I followed just at the edge of Hugh's vision, which based on his frequent glances over his shoulder was playing havoc with his mental state. As we neared the landing that would lead to the study I let him gain ground and slipped into another hallway to wait. Not long after the chamberlain—Hugh in tow—rushed down the stairwell like a spider moving to entangle their prey.

I smoothly stepped into their wake, taking care to avoid the twitching eye of Hugh as he was flew past and headed back the way they came. I approached the study while planning my next steps before I encountered the counsellors who were at this moment determining Elskia's (and more importantly, mine by proxy) fate.

There were some immediate difficulties. I didn't precisely have access to the chamberlain's memories, at best I could access his impressions—the shape and contour of the world as he saw it. As I'd inhabited his framework I noticed that his perception of people was faint at best. To him people were obstacles and sources of irritation, a source of pleasure only insofar as they could be bullied. Barring the few major players in his life—the Baron and the chef (the former a man he deeply respected even in death; the latter a man whose suffering brought him greater joy than any other)—everyone I had encountered were immediately categorized as irrelevant.

I could have told you instantly the specific intricacies of cleaning and upkeep for every object in the room: from the rare tomes bound in drake leather which required treatment with boiling oil every ten years; to the exact grade of cloth required to properly work the minuscule grooves of the magnificently detailed carved globe (woven newborn baby hair). What I could not do is recognize any of the figures representing the so called neutral council mucking about within.

Oh they were a stately lot, that was evident. With the chamberlain's eyes I could tell that most of them were not usual residents of the keep—these were the immediate vassals of the Baron. Minor lords and ladies, landed knights, upstart merchants and others of note from the Barony's territory, gathered here under the auspices of paying him homage, but really in expectation of his impending death after a lingering illness. They were the movers and shakers of this corner of the realm. They were utterly self-interested pieces of shit, such that even the chamberlain knew to step lightly in their presence.

They milled about, having already discovered and promptly emptied the liquor cabinet. A small part of me railed at the utter disregard for the coasters that had been plainly set out for use. I was greeted, platter in hand, much like a trussed up gazelle would be by a pack of famished lions. My initial plan of lingering with foodstuffs evaporated in the face of the aristocratic fervor for small sandwiches and expensive spreads. My platter had only just emptied and already I was receiving gestures of haughty dismissal.

Luckily for me, I knew this crowd. In my not-a-life I had not-memories of working a catering job. I could remember exactly the same looks, and I knew the exact counter.

I grabbed a quill and parchment and went for the fanciest looking asshole I could see. Rather than wait for a polite pause in their conversation which I knew would never come, I interrupted immediately. "I am afraid I must apologize for upcoming delaysss in the flow of ahem vittles, as there has been an incident on the path to the kitchen. In apology, I will be taking personalized drink ordersss from the Baron's private collection, as such an occasion undoubtedly meritsss."

How to win over those who lack for nothing: give them even more. Betting on greed never fails.

I wandered between guests, dragging out the process of drink orders as much as possible. I took a highly inefficient route, delaying requests by simply moving past anyone trying to grab me in the direction of someone better dressed. On the rare occasion I heard anyone questioning my presence they were swiftly hushed: "Good gods man, he's taking drink orders, let him work."

Then the coup de grace I had been waiting for finally arrived. Poor Hugh at the door, carrying another tray. I swept to his side and snatched the tray while slipping the scattered orders into his stiff hands.

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“Drink ordersss for the counsel. Go find me downstairsss and return this list to me.”

Hugh's eye flurried intensely until he slapped a free hand over it. He turned about and left, muttering 'no thoughts, no thoughts' to himself as a drowning man clings to a log.

That would occupy the chamberlain for some time, giving me the security I needed to listen in on the upcoming talks. I didn't need to wait long before they finally turned to their actual task.

It didn't take long for me to the learn that for an impartial council, they were decidedly partisan. There was a general consensus that Elskia was temperamentally unsuited for the role—too soft by far was their belief. Though some expressed that this was still preferable to her taking after her mother, to a chorus of muffled acknowledgements. Their challenge, it seemed, was finding a trial that didn't seem to obviously favour Roderick, while still giving him a much greater opportunity to demonstrate his apparent talents.

Ultimately they settled on tradition.

----------------------------------------

I awoke before the day began, immediately breaking my fast on several of the smushed sandwiches I had pocketed the previous night. I had much to do and little time.

The previous night I had hurried back to Elskia with the news of the council's planned trial: the highly traditional and esteemed practice known as 'Crushing the Peasant Rebellion'. Back in the Barony's early history there had been a plague of rebellions as the local population had been coerced into joining the fledgling kingdom, it was only after a period of long and bloody feuding that the whole matter resolved into the current compromise: the foreign descended gentry enjoyed the fruits of being wealthy and powerful; and the people native to the land shut the hell up. They occasionally engaged in 'lively reenactments' of this period, and the infusion of such a joyous occasion with a competitive spirit had been easily devised.

I had regaled Elskia with the details: a number of the locals were going to 'volunteer' to be designated as secret rebel leaders and hide among the general population. Elskia and Roderick were to compete over who could capture the most leaders. Each would be allowed a small number of guardsman to carry out this manhunt, with allowances to substitute guards for personal retainers (to wit, myself and the ogre trio respectively).

After a period of tense debate the council had finally been forced to vote on a policy of point demerits for inflicting 'lasting injury or death'. The 'pro-penalty' side narrowly won—but only due to a group of protesters abstaining after their proposal to offer bonus points for grievous injury was rejected. The penalty for injury was, of course, less than the points awarded for a successful capture—that detail had gone without debate.

The presumptive heirs were going to be given no time to prepare. The rules would be dictated to them and the hunt would open immediately; the trial would end when all the leaders were captured or at sunset, whichever came first.

Roderick had a natural advantage: he had previously participated in such reenactments along with his goon squad, whereas Elskia had actively avoided them. If we were going to eke out a victory we needed to be clever, cunning, and subtle—at least, that's what I told Elskia. In reality I intended to cheat so hard it would make carnival huckster blush. She and I devised a plan. She was going to lean heavily on her belief in the upstanding power of her own moral virtue and ability to appeal to the downtrodden peasantry: by speaking from the heart she would convince the peasants to surrender willingly out of trust in her benevolence. I told her that sounded like a splendid idea, that I would seed knowledge of her goodwill into the populace and would rejoin her once the task was underway. Meanwhile, I began conniving a method to ensure it somehow worked.

I had one major problem: without ACTING! I understood very little of the keep's structure, and essentially nothing of the surrounding territory. To complicate things the costume of the chamberlain had become inert once I removed it—an apparent limitation of the low levelled skill. I needed to rely on local talent, a malleable guide who couldn't even conceive of betraying me.

I found him scrubbing flagstones in the grand mess hall with a rag so tattered he needed to stop periodically to weave lost fragments back into the greater whole. He looked up blearily at my approach.

"Hello," I said with a winning smile.

He smiled uncertainly back at me. His trusting character shining through.

I leaned close, beckoning him even closer as if to confide something. I put a careful hand on his neck and whispered directly into his ear, "no thoughts Hugh. No. Thoughtsss."