For the first time in Everett Hembry's life, he felt truly tired. His muscles ached, his head pounded, but mostly his mind wished to take a break from solving problems, especially now that he faced one that he felt no confidence in solving. He had traveled days on end, but he could find no one who would sell him the goods he needed to run his store. Though he had imagined traveling just outside the jurisdiction of the new portreeve, Everett had passed through four districts, and each had, at some point in the recent past, introduced the same ridiculous requirements. Vendors could sell only to local sellers, only certain sellers could sell in any area, anyone caught buying unregulated goods would face the stocks, and prices could not rise above a certain level determined by the local governors. Few would sell to Hembry under such conditions, and Hembry had not yet figured out how to work around the situation.
His ale burned his throat on the way to his gullet, and with the cleansing, his disappointment dulled, though it could not fade. From a nearby seat in the public house, a stranger haled him past the low-hanging lamps, somehow cognizant of his name though Everett would swear he’d never met the man.
“Hembry!”
“Good sir…”
“What special goods can ye offer today?”
Of course, Everett knew the type of goods the man wanted, and those were never in the merchant’s retinue, but he would offer a diversion. “I have that special balm for the maids that comes down from the mountains,” he explained, “and the tobacco brought by sailors from the other side of the sea.”
“Bring the tabac to my table, man!”
The stranger was far past inebriation, and Everett hoped there would result no altercation when Everett soaked in the gossip, just desperate enough to try to distract himself by the idle business of others.
“Ye will have to come to my room above in half an hour, after I finish my ale.”
Fortunately, the stranger merely grumbled, and Everett felt certain that the man wouldn’t be able to walk in half an hour. Settling down to his drink, Everett tried to defer his own worries by distracting himself with the worries of the pub denizens.
"…she surely is lovely," a nearby man, leaning over a small round pedestal, drawled toward his friend, "but if you don't buy her a servant, you watch. She will revolt. She fancies herself a lady..."
"...but I will not pay such an outrageous tax," another asserted to the neighboring seat. "If I end in the stocks, my family will starve; same if I pay the tax, but the one I get to buy up essentials before they take me away."
“The problem is with the principality, offered his companion. “Who do you think is appointing these fools to manage our towns? And they can’t even control their own.”
“The errant noble?”
“The same. I heard he brought a troop of men who pushed their way into the homes and pubs, slept in their beds for night a week and engaged in serious acts of malfeasance against the womenfolk.”
“Well, spite the peer, I say!” Everett glanced up into the face of the man who had begun the chant, a square, middle-aged man with a distinctive grey streak in his black hair. What trouble these men would bring on the Banda!
As if to actualize his worries, a low chorus of “Spite the peer!” rolled around the room in response to the man’s cry.
Lowering his head into his drink, Everett blew out a breath. Though he could not deny the difficulty that had befallen the region, largely at the hand of authorities, he despised the methods of the Steeplers and other dissident groups. If the fools in the pub truly adhered to the philosophy, Everett might feel better drinking alone. Throwing down a coin, he pushed away from the bar. The next sentence he heard arrested him, though.
“There is a gathering,” murmured the black-haired man, and Everett reseated himself to hear. How often did the blackguards take advantage of Bennigton’s hard-won liberties to undertake their schemes?
“A gathering?” wondered a scruffy man with a yellowish mop of unkempt hair perched atop his balding head. “When will this be, and how will we find it?”
“In two month’s time,” replied the original speaker. “A reckoning, if you will, for the nobility. And you will find the information from the Steeplers in your town, if they deem you trustworthy.”
Everett grunted in frustration. Certainly, the Steeplers in his town would never trust him enough to reveal anything, not with his outspoken criticism of the organization. Something told him that the group would take advantage of Bennigton or one of the neighboring hamlets that had adopted measures of independence, and he resented the misuse of their liberty.
Though he might have been able to endure more spying on the men, it was the voice of a woman that finally moved him from his seat at the bar.
“...What he said is true,” a woman behind him was saying in a low voice to her maid. “And it’s spreading, this infamy. I heard tell of a merchant's daughter, hit her suitor over the head; cleaved the skin near in two..."
“Where was this?” the maid gasped. “Do we know her?”
“Nah. She’s in one of those odd towns by the marsh. No noble to keep order.”
Everett Hembry felt himself sober up swiftly, falling back onto the high stool so he could hear more of the conversation..
"She is lucky he lived,” replied the maid, her round face full of shocked circles, “or she would face stoning."
"She still may, if they ever find her. She has gone on the run."
"Can’t say I blame her. I have heard stories of this character, the man. Do you think her perhaps justified?"
"Is a woman ever justified in this world? Especially since he made his intentions clear. He was handsome, young, and of a moneyed family. Even if he forced a kiss, or whatever else, she would soon be his wife. She had no reason to cleave his head with a rock."
Everett could hardly breathe. A merchant’s daughter, near the marsh – the story sounded uncomfortably like something his Aylee would do. Cleave a man’s head with a rock? Few women would dare, and with so few merchants in the region –
"Who?" Everett demanded. "Who is this merchant's son? This merchant's daughter?"
The older woman turned to Everett, surprised at being addressed by a stranger. "I don’t know his name, but he hails from the far west, one of the free towns."
All doubt removed, Everett stood to his feet. From the pit of his stomach, a rage surged up and threatened to overwhelm him. All the problems with his business faded into insignificance, and his exhaustion gave way to a charge of anger. Though he perhaps should have, he never considered the possibility that he had erred in his deduction of the girl's identity. Malchus Lorne had held Aylee in his sights for more than a year, and the man’s conniving had induced more than one sleepless night for Everett while he traveled, leaving his family unguarded.
He could have felt incensed that no one considered Aylee important enough to remember, but in a way, he preferred Aylee's anonymity. For Aylee, such invisibility equaled both security and a future unscathed by scandal. Aylee should thank the heavens that no one knew her name. If Everett could get back to her before word got out, perhaps he could manage the damage to her reputation.
Also, if he knew Malchus Lorne, Aylee would need to worry about more than her name. The Lorne family did not run themselves by principles that would protect Aylee from physical harm, and if she did not kill the man, she might get herself killed. With renewed motivation, Everett paid his tab at the pub, grabbed his things, and cut his travel time in half on the return trip home.
+++++++++++++++++
Raehan Hembry had held herself together for the sake of her children, but saying goodbye to her oldest daughter, especially under such dire circumstances, had nearly broken the woman's heart. When Everett rode unexpectedly up to the house, horse and man panting in unison, Raehan finally lost her control and burst into tears.
"You know..." she blubbered. She could read the fury on his face.
"I know..." Everett nodded, pulling her head into his chest. For several minutes, he just let her wet his shirt with her tears.
Raehan had to try several times to begin the narrative, but once she began, the words flowed out like a flooded river "I wish I understood everything," she lamented. "But Aylee didn't have time to tell me before Malchus Lorne burst into our house and demanded to see her. I rushed her out of Chapman's window before she explained. If the young nobleman hadn't run interference, I have no doubt that Malchus would have found her."
"Nobleman?" The word drew Everett up short.
"Well, he claimed he was a tradesman, but his manner did not speak commoner, and I have never met with that level of formality outside of the castle."
"Do you think him trustworthy?" The coincidence bothered him, though the circumstance seemed to aid his daughter. “I don't like it. There are stories in the villages…”
Raehan considered for a moment. "I do not know why, but I do think him trustworthy. Not that education equals character - the educated are just as often scoundrels - but he reminded me of the people I encountered during my summer at court, as it were. True, I did not visit often with the noblemen, but when one interacted with them for a while, their character became apparent, and I began to discern the virtuous from the villain. Only..."
"Only what?" Everett had almost relaxed his concern, but Raehan's hesitation gave him pause.
"He seemed to want anonymity, and despite his words, I felt certain he was a noble under veil."
For a moment, Everett wavered. For his whole life, he had ignored gossip, figured it either idle tales carried by a bored populace or intentional misinformation. On his recent travels, though, the rumors had born evidence – broken townspeople, broken-down property, wandering livestock. A rebellious nobleman, put out of his inheritance by an angry father. Such a man, and with Everitt’s Aylee in his sights? Malchus would seem a nuisance by comparison.
“From what evidence do you consider him trustworthy?” Everitt prodded.
“You know me, Everitt. I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but even so, I can smell a scoundrel. This man was as honorable as any I have met save you.”
"Or wears the face of honor. Where are they now?"
"Well," Raehan sighed, "Aylee, at least, is supposed to be at Lady Willen's. I have heard nothing from the old woman in the last few days, but I would expect her to guard closely any information about Aylee."
"True. Perhaps I should go visit Lady Willen."
"Everett," Raehan prodded, "what would you think if we sent someone else instead? I know that you would like to see Aylee one more time, as she fled unexpectedly while you were gone, but I fear that Malchus Lorne is monitoring our house. I think if you or I went to find her that he would follow."
"Then we send Chester."
"Chester. I understand even better than you how little he is qualified to perform any office of responsibility, but this is a small task, and what does he risk? In fact, I think he should stay with her. Under what other circumstances could he learn independence with so little danger to himself or anyone else. He could act only as her companion, and perhaps as a messenger back and forth between us. One of the only skills worth having that he has developed is his stealth, seeing as he sneaks up on animals of various kinds with little difficulty."
Raehan sighed. Thanks to Malchus Lorne, she would now lose two of her children, one whom danger followed and the other she would send purposely into that danger.
"I'm sorry, Raehan. I can't sit here and do nothing. Either he goes or I go. I feel like sending Chester would risk little, and I agree that I need to be here to protect our home. So, unless you can come up with a better solution,”
“Are you certain?”
“I have heard rumors, Raehan, and I need confirmation that she is safe. Rumors are stirring of unrest in the region, and I am unsure whether they stem from a move from Capigan or a play by the rebels. I need to determine our level of danger in Bennigton. For Aylee, I will go get Chester."
Though she chewed her lip with consternation, Raehan did not protest when Everett called in their eldest son. After a few instructions, Chester began his trek through the edge of the forest, keeping to the trees and utilizing all of his animal tracking skills to follow Aylee's path to Lady Willen's cottage. His curiosity piqued when he recognized the marks in the dirt that indicated that someone had swung Aylee up onto a horse. When he found his sister, no doubt she would share an interesting story.
Everett peered into the deepening gloom of evening, watching out Chester's window until he could no longer track his son's movements. After a few moments of gazing mindlessly at the treeline, Everett Hembry stood resolutely to his feet.
"I have work to do, Raehan."
"At this time of night?" Raehan tried to hide her anxiety.
"Much is said once the sun goes down that would not be heard in the light. If what I heard in Lolly's Pub is right, Malchus Lorne is not our only problem. He may be just the closest."
Once Everett reached Bennigton's own pub, he found confirmation for his suspicions. Not only had the new portreeve changed the rules of trade in Bennigton, he had changed the laws surrounding ownership of property, political influence, and general development of commerce. Under the new laws, Everett and his fellow businessmen would lose their ability to practice their businesses, and the people whom they served would receive inferior products, pay more, and miss the competition that had previously given them choices. Not only that, but Everett suspected that when the townsfolk realized their land had fallen to the highest bidder, they would either lose heart or revolt. Perhaps by the duke's design, as the rumors claimed. Who else had the power to enact such policies across so many districts?
Everett Hembry foresaw that his daughter's dilemma might prove the least disturbing portion of current events, a mere bellwether to presage an impending and life-altering mayhem. Roaming noblemen, villainous raids, and troops run amok. All boded ill for the peace that had ruled the land for over thirty years.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
"He is not here," came the answer when Everett inquired about Malchus in Bennigton’s tavern. "Apparently, he was sent by the portreeve on some business just north of town. A rogue nobleman masquerading as poor, deceased Capigan."
“I heard it was Capigan in fact,” contradicted another patron. “The rumors say he has fallen out with his father because his illegitimacy has come to light. Since he cannot inherit, he is bent on destroying his father’s rule. Would Malchus Lorne really hold a chance against the Earl?”
“Well, the man is stubborn as an ox, and can fight like a soldier,” the first man allowed. “I just hope that he doesn’t send Capigan into a fit and bring him here for retribution.”
“They can all kill each other, for all I care,” came a cry from the back of the room. “Spite the peer!”
“Spite the peer!” raised the echo.
“Spite yourselves!” another voice followed. “Bennigton doesn’t need your kind.”
A general barrage of verbal blows erupted into billows around the room, and Everett decided he needed to find his information and get out. He tapped on the shoulder of the man who had told him about Malchus.
“When did Lorne leave town?”
“He was sent out just tonight. Probably an hour ago.”
"Tonight? So late in the evening?” Everett feared that Malchus had manufactured the story to justify heading after Aylee with reinforcements. The man’s other words bothered Everett just as much. “Also, did you say a nobleman in disguise?" The coincidence seemed too unlikely.
"Yes. In the version I heard, the young man fell out of favor with his father, and, rather than change his behavior, the youth fled from his father's borough. Without his usual resources available, the noble has resorted to strong-arming thievery. He has a band of followers who find his rogue ways rewarding, and his charm and nobility buy them a luxury which they have not experienced before."
Everett whistled in disbelief – standing to his feet, he turned to quit the pub. At that moment, a page approached him with the news that Aylee had indeed arrived at Lady Willen’s, and Everitt relaxed a very little. Still, he sent the page back with the news of Malchus and his band of men – the old woman would need to recruit some help of her own from the marshers. Despite the slight relief, Everitt felt a persistent tension swim through him and grip him - a current seemed to have swelled beneath the fields of his homeland that could only spill over into trouble.
++++++++++++++
From the deepening twilight around him, Jameson could discern very little but the fog of his breath against the cold. In the distance he could just make out the twinkling lights of a town, but he dared not approach the town at night. Since he had left Aylee Hembry with that crazy old woman days before, Jameson had traveled to three more towns, and his assessment of his situation did not bode well. He had left at home the meddling of unwelcome authorities, but it seemed that unwelcome authorities had increased everywhere once he had left home.
Policies regarding commerce and ownership had shifted throughout the eastern end of the Banda, and a general sense of unrest had arisen among the populace. In the west, the rebels seemed to have risen against the more established and benevolent nobles but left the miscreant wealth undisturbed. Was it because those under the thumb of tyranny feared rising against those with guns and resources, or maybe because the peasants depended so heavily on the moneyed to provide jobs and sustenance? If he had hoped to find honorable conspirators among the commoners willing to join forces with him, Jameson had lost his chance before he had begun. Many would have risen against the current regime, but few would trust a stranger, especially one born from circumstances of fortune. Perhaps in the unrest, he could recruit from among the dissidents, but could he trust such men?
"Friend," came Itchy's welcome voice from beside him. "Your pacing won't let the men sleep. Every crunch of a leaf wakes them a bit more, and you are going to worry them into leaving us."
Jameson placed his foot back from whence he had raised it.
"I know you are right," Jameson acknowledged. "But how am I to stop it? They have merged my story of the estranged noble with the marauding band of rogues. How is that going to serve our cause? By this time, we should have a full troop, and we are limited to a mere fifty men. We have written my epitaph with the report we fabricated for Malchus. Rumors run such that the local commoners guard their daughters and brandish firearms when I counted on words.”
"Use thy energy for useful purposes, not lamenting the state of things. Come with me into Lolly and let us investigate our situation more thoroughly. Surely the report will not prove uniform across the entire region. These things never do. Perhaps we will have a report to give the men in the morning."
From the deeper shadow formed by the edge of the lamplight where it met a canopy of trees, Landro watched his two “leaders.” He could not hear them, but he could make out their attire, the peasant buskins on their feet and the rough wool cloak that would mask most hints of nobility. They had emerged from Jameson’s tent and stood talking for several moments while they awaited a page, who had apparently been sent for a couple of coarse palfreys. Once the young man returned with the horses, the men mounted and pointed their faces toward the nearby town.
Landro would not catch them without a horse, but the walk was less than half a league, and they did not rush, so he could easily keep them in his sights on foot. What were they about? Most of the time, when Jameson ventured into a village, he left Itchy in the camp, and at first Landro had imagined it was to separate peasant from noble. Now, though, Landro had begun to realize that Itchy guarded the camp, stood watch over the troops to maintain order and security. Such a position of honor should never have been handed to a dog-tender, but Itchy had woven some spell over the heir that could not be shaken.
As they approached the edge of town, Landro noticed a couple of faces that peered out the windows at the approaching pair. Neither Jameson nor Itchy seemed to have noticed, but Landro would have called the men lookouts. Apparently, they had not noticed Landro – probably because he traveled on foot and stayed to the shadows of the trees. In a perimeter around his compatriots, though, a scurrying of motion seemed to lick like a flame on oil, and Landro recognized danger in the movement.
The night had stilled most of the town, but as Jameson and Itchy neared the center of town, they noted the well-lit pub, with more than one man sprawled in the dirt, leaned haphazardly against a wall, or hung over a barrel.
“More hard drinking here than we have as yet seen,” Itchy noted under his breath.
Jameson pursed his lips. “Did you notice the embers on the edge of town? Out there, the moonlight illuminated more, but I would imagine that if we returned on the morrow, we would find similar destruction among these buildings.”
“So these men are drinking their pain.”
“It would explain the unusual number,” Jameson affirmed.
“Shall I come in with you?”
Glancing around them, Jameson shook his head. “Too conspicuous,” he insisted.
Since the pair had paused for several minutes in the shadow of an adjacent building, Landro had managed to catch up with them. Nodding at this dog-tender, Jameson saw his friend to a post outside the bar before entering within himself. The heir would enter a tavern alone? In a town burned by a noble? The plan did not seem wise, and a anyone above the level of a servant would have known better, but Itchy did not protest.
Despite the fact that Jameson had shorn his hair to his chin and wore it under a chapeau, he could not lose his bearing, and therefore would not blend in with the townsfolk. Too many of the stragglers trickled in after Jameson, and Itchy did not seem to notice their sinister mien. Making a circuit of the building, Landro examined the exterior of the tavern for an alternate entrance, and when he spied a small gathering of men he read an opportunity.
“Entrance for a round?” he queried, sure that the men had been exiled to sobriety as they guarded the back door.
“Make it two, and you’re in,” leveled a huge man who probably wouldn’t even feel the promised single drink.
“For you, of a certain,” Landro laughed. “I’ll bring a jug and let you distribute.”
Nodding, the large man pressed the others back to let Landro in. “I’ll be in for ye if the jug does not make it out in a dime.”
Landro was no fool. As soon as he had made it past the back storage into the main space, he purchased a jug of the strongest ale and sent it out by a youth who stood sipping a cider in a corner. Likely, the boy would help himself to a couple of drinks of the stronger brew before it made it to the crew in the back, but even an eager youth wouldn’t be stout enough to burn such a proof in large volumes.
Though he watched the back door until the youth returned, wide-eyed and looking a little nauseous, Landro did his best to keep and eye on the rest of the room. Jameson had set up post in the corner by the front door, his back and sides to the wall. Certainly, a protected and defensible position, but not too good for avoiding capture.
Apparently, Jameson had thrown down a good sum for drinks, and each barmaid credited a different table for the “gifted” drinks. Either way, as the liquor flowed, the tongues freed, and the somber mood quickly erupted into a much more boisterous atmosphere. Landro did his best to avoid attention as he sidled closer to the heir. With any luck, Jameson would not see him, and there would be opportunity to observe the room as the heir saw it while still keeping track of the heir.
Unlike in Bennigton, the pub in Lolly rang with tales of infamy that had recently swept through the western portion of the Banda. No ruffian would successfully target Bennigton – with its relative wealth and standing militia, it stood ready to repel either mob or troop, and only a fool would risk it with easier prey so nearby.
Lolly, though, stood under a noble who, though he managed the livelihood of most of the village, did little to protect them from unrest. No, he taxed them and drove them hard, but left the portreeve to accept whatever bribes best suited his wishes. In the past month, the portreeve had changed – as was the case for most villages in the region – and had proven even more avaricious and given to exploitation than the prior miscreants. Even worse, the town seemed to have endured an attack from an outside force, and several of the men drank away their shellshock enough to offer tales after a quarter hour.
"I am not sure," insisted one man with a scruffy and ragged beard, "that Rolph's daughter was completely unwilling."
"Every man says that when accused of being a rogue," answered a scrawny man with hardly more than moss growing on his upper lip. "But her father would call that a lie."
"Ha!" Ragged Beard guffawed. "And every father would say that!"
"The trick is finding the truth. It is hardly permission when ‘requested’ by a nobleman. Did she really have a choice?" said Scrawny.
"Well," volunteered the lone grey beard in the bunch, "what we do know is the nobleman's character. A good man would not ha' set upon the animal pen as he did, and just for fun, too. If he didna' have fifty animals for every one of Farmer Merican's, then I'm a goat. Did you catch the finery that the leader wore for his acts of vandalism?"
"Thou art certainly a goat," Ragged Beard guffawed again, apparently his laugh of choice, "but ye are right, as well. No doubt that man could ha' bought every animal in Merican's pen, but instead, he turned them out of their dens and set the place on fire."
"Fire?" gasped the old man. "I hadna' heard of the fire. That bespeaks a depraved man."
"That it does," agreed Scrawny.
“Spite the peer!” crowed one of the men from the shadows of the wall. In Bennigton, the cry would be followed by a smattering of echoes, and then a sounder head would rise up with his friends and settle everyone down before events could escalate. The people of Lolly, though, had suffered significantly. Beyond the damage to a dozen women, half a dozen properties had been torched, and a handful of men and children had been injured.
Perhaps drink proved a friend to disclosure, but it was an enemy to order, and the room soon descended into a maelstrom. A man climbed onto a table and raised his hand in the air, turning the scattered proclamations into a chant in unison. Those who did not chant simply roared, a primal rage against the wrong that had befallen them under the guise of nobility.
Jameson, from his corner near the door, waited until the men in front of him jumped to their feet, one to clear out the door and the other to rush the crowd, intent to take his place among them. Just as the heir reached the doorframe, the man on the table cried out and pointed his finger to the door, “Spite the peer!” he bellowed, and every head turned toward the entrance. Fortunately for the duchy, the crowd had honed in on the man who had sat in front of Jameson. Unfortunately for the duchy, Jameson was not the kind of man who would watch idly while a man was lynched by a crowd.
Jumping before the man, Jameson raised his hands in the air. “Please, men. He is not even noble!”
“He hosts the nobles when they visit our town!”
“…and he takes their money!”
“How do you think he got so much wealth?”
Finally, one of the men seemed to recognize the situation. “You are a stranger, and your hands hold no callouses! You are his compatriot!”
“I’ve never seen him before tonight!”
“Spite the peer!”
“Spite the peer!”
“Spite the peer!”
The shouts had grown deafening, and the crowd began to press forward. Still, the heir did not draw his sword! Though Landro held no heroic tendencies, he could see how easily Jameson would escape if he would just abandon the crowd’s target. Of course, he would not, but Landro could manage it if he could slip behind the pair.
Within half a minute, he had managed his position, and as a large man swung his fist toward Jameson, Landro pulled the air toward the door. The motion twisted Jameson sideways, and the punch smashed deep into his ribs on the left side. Fortunately, Landro had managed the door, and the momentum from the blow lent ease to the heir’s removal through it. As they stumbled outside, the dog-tender was rushing toward the noise, which had now grown raucous enough to hear from outside in the square.
He gripped Jameson from Landro, which turned out well since the gentry was the smallest of the men, and the weight of his commander had grown unwieldy. “What happened?” Itchy demanded as he almost carried Jameson around the corner and behind the wall of a nearby courtyard entry.
“The lowlife villagers drank too much, and your friend decided to defend a man they targeted instead of remove himself to safety.”
“Is he struck?”
“Only with a fist,” came Jameson’s panted reply as air returned to his lungs. He took his own weight back, lifting his hands to examine the spot of the blow. “I believe the assailant may have cracked a rib.”
Itchy cursed. “It is lucky for you that Landro was in there. What were you doing in there?” he wondered to the soldier.
Though he despised explaining himself to the cur, Landro knew that Jameson would want to know too, so he managed his lie as best as he could. “The camp had grown stifling,” Landro shrugged. “I had hoped to find a maid or a game for the evening, but the recent misery seems to have sent the maids into hiding and the games into retirement. Drink proved my only solace, but even that proved too base a quality to enjoy – not even enough to lose the taste in delirium.”
The sound of the crowd had spilled into the street, and the bodies that clambered across the gravel bore a form in their hands that struggled weakly against the hands that held it. “We can’t leave him, Itchy,” Jameson insisted, standing to his height and unsheathing his sword. “I am not fain to strike a blow, but I would not leave a man to die without trial.”
With the ruckus that broke the silence, several windows pulled back for a view of the square, and at least a dozen doors swung open to reveal men bearing fireshots.
“Let Parchin go, Lendry!” ordered one voice.
“He’s a noble!” replied an unknown voice, and Jameson stayed his motion.
“He’s not a noble,” disagreed another man with a shot, “you are just too drunk to know what you’re about.”
“I’m not!” replied the second voice.
One of the men with a fireshot ventured into open space, and Jameson recognized the town merchant with his adult son and a large hound. “Ye all need to return to your beds. You have fed this poor man’s misery, and played him to a riot.” The man approached the poor “noble,” and the mob’s victim tried to scramble to his feet. “Lendry,” the man spoke more gently, “let him go.”
When some of the other men stepped from their doorsteps with fireshots raised, the crowds eased back, leaving “Lendry” and the victim alone before the merchant. “No one blames you, man. But you can’t blame Parchin. His barn was burned to the ground, and he lost half his livestock. It’s not the same as your Grissy girl, but you must see he is not to blame.”
Whatever the man had said, Lendry released his captive, who collapsed to the ground against his restrained momentum. The merchant lowered his fireshot and wrapped an arm around his newly-burdenless friend, and Jameson glared at the scene before him. “Who is this man who has done this?” he growled.
“I heard some things in the tavern,” Landro offered, ever ambitious to endear himself to the heir.
“Please,” Jameson prompted.
“I don’t know if you heard the man speak of a fire on the land of someone named ‘Merican.”
“I did,” it was just before the crowd began to rile, but the men continued their discussion for a few seconds before the noise grew too dominant. One of them claimed that supposed noble was asking after a girl, one who had bruised his face with a rock.”
Itchy and Jameson exchanged glances. “Did they describe the man?” Itchy wondered.
“No, they said he had heard the girl was ensconced in Lolly, but after his tirade through the town, he determined that she was at the marsh in the northwest, and he had torn from the town as if it were a shroud.”
“Aylee,” Jameson gasped, and Itchy gripped his shoulder.
“Friend,” he warned.
The crowd had dissipated, and as the realization gripped Jameson, he lurched from his refuge and made a line for his steed. “Jess!” Itchy called out, fast on his heels. “You cannot go after her.”
“I will, Itchy. I will not leave her to Malchus Lorne again. And to think, he is responsible for all this destruction.”
As they mounted the horses, Landro approached. “That is not possible,” Itchy was saying. “The pillaging and the oppression by the troops coincided with your exit from Capigan, and we left Aylee two weeks after our exit from home. But this has certainly added to the chaos.”
“Return to the troop, Landro,” Jameson insisted. “I know that you hold no authority over them, but I trust you to report to me anything too disordered that may occur when I return.”
The two started off on their horses, leaving Landro behind.
“Are you sure you want to risk this, master?” Itchy wondered, shouting over the galloping hooves.
“I must, Itchy,” Jameson insisted. “I cannot leave her to this – not after I have saved her. Besides, there is a reason we stumbled into this town on this night. I believe I was directed here by Providence.”
“Your wishes direct you, sir,” Itchy contradicted, and though Jameson wanted to disagree, he could not entirely.
For some reason, he could let her neither suffer nor perish, and he could not justify it even to himself. Itchy upbraided him, but so did his own mind. She is a rebel! it warned him. But, his wishes assured him, she was not that kind of rebel. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
If he returned to help her, his own troops would sit idle for at least an extra day, and he could ill afford to delay his proceedings. Still, to let that coward attack a defenseless woman? Would he trust her well-being to her father and whomever Master Hembry could recruit to help? He should. He would have for anyone else. Even with every selfish consideration pressing it down, though, Jameson could not quite suppress his growing desire to aid her.
By the time the pair passed by their camp, Itchy in a struggle to stay up with him, Jameson’s heart had burst into full-on flame. Several hour's advantage, even with a bevy of troops, would prove difficult to undo, but not impossible. If he rode hard, Jameson could reach Aylee Hembry before Malchus did with his band of men. Now that Jameson had made his determination, he would succeed, and if he could not save Aylee, then he would take time out from his grand ambition to mete out punishment. From this point forward, Jameson held official cause to target Aylee’s assailant, and since it meant that he could officially help Aylee, he couldn’t regret the fact.