“One more time,” Jameson repeated, working hard to keep the command out of his tone, “tall, thin, tanned. You have seen him. I need to know where and when.”
Somehow, no one had noticed a giant of a man named Itchy, an inch or two taller than a stallion, hovering around the town of Glowigham. Only a dozen houses lined the narrow street inside the rugged, unkempt walls of the town, and the village center boasted only a pub, a store, and some sort of smithy. If the few rooms above the pub were occupied, the owner did not know it, and Jameson began to fear he had stumbled into a town of loons. How could anyone manage anonymity in such a setting, especially someone as tall as Itchy? Why had no one seen the man?
For the first time in his life, his urges pressed him to join the townspeople at the local pub and bury his face in a drink. Of course, he could not – not if he truly intended to save his father. Even as his depression gripped him, Jameson pressed past the moment to persist in his search.
“Excuse me, sire,” creaked a mousy voice that seemed to creep out of the alley behind the pub. Jameson turned toward the sound, edging his way around the corner of the building. The mud from the rough bricks tugged at his cape as he swept into the dark pathway.
“Over here, sire,” the voice continued, and Jameson squinted into the gloom at a small grey mass of a woman who hardly spanned just over four feet in height. “I have seen your friend,” she asserted slyly.
Cautiously, Jameson approached the woman with all of his senses alert. Note to self, he chastised silently. Lose the cape or everyone will know your social status. After his encounter in Bennigton, he had taken Itchy’s advice and set aside his nobleman’s guise. The “servant” certainly possessed the mind of a strategist. At the moment, Jameson needed someone to help in that area, hindered as he stood by all the stress of his current situation. He knew his father still lived, and he agreed with his father that there would be nothing to fear for at least a couple of months, but that did not protect Jameson from worry – worry that rendered his own mind less than optimal for the task before him.
After letting a barn on the outskirts of Bennigton to lock away his carriage, he had sent Itchy ahead to Glowigham to find a room for a “tradesman’s” stay. Certainly a better option than a minstrel, Jameson smirked, remembering the other suggestions by his lymer.
“The man you seek has taken refuge at the home of my son,” the creaking voice of the woman interrupted his thoughts. “The old dog was most insistent that no one know of his presence, though you would never know he craved secrecy if you watched him with the maids.”
Jameson chuckled at the thought. Before they had left Capigan, Jameson had known little of his servant’s activities outside the kennel, but apparently, the man took great pleasure in entertaining maids. Still, the master would need to have a talk with the servant before they traveled to many towns, or they would never blend into obscurity.
“Yet you told me of his presence,” Jameson noted.
“Ha!” the old woman huffed. “That old dog told me to look for a fine young man who didn't know up from down. And here ye are.”
“And how am I to know you speak for him?”
The old woman dug into a pouch at her waist and removed a small, crude blade, holding it out to the man before her.
“His father’s knife,” Jameson smiled, reaching to retrieve the object with care. Of course, someone who had set upon Itchy would also hold the knife, but it was so plain and ugly that no one would think it significant enough to send as proof. “Then take me to him,” Jameson leveled, laughing as he did that the elderly woman had used the term “old” for a man a third her age..
Five minutes later, he stood in a clean but broken-down hovel of a house. Had Itchy found no room to rent? Directly inside the door of the little home sat a small, crude table and chairs. On the right, a hearth glowed with the evening coals, and the smell of roasting dove pervaded the air. It reminded Jameson that he had not eaten since fleeing from Bennigton before the noontime.
“Of course, I asked that young man there to catch a few extra hen for ye,” Itchy growled the answer to the unspoken request as Jameson handed back the blade. Itchy slid the knife back into the delicate sheath that Jameson had ordered from his artisans for his friend, turning back to a small rough table to retrieve a plate. “I knew ye'd be here afore the night fell.”
Anticipation overpowered Jameson's surprise at his servant's acuity. When Itchy set the steaming bird on the table, Jameson could feel his mouth water. A glance around the room informed him that no one would notice a lack of manners, so Jameson soon held the bird firmly in his hands and began to tear into it with his teeth. Juice ran down the corners of his mouth, but when he looked up, he saw no napkin readily available.
“Perhaps we won't have as much work to do to help you blend in with the commoners as we thought,” Itchy grinned at him. “Now, all you must do is swipe your sleeve across your mouth.”
Jameson knew his face must reflect the horror he felt. What other unsanitary habits did the average man endure?
“Only playing, master,” Itchy widened his smile, handing over a square of cloth. “You must think us wholly uncivilized if you believed it of me.”
“No, no,” Jameson stuttered, gratefully wiping his mouth with the offered material. Once the first pangs of hunger had subsided, his conscience upbraided him. “My dear woman,” he queried, noting the sinewy build of the woman and her son, “you must share in this meal. Forgive me for my disrespect.” He pushed his plate toward the pair, but they both held up their hands.
“Please, Master Jameson,” the son insisted. “We have eaten our fill. Master Itchy rounded up a near feast for us – like to overfeed us, to be honest. Ye must finish your bird.”
Relieved, Jameson pulled the plate back to himself, starting back on the meal with more self-control.
“There’s hope for you in this venture, sir,” Itchy claimed. “You mix just enough familiarity and deference into your speech to confuse any potential discovery, but ye must leave the cape behind.”
Without a thought, Jameson unhooked his cape and wrapped it around the shoulders of the old woman. “You must not venture out in my cape, dear madam, but on the frigid winter nights, it will warm ye nicely in your home.”
After a moment of giggling, the woman turned a grateful look up to Jameson. “That it will,” she nodded. The cape covered her from head to toe with room to spare. Actually, the cloak might cover both her and her rather diminutive son on a cold night. “Now, Mr. Itchy has asked me to procure a few sets of clothing for you that might suit you better among us regular folk. I have managed three sets of trousers.” She placed three well-folded items on the table. “And two blouses, and a jerkin.” The other items followed suit.
“You are very kind,” Jameson offered gratefully. “I think these will suit nicely.”
“Glad to help,” the son interjected. “I had an associate of about your size who passed on – ”
“They had no trouble, master,” Itchy interrupted. The bird in Jameson's stomach churned slightly at his host's incomplete thought. “You can rest assured that I take care of your needs.”
“Of course, Itchy. Madam. Sire.” Jameson nodded to each in turn. “And you must not call me master, Itchy. Some generic greeting, like brother or friend.”
Itchy's right eye squinted into an expression of skepticism mixed with disgust. “How can ye expect me to do this?”
“Itchy,” Jameson placed his hand on his friend's. “I am conferring on you the highest honor. I am not elevating you in social stature, though I certainly would if you would let me, but I am recognizing in you the intelligence to bring yourself up in your mind to my stature and the loyalty that would make you willing to do so. I need your help, and there is not another soul on earth whom I would trust to fulfill the office I'm asking you to fulfill.”
With a twitch of his mouth, Itchy's face unfolded into an expression of dignity, and a nod later, Jameson saw the servant's acquiescence.
“So, will we be calling ye Jameson?” Itchy wondered. “Seems a bit obvious.”
“Maybe Jass?”
“I like it,” Itchy grinned. “If I were more familiar, I'd be calling ye Jass the Ass.”
“If you were that familiar, you’d earn a switching.”
When the woman gasped, Itchy threw Jameson a grin. “You’d have to catch me first, Jass the Ass.” Turning to the aged dame, Itchy adopted a conciliatory tone. “Please, madame. My master has forgotten himself. Never since we were boys has he ever laid a hand on me, and his father and I cured him of that before the age of ten. Now he’s as like to burn all the switches in the land if I would let him. I threaten him with the switch as often as he does to me, but all we really unleash is a verbal sparring. Never you fear.”
When the woman seemed reassured, Itchy turned back to his friend. “How about Jess? It is a close approximation. Suits ye, nay?”
“Aye, Itchy. It'll do as well as any other.” It distressed Jameson that his familiar way with Itchy had garnered fear from the woman. If she had understood the reality of the exchange, she might have considered him differently. Only once had Jameson struck Itchy, when Jameson held eight years and Itchy almost eleven. Though almost twice as tall, Itchy had not retaliated, whether for fear of a noble or out of forbearance for a younger boy, Jameson did not know.
When James had discovered the event, the father had called Jameson in and undertaken a discipline that changed Jameson’s life. To teach the young boy the responsibility he owed, Jameson had switched the boys’ respective places for a week. Every morning at nine, James sent for Itchy and brought him into the palace, and Jameson was sent out to the sheds to work under the head stableman. For seven days, from morning to dinnertime, Jameson had bathed and fed the dogs, cleaned out their sheds, managed exercise for some of the smaller hounds. By the end of each day, he did not care if he bathed or ate – he only wanted to sleep.
It had been true that Itchy had worked out of preference rather than necessity, since James would not have let a child be compelled to work, but that did not lessen the strenuousness of the endeavor. “You will remember now, dear little Jameson, that those who toil in our homestead deserve our respect, and you must earn yours with equal toil. When your lessons for nobility and matters of state are through, you will study our people and learn from them. Let this be your first lesson.”
Ironically, those days, though difficult, had proven the beginning of both Jameson’s love for the hounds and his close friendship with the lymer boy. From that point forward, Jameson had been seen sneaking cakes or sweets out to the shed, and the tall, lanky servant had begun his education of a future ruler, not only showing the younger boy how to care for the dogs, but how to build a fire or skin a rabbit, how to spot several kinds of birds and what their presence meant for the weather or the abundance of nearby predators. Without Itchy, Jameson would not have held a portion of his practical knowledge, and the master certainly would never have struck the servant again.
“Now, all we need to do is fix this fiction that we are undertaking.” Jameson continued the conversation as the old woman nodded her son out of the room. “For starters, we must develop a story that explains our situation. You counseled me wisely in Bennigton, and I think we go forward as a tradesman and his associates, but how do we garner support as from the merchant class without attracting attention – assuming you refrain from your more libertine tendencies.”
“You injure me!” Itchy scoffed. “I am at worst a flirt, though that label runs more womanish than is fair to a man such as myself. Besides, I have had to rescued you from your libertine tendencies before.
“It was once! And the only time I imbibed beyond my ability. You cannot label me a libertine for such an experience, as it was hardly based on my choice – that woman did not like the word ‘no’!”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“No, I know better. I’d more accurately label you a babe.”
“You can label be whichever, but neither is true, and you know it. Besides, that is entirely beside the point: whether you kiss the maids or merely entertain them, a man your height will draw attention, so I think you must refrain.”
Itchy sighed. “I fear you are right, though I am not sure you will avoid attention with or without me. I think that, with a garrison of soldiers, thy appearance will not match thy story.”
“But I referred to this when I asked your help in Capigan – they will not worry much about me if you are their leader.”
“I?”
“To obscure my identity. I can defer to you, and you can manage the troops.”
Itchy thought for a moment. “Or, you defer to me, but you manage the troops. You need the men to hold loyalty to you, but what does it signify if they believe I am your superior, but that you are their commander. You are better at it anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Jameson nodded.
“But I wasn’t actually concerned about the beliefs of the soldiers. What I had worried about was a man claiming to be a ‘tradesman’ while leading around the troops. I think, though, that I may have stumbled upon a solution. While I awaited thee in the pub, some stories came to my ears that might offer an explanation for the troop. Ye know of the rumors about the outskirts of Banda?”
“I do,” Jameson allowed. “I am unsure whether they are lies by Maximus or incursions by him.”
“Certainly, there have been similar rumors of raids in the interior, base criminals who are using the unrest for monetary gain. The crest is not your father’s?”
“It is the seal of Maximus.”
“You are certain? Since your father’s decline, the insurrectionists have made some gains that peace and prosperity had before suppressed.”
“Like the people in Bennigton…”
“They are not the only ones – I have heard the cry in this very city."
“This is no steeple.” He held up the coin he had removed from his father’s room. “This is the morning glory, and the others I have found match it.”
“The moonflower. A morning glory that blooms only at night, the unnatural invader from foreign lands.”
“Unfortunately, this invader is home bred. Would that we had more transplants like you.”
Itchy grinned and offered a nod as a bow of acknowledgment for the compliment. “Because transplants like I am recognize the rarity of a ruler who is neither incompetent nor a despot.”
“Where Maximus resented my father’s forbearance against despotism. The miscreant is home bred, at a purpose with the rebels.”
“Do you suggest that the rebels have taken up with Maximus?”
Though Jameson had intended the question as rhetorical, it hung in the air between the friends.
“I do not yet suggest it,” Itchy comforted, and his sudden sobriety spoke the possibility in contrast to his words, “but the unrest has stirred up much anxiety among the common folk, and undeserved or derived unrest is a favorite weapon of tyranny to overthrow the ruling order. The circumstance may aid us, though: merchants in particular are concerned about their safety. Traveling between towns has grown more perilous, what with goods growing scarcer and more expensive.”
“So, it would not seem completely unlikely for a tradesman to hire protection.”
“Though probably not in the number you intend to recruit.”
Tapping his fingers on the table, Jameson considered the dilemma. “I will limit the number of troops who accompany me on any excursion into the towns, leaving the rest to camp in the forest. Still, it will take me some time to drum up that many followers – that is why we have planned for two months. I think that we deal with the problem of appearances when it arises. With the unrest begun under Maximus, our plans may have to evolve over time. Do you think we should seek support from the nobles? It is the commoner who will supply the troops, so I think it wise to consult with them.”
“Maximus will be enlisting nobles to stand with him – already has, from your observations in Capigan – how will ye counteract that? It is why you were wise to leave, and why you would be wise in enlisting help. Even with the support of the commoner, you will need nobles to supply ye.”
“Or merchants. I can think of a dozen nobles whom I can trust; I will appeal to them. But the merchants will be quite as helpful with supplies, and there are at least two in every town.”
“Ye could ask that charming Lorne to aid you...”
“You had better jest, Itchy. I would not ask anything of him for the support of a hundred kings. I will never prove so desperate.”
“Well, since he has already encountered us, we will need our story solid, and we will have to be clandestine,” Itchy admonished. “There are twenty towns to apply to, and each might easily supply five or ten trustworthy soldiers.”
“I hope at least ten.”
“I do not think we will have time to visit every hamlet in the duchy.”
Jameson shook his head. “Probably not. Glowigham, Bennigton, Lolly, Trandel…I’ll make a list of those within a five-day ride of the castle. We will sweep along the south of the forest of Banda, along the foothills, and swing back north near the valley ridge by the marsh.”
“Good,” Itchy agreed. “Perhaps we skip Bennigton, though, lest your identity become compromised.”
“There is another merchant there.”
“Jameson,” Itchy warned. “This is not like you, and it’s hardly the proper time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have not seen you so fascinated by someone since the traveling minstrels ran through Capigan when you held twelve cycles, and the woman walked across the garden trellis.”
“I had tried that more times than I could count, and never made it all the way across…” Jameson smiled. “But what does that have to do with the other merchant?”
“Nothing to do with the merchant,” Itchy laughed. “But rather the merchant’s daughter.”
Lifting his tumbler to his lips, Jameson took a drink to buy some time. Of course, the maid had caught his attention – he almost felt the need to keep an eye on her to protect her from the way Malchus Lorne leered – but then he had heard the words exchanged with the smithy. “Yes, his daughter’s affiliations might create problems.”
“Affiliations?”
“You heard the cries – there was a group of Steeplers there, and she was among them.”
“She was in a public square where a handful of peasants caught up a mantra. Did you hear the words from her lips?”
“At this point, can we take the chance? Maybe if we could have addressed the merchant without the prejudice of rank. If only we had determined our strategy before we started from Capigan! To be honest, my father’s sickness and the plan for my removal had overwhelmed me, and I could not manage a proper analysis. It is why I rely on your level head. I will return there to retrieve a few important possessions, then we will forsake that town to concentrate on others. There are two merchants there, neither of whom am I willing to risk for an associate. And few men of age to fight.”
Itchy played with his chin for a moment, rubbing his hand over the scattering of whiskers that had begun to grow there. “I think you need not return there, master. I can manage your belongings, and it will cost us little.”
“But if I stay behind, we will not be able to undo the damage we have done to our plan.”
“What exactly do you think you can do to confuse the issue?”
Grimacing, Jameson raised his eyebrows at his friend. “You’re not going to like it.”
“You mean like everything else you’re making me do for this misadventure?”
“This is worse.”
Itchy blew out a breath. “Just tell me.”
“I don’t think we have gone far enough with the deception, where you stop referring to my title and act independently. I think that we would be better served to reverse our roles.”
With a laugh, Itchy narrowed his eyes at his friend. “What exactly are you thinking?”
“You are older than I. You are more imposing than I. How far a stretch would it require for people to believe that you rank higher than I?”
Itchy scoffed at his master. “No one will believe it.”
“Nonsense. How long ago was it that you cured me of looking to you for approval whenever we were together.”
“It was hardly meet for a noble to seek endorsement for his every decision from a servant.”
“A servant of significantly sounder judgment than his master. And my submission to your wisdom on that point proves that I could take up the practice again, with ease.”
With a sigh, Itchy shook his head. “And I will have to break you again of the habit.”
“But you want to protect your sovereign; what better way than to conceal his consequence from curious eyes?”
“I guess our first experiment will be when we return to Bennigton…”
Jameson smiled, excited that he had apparently won his point. “If we can repair the narrative there, it will bide well for the rest of our excursion.”
“Though I don’t believe we need bother. The miscreant barely knew your name, and I imagine few villagers likely to believe his tale. Plus, The townsfolk are less likely to be supportive of any political maneuverings from Capigan, too – quite independent.”
“As I wish all of our towns could be, to say truth.”
“Even though the dissidents propagate most successfully there? You found the first coin there, as well. The guise of freedom often breeds evil.”
“You err, Itchy. It is not the people of Bennigton nor the nearby hamlets who foment the unrest. Outside elements utilize the freedom of the town to entrench themselves, but with the proper portreeve, the people of the town will eventually run them out.”
“A portreeve unlike the one currently in office…” Itchy asserted.
“An issue I intend to rectify as soon as I am able. Yet, I still cannot regret the liberty in the towns. The autonomy not only serves the citizens, which is where my motivations lie. It would also serve the nobility to hold more freedom to negotiate amongst themselves rather than playing politics in Capigan. That kind of interaction only breeds corruption, and it reflects poorly on all land owners.”
“Will you reach out to your father’s friend there?”
“We ran into his son with Lorne…”
“The portreeve?” wondered Itchy.
Jameson scoffed. “No, the young man who stood with him when we approached him. His father is landed, though not exactly noble. And I imagine that I will have to engage him since he knows the truth of my identity, or can find it out easy enough. I apprised him of my need for concealment when you and Malchus addressed the portreeve.”
“I guess you need to return for at least a limited purpose, then.”
“I pray that he has held my secret.”
“If he has, that may signify that you are safe to bring him on. What do you know of his character?”
“I know no ill of him, and his father has shown significant wisdom in commerce. The son, though? I don’t like that we encountered him in connection with the miscreant merchant’s son.”
“As far as I could tell,” Itchy considered, “much of the village has to do with that merchant and his family. Is that a certain indicator?”
“Not of corruption, I imagine. Though we must avoid both the fact and the appearance of corruption if we are to carry our purpose in this endeavor, so when we return, I will seek enlightenment of the man’s character.”
“Aye, sir,” came the creaky voice from the corner.
Jameson turned to take in the sight of the old woman where she and her son had eased back into the room. As soon as Jameson turned to her, she froze, suddenly timider.
“Speak, dear woman. You have nothing to fear from me.”
After a quick glance at Itchy, she drew in a rushed breath and seemed to steady herself. When she continued, her tone barely whispered in its nervousness.
“I am assured by your servant that you are a man who helps those who need it, and so I will go on in boldness. Do I understand by your name that you are the son of James?”
Jameson exchanged a look with Itchy, but as they had not yet held a clear conversation about hiding his identity, they could not really lament the disclosure – only hope that it did not resurrect to damage them.
“That I am,” he allowed, “though it is vital that no one but you hold that knowledge.”
“Of course, sire. Why I spoke, sire…I do not wish to be the bearer of unpleasantness to one such as yourself, but I must offer some unpleasant news. You are right in saying you must avoid the appearance of corruption. See,” she ducked her head, suddenly hesitant again, “until I heard this conversation, I believed your father a scoundrel.”
Jameson started. He had known about Maximus’s plan to create instability, but he had not considered that the people would blame James. Once he heard the thought, he realized that he should have expected it. The thought disheartened him, but his righteous anger overcame his despondency, and he found himself aching to begin his quest. “On what basis?” he prompted.
“His support of a noble miscreant. See, a man with much wealth wants to build himself a near-palace on this spot. Of course, he has also promised to take over the nearby homes, and seeing as we have no fireshots or spears or training – having traded them for food when the portreeve added the wheat tax – we have little with which to defend our position.”
Jameson narrowed his eyes. “And my father?”
“Has supplied the soldiers to keep us in line.”
Though he controlled his expression, a fire-red haze rose in Jameson’s vision. “And my father is being blamed for this?”
“Well, friend,” Itchy offered, “should you have expected differently?”
“Certainly, rule by Maximus would prove very different from my father’s rule. You’re right, I should have expected these types of partial and avaricious policies from such a man.”
“And people will believe this, as they often mistrust authority.”
“As is meet, Itchy. Rare is the leader who deserves the honor he receives. Governing man is a privilege and responsibility, and it is difficult to accomplish with virtue. When authority is grown fat and lazy, they are likely not giving proper respect to their office. Still, part of that responsibility is protecting myself from those who would hurt my people through me.”
“Thou art not fat,” the old woman cackled.
“Nor an ounce lazy,” Itchy corrected. “Ye have followed after your father, I see.”
“That is more than I can aspire to, though perhaps if I can manage this, I will have earned my position for a while. It is possible that Providence, knowing that my father intends to hand me more responsibility, must prepare me to deserve the honor.”
“Thou art a goodly man, son of James,” the woman assured him, “and if I live to see your rule, I anticipate a good one.”
“If solemnity equals competence, I think we are all safe,” Itchy smirked, throwing his friend a mocking glance.
Jameson would not reply to Itchy in his usual manner, not in front of the sweet old matron. “Well, one thing I can tell you, dear lady, is that no one will build a palace on this site unless they get your permission and let the people of the town inhabit and work in it. But if you would prefer, I will not let them remove one brick from the buildings of your village.”
With a grin, the woman nodded. “I would live in a palace, if my Edrick could take a minor employ among its workers.”
“I will see to it, if it is in my power. Who is the foreman responsible for the proposed building plan?”
“Master Pogro, am I right mother?” the son spoke up.
“I believe ye are, dear boy,” she agreed. “Ye can find him at the cottage on the road to Bennigton, the one on the property of Sir Worthingham.”
“And it is that sir who would overtake your village?”
“It is, sire. I've been thinking that in a town so small, little would remain behind a palace so large. All of my neighbors would find themselves displaced.”
“And are your neighbors faithful men?” Jameson prodded.
“Most of them, sir. Just honest laborers who want to care for their kin.”
“Well, if they're willing to help with the work, then I will make sure that they have an improved circumstance. May I proceed?”
A giggle bubbled from the woman's mouth. “And ye, a noble, ask my permission? Aye, sir. I give it, with my blessing and gratitude.”
With a small smile, Jameson turned back to Itchy. “We have much work to do, my friend.”
“Your father's name needs a resurrection and revival.”
“And the people of the region. They have suffered too far.” Jameson turned pensive for a moment, unable to force the levity that he tried to maintain for Itchy’s benefit. He shook off his melancholy quickly, though, standing to his feet to force himself forward. “So we will begin presently. I return to Bennigton on the morrow, which will place me in the way to Worthingham. Expect news tomorrow after your midday meal.”