“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.”

“Fine, then, Itchy,” 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.”

“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 assure 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.