“You understand that this is our opportunity.”

Several voices from nearby tables erupted into murmurs of assent as the barmaid approached with another round of drinks. With the wan and flickering lamps scattered around the windowless cavern, shadows danced across the faces of the gathering, rendering their aspects almost ghoulish.

“No one has heard from or seen the Duke in weeks,” the man continued, his graphite gaze flashing as he turned to connect with each member of his small audience. A smokey streak that matched his eyes ran through his near-black hair and voluminous beard, and his voice scratched like the creak of a door. “Some say he has lost his mind, and that is why he has unleashed his soldiers in tyranny.”

Though many at the tables sympathized with the speaker, few would agree with the man’s conjecture. Did a Duke need to go mad to seize power? More likely, some argument between nobles had stirred up a need for the regent to reestablish his dominance, and so he had sent out the troops. Besides, whether they agreed with the speaker or not, he was a relative stranger, an agitator ostensibly from the western edge of Banda. They might grow to trust him, but only if he did not attract attention from the Duke, since the man hailed from only a few leagues from Capigan.

If they had truly held concern, perhaps the gathering should have taken place in a more private setting than a local pub, but in a town so far from the seat of government – the opposite end of the region, in fact – the men did not fear the nobility. Since few nobles entered the town, the peerage had not earned quite so infamous a reputation as in other villages, and many of the local businessmen resented the burgeoning presence of the rebel movement that had set up shop in the village. The rebels, though, did not care. No one would interfere with them, and where else could they speak freely without fear?

“There has not passed enough time,” contradicted one of the more vocal dissenters, a middle-aged man with ruddy hair and whiskers. “I have heard of only two towns and the marsh who have suffered any upheaval. Does that equal a pattern? Do you really think the spirit of unrest has yet erupted enough to stir the numbers we need?”

Several of the voices that had offered support to the first speaker grumbled their altered opinion as the second man’s reason soothed the brewing tension.

“Tell them, Grondy,” countered the first speaker, gesturing to a large man at the back of the circle who bore a set of striking green eyes. “Tell them about Havilan.”

The deep tone graveled past the listening ears, thick with a resonant marsh accent. “T’were not just the marsh,” he complained. “It is true that nigh twenty women were taken or damaged from my locality, and twice again the number of men slaughtered, those claimed as felons for nary a crime. That would be reason enough. Then came Yildi’s tale.”

“Yildi?” one of the men prompted.

“A marsher who resettled on the northern border, in Havilan. From his story, a band of ruffians tore through the town and unleashed untold destruction on the property and the womenfolk.”

“Like the marsh…” another man posited.

“Nay. The marsh suffered soldiers’ offenses, but Havilan? It was double cursed.”

“There is no need for drama, Grondy,” corrected the ruddy haired man of the calmer head. “We have all heard of bands of brigands who trespass in the border towns.”

“Aye, and so all thought until the soldiers arrived there as well.”

“But that was a good development, was it not?” offered the red-haired man’s neighbor, a fellow pacifist. “The Duke’s soldiers have often set up a deterrent force when they heard of ingress from outside the region.”

“And so they claimed,” Grondy agreed, “until the call for taxes.”

“Taxes?”

“And a dictate from the portreeve to quarter the soldiers. The luckier villagers were kicked out of their homes. The unlucky – usually with daughters just of age – found themselves forced into cohabitation with characters that should have worn the hangman’s noose rather than the crest of the Duke.”

Several of the men twisted around to peer at the red-headed man. “I admit,” he allowed, “that the circumstances sound bad, but are they enough to stir the numbers we need? I hate to say that I think more will need to suffer before a force enough will arise to the cause.”

“Unless there are numbers enough, and the news has not reached us yet,” the original speaker insisted. “I think we must needs a few scouts to make the circuit, travel the spokes so we can assess exactly how many would prove amenable to our way of thinking.”

“I will go, then,” offered Red. “To the southeast, the farther region. Who will manage the other ranges?”

A spattering of voices echoed their willingness, and the original speaker leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “Very well. We will wait for the reports, but we know what to expect. This news from Havilan matches our suspicions.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“And the suspicions of every generation from the past century,” Red insisted. “There have always been nobles and portreeves who would play the despot over the common man, but the ‘common man’ just as frequently plays the criminal, both to his own kind and to the wealthy.”

“Are you a sympathizer then?” accused the first man.

“Spite the peer!” came the rumbled cry, and “Spite the peer!”

“Spite the peer!”

“Spite the peer!” rolled around the nearby tables.

“Have some sense, men!” Red adjured, his voice tense and low. “This goes beyond political discussion, and you would prove wise to avoid an audience.”

The locals valued the freedom they had managed to establish, and they did not mind the presence of nobles as long as the more authoritarian elements stayed out of Bennigton. Too often, the men of the village worked to break up Society meetings. Hadn’t the Duke offered resources to help the local businessmen increase their self-sufficiency? Not only that, he had offered verbal encouragement to Bennigton’s education campaign which intended to expand knowledge of best practices to nearby towns.

The Society, though, could not be convinced that any governor or regent would aid in the destruction of his own significance. So, the insurgents held no qualms about taking advantage of the relative freedom offered by the independent village, and they would not ignore the oppression in the other towns. Instead, they would use what the town allowed to plan the rebellion. Fortunately for the town of Bennigton, not even all the rebels agreed on a plan of action or a timeframe.

From the periphery of the room, a young man looked up from his cider, shaking the golden curls that adorned his head in an expression of disapproval. A mere boy, though, he knew better than to speak up against such folly. What had his father always said? “A fool reveals himself both by his words and the bruises that follow.” Still, since his father had also instructed that “a poor man may prove a scoundrel as easily as a wealthy man, and neither for stature alone should claim our respect,” the youth would carry the events of the evening to his father at the first opportunity. Someone needed to know the stirrings in the darker corners of the town.

Frustrated, the youth glided out the nearest door before anyone noticed. He was too young to worry over such things, but he would not ignore the threat from hotter heads. As soon as his father returned to town, he would relate his tale in the hopes that wiser minds would prevail.

+++++++++++++++

Jameson stared down at the lifeless form of his father, his jaw clenching with restrained fury. Though the candle had burned down to near-impotence, he could still make out the pained unrest of his father’s slumber. With the curtains drawn, the windows gave little evidence of the time of day, but Jameson had spent enough hours worrying over his father that it likely approached midnight. Placing his hand reverently atop the vibrant coverlet that adorned the royal bed, blanched to blood-deep tones by the darkness, Jameson stroked his thumb mindlessly over the coin he had found fallen at the bedside. On it, the seal...the deadly flower – his father’s torment. The deadly flower that evinced septic spirits, siphoning life, imbibed at the hand of a false ally.

Without thinking, Jameson twirled his knife in his other hand, and he forced himself not to consider what he could do with the steel blade. He did not know whether to weep or scream. If he did the former, he might find relief for the strain of his heart, but he would leave himself weak and bereft of the force that he needed to accomplish the task he had set himself. The latter option, screaming, would have drawn attention to the room, and Jameson knew that he needed to avoid attention at all costs. Still, he could not quite control the rage that swelled inside him at what he had just suffered.

He had expected any strife to arise from the burgeoning band of rebels that had swelled in recent times due to a drought and the resulting cost in crops. Fortunately for the region, their ruler offered significant benevolence and freedom to his people, and the rebels found little motivation for others to join the cause outside of a few towns with despotic nobles. If Jameson had possessed his crown, he would have found a way to deal with those nobles with haste and justice.

Instead, Jameson stared at his father where he lay on the bed and wondered how recent events could have transpired. Betrayal. A gut-wrenching, head-pounding sense of betrayal shot through him every instant, obscuring his vision behind a red cloud of fury. When he remembered the moment he had realized that a trusted companion, a wise counselor, had turned his back on the very man he had sworn to protect, Jameson could hardly breathe. The wound in his soul would not repair easily, and the damage produced by one detestable act would cost more than Jameson could imagine, much more than just his own reputation.

Even as his heart relived the agonizing path to betrayal, his mind protested. Could he really denounce a long-time companion so quickly, or should he consider the possibility that, like Brutus, the betrayer had made a mistake? Perhaps, Jameson considered, the betrayal could stem from a noble cause. Suppose the betrayer - like Brutus - suspected his friend of deserting a shared goal? Crucial word – friend. A friend could find himself drawn into betrayal by misinformation or misunderstanding. A close and wise colleague - a counselor, a sage - could hardly fall prey to such folly. Not only so, but the man had born the representation of his plans for over a decade - the imagery of the seal held so much more significance now. Death and vengeance. Without gaining sympathy for his adversary, Jameson began to understand how a man could allow the sensations to consume him.

He could not let them take root in his heart, however. In his father’s name, Jameson could not succumb or he would prove as guilty of betrayal as his new enemy had – Jameson’s father would rather his son turn his back on all promise of legacy than turn his back on virtue.

No weakness, Jameson chastised himself. Whatever the job before him required, he must carry it out swiftly and thoroughly. If he hesitated, he would lose the opportunity to enact his plans, rendering all of his fury and determination moot. Yet, he would need to accomplish all of his goals without resorting to the same level of evil as his father’s betrayer.

Gritting his teeth, Jameson stabbed his knife into the tapestry beside his father's bed. Before the conclusion of the year, betrayal's rewards would fall to brutal punishments. Turning from his home, Jameson set forth on the mission that would pave the path for his future. He would not allow himself to fail.