“Carriage for hire!” cried Muddle, “Syldom to anywhere else! Vesperdom? I’m there. Petrydom, considered the horse whipped. Boredom? Ha! Looks as if you are there already sir.”

A man approached his carriage, “I’d like to go to Vesperdom. What is your fare?”

Muddle, clever despite his unfortunate name, wondered as well. The man was well dressed, suit and all, even in the muddy season. He’d be a noble or a merchant. That immediately raised the price. He would also have to add on a hazard charge, as Vesperdom was one of the more unpleasant doms he serviced. Then he had to factor in the time of day. It was midafternoon, prime time for customers.

Muddle spat off his cart, as he always did after finishing a calculation, “Ten weight sir, and that’s a bargain.”

The man quirked an eyebrow. So maybe Muddle had inflated the price a little, but everyone did that. He readied himself for an argument, but the man just said, “A bargain indeed.”

He handed Muddle ten coins, “To the border if you please.”

Muddle nearly felt bad. Ten to the border was almost criminal. He’d have to keep the money though. Otherwise he couldn’t afford to drink away his guilt. He patted the carriage seat beside him.

“Up ‘ere your lordship.”

The man clambered on. No… that wasn’t right. He leapt. Bounded. Flew. Muddle had never seen someone so graceful.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asked.

The man just smiled. Let him keep his secrets, Muddle thought, as long as it kept him happy. Muddle grunted at his horse and flicked his reins.

The journey was pleasant. The man knew when to talk and when to stay silent. He listened to Muddle’s stories, didn’t tell his own, and laughed at the right times. Muddle couldn’t ask for more in a travelling companion. Maybe he wouldn’t rob him. Maybe.

They came to a bend, isolated from the rest of the road. Muddle glanced slyly at the man’s vest. His things were hidden, but Muddle had a fine eye for details. Muddle could make out papers under his vest, and a dagger. The man noticed him staring. He shifted slightly in his seat. His fingers played across his vest and under, resting lightly on his knife.

Muddle turned back to the road and launched into the story about the blacksmith and his turnips. Good honest work, carriage driving.

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Ten minutes later they arrived at the border. The well-dressed man leapt off the carriage as gracefully as he had on to it. Funny that, thought Muddle as he turned the carriage around, him going into the woods rather than down the road. I wonder what— The jingle of ten weight in his pocket drowned out the rest of the thought. Never mind that. Muddle began to hum. It was a lovely day.

A grin gathered on Lord Glove’s face as he ran. The wind picked up and roared past him, pleasantly cool. He closed his eyes and breathed in, savoring the moment. Small twigs cracked under his feet. He kept his eyes closed, allowing the gentle green light of the forest to sooth away his cares. The burble of water accompanied his breathing as he ran. He was nearing a creek. Navigating by memory and sound alone, he leapt to a flat stone at its center, pushed off, and cleared the rest of the creek, landing on the other side. He picked up speed, eyes still closed. As fast as a wolf, then a deer, then a rabbit. He continued to accelerate. He felt as though in a moment he would fly.

In far too short a time, he reached the farmstead which was his goal. It was a little farm, only consisting of a hut, a barn, a field and a small cowshed. A large dog ran out of the house to meet him and began to bark. Lord Glove approached the dog and extended the back of his hand, fingers curled. The dog sniffed it, his tail began to wag, and he let Lord Glove pet him. A woman emerged from the cow shed.

“Green Eyes!” cried the woman in greeting, “Finally! I’ve been worried sick about you. Any news? Is it going well?”

Green Eyes was the name Lord Glove had given himself while in Vesperdom. He had reimagined himself as a daring revolutionary of noble blood. He used to tell Rebeka that a lie was easiest to maintain if it was true. “It is going exceedingly well. I am certain we will be getting the support of the neighbouring doms,” he offered the woman a charcoal stick, “Of course, the more the merrier. Now that we are moments from acting will you finally agree to add your name to the roster?”

The woman brushed her dirty hands on a dirtier tunic and took the charcoal stick. To Lord Glove’s surprise she wrote her name in large block letters on the page. ANKE.

“Who taught you to write?” he asked, letting his astonishment show in his voice.

“My son,” she said proudly, “`e’s a good lad. Went off to `awkdom to learn his letters.”

“We was always going to sign,” she continued, “Just wanted to be sure. My ‘usband will be round shortly you’re needing.”

“That would be most welcome,” he smiled at her.

Anke checked over both her shoulders before speaking to him in a hushed voice. “Lissen, I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you this, but… I ‘eard Akan two farms down’s been talking of speaking to one of Vesper’s lords.”

Lord Glove frowned, “Akan. Gentle spoken man, slightly taller than me, black hair, grey eyes, strong hands?”

“Aye, that’d describe him.”

“Thank you for the warning. I’ll attend to it immediately. You can hold onto the paper for your husband. Gather any additional signatures you can. Someone will come by later and collect them. Look out for the night glider’s cry.”

With that, Lord Glove was off. He didn’t head directly for Akan’s farm as the woman might have expected, but back into the forest.

Peace. A moment will suffice. Then I will be ready.