Duplicity

By Carmi Cason

"Jess" wasn't a prince. There was no prince. In fact, Jess might be a criminal. So, why would Aylee Hembry even consider handing her safety over to him and his ragamuffin band of soldiers? She had already been run out of her town by one unscrupulous man - she would not trust her life to a another who refused to tell her his real name. Unfortunately, she saw no easy path back to her home and away from the stranger's camp. Not only would she have to brave the forest, with its wandering rebels and occasional predators, but going home would bring her troubles back to her family - and Aylee held no desire to do that. One way or another, she would has to figure out how to make it on her own. If she stayed with Jess, she risked more than just her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmi Cason
• Release date: Nov 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005595364

Carmi Cason

Carmi Cason is a mother and grandmother with an undergraduate degree in music and a graduate degree in English. She dabbles in science and multiple foreign languages. From her earliest memories, she has loved stories.She sat in rapt attention at the feet of her maternal grandmother and grandfather, both of whom regaled her with tales of their families and the real-life histories that brought character to her home. Her father passed on his Hardy Boys collection, introducing her to the world of fiction. With a lot of direction from her mother, a gifted storyteller, Carmi has developed a deep passion for writing and conveying meaning through the stories she writes. She also believes that life has a purpose, that though we live in a broken world we are valuable and valued, and that no matter how dark life seems there is hope. She prays you will find that hope in her work.Her mascot is her cat, Oscar, a black tabby who fights against pestal incursions and loves to have his ears scratched.​{If you enjoy my work, please consider offering monthly support at Patreon or a one-time donation at either Patreon or PayPal. I am also available for biographical/autobiographical work or personalized children's books.)​

Book preview

he risked her

Duplicity

By Carmi Cason

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2019 by Carmi Cason

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for use of quotations in a book review.

Third paperback edition October 2023

Book designed by Carmi Cason

Independently published by Carmi Cason

Prologue

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’was 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.

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.

Chapter 1

When she closed her eyes, the shadows danced across her face like dust flecks flickering in the streaming sun. As a child, the sensation had comprised one of her favorites: finding the warm patch on the cold stone floor where the morning sun had baked the earth into a kind of inverse blanket. On that patch, Aylee Hembry could lie on cold mornings and comfortably observe the little particles flitting past her eyes. Even better when her momma would sweep, because the dust would whip up into torrents and come to rest directly on her face.

Aylee Annwyn Hembry! her mother would call. Get your little self off the floor and help me!

Aylee now knew that her mother hadn't expected much help from the child, hardly more than an infant, but instead had despised the idea of all that dirt coating her daughter's face.

You could grow a field of millet in all the soil I wash off of you, my dear Aylee, she would scold. How will you ever grow up to be a lady?

You know I shan't grow up to be a lady, Aylee would sass. Because I was not born a lady.

How she had understood such a concept at the age of four, Aylee did not know. Perhaps because every child in the village learned as soon as he could walk to stay out of the way of ladies' carriages.

Ladies lauded, children chided, the saying went, which had made little sense to Aylee as a child, but she had known it involved children's giving deference to finely dressed women. The ill-fated youngster who failed to do so would find himself at the beating end of several sticks – as Aylee's younger brothers had too often done – and not just that of his parents. The fine ladies who passed through the village frequently spent a wealth of money and jewels on village goods, and the behavior of a town's children could act as a repellent or an attraction to such largesse.

So, Aylee knew she would never be a lady, but at the age of four, she had cared very little. At the age of four and ten, she had grown to despise the fact. At the age of twenty, she found she once again didn't care. She did, however, still enjoy the feeling of the sun on her face and the dancing shadows that flitted past her eyes.

From many years hence, she had outgrown the spot on the floor, and though she didn't mind a smudge of dirt on her skin, she cringed at the thought of the dust that she had wantonly courted as a child. In the more recent past, Aylee had found her opportunity for indulgence on the gently-sloping hill behind her house, and today was no exception. Fall had come shimmering in, blanketing the oppression of summer with a delicious warmth that stirred pleasure in her heart, and once she had helped her mother finish the early morning washing, Aylee dragged the basket of dripping clothes to the clothesline. As she started to hang them to dry on the line, a near swarm of dragonflies began to dance overhead.

At first, she found their presence annoying, not the less because of the gnats that seemed to have predicated their coming. Kind of like my brothers, she smirked. Three younger brothers she had, and every one of them as much a nuisance as a help at any given moment. Or perhaps, she realized, she had to put up with a swarm of annoying gnats to enjoy the beauty of the dragonflies. So, she had to endure the utter rambunctiousness of her brothers to enjoy the diversion they brought to her life.

For instance, the two older boys should have helped Aylee carry the laundry into the yard so that she didn't have to bear a burden so disproportional to her physical stature. For them to do so, though, Aylee would have had to endure the strewing of half the clothes into the dirt along the way. At sixteen and twelve, the boys should have born more responsibilities around the home, but instead they suffered from fits of boredom and nervous energy. Still, she wouldn’t trade their energy for more lethargic company.

On the days Father stayed home, he kept the boys more than busy enough to engage their attention, but sometimes Father traveled for a week or more at a time. Perhaps Chester should have traveled oftener with their father, but Mr. Hembry had little patience with his son's fidgeting, and Aylee feared that Chester would grow fat and lazy left to his own idle fancies.

Chester's heart, though, seemed to hold a touch of gold in it, so Aylee would not have traded his focus for a boy of less energy. He had used his lack of occupation as an excuse to care for the broken and injured animals that so often wandered into the small hamlet, a rough collection of houses on the edge of the town. Because the town supplied the needs of old-worlders who inhabited the abutting marsh, a sort of secondary town square had formed not in the center of the actual village, but at the border between the town and the marsh. On this northern border of the square closest to the marsh sat the Hembry house. Thus, the deer often nosed into the square, and rabbits ran rampant at certain times of year.

With Chester's hobby came a steady stream of business for Mr. Hembry's store since people would travel throughout the village to consult with the little animal doctor. While waiting for his diagnosis, the patient's master would usually make a few purchases from the store. Though most people smirked at Chester's minor obsession, few had shunned his help when their goat developed the lung worm or their canine grew the mange. Where many, including Aylee, saw only fetid disease, Chester saw the suffering of the poor creature and felt compelled to fix it.

If only his compassion had extended to humans! When not saving animals, Chester spent the larger part of his days tormenting any male younger than he who happened into the vicinity of the store. That included his two younger brothers, Chapman and Chalmers. Fortunately, he had yet to find pleasure in treating the female-kind in similar fashion, and Aylee's baby sister, Agnes, had escaped too much grief. From what Mother said, Aylee could expect Chester's attentions to shift from the boys to the girls within the next couple of years, but his pleasure would not grow from tormenting siblings so much as from attracting the town maidens. Aylee had seen the shift in other boys, but she still found it hard to believe with Chester. At twelve, Chapman had a more instinctive sense of charm than Chester would probably ever manage. Still, since Chester excelled in the persistence department, perhaps once his motivation had shifted, his tactics would shift as well.

Aylee giggled at the thought. Chester would marry eventually, certainly. As the eldest son of a respected merchant, Chester would hold resources not available to the average son of an average farmer. As the son of Everett Hembry, the general public would expect Chester to possess some sense, though so far, Aylee had seen little evidence of the characteristic in her brother.

Of course, Aylee realized as she lay back on the grassy hillside, at almost five years his senior, she expected perhaps too much of her brother. She had not allowed for the difference in temperament or maturity. Again, she smiled as she closed her eyes against the sun; perhaps she thought too much of her own maturity. Even at twenty, she still chose to lie down in the grass on the hill and watch the dragonflies' shadows where they danced on the back of her eyelids.

Eyelid! came the cry in chorus with her thoughts. Aylee laid her book over her face, hoping to convince the seeker that she slept underneath it.

Eyelid! Father wants you! He just got back.

Removing the book, Aylee carefully folded it shut and sat up. Why Chester insisted on calling her eyelid escaped her. Not that she didn't know the source of the nickname. Her dear mother, Raehan Hembry, insisted on spelling her name in the ways of the ancient people. Father agreed with Aylee that she should use the most practical and recognizable version of her name, but mother couldn't quite relinquish the beauty of the old ways to the new. Unfortunately, no one in the village knew how to say Eilidh, and unless Aylee stopped her, Mrs. Hembry would write the old-fashioned name on whatever she could find to inscribe. Thus, Chester had plentiful reminders to call his sister by the hated mispronunciation.

If Chester alone had summoned her, Aylee would have feigned sleep, but her father had requested her presence. Aylee had to answer her father for two reasons. First, one did not ignore Everett Hembry. The man did not abide dissent, though he managed to appear affable and pleasant even as he pressed his will. Secondly, Aylee adored her da, and the thought of refusing him in anything brought her great displeasure.

I'm coming, Chester, she glared at her brother. Don't pester me.

Call to me when you are done, because I have news to pass on that I think the men of the town will need to hear.

Skeptical, Aylee tilted her head at her brother. Have you suddenly decided to take an interest in things beyond childhood? she queried with a hint of chastisement.

I left childhood behind ages ago, sister. Did you see that? he replied, his short attention span bringing the lie to his claim of new maturity. I think it's back leg has a disjointed hip flexor!

Aylee rolled her eyes as Chester jumped to his feet and flew after whatever creature he had spied. She sighed to herself. Just before Chester had called her, a breeze had begun to flitter across the field, and she couldn't help but mourn the loss of her favorite sensations. Warm sun, soft grass, and a cooling breeze.

Oh, well, Aylee smiled to herself, unwilling to feel disappointment for very long. Her father had returned home from five days of travel. How could she possibly regret forgoing any other pleasure for the joy of reuniting with him?

Mistress Hembry, upon viewing her daughter, smiled at the pleasure on Aylee's face. Perhaps some mothers would have succumbed to jealousy that her daughter showed such a marked preference, but Raehan took no greater joy in anything than in her children's love for their father. Most children loved their mothers, as most mothers sacrificed a great deal for their children. To have a special bond with a father, though, seemed a rare and beautiful thing, especially in an age where so many men gave more thought to their economies and entertainments than to their families and affections. Certainly, Everett cared a great deal about his business, but he found even greater fulfillment in the circle of his family and building it into a great heritage. Who could complain? Mistress Hembry always reminded herself.

Aylee glided rapidly past her mother, stopping to peck the older woman's face with a quick and affectionate kiss before proceeding out the front door to where her father now tied his horse to the hitching post.

Father! she gushed through the door with genuine enthusiasm.

Her excitement faded significantly when she heard the baritone voice that grated across the pathway toward her father.

E-virt! the deep tone slithered like the scales of a giant serpent. E-virt, I'll be expecting a gift from ye after your trip.

The gods love Everett Hembry! thought Aylee when her father laughed at the slithery voice. I expect ye'll be expecting for a long time then, Malchus Lorne, Mr. Hembry smirked, because I've got nothing that would interest you and nothing I'm willing to gift to you.

From across the gravel path, Aylee swore she heard a hiss, though she could not know for sure. If Malchus's expression truly reflected his heart, a snake's hiss would fit nicely. Malchus Lorne did not look like a snake on the surface, though. Truly, Aylee had to admit the young man's attractiveness. He stood several inches taller than her father, who stood only an inch or so taller than Aylee. Adding to his height, Malchus possessed the deep green eyes of the marsh people, a mysterious tribe of wanderers who only showed their faces when one of their men fell ill or a goat went lame.

When they fell into need, Aylee often went as emissary for her brother to diminish the natural distrust of the marshers, as she called them. Something about Aylee seemed to garner trust; whatever quality she held calmed the nerves and drew out the light.

Not that most people noticed Aylee overly much. Everyone knew her, and if pressed to say, most would call her a lovely person. Still, she managed to escape the notice of most people.

Most, though unfortunately not all, she lamented. Not that she wanted to avoid people – she didn't. She just did not appreciate the fact that Malchus dogged her steps more than practically necessary. Though Aylee shunned rumors, she could not escape the whispers that Malchus's mother had succumbed to the enchantment of a marsher, thus explaining the young man's green eyes. In truth, Malchus's father had never shown an abundance of affection for the young man, and the antipathy between the men only buttressed the suppositions. Part of Aylee bore compassion for the merchant’s son, but not to the extent that she excused his intimidation tactics. She knew many youth of her age who wore the shame of an unclear parentage, and they did not excuse themselves for unscrupulous behavior – on the contrary. Many of them carried themselves with such dignity that the community forgot to judge them after long.

For Aylee, the only significance of Malchus's ambiguous birth lay in how it might explain his preference for her, since the marshers seemed to love her. Flighty and whimsical, the marshers would rarely subject themselves to the close streets and abundant noise of the village, except maybe to see Aylee. For the most part, Aylee appreciated their trust, but unfortunately, Malchus seemed to have inherited an affinity for Aylee along with his green eyes. If only Aylee had not found herself called upon to intervene between Malchus and so many of the less educated townsfolk, she could easily have hidden away from him and never seen him.

In her father's absence, though, Aylee often ran interference in matters that wouldn't otherwise have involved her – matters usually involving Malchus.

Well, you think so, eh, E-virt? The annoying trill brought Aylee back to her father's conversation. And don't you think a gift will motivate me to act on behalf of the bonnie behind ye? And the lads runnin' around the property behind ye? You don't want to leave them unprotected.

An unexpected snort emitted from Everett Hembry. I be thinking that a few fireshots will provide all the protection my family be needing, whether I be here or no. I've seen that ‘bonnie behind me’ lay out a doe from fifty yards. I'm not too worried about someone sneaking up on her.

Though she tried, Aylee did not restrain the snicker that leapt through her lips. Malchus glared at her, but her father just smiled. Thank ye, kindly, though, I be sure, the older man leveled, and Aylee had to turn away to avoid more than the hint of rudeness. To laugh at Malchus Lorne's face would constitute a serious affront with social implications, and even Aylee didn't wish to stir up that much trouble, especially for her family.

When the new portreeve arrives, Malchus sneered toward her, you may be sure that it will be I who laughs.

Even with her back turned, Aylee could visualize the maleficence on Malchus's face. When he grew dangerous, he lost his exaggerated lilt from the ancient people, and he adopted the more common vernacular, as if he switched from a light-hearted façade to the power of his darker self. The tone brought a cold chill to blow over her skin, and she did not know from whence came her reaction. Aylee rarely knew fear, so well had her parents taught her the ways of the mind. Even her mother, so married to the ancient culture, did not put stock in their superstitions. Still, if Aylee could have believed in the ancient spirits, she would have sworn one had grazed past the nape of her neck with Malchus’s words.

Eight, came the unimpressed cool of her father's voice as he lapsed into the lilt of the marshers. Eight portreeves have come and gone since this little business of mine commenced, and every one of them who itched for change scratched off his own skin without so much as causing a minor shift in mine. I would advise ye not to whistle for your dog against the wind. Ye'll not alter the wind's course, thy dog willn't hearken thee, and ye'll likely end up with a mouth full o'dog piss.

She had tried for so long to control herself, but her father had finally broken through Aylee's restraint. For several seconds, she heard only the hissing and snorting of her own laughter, and only when she felt her father's hand on her arm did she finally suck in the breath of recovery. Perhaps she should have behaved better, but the moment of fear had rebounded into a bubbling of mirth.

Now, Mr. Hembry began, and Aylee braced herself for a reprimand from him, but instead he turned to Malchus. Get ye home and come back when ye know better.

Though her father missed little, Aylee couldn't help wondering if her father had realized the dual implications of his statement. Malchus Lorne would never know better, and obeying the mandate would effectively keep the youth away from her father's store for the rest of his life. She could only hope.

Chapter 2

Itchy, Jameson demanded, plotting as he searched. Even secret strategies sometimes required conspirators, and Jameson planned to gather as many collaborators as safely possible. Certainly, Jameson required a companion to lift his spirits, so affected had the father’s illness rendered the son. His imminent meeting would just prove the first of many. Fortunately, the dogs knew Jameson well, because he would need to avoid the attention that would accompany the frenzied barking of a shed full of crazed hounds. The lymer to whom Jameson called most likely sat working or resting inside the shed. He as good as lived there. Jameson had tried to uncover Itchy's real name, but the young man seemed determined to maintain the unfamiliarity of master and servant, so seemed unwilling to reveal his true name. Still, Jameson trusted the lanky, scruff of a man more than anyone he knew. Itchy, I need your help.

Of course, I be at your service. The man's smudged face appeared from behind the rustic wood of the door, revealing the stained brown teeth of a grin that burst out from behind dried-out lips.

Despite his dark humors, Jameson smiled at his friend. Itchy, I have a sensitive assignment for you, and it will require a great deal of sacrifice on your part. Will you hear me? Jameson peered at the man who would have been his bosom companion had birth circumstanced to create them more equal. For as long as Jameson could remember, the familiar face had haunted the dog sheds, apprentice to the boy's father before taking over himself when the older man died. For a while during his youth, Jameson had fallen in love with the dogs and had spent a great many hours in the field behind the shed, watching the dogs' training, or petting and playing fetch with a stick. During that time, he had grown to enjoy the company of the oddly funny youth who played the hounds like an instrument.

Over ten years later, Itchy stood a couple of inches taller and a few pounds lighter than Jameson, but his obsequious manner rendered him of equal height. The servant's tanned skin revealed his mother’s origin from the land of the bright sun, where the tan saved men from terrible diseases and made them strong against the heat. In the high, cold mountains, Itchy's skin had faded, an unnecessary relic of a forgotten history. Still, his near black hair and deep brown eyes marked him out as different from the fair people of the mountain region. To Jameson, though, the difference had long before faded beneath the backdrop of familiarity, and he trusted Itchy more than any man save his own father.

Taking a deep breath, Jameson embarked on the closest thing to an explanation he could offer his friend. Since my father is ill, I will soon take over in his place. The words twisted in his gut, even as he tried to convince himself that the plan would work and render them inaccurate.

Aye, sir. That is apparent.

But before I can do that, Paulus has compelled me to undertake a series of tasks.

Servants talk, Master. You are to leave us. Moonflower himself has declared it.

Jameson couldn't restrain a grin. The sobriquet had proven more accurate than anyone but Jameson and his father had known, but Itchy seemed to hold an unearthly skill for discerning the character of a man. You mustn’t refer to the High Counselor as such, dear friend, Jameson corrected for the sake of good form. And whether or not servants talked, I'm sure you would know all the goings-on around here.

Perhaps, Itchy shrugged. The sinewy face revealed nothing. Yet another reason Jameson needed him.

Though, Itchy, perhaps I will not be leaving you.

You will stay here then?

No, Jameson corrected. Perhaps you will come with me.

Hmm, allowed Itchy noncommittally. Why would I do that?

Because I will be in need of your specialty, sir.

Call me not 'sir,' complained Itchy. To offer me respect raises me responsibilities, and I have enough of those.

If you decide to help me, you will need to get used to it, Jameson chuckled. I need you.

So, you will take your dogs with you? the lymer asked with the slightest twinkle in his eye.

Jameson shook his head. Just the head dog. And you won't leave right away. You will follow me in a few weeks’ time.

Is it safe, do you think, to leave the walls alone with news of the recent incursions?

I am leaving the walls because of the incursions, friend. If I retained the option, I would carry a troop with me, but as it stands, I must gather one instead, as I travel.

Shrugging, Itchy pressed for clarification of his own role. You have my faith, of course, but I would know one thing: why would I go with you and not go with you and follow you but not follow you?

Itchy, Jameson breathed deeply to gain patience. If Itchy went with him, the servant would continue his feigned denseness, an affectation intended to force his friend into using reason rather than impulse. Jameson wondered that the man possessed such a talent without training, but he wondered even more that the man felt brave enough to use it amid his usual subservient attitude. I want you to stay here for two reasons. First, no one must know why you are leaving. We will need to make up some excuse.

And my mother? Itchy interrupted.

I will send my mother's old maid to care for her. The woman is not yet too far advanced in years to care for your mother. And the maid has sisters and a daughter who would all step in to aid her in any endeavor. I promise; your poor old mother will be better cared for than she is now.

Well, get on then.

Jameson huffed a laugh at the man's impertinence. So, first you must obscure your reason for leaving. And secondly...

Secondly, you want me to bring you a report of how things change once your heedful eye is gone.

Though Jameson wouldn't have spoken quite so expressly, he need not deny the truth to his lymer. For one thing, the man would reveal nothing. For another, the lymer already knew the truth of his own words.

Well, Itchy? Jameson pressed for an answer.

Well, what do you think? the man flashed his earthy smile again, and Jameson let a slight smirk break the tension of his perpetual intensity.

I think you are entirely too smart for a lymer.

And I think your dogs are glad that they have me and not someone stupider.

Jameson finally broke into a full grin. Since Itchy had agreed to help, Jameson's position did not feel quite as daunting. From a walk alone to a stroll a-pair strengthened Jameson's stance by one hundred percent. Things had improved already. Jameson had little experience with intrigue, and in his currently volatile state, Jameson needed a level head to counteract his own.

When can I expect the beginning of our great quest, Itchy teased.

Again, Jameson’s lips curled in amusement, but then continued, more sober. I leave this very day. No matter what you hear – there will be terrible rumors – you must follow me in two weeks. On the day after the Feast of Growth, you will set out to meet me in Glowigham.

So be it, Itchy nodded before turning away. Certainly never one to stand on ceremony, Jameson shrugged. Yet another reason that Itchy would prove highly useful on the journey.

Itchy, Jameson ventured hesitantly. While we are gone, I may have some requests that you will think strange.

Itchy turned back with a curious expression. Whatever you ask, you know I obey.

Like that. You can't talk of obeying. Not only that, Jameson pushed past Itchy's raised eyebrows. You might actually need to choose your own will over mine on occasion.

For the first time since Jameson had known him, Itchy stood silently, too shocked to speak.

And I will need you to procure certain things for me... Jameson continued. No reason to dance about the subject. Even if Jameson spent an hour preparing Itchy, the servant would have been hard pressed to react well. Still, after Itchy had heard the particulars, he merely nodded as usual. All things considered, the lymer took the erasing of a life's worth of instruction in good stride.

His plan laid, Jameson returned to his quarters to load his trunk. To ensure its delivery, he would need to send it immediately. By the morrow, the action would appear moot. Despite his father’s reassurances, the next twelve hours terrified Jameson. If not for his trust in his father, the son never would have followed through. But for his father – and for his people – Jameson must do just that.

Chapter 3

The late summer sun sprang beads of sweat down the seams of Aylee’s tunic along the linen of her chemise, and she grumbled internally at the impracticality of the extra layers of clothes during times of heat. She looked forward to the approaching autumn, coveting the clouds and chill that would precede the harvest season. Still, she would not complain. Soon, she would pull a block of ice behind her, and until it was deposited into the larder, any breeze that blew past it would mimic an autumn breeze.

What is your cart for, Miss Hembry? shouted Master Landro, a young man only a year older than herself who often sought her out for discourse.

She would not encourage him – she had noticed that he spoke to most every young lady with as much friendliness of spirit – but he took her indifference with a similar disinterest, so she engaged with him as a matter of course.

I intend to carry back with me a bundle of mandrakes for the village witch.

That’s a lot of mandrake, he grinned. Does your customer intend to curse the whole village?

Just the undesirables.

Guess I’m safe then? Landro grinned, feigning anxiety.

You’re safe enough, Aylee agreed, distracted as she approached her destination. As long as you stay away from certain elements.

Landro’s eyes followed hers to the large storefront where a tall, handsome man stood in state over a small bazaar that teemed with the local population. So, you have someone particular in mind? Landro wondered wryly.

In answer, Aylee threw her companion a distracted denial and finished the trek to the store, leaving Landro behind as she approached the tall man behind the wooden table. She despised the fact that she had to work with her father’s competitor at all, but the man possessed some resources her father had not yet acquired. Worse, she had to deal with the man’s son, who seemed unforgivingly intent on snaring Aylee’s interest. If he had shown any ounce of humanity, she might have indulged him a measure of kindness, but Malchus Lorne made a practice of thuggery, utilizing his father’s position to exploit the people forced to deal with him.

As she approached the queue, she recognized the avarice on his face, and it drew her attention to the small woman, Mistress Tarby, who currently engaged in business with Malchus. He was bargaining with her, and by the confusion on her face, Miss Tarby felt torn between the propriety and wisdom of contradicting the miscreant and her wish not to be taken advantage of by a known grifter.

Dear Mistress Tarby, Aylee greeted loudly, pulling both her the merchant’s attention away from their business. What a pleasure to find you here! I heard tell of the mishap at your home yesterday. Tis fortunate that the bags for this grain will replace the sacks damaged by the accident. They make excellent padding for the baby’s bed – fewer prickles.

A look of gratitude washed over the woman’s face before she turned back to Malchus. It is true, Mr. Malchus, the woman commanded aloud. My Fraylance cannot sleep on the ground tonight, and it was fortunate that I needed these goods today, as delay would have proven quite inconvenient.

Good show, Aylee nodded her approval. If the woman had returned later in the week, Malchus would have feigned ignorance of her purchase, and she would have lost out on half of her goods. Unfortunately, Malchus had not yet garnered the crooked reputation that he deserved, largely because his father managed most of the distribution. A fair – though greedy – man, Master Lorne would have robbed the townsfolk merely by charging a higher price and shutting down the competition, but at least one knew where he stood with the father. Malchus would charm his victims, knock them off balance with his piercing eyes then catch them where they reeled with his hypnotic smile. A moment later, the customer would walk away with less than he paid for.

When Malchus flashed his typical sneer toward the woman, Aylee caught her breath. His eyes spoke danger and fire and power, and Aylee could not help admiring the latent strength that flowed from him. Something had changed. As if he had heard the breath she held, Malchus glanced up at Aylee. Beside the design she had seen in his eyes a moment before rose a hunger that scared her.

Malchus should never look at her that way, and if she could help it, he never would again. From behind her, a laugh erupted, and Aylee glanced back to see Landro a few yards away, where he stood staring at the encounter with amusement. The distraction cost her because when she turned back, Malchus had slid from behind the table and approached to within a few inches of her.

Miss Aylee, he oozed. I could swear that I heard the voice of an angel whispering in the ear of Mistress Tarby only a moment before she walked away with what should have been mine.

Malchus inclined entirely too close to Aylee, not at all a proper distance for a young man and woman, but Aylee would not retreat. She narrowed her eyes at him, too bothered by his words to back away. And what if ye did? she glared at him. It takes an angel's voice to break the spell of the devil.

If possible, Malchus widened his smile, and Aylee lost herself for a moment.

The devil's not all bad, Miss Aylee, he stepped closer, and Aylee immediately stepped back.

Ha! The declaration actually raised a chuckle from Aylee's gut. By definition, Master Lorne, the devil is all bad. He only plays with the light so he can snuff it out. His confident smile faltered for a moment, and Aylee liked the resulting malice even less than his amusement. Still, she did not readily succumb to threats. And, she continued, seeing as I have no desire to be extinguished, I will just take my grain and go.

Moving around him, Aylee stepped back to her bag where it rested by the table. She opened it and waited expectantly for him to return to his duty. Fortunately, another customer arrived a moment later, so any retaliation Malchus might have planned had to wait. She headed across the square to stand in the shade of the smithy’s wooden porch, taking a few moments to adjust the sacks she held for easier carrying. By the time she turned back, Landro had approached Malchus, and the pair stared at her from across the square. While Malchus fumed, Landro’s eyes twinkled with amusement, but their conversation could not have revolved around anything beneficial to her. Maybe Landro is not so harmless as I imagined, she realized, since anyone who enjoyed an exchange with Malchus must hold less character than she could abide.

Aylee hated feeling forced to deal with Malchus in any way, but with the warm, wet climate over the past few months, Mr. Hembry could not bring the grain from his usual nearby markets. Now, before he could reach his home, the grains would turn. With the iron fist of the Lorne family over the town, no one around her community dared sell grain to anyone else for redistribution.

Since Aylee could remember, her father had traveled days at a time to procure the goods he needed for his store. Now, though, Everett Hembry had to make journeys of several days or even weeks just to find the basic goods to stock his store. He could have found many of his needs closer to home, but the Lorne family kept the town on tight restraints. The townsfolk preferred to do business with Everett Hembry, but when he couldn't provide something, the people had no choice. Knowing this, Wendell Lorne made deals with his suppliers for a higher payout, and in exchange they agreed to sell only to him. As a result, he could charge his customers a high price, offering loans with heavy interest when they couldn’t afford the goods and exacting a steep cost when someone couldn't pay. Malchus exuded every ounce as much avarice as his father, but married it to corruption.

Chester Hembry! Aylee cried suddenly as her mind returned to the world around her. Chester! Get away from there! She watched helplessly, unsure exactly how she could help without causing further problems. Still, she placed her bags on the ground so that she could act quickly should the opportunity arise.

Rather than answer, Chester dove back under the coach, barely avoiding the revolving spokes as the wheels came to a halt. A moment later, he emerged dragging Winslet, the family hound, his scruff scrunched tightly in Chester's fist. Chester joined Aylee where she stood.

Chester! Aylee chided. You could have been killed!

And so could have Winslet! he sassed. Was I supposed to leave him to die?

Better him than you, little mutton! Though he now stood several inches taller than she, Aylee mussed his hair. When Chester shrugged his shoulders, Aylee grabbed him into a hug.

Next time, leave the dog be. He's probably better than ye at dodging wheels.

Still with no response, Chester began to drag Winslet back toward their home. As Aylee reached down for the bags, she glanced up to where the carriage had paused. An unusually tall, well-dressed man had alit and now spoke in hushed tones to Malchus and Landro. From the open side door, Aylee could spy another young man, about her age, lounging across one of the seats.

With ruddy brown curls escaping from under his cap, he favored the eastern region of Banda, and she couldn’t escape her curiosity. He sat alone, and Aylee could only describe his expression as bored. Or perhaps depressed. No, she realized. Nobles did not suffer depression. She knew the two young men could not be brothers, not with their difference in complexion, but when the taller, darker man turned back to the carriage, the ruddy-haired man exited eagerly enough. Aylee could not discern who deferred to whom, and she believed them at least friends. Certainly, both carried themselves with a better comportment than Malchus.

It had been many months since anything exciting had taken place in Bennigton, and Aylee found herself more than a little curious about the pair of handsome strangers. Rather than rush back to her home, as she would otherwise have done to escape Malchus, she took her time retrieving the bags from the ground, straining to hear the nearby exchange. When Malchus stepped through the threshold of his father’s large abode, Landro took his leave of the group, and the shorter noble seated himself on the carriage steps as the pair began a hushed conversation.

You suspected right, but what does it signify now? If you don’t manage the right story, you might as well get used to traveling life, the taller man offered in a hushed tone. Aylee thought she caught hints of a provincial accent, but nothing out of the realm of the educated. This persona is too close to your own, though. Will not someone deduce the truth?

Aylee could not discern the reply from the seated man, whose voice rumbled more deeply and harder to discern. She fumbled with the string on her bags as if tying them tighter.

Maybe a trader or a minstrel, the taller friend offered, and Aylee noted the muffled laugh from the steps of the vehicle.

Do you play an instrument, then? My instrument weights a hundred stone, but I can sing… To prove his point, Jameson burst out in a boisterous folk tune, though his clear tone spoke some study and would hardly blend in a village revue.

No, that will not do, Itchy chastised as several of the nearby villagers offered scattered applause. Something more inconspicuous, I advise.

Aylee did not applaud, though his voice rang far richer than most she encountered, and she could not help but be impressed. Still, turning her smile to the straw at her feet, she reined in her expression. Their banter challenged her irritation, threatening to soften her opinion of them, so she focused on the inexplicable nature of their words. This persona, the taller man had said. Very strange.

When she heard nothing for a minute, she reached down and retrieved her bags, turning as she lifted them to glance at the conveyance. The two men had stopped talking and were watching her where she stood. She did her best to offer a nonchalant smile, and at that moment, Malchus stepped out of his home and back to the other two men. For him, she could only offer a glare. The taller man walked to the back of the carriage, and Malchus and the other man began a conversation that Aylee could not make out.

Still stalling, she adjusted her bags, exaggerating the struggle to explain her delay. She ambled over to the smith and made up a query about a pot for her mother. She told herself that she only cared about the conversation behind her because it involved Malchus, and a collaboration between the scoundrel and men of means could only signal trouble. Remembering the strangers’ smiles, though, she did not quite believe her claimed reasons. No, she was curious.

Usually, she disdained nobility – nobles had so few problems that they suffered a lack of stimulation. She never envied them, except in their power to do good. Few ever exercised such power, though, so Aylee did not find much reason to think highly of them. In that respect, she almost preferred Malchus to the young men in the carriage. If Malchus was profligate, he at least had to work for it.

Not that their societal class kept her from noticing that the taller man’s eyes were turned up slightly at the corners, offering an exotic note to his rugged looks. Nor that the carriage’s other occupant possessed a slight dimple in one cheek which appeared when, upon catching her looking at him, his face broke into a delightful grin. Aylee instantly turned away, embarrassed. She had always prided herself in not slobbering after young men, as her friends had for the last several years.

True, her friend’s slobbering ways had managed husbands for most of them while Aylee had attracted only moderate attention.

Only a great man can deserve you, sweet Aylee, counseled her father. You scare away all the others.

Well, then, why could she not scare away Malchus Lorne and his unwanted persistence? Perhaps greatness was more a magnitude than a value. Malchus definitely held great potential, though more directed toward selfishness and greed than any honorable cause. If Aylee had to choose solitude over Malchus's brand of greatness, then so be it.

Spite the peer, came the murmur from the blacksmith, and Aylee glanced up into his face with shock. Apparently, she had not suppressed her irritation with the noble as well as she had assumed, because no doubt, the blacksmith thought himself in sympathy with her or he would not have mumbled the words for her hearing. He was mistaken, however. Spite the peer constituted a brutal and mindless response to the nobility that Aylee could never sanction.

The Steeple society had recently moved into Bennigton from the surrounding area, largely because of the town’s lack of a noble patron – less power to interrupt the society’s conspiring. Aylee, though, thought of them as outsiders. For every story of nobility who oppressed and mistreated his subjects, there were a handful of stories of horrific destruction by the society. Burned crops, ravaged buildings, and on occasion, a noble family slaughtered or ravaged, usually with the servants and hands on the premises at the time and included in the victims.

No, Aylee did not need that kind of sympathy, and she leveled an even more disdainful glare at the blacksmith before turning back to lift her bundles. In truth, the dissidents spawned mostly from the lower patricians, dissatisfied that they had not managed their own nobility. The hardworking people of the village largely appreciated the jobs provided by the kinder nobles and the expenditures they made in the village.

Of course, she held no great deference for the nobility – as no one in Bennigton needed to – but she bore them no ill will. Despite her earlier characterization, she thought no less of the individuals in the peerdom than she did of individuals of the merchant class or in poverty.

Spite the peer! Came a sudden rumbled chorus from the milling crowd around her, as apparently, the mantra had licked like a flame along the fronds of dissent. Aylee’s head jerked up to take in the view of the two men in the carriage, her compassion for them mingled with fear that they would react harshly to the mostly peasant crowd. She was slightly ashamed that people from her village had repeated the mantra.

Had the men heard?

A mild tension in the face of the seated noble belied that he had heard, and Aylee wanted to grip every one of the crowd who had repeated the phrase by the ear and give them a verbal lashing. Instead, she thanked the blacksmith tersely and stepped from under the little porch into the afternoon sun. She heard a laugh that drew her eyes back to the carriage, and she recognized the nervous tension in the smaller man. Malchus had gone, and the two friends stood together again. The one with the reddish-brown curls was raising himself from where he had stooped to retrieve something from the ground.

Ma’am! he called out to a disheveled-looking woman whose decimated frame implied that she had foregone many meals to feed the four children she held in tow. Ma’am, I believe this is yours… He awkwardly scurried a few steps toward the woman who reached out her hand and gripped the object, a little purse that seemed heavy with coins.

Oh, master, she offered, clasping his hand with both of hers. Thank ye. Thank ye so much. My Henrik was in charge of the purse, and he is so young. I don’t know what we would have done if we lost it.

Did Aylee register a look of pity on the man’s face? When she turned to the friend, he wore a mien of…pride? As if he took pleasure in his friend’s kindness. Everything in her had believed the younger man some noble or peer, and the companion a servant or lackey. The insecurity on the smaller man’s face, though? His obvious wish for validation? It certainly seemed the response of a subordinate to a rank officer. Perhaps she had misjudged.

Certainly, the voices that rose to spite the peer had misjudged. If you men of the village had witnessed this man’s kindness? she chastised silently. If they had witnessed the flash of gold slip from the smaller man’s hand into the woman’s purse? If the woman had not seen it, she would find at least a doubling of the value in her bag, and Aylee’s heart warmed just a hint toward both of the strangers.

At least until they returned to their positions by the carriage