maintain my presence, it always will be. "My friends," he said, taking a seat across from the red-haired Lord Jarvos. "My dear friends."

"Friends? You have the gall to name us friends, Chelsted?"

He slowly turned his head to behold Lord Odney. The clean-shaven young lord was staring at him with open distrust. Chelsted. So it is back to that. This is not good. "What else might I call you, Lord Odney? Have you given me cause to call you aught but friend?"

Lord Odney snorted, drawing himself up in his chair. "You made us promises, Chelsted!" The brash young nobleman's posture and gaze were just a resolute as they had been, but his voice had sunken into a more sullen than accusatory tone.

"As did you," Lord Paul replied. He turned his head again, including all the others in his gaze. "All of you. You made promises to me. And yet now I find this… hostility?" He shook his head. "What am I to make of that? Could it be that five such puissant lords are all oath-breakers?"

Lord Odney exploded to his feet, but little Lord Neto was faster than him. "How dar-"

"I saw each of you raise your swords for Lord Kronos, to swear him as Lord Regent of Galam. After vows to support my ascension, what else am I to call you?"

Lord Jarvos spoke, softly. He had a gift of presence that way; all other men would quiet to hear him. "Lord Kronos made his demand by blood, or do you forget that the Gransi have slain Parval?" Jarvos's queer pale eyes were expressionless.

Lord Paul prevented himself from flicking his gaze at Lord Jarvos, but only barely. Are you… offering me that, to smooth over my own mistake of just a moment ago? I must take a certain amount of care, certainly. "And that qualifies him as a leader?" There was a moment of cool silence, and then Lord Paul continued, "And if you all merely wish to have nothing more to do with me, then why all come now? Why not send our eloquent Lord Odney to deliver your… reneged pledges?" That's better. I must walk softly here, or I will lose them all, not merely Odney.

"Promises, Chelsted!" Odney's face was twisted with anger. "We all listened to your promises, to you prating on about how wonderful it would be when you ruled Galam. Well you don't and you kept none of your promises! We are through with you."

"How could I keep the promises that you, Lord Odney, gave away my power to do so? And," he continued, fixing Odney with a cool look that paused him in mid-objection, "if all you wish is to be free of me, then why come to me? Why all come to me?"

"Well, I am through with you." Odney surged to his feet. "You promised me the land that the Munkrey's stole from us. Lord Kronos did more than promise, he gave it me. He ruled on that matter. I follow the path of blood..." He gave Lord Paul a look of distaste. "Like a true Galamani." With that, he swept out of the room.

Lord Paul Chelsted was not precisely surprised, but even he had to admit that it was a bit discouraging. He looked from one face to the next of the four lords who sat there with him. One by one they all rose, not meeting his eyes. "I will remember," he said at last, deeming that now was the moment to push them hardest. "I will remember all of those false friends who think naught of betraying promises."

There was a shamefaced look here, a twitch of the lips there, but one by one, the lords of Galam filed out. Lord Jarvos was the last of them, and in his eyes was a speculative look. Ah. I certainly have not lost that one. He's not stupid enough to believe that Kronos can last, unlike Odney. In the end, Lord Paul supposed he should be grateful that the whole encounter had obviously been of Lord Odney's design. Odney was brash man, and frankly, a stupid one. Brash men were often the first to change course. Given time, Lord Paul would win him back. Though I would truly be more inclined to give him a noose than an offer of alliance.

He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, leaned his head back. Not one of those lords was small or insignificant. Lord Odney was the only one who may have been the former, at least, and if Kronos had won him by ruling on the disupute with the Munkrey's... No, this is not good. Kronos tries to show himself as generous to his supporters, and how am to gainsay that when it is he who has the power?

It was in the blood, Lord Paul Chelsted reflected sourly. It all told from the blood. They follow him because Parval has been slain. They see that as sufficient reason to follow him, and I see that. He can make that demand of them. Parval had been one of Lord Paul's highest hopes. The old soldier had hated his nephew, and that was something that Lord Paul could have used, could have shaped. But he had been stationed at the Rhyl...

The Green Baron's work doubtless. The Delegation is known to all, but Lord Zocc knows of my plans and takes them to Kronos. They reach the city ahead of me, insult the Gransi, most like, and seize Astral. And knowing that any men would pursue them after such an insult, they have Parval stationed at the Rhyl And it must have been Zocc, had Kronos ordered him to do it, Parval would have balked. But with him there, and his vainglorious attitude about any battle in a five mile radius to himself... And now Lord Odney. Oh, Lord Paul had sowed some doubts. He had shamed them. They would not be steady daggers in Kronos's hand now, and that could make all the difference. But only if Lord Paul had steady daggers of his own. And with Parval slain, the high lords wedded to Kronos's power, even having Tiberius might not be enough.

He cursed. "The bastard checks my moves before I make them." The blood. It all flowed from the blood, and not just Kronos's pretty manipulation of Parval. Father. If you had ever been strong enough to grace the name of Chelsted, oh gods, then what? His hand tightened on the arm of his chair, as he stared up at the imposing portrait of his long dead sire. Lord Jon Chelsted had been a clever man, a handsome man, but a weak one for all that.

As I am not. I am strong enough to take the power even despite this, I... But as if in answer to his innermost thoughts, Nikki's face floated through the corridors of his mind. A woman. There are more women, dammit! His clenched hand was bleeding again. And trembling. "Ricketts." The command was hoarse in his throat, even he could barely hear it. "Ricketts!"

The shout brought his aide running. Ricketts burst into the room, his lined face etched with concern. "My lord..." His eyes fell on Lord Paul's hand. "The wine is nearly prepared... perhaps you would like some numb wine? Aught it be best that you rest yourself, my lord?"

"Tiberius," Lord Paul Chelsted rasped, fighting a wave of sickly exhaustion. His head ached, and he felt cold, but there was no time. "You must fetch Tiberius. For Galam..." His tongue was clumsy in his mouth, and his thoughts were becoming harder to grasp. What had happened to the thoughts, to his shrewdness? He could feel it all draining away from him. Nikki... The thought of her was unbidden, but he grasped at it with all his strength. "Not to leave me," he mumbled. "Need to hold it. Keep it. Still... here..."

The focus of the world was fading around him, but he could still hear Ricketts in the distance. "You need to be put to your bed, my lord. The healers will be here soon enough."

There was no condemnation in his voice, even though Ricketts knew. He knew that Lord Paul had been to see Nikki, he knew of her, he knew from whence this weakness in an otherwise inordinately great man sprang. "Ti...beri..." he couldn't even finish the word.

"When you're strong enough, my lord. When you're strong enough."

Strong... now. Than Father. Stronger... Gods, Nikki... what did I say, where... Kronos... Stronger...

---

The ship seemed tall and imposing to Clatt. He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to fidget with his mage's cloak. It calmed him but slightly, so he took another, puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders as he did so. He took two steps forward, inwardly cringing the whole way. This ship flew the flag of Guardiana, what if they knew of him?

He had traveled far and wide after the fall of Skull Castle, terror of discovery being one of the primary things from keeping him from tarrying in any one place too long. But now he was here to retrieve the cargo of a ship loyal to Anri of Guardiana. The burly sailor who'd come ashore for him grunted, "Well, are ye coming or no?"

I must impress upon him my power, I must... "Y-yes. I a-a-a-am," he stuttered lamely.

The sailor snorted loudly and pushed his way forward to the little rowboat that had been lowered for Clatt's benefit. With not a further word, the sailor leapt into the stern of the vessel. Clatt gingerly climbed aboard, wishing that he had not lost his horse. Just as he was righting his balance enough to sit down, the sailor dipped his oars to the water and Clatt fell back, painfully hitting his head on the seat.

Muttering curses, Clatt whispered a quick freeze spell to avoid some of the splash. The sailor rowed on for some minutes, seemingly ignoring him, when he abruptly asked, "Be ye a mage?"

"Y-yes," squeaked Clatt. Feeling that it was his both his chance and duty to show the simpleton a little condescension, he continued, "A gr-great mage! I-"

"Ah, shut yer trap, you lummox." Shaking his head darkly, the sailor started turning back around, muttering, "Could've mentioned it, couldn't he? Cap'n won't abide mages aboard his ship, and he's right, he is."

"N-now, just a m-m-mom-mo-m-mom-moment," Clatt stuttered. 'The c-car-"

"Ye'll get yer bloody prisoner, so just be's letting me concentrate, now won't yer?"

A prisoner? But what...? He obeyed the command, though it rankled his pride that this mere sailor had the gall to command Clatt. He was a strong man, and Clatt knew that well, for he had spent his whole life on his guard. Life was hard, and that was a truth that Clatt knew well. Spending years bowing and scraping, always careful never to say a wrong thing, frantically studying the magical arts, suffering humiliation for the stammer that had been born into him... And yet, look at all he had accomplished in his life; High Commander Lynx had raised Clatt high and he had performed admirably in one of the pivotal battles of that war, not only against the enemy, but also against Lynx's other men. And even after Lynx's own death, he had retained his honors under Eiku. And he had escaped the fall of Skull Castle, fleeing well away from a pointless death.

And now he was the servant of a god. How could Clatt come to any conclusion other than the fact that his was a high and lonely destiny? But, admitting life is hard, I'm always on my guard, and so what is that?

"Belay yer fidgetin'!" snapped the sailor.

Clatt jerked, startled, but he quickly adopted a contrite expression and posture, all the while feverishly working on what this assignment really meant. Lord Minister Graig was trusting him, a mage with no antecedents, to attend to the pickup of a prisoner? That struck Clatt as suspicious. A setup? In his time wandering Rune, and more recently, Parmecia, Clatt had learned well to heed his instincts. Graig was a difficult man to read; when Clatt had met with him, Granseal's minister had seemed an elegant and courteous man, but little else had been apparent.

This could mean nothing more than that Graig wanted to circumvent ordinary channels... But in that case, would he kill me when he was done with me? Clatt's flesh was crawling. If he knew anything, then it was how easy it was to use power to kill. I needed to go somewhere or that soldier would have kept me in the cell. Even death was better than a cell, after all. Even death. But what was he thinking?

Nervously, Clatt slapped his right arm, which, he noticed, had started to get a bit twitchy. He was Clatt. He was strong. He was the servant of a living god. The boat jerked to a halt, and Clatt looked up. The ship, now that he was docked just next to it, looked no less imposing from a close view.

The sailor leapt up, and bellowed, "Lower the riggin's, and send the prisoner down." He glowered at Clatt for a few moments in silence before adding, "Ye can be taking a look, but then you'll have to come on up. Cap'n Kilandros'll want to be talking to you." Without another word, the sailor scampered up the rope ladder.

But in that moment, Clatt's mind was made up. "Cap'n Kilandros'll want to be talking to you." They know. They know, and they're of Guardiana. My god commanded their deaths, but the safety of the ship... blast it!

There was a brief sight of arms above at the railing, and then a large bundle dropped. The tied man gave a grunt of pain, but Clatt only gave him the briefest flick of his eyes to ascertain that it really was the prisoner. He could deal with this one, whoever it was, in a minute. With a nervous squeak, he seized the oars and began rowing haphazardly away. He heard a shout from the deck. "OY! What're-"

But Clatt didn't give the enquiry any time. Stuttering lightly, he held up his hand and shrieked, "Bl-b-blaze!" The sensation that greeted him was unlike anything that Clatt had ever known. A roaring conflagration of might roared through his being, shaking and melting him down to the bones. He stared avidly at the ship as it burst into sheets of flame in the grip of a feeling not unlike ecstacy. The gift of my god.

He heaved a sigh of relief, rowing more calmly now. He could come back later and salvage what was left of the ship; it was more important that his identity never be discovered. Even if Graig was uncertain, he was far safer on Grans than he'd ever be in Rune. They'd kill him for war crimes their, but here...

He glanced over at the passenger, whom, he realized abruptly, must be unconscious from the fall. He frowned at the sight of the armor, a dark red in hue. That's not rust... With a growing sense of inevitability, he stopped long enough to take a hard look at the face and then the armor. He sat back, for a moment, completely forgetting about the need to get off the water. He had been contracted to bring Graig Zeon's Red Baron. The human general once known as Lemon.