Chapter 14:

Pet Politics

"Gyan's fine, Bowie," said Sheela tiredly. "It really just looks worse than it is. His armor may be irreparable, but… Chester's the one you should really worry about."

Bowie flushed, both at the assumption that he didn't understand the nature of Gyan's wounds and his failure to do his duty by Chester. Gods, we played together so often. So why is my heart made of bloody stone? He cleared his throat, trying to cover up the pause. "And… Sarah?"

Sheela frowned. "I haven't been tending to her. I'd assume that Karna's on it. Or Frayja?"

"You don't know?" Sheela started to open her mouth, but Bowie had already turned away. "No dammit. Of course you don't. Not everyone's accounted for yet." In fact, there were precious few individuals that Bowie knew exactly where they were. And most of the ones he did know of, he knew for all the wrong reasons. The wounded were always the easiest to account for. One of the many bitter truths of war. He shook his head. "Don't bother yourself about it until… you're done with the work you have." To his disgust, his voice quavered slightly. The thought of losing Sarah was much harder than that of losing Chester. Was that because they'd been closer friends or because it seemed more wrong for war to take a woman?

Sheela nodded her dark eyes solemn. She started to turn, and then paused. "You're meeting with some of the others?"

"Just Kazin. The only one of my 'council' such as it is that I know how to find." The disgust in his voice was too evident.

"You and Luke have been spending a deal of time together recently."

"…Luke's otherwise occupied." Looking at her now, Bowie suddenly realized that he cared for this woman much more than he'd ever given thought to. Sheela had not been an especial friend of his, no, but all the same she had always been… competent. Never prone to having problems of her own. And yet she's suffered as much as any of us. And as a man somewhat experienced with suffering, Bowie felt a tug of companionship on his heart. His jaw worked for several silent moments. "I don't think I ever told you I was sorry for your… loss. Against Galam. I am."

"Oh." She glanced at the ground. "Thank you. You've done… some important things, Bowie. More than important. Incredible. I don't suppose anyone tells you that very often, but doing as well as you have deserves credit." She didn't seem in the least bit flustered, he noted cynically. Not one of those women who would hang on his every insipid word. Bowie suddenly found that very attractive. He opened his mouth, not certain what he would say, when Sheela glanced over his shoulder. "I should make myself scarce," she said, amused. "Kazin's coming, and I've noticed that he doesn't like to talk to more than one person at a time."

"Don't disturb your operations." Bowie waved a hand. "In fact, just keep working here. It's probably best that one of our healers is basically cognizant of our position." Sheela arched a brow, the corners of her mouth perking up. Without another word, she bent back to the prone form of Gyan. Had the wound been worse than she'd told him? Bowie didn't suppose he'd ever know, and there was no good in paranoia, so he merely studied the intent healer for a moment. The gods alone knew that Sheela was well-made.

He shook his head, disgusted. Damn ridiculous time to be eyeing a girl. I have my own love anyway. He stalked several paces away, still shaking his head with vigor. As Sheela had said, there was Kazin. The elf took several hesitant steps forward, seeming unwilling to advance. He looked haggard, even a little aged. There's a touch about his eyes now, not so much guarded as just… tired. Older. The sight was unsettling. Elves were long-lived after all, and to see visible signs of age… It's only a minute change, and perhaps is just weariness. Damn necessity!

"Kazin."

The elf stared at him for a moment, his eyes flickering momentarily past Bowie. No reaction registered in his face, however. After a moment, he sank to his knees. "My lord," he said his tone colder than even formality would have dictated.

"Get up." Kazin made no move. "You don't have to bow and scrape around me."

"My pardons," Kazin murmured. "I am… very tired."

Bowie shrugged, started to reach out a hand to clap on Kazin's shoulder, and thought better of it. "That's another battle you've won for us," he said, thinking of Sheela's words to him. Kazin deserved praise no less. "Unfortunately, we must think of the battles of the future… Galam has gone ahead and taken the first move. How did things go over in Granseal?"

Kazin's mouth twitched. "We were turned away. Forcibly. Archers slew Rick, and Trosk pursued us. Randolf gave his life so that Sarah and I could flee across the plains."

Bowie nearly fell over, gave in and sank to the ground with Kazin. "Gods have mercy." His voice was hoarse, his mind numb. "Trosk? How?" The sergeant had always been a blood-thirsty man, but Bowie had never supposed him to be cruel. To be a traitor.

Kazin grimaced. "Clearly we have been betrayed. There are not many who have the authority to command this."

Bowie clenched his fists so hard he could feel the nails pushing into his skin. His mind cast itself back to that desperate night he had ridden out of the city with his companions gathered about him. Most of his companions. Not just companions. Friends. "Rohde," he said, grief clogging his vision as much as his voice. "Claude and May…"

Kazin's glance was measured. "We must assume the worst." His tone was blank, but Bowie was grateful. It was hard enough to deal with himself, without Kazin going into histrionics too. "I do not think we can say the king did not order this. And if he did…" The elf shook his head, light flashing in his hair. "There will be no mercy for us."

"No," murmured Bowie. Not King Granseal. Not even the king would… Wouldn't he? He wondered, suddenly very cold. King Granseal was an old man, yes, but still a vigorous one. He had been a great warrior in his youth, and still routinely hunted. And that night of the feast, he had spoken, however drunkenly, of executions. But King Granseal likes things that belong to him! And yet, mightn't he discard things that disappointed him… or break them if his rage was somehow stirred? If King Granseal had turned against them though, they were completely isolated as Kazin said. "This is a grievous blow," he said at last, realizing that every moment he delayed he would seem more at a loss. "More grievous than you can know. I've had word from the south."

Kazin's face stilled even more. "Gerhalt's forces have been destroyed, haven't they?"

Bowie blinked. "How do you know that?"

"What else would have been that serious? We're isolated, is what you're saying."

Isolated… His brow furrowed for a moment of consideration. "It wouldn't be difficult for anyone with a grudge to arrange for us being turned away. Trosk could have taken all of those actions at his own discretion."

"Whereas arranging a betrayal of Gerhalt's forces would be on rather a different scale, yes?" Kazin's voice had picked up a little bit, as though such contemplations were somehow more to his taste. "How were they killed?"

"Peter reported that there had been fires, some fighting, a few rat corpses. It wouldn't seem to account for the entire outfit though, so he suggested poison as a possibility."

Kazin snorted. "I'm surprised he would take the time to think of that. But, in other words there weren't enough rats to account for it, and no evidence of a large raiding party or any other such thing? And even if there were," he added thoughtfully, "the timing just fits too damn well with… my expedition."

"You never got through the gates at all?"

Kazin looked as though he wanted to grimace, but thought better of it. "We were attacked as soon as our presence was announced. Which," he went on, a coldly thoughtful note to his voice, "is a peculiarly sloppy way of going about it, if they wanted to kill us all."

"Trosk may have just been overexcited." Bowie sighed, rubbing his jaw. Granseal fucking turned against him. That hurt. But even if Trosk had just made a mistake, would he have been acting on his own? Bowie had a difficult time crediting that.

Kazin's gaze was narrow, but bright. "We have only supposition on this. That Trosk turned me away is beyond doubt. His reasons are rather more opaque."

Bowie clenched his fist, watched his skin whiten as it knotted across the knuckles. "Whatever his reasons, there are no doubts, no… our position is weak, Kazin. I began this with just over fifty swords, hoping for a swift punitive strike." He stared at the ground. "Gerhalt is slain and his forces destroyed. Granseal is barred to us. The Galamani nearly destroyed us in our own camp!" The grief was raw in his voice. How had that happened? "Had you not scattered the enemy from behind, the war might well be over."

"It is war, then? The Galamani seem slow, to me, to respond to all of this. We've had battles, yes, but no more than general border clashes."

"They seized Sir Astral!" Bowie regretted the shrillness of his tone immediately. Kazin was not here to be yelled at. No more than the night that we rode from the city. I yelled at him then, though. Knocked him down. The blood pounded through his head, reliving each moment of fault. "There are no crimes," Galam rasped, "when you are the only one left." His brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Isolation again. There seemed to be something significant about that. Isolation had been associated with…

"My lord?" Kazin's voice was gentler than it had been, less cold. But still infinitely reserved.

"It's war," Bowie said. "It's always been war. Graig was right to say that it would come to this if we moved." I had to try, Astral. I had to atone. "This last strike from the Galamani elevates the struggle beyond border clashes as you well know." He pressed his palms to the earth, willing the tension out of his body. "How did that happen?"

"I can tell you little. Sarah and I had pushed hard across the plains since we left Randolf in the mountains." Bowie stirred a little. There was no guilt there, in Kazin's voice. Only strength. Strength and flatness. "When we stumbled through the fog, almost into an enemy column, we rallied what little strength we had. It was clear," he added after a momentary pause, "that they were perilously close upon the encampment."

Bowie cursed. "How did they get that close? The weather was inclement, yes, and that doubtless helped them, but we'd already established sentries! Vantage points. How?"

Kazin opened his mouth, paused and then said, "You mean to remain in this spot then?"

"You told me the Yeeli wouldn't attack me."

"They might, if you bring war to their front doors. If it came to general battle, you couldn't count on them to attack Galam solely over us."

Bowie's mouth worked. "That won't be a concern. This last push didn't break us. We'd have to be defeated for the Galamani to get anywhere near Yeel."

"We almost were." Silence hung over them then, in that instance.

Bowie wondered what Kazin had wanted to say before he had asked about the camp. He did not have the heart to ask that question. There was enough suffering to go around for the nonce. "There are no good tidings to be had of your journey?"

Kazin shrugged. "It was straightforward, as I've said. We went, we were attacked, and we fled. Rick and Randolf were both good men. I'm sorry that I couldn't have done better by them, but the treachery that slew Rick was unexpected. And Randolf made his own choice." Kazin wetted his lips, his face pale and bloodless. "Speaking of which, do you know how Sarah fairs?"

Bowie, in point of fact, did not. But the question recalled another guilt of command to him. "I remember that you thought Sarah should have stayed here. It seems that you were right."

"That is difficult to say." Kazin's fingers were twining together. "Without her aid, I might not have returned either. Without her, I doubt that we could have sown such disarray against the Galamani's attack."

"Our position is bleak," Bowie murmured. A ridiculously obvious statement. Why did he keep repeating himself? "We have no choice but to hole up here, for a time, to lick our wounds, to see what we can do." But what could they do? That was the point. Luke would leave in another day, but who knew how long it might take the heir to Bedoe to return with all the strength that Bowie needed? If Granseal was truly closed to him, then that required immediate attention. If he had been betrayed, then he had to respond immediately and with vigor. He could not appear at a loss without encouraging more of his friends to betray him. It was not such a crime to betray a truly weak man. Yet to fight against Granseal now handed the war, the city, everything that Bowie had ever loved right over to the Galamani. "We must know what the Galamani will do, we must be certain that they'll take the field!"

"They will," said Kazin, and a faint smile brushed past his lips. "You forget. You killed their king. You took the field and the great lords of Galam must at least match that, if they want to prove themselves ready to rule."

But Granseal… "We must have news of Granseal, though. We must know what has happened there."

"That is a question I cannot answer." Kazin hesitated for a moment. "I am weary, my lord. There is much to be discussed here, but answers may come if we give ourselves more time to deliberate. I…" His voice wavered slightly.

Bowie leant forward. "Kazin, you are a truly great man and you have served us well." Better than well. I can trust no one to see to the heart of things so quickly as Kazin. He gave me the words I needed before I sent him away, and again now. "Speak to no one of these matters." He clasped Kazin's arm, hoping to convey how much he needed the mage.

Silently, Kazin nodded his head and rose to his feet. His gaze lingered over Bowie's shoulder for a moment, and then turned and went just as slowly as he had come.

Bowie gritted his teeth, his arms pressed hard against the damp grass. Granseal… Gone? He had to hope. He had to have at least that much. But Kazin had not left him much hope. And there's been no other word from the city. Silence from the king, the rest of the council… His eyes narrowed. The council. If there was treason there, then surely… "Slade," he murmured.

If Slade was still alive and at liberty, he could get a message to Bowie. Perhaps when Peter returned from his other surveying duties, he could try to risk contact. Slade would have to be the linchpin of hope. But how to contact him? Would the ratman even be at liberty? Or… Bowie's fingers dug deeper into the earth. Not Slade. Not after he had taken the trouble to warn him. But warn him of what? Of whom? Who could be a betrayer of kin? Who was heinous enough that they would hand a war to the Galamani?

He thought back to the faces as he had last seen them. King Granseal, drunk at the feast. He never had attended that last council meeting. Mrell? The general's eyes had been weak and watery as ever, but Mrell hated the Galamani. Only since the most recent breach. He worked with them for years against the Yeeli, until Zeon. And Graig. Thin and twisted and hunched over with his pinched bloodless face. Graig hadn't wanted Bowie to take the field, he hadn't wanted Granseal's strength to dilute itself or for the strongest swords to isolate themselves from the city. Isolation again… Isolation…

"Was that wise?"

Sheela's voice engulfed him and he jerked. He wiped his hand across his mouth, pretending to not be shaky. "Wise? I…" I forgot you were here. "What do you mean?"

"You just gave him all the burdens and asked them to keep them to himself. Incautious, I would call it."

Bowie frowned. "He needed to know. Besides, you heard everything so I'm clearly not…" He paused for a moment, and swallowed the snap in his voice. He went on in a milder tone, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea why you'd think there's a problem with that. Kazin… Kazin I can rely on. He always understands."

"Understands, yes." Sheela's mouth curved in amusement. "He has all the graces of a nervous man, and the strengths of a close one. It won't make it easy on him."

"You do him wrong," Bowie told her, beginning to feel affronted. "Kazin is one of the strongest men I know."

"Is he?" Sheela was looking past him now. "I wonder."

Kazin. Kazin! Kazin, hey, Kazin! Everywhere he went, everywhere he seemed to be, the calls followed after him, a litany of his inner suffering. His mouth twisted in self-admonition.

You're getting what you wanted now, Kazin, my boy. Respect! Power. Authority. So why is it all so bloody cold? He did what he had to. He had always done what he had to, but giving that role more coveted trappings changed nothing.

He couldn't forget that Bowie had only turned to him when he had had no choice. He couldn't forget that Sarah had no more respect for him than ever she had. Oh, bloody hell. He couldn't forget his shame, that was the root of the matter. He didn't blame himself for what had happened to Rick. There had been no way to stop that. Randolf though…

He walked onward through the dense, dripping foliage. He'd liked Randolf. He'd valued Randolf. And he'd let the man kill himself because he loved Sarah more. It was intolerable, but it had always been that. The grimness that had been brought forward in him… Why did they never need me for anything then, when the stakes were no higher than personal affection? Why wasn't I good enough?

He strode on, his mind equal parts disgust and bafflement that he would even think such a pathetic thing. Life had been hard to Kazin, but it had been hard to many. He was rapidly approaching the northern edge of the camp, where indeed, a healer's tent had been set aside.

Kazin took three strides more towards the tent, enough to poke his head in. It was swelteringly hot with the scent of burning herbs in the air. As he had expected (he'd already searched out Karna's position) Sarah was lying on the narrow cot, sleeping and—his stomach clenched in an unbearable protest— naked from the waist up.

Standing over her was Frayja, wrapped in a brown homespun cowl, as he studied the wound that Sarah had taken in the battle. Kazin, not without some effort, tore his gaze away from her breasts to the considerably less pleasing sight of Frayja's meat-like face.

"Ah, Lord Kazin," Frayja said in his oiliest tone. "It is good that you have dropped by here, good indeed."

"I came to see the patient," Kazin said, judging that the discourtesy might be just imperious enough that Frayja would let it pass.

"Ah, yes," the priest murmured. "A dreadful wound, though largely repaired. The loss of blood will slow her down a while yet. And healing such a cut left me with quite a cosmetic problem." To Kazin's disgust, Frayja glanced over at Sarah's unclad form, without even the decency to pretend otherwise.

"Cosmetic," Kazin replied, following Frayja's lead, though much more briefly, "indeed." He stepped out of the tent, and Frayja, frowning, followed after him, into the still damp air.

"I was grievous sad to learn of your journey's lack of success." Frayja bowed his head, his hands clasped together. "Though I am certain that you did everything you could do."

Kazin might have recoiled if he hadn't needed to speak to this man. If he hadn't needed to see Sarah. It was his fault she'd taken the wound in battle. He'd led her. Nearly gotten her killed. And he didn't suppose that she would ever forget that. All of Bowie's plans always worked perfectly. "If she's healing well, that's all I needed to know." He eyed the priest with distaste, wishing that Karna or perhaps Sheela had gotten to Sarah first. "Though if it comes to pleasantries, why are you wearing that?"

Frayja pulled the brown hood up over his head, his grey eyes shining, steely and soulless. "A man must do what he can to keep warm." The priest shook his head reprovingly. "Things have been moving too swiftly, Lord Kazin. We are not prepared for a lengthy border war, not when our strength has already been so sorely tested. You have Lord Bowie's ear. Coming from you, he might listen."

Kazin studied him at that, all his mistrust swirling to the surface. "Listen to what, exactly?"

"To peace. Not with the Galamani, but Granseal cannot be turned away from us if we return on bended knee."

"You speak of things you don't understand." Kazin would have turned away in disgust. Frayja was an outsider, after all, and one could not have expected that he would understand vengeance. But a sweaty palm pressed itself to Kazin's arm, and his head turned, unwilling, to gaze once more at this priest.

"Not understand what, my lord?" Shadows cast themselves deep within the hood, making his face brutish and older. "I have lived to be a goodly age, and I know what politics are. This matter is as political as it is physical. Indeed…" Frayja leaned closer than ever, his breath sour and warm on Kazin's face. "Why are you so… mistrustful, Lord Kazin?"

He jerked his arm out of the priest's grasp. "What has Parmecia contributed to our politics?"

"There is no need for all this anger, Lord Kazin. You question all that I do… perhaps you would like to discuss something?"

Kazin stared at him then for a long moment. Peace with Granseal… with Granseal. Ah. Yes. And even if not, it doesn't really matter. "I think not," he said, turning his heel. He felt Frayja's gaze burning into his back until he was out of sight.

"You can't take that out on me, Lord Minister," Slade snapped. "It was your men who bungled the capture!"

Lord Minster Graig stared narrowly across the table at the ratman, the white skin of his face stretched to an almost paper thinness. "Their actions are at fault, I agree, but how would they anticipate that a cripple might have prepared for such an eventuality? You knew the historian better than they, and yet you made no mention of it!"

The ratman shrugged his customary easy nature back in place. "I would have thought you'd pick competent guards for such a job, or are they all gone now?"

Graig's lips thinned, but he did not rise to the bait. "A small matter, but one that requires immediate attention. I want that historian found and killed."

"That remains out of my jurisdiction." Slade inclined his head, a touch of irony to it, in Zellar's estimation.

Thus far he was having difficulty deciding which one he hated more. As far as matters of trust went, they were about dead even. Once, he would have mused that it was far easier to know what to expect from Graig. But then, he had not expected this internecine plotting from the old man, so that assumption was antiquated.

Graig's hands spread out across the table in front of him, the lines cutting their way across his mouth softening. "Be that as it may, the historian was not our only concern."

Slade shrugged. "There has been no sign of the golem, Lord Minister, if that is the nature of your… point." A lazy smile flitted across the ratman's face.

"Unnatural creature," Graig muttered. "This all requires to be dealt with." For the first time he turned his agate-hard gaze upon Zellar. "And a matter it seems to me that you best can deal with my young friend."

Zellar wetted his lips. Thus far, Graig had remained rather vague and the colonel wanted to take no chances. If he could play for time… "There are those who could countermand any orders that I give. I am not certain what role you mean me to play." Graig's eyes narrowed. "Nor am I certain that His Grace-"

"His Grace stands behind me in all matters," Graig snapped. "All of them, now. He has given leave to me to rule. Doubt that not. As for others, what others would dare speak against you if you act on my authority?"

Zellar did not wish to say the name, but Slade stepped into the breach. "You are chosen for this council… General." He cleared his throat. "General Mrell, sadly, is no longer with us."

"Mrell?" The surprise was too fraught, too strained. Slade glanced at him through half-lidded eyes and Zellar wondered. How much did the wretch know?

"It is perhaps for the best." Graig made a steeple of his fingers, gazing at the table. There was no pity in his eyes, not the slightest hint of understanding. Only hardness remained. "Mrell served Granseal long and well, but he was always in two minds on this matter."

"How?" Zellar knew the question was belated, but it would be worse not to ask it. And now that Mrell was dead, he felt that the general was, perhaps, entitled to a modicum of respect. His service had been long, as Graig had said. A brief flash of unease squirmed through his stomach. He could remember Mrell, the great Granserian general for as long as he had lived…

"His drinking appears to have caught up with him," Slade replied, shaking his head sadly. "He seems to have had an accident."

"It is a wonder it did not happen years ago," Graig grunted. "Still, what's done is done and in the end Mrell played his part. I'll have no words against him. A funeral service shall have to be held."

Zellar stirred. There was contempt in Graig's voice, but respect as well. Respect that Mrell had served the kingdom so long? Or was it just that Mrell was the last of Graig's contemporaries aside from the king himself? "He was a great man."

Graig leant back in his chair, looking dissatisfied with his hands. "These are grievously troubled times, Zellar. Betrayed by our own. Bowie brought Parmecian swords into our city!"

"Lord Bowie has courage," Slade murmured, "courage that served us well at the time, my Lord Minister."

"The man is an idiot at best. Still… he is gone now. We must take immediate steps to reverse as much of his damage as we can." Graig's fingers drummed the tabletop. "So long as we must search for the golem, I want a curfew. Your men will enforce that, General."

Zellar's mouth twitched, hearing the longed for appointment. All his.

"Also," Graig droned on, "we must assume that Lord Bowie will not take this quietly. Beyond that, it may be that he will avoid being slain by the Galamani for quite some time. We must assume that Granseal is in a constant state of danger. The watches will be manned." He paused for breath, wiping a hand across his sweating forehead.

"And the Galamani?"

"Worrying over them is not overly practical." Graig gazed straight ahead. "Lord Bowie is a traitor, as such if the Galamani choose to cleanse their dishonor with his blood; our ties may yet be renewed. And if they fail to be satisfied, they'll be all the weaker when they move against us. We gain everything."

So… Zellar reflected for a moment. Not a bad scheme, he had to admit. Graig's ability to take control of a situation was masterful, but how much of it could he have known about in advance? Zellar's eyes slid over to Slade again, smooth-faced and agreeable. There was more beneath the surface here. For a moment, Zellar felt disgusted. Bowie. Bloody fool. If you'd ever bothered to keep your hands clean… well, you are a traitor or near enough if the Lord Minister turns against you. "There is one thing I must have if you expect cooperation," Zellar returned, wondering how far he could push the issue, how deep the knife point was lodged.

"Must?" Graig's lips were white.

"Trosk. I want him for command. Under me."

Graig's face smoothed out, but there was a spark of uncertainty to it. "Of course. I am minded to ask a favor of you in that case, my Lord General. I want Will to be appointed your adjutant."

Zellar's mouth clamped down. Will… so that was the way of it. The bloody fool had already been bought and sold. And Graig held the whip. "As you wish." The words were not quite gracious, but the wave of disgust had subsumed Zellar again.

Graig nodded. "Very well. We can discuss our circumstances in greater detail, but we must first take the necessary precautions."

And your patience is so exhausted by dealing with a man you do not trust. Well, two can play at that game. Zellar rose, his head jerking downward curtly. A moment later Slade had risen with him.

"If you might walk with me for a moment, General?"

Zellar's eyebrows twitched. The glance he stole of Graig's face, however, showed nothing but surprise. "As you wish," he said, yet again. The ratman's smile was lazy again.

In short order the two of them were strolling across the battlements of the castle. The blood hummed in Zellar's ears as he reflected upon how easy it would be to toss the ratman down to his, doubtless, well-deserved death.

"The challenges we face are intriguing ones," Slade said abruptly. "A conflict of this magnitude has not been seen in Granseal for decades."

"Granserians do not turn traitor," Zellar snapped.

"As Lord Bowie has?"

Zellar turned his gaze ahead, across the plains. His mouth made a hard line. Was the ratman still for Bowie then? "Lord Bowie's aims are not entirely lost to good sense. When he presumes to set himself above others though… the other councilors for example, that treads a dangerous line." Against me. The long years of defeat washed through him again, and Zellar blinked. He hoped the bloody sod wouldn't be killed by the Galamani. It would be so much sweeter to reserve that pleasure for himself. To see Bowie's face when he saw what Zellar had made of the mess that had been left behind.

The sardonic smile was not quite gone from Slade's visage. "Which councilors do you avenge, Lord General? Are you the Lord Minister's man, or do you still serve the late general?"

Zellar's eyes flashed back to the ratman. Full of guile, aye, but not a blind supporter of Graig's then. That might be useful in the immediate future. "I am, of course, the king's man."

"Ah yes," murmured Slade turning his gaze outward for a bare second. "His Grace." The ratman's face had never looked more serious as he stepped closer, placing his paw once more on Zellar's arm. "It is a very good time to be the king's man," he said, quietly.

Lord Kronos was exhausted. Playing the role of Lord Regent was rather more tiring than he would have supposed. Kronos knew how to lead men in war, yes, but this endless affair of dinners and wines, extracting promises and pledges on the one hand, making them on the other, did not conform to his notions of what a truly great man would do. A pity.

He stabbed his fork forward, and studied the morsel of fish before working it from side to side in his mouth. Zocc bounced uncomfortably, clearly wanting nothing more than to get out of his chair. Fortunately, the Green Baron had some sense of courtesy left. One of his only good points.

"Tell me Shaita," Kronos began, turning to face the ratman, "about these travels of yours."

"I…" the shaman wet his lips, his eyes filled with mute appeal. "That is…"

"Surely these tales can wait for a less fraught time?" Zocc's pale face reddened slightly as he realized the risks of making such an objection too openly.

Kronos's mouth turned down for a moment. The happier he was, the more Kronos scowled. Pleasures were to be savored, privately. The scowl was a useful weapon. And beyond that, the flash of relief in Shaita's eyes was not lost on Kronos. I am surrounded by fools and flatterers. Still. A useful thing to know.

He turned his cold, hawkish gaze upon Zocc. The Green Baron met his gaze. "The war?"

"Is proceeding." Kronos did not care for Zocc's presumptions, no, but the man was invaluable. For the moment. "It was your informants who told us where Bowie's encampment is… where it's vulnerable. A strike now may end the matter."

"It does not end the matter, not if we vanquish him so soon." Zocc rocked back and forth. "As you well know. Galam…" Zocc's eyes flickered over to Shaita for a bare moment before plunging on, "We are not prepared for a war with Granseal proper. Not yet. The victories that we have won thus far were meant to provoke them into a longer struggle."

"I see that not even your informants can tell you everything." Kronos sipped his wine, savoring the verbal attack. "I received a letter today. That spineless toad Graig is prepared to give us Lemon, in exchange for concessions."

"Lemon?" Zocc's eyes narrowed. "Even if Graig has him, which I highly doubt, what matters that?"

"It matters everything. If the rest of Granseal's leadership will stick their necks off, we can wield the sword."

"You'd slay them under truce?"

"Traitors do not merit the conventions of honor. No more than they did when we rode into their city."

Zocc's mouth moved for a moment before he found an answer. "There were none who truly thought that deception beyond the pale. Violating truce rights though…"

Kronos stifled a yawn. He was very full and getting rather sleepy and the Green Baron's constant probing was tiresome. "As I've yet to hear from the front, we may end up with the longer war that you desire."

"You should desire it," Zocc said sharply. "A fortnight at least is not so very long, but long enough that there will be none left who believe themselves capable of challenging you." He discarded his fork at the last, the pretence of eating thrown aside. "Aside from Lord Chelsted, perhaps."

Kronos picked up his goblet again, wondering. Did Lord Zocc guess that the march on Bowie had more to do with forestalling Lord Paul than aught else? He might. Or he might merely be Chelsted's creature as Kronos had always been inclined to suspect. "The battle should be victorious at any rate," he said, presently.

"Who did you give the command to? I quite forgot to ask." The Green Baron's tone was mild, but he had picked up his fork again, toying with the fish on his plate.

"Saentz and Odney."

"You… what? That was foolish." Zocc hastily waved a hand through the air, "I mean… forgive the impudence, my lord, but surely it would have been wiser to keep Saentz here."

"Saentz is loyal to me. Commendably loyal. Before Granseal, he was prepared to put his sword in my hand."

"Precisely. Why bleed off your own strength?" Zocc's lips twisted in disgust. "And Odney? You would have better sent off Lord Munkrey."

Kronos clamped his rage hard down in his chest. How dare Zocc criticize his every decision? Urging him to trust to the loyalty of more of Lord Paul's toadies no less. "Odney requested the honor."

"And you had already honored him by favoring him over Munkrey. If you'd asked Munkrey to show his honor on the field of battle, you would have honored him. He may never love you, but he'd have been your men. If there are no battles to come…"

Kronos stared straight into Zocc's eyes. A leader who had to voice his commands was never so strong as one who could remain silent. Zocc's eyes bored straight back at him.

"My lords." Shaita's dusty voice intruded upon them. The shaman's trembling paw pointed towards the window. "A raven. Mayhaps this contains the news you seek."

Kronos looked over to the window, not missing the way Zocc's eyes flashed back to Shaita again. There would be blood between those two someday soon. If Kronos were a betting man, he would lay it all on Shaita. Shamanry would be a delicate thing to threaten.

He paced over to the window, each step feeling heavy and slow. Kronos unlatched the window, his face calm and composed. The raven hopped inside, and Kronos removed the parchment knotted to one of the legs. The seal was Saentz's. So. From the south after all. The battle was either won or in dire straits.

He looked over his shoulder. Shaita's gaze revealed little other than wariness. Kronos felt a vague unease at that. If nothing else, Zocc had been right to say that he knew too little about the shaman. And that mysterious… patron. On Zocc's face was an undisguised greed, his hand not quite moving towards Kronos. Yes the desire to know… Kronos smiled coldly. And so the wheel turns.

He slid the parchment into his vest. "Not the south." He would prefer to look over that information without Zocc hovering over his shoulder. Doubtless the Green Baron had his own informants prepared to receive a report of any event. Zocc could go through his own bloody channels.

"Shaita," Kronos said, deciding that he had lingered long enough, that now was the moment to strike. "The wizard. Is he broken?"

The ratman's face blanched. "My patron is not yet…"

"Not yet finished. Well, he may be yet, he may be yet." Kronos turned his gaze to the Green Baron again. "Last you said that Lord Paul Chelsted was ill. I presume he's recovered?" Not bothering to await the inevitable yes or no he went on, "I want him watched. Followed. I want to have whatever I can on him to calm him. Without one of the high lords, Tiberius's grudge goes no further. And I want a list. Of the lords I can trust. Of the lords I can't." He leaned forward, praying that he had judged the ever complex Green Baron aright. "I want it all, everything you can bring me."

And tomorrow? Tomorrow we deal with Lord Minister Graig, I think. And the north.