“One more time,” Jameson repeated, working hard to keep the command out of his tone, “tall, thin, tanned. You have seen him. I need to know where and when.”

Somehow, no one had noticed a giant of a man named Itchy, an inch or two taller than a stallion, hovering around the town of Glowigham. Only a dozen houses lined the narrow street inside the rugged, unkempt walls of the town, and the village center boasted only a pub, a store, and some sort of smithy. If the few rooms above the pub were occupied, the owner did not know it, and Jameson began to fear he had stumbled into a town of loons. How could anyone manage anonymity in such a setting, especially someone as tall as Itchy? Why had no one seen the man? Even as his depression over his father gripped him, Jameson pressed past the moment to persist in his search.

“Excuse me, sire,” creaked a mousy voice that seemed to creep out of the alley behind the pub. Jameson turned toward the sound, edging his way around the corner of the building. The mud from the rough bricks tugged at his cape as he swept into the dark pathway.

“Over here, sire,” the voice continued, and Jameson squinted into the gloom at a small grey mass of a woman who hardly spanned just over four feet in height. “I have seen your friend,” she asserted slyly.

Cautiously, Jameson approached the woman with all of his senses alert. Note to self, he chastised silently. Lose the cape or everyone will know your social status. After his encounter in Bennigton, he had taken Itchy’s advice and set aside his nobleman’s guise. The “servant” certainly possessed the mind of a strategist. At the moment, Jameson needed someone to help in that area, hindered as he stood by all the stress of his current situation. He knew his father still lived, and he agreed with his father that there would be nothing to fear for at least a couple of months, but that did not protect Jameson from worry - worry that rendered his own mind less than optimal for the task before him.

After letting a barn on the outskirts of Bennigton to lock away his carriage, he had sent Itchy ahead to Glowigham to find a room for a “tradesman’s” stay. Certainly a better option than a minstrel, Jameson smirked, remembering the other suggestions by his lymer.

“The man you seek has taken refuge at the home of my son,” the creaking voice of the woman interrupted his thoughts. “The old dog was most insistent that no one know of his presence.”

Jameson chuckled at the use by the woman of the term “old dog” to describe anyone. If anything, Itchy was a third her age.

“And yet you told me of his presence,” Jameson demanded.

“Ha!” the old woman huffed. “That old dog told me to look for a fine young man who didn't know up from down. And here ye are.”

Perhaps Jameson would need to pick up the practice of taking the switch to his servant, he mused ironically. “Well, take me to him, then,” Jameson leveled.

Five minutes later, he stood in a clean but broken-down hovel of a house. Had Itchy found no room to rent? Directly inside the door of the little home sat a small, crude table and chairs. On the right, a hearth glowed with the evening coals, and the smell of roasting dove pervaded the air. It reminded Jameson that he had not eaten since fleeing from Bennigton before the noontime.

“Of course, I asked that young man there to catch a few extra hen for ye,” Itchy growled the answer to the unspoken request. “I knew ye'd be here afore the night fell.”

Anticipation overpowered Jameson's surprise at his servant's acuity. When Itchy set the steaming bird on the table, Jameson could feel his mouth water. A glance around the room informed him that no one would notice a lack of manners, so Jameson soon held the bird firmly in his hands and began to tear into it with his teeth. Juice ran down the corners of his mouth, but when he looked up, he saw no napkin readily available.

“Perhaps we won't have as much work to do to help you blend in with the commoners as we thought,” Itchy grinned at him. “Now, all you must do is swipe your sleeve across your mouth.”

Jameson knew his face must reflect the horror he felt. What other unsanitary habits did the average man endure?

“Only playing, master,” Itchy widened his smile, handing over a square of cloth. “You must think us wholly uncivilized if you believed it of me.”

“No, no,” Jameson stuttered, gratefully wiping his mouth with the offered material. Once the first pangs of hunger had subsided, his conscience upbraided him. “My dear woman,” he queried, noting the sinewy build of the woman and her son, “you must share in this meal. Forgive me for my disrespect.” He pushed his plate toward the woman and her son, but they both held up their hands.

“Please, Master Jameson,” the son insisted. “We have eaten our fill. Master Itchy rounded up a near feast for us – like to overfeed us, to be honest. Ye must finish your bird.”

Relieved, Jameson pulled the plate back to himself, starting back on the meal with more self-control.

“There’s hope for you in this venture, sir,” Itchy claimed. “You mix just enough familiarity and deference into your speech to confuse any potential discovery, but ye must leave the cape behind.”

Without a thought, Jameson unhooked his cape and wrapped it around the shoulders of the old woman. “You must not venture out in my cape, dear madam, but on the frigid winter nights, it will warm ye nicely in your home.”

After a moment of giggling, the woman turned a grateful look up to Jameson. “That I will,” she nodded. The cape covered her from head to toe with room to spare. Actually, the cloak might cover both her and her rather diminutive son on a cold night. “Now, Mr. Itchy has asked me to procure a few sets of clothing for you that might suit you better among us regular folk. I have managed three sets of trousers.” She placed three well-folded items on the table. “And two blouses, and a jerkin.” The other items followed suit.

“You are very kind,” Jameson offered sheepishly. “I think these will suit nicely.”

“Glad to help,” the son interjected. “I had an associate of about your size who passed on – ”

“They had no trouble, master,” Itchy interrupted. The bird in Jameson's stomach churned slightly at his host's incomplete thought. “You can rest assured that I take care of your needs.”

“Of course, Itchy. Madam. Sire.” Jameson nodded to each in turn. “And you must not call me master, Itchy. Some generic greeting, like brother or friend.”

Itchy's right eye squinted into an expression of skepticism mixed with disgust. “How can ye expect me to do this?”

“Itchy,” Jameson placed his hand on his friend's. “I am conferring on you the highest honor. I am not elevating you in social stature, though I certainly would if you would let me, but I am recognizing in you the intelligence to bring yourself up in your mind to my stature and the loyalty that would make you willing to do so. I need your help, and there is not another soul on earth whom I would trust to fulfill the office I'm asking you to fulfill.”

With a twitch of his mouth, Itchy's face unfolded into an expression of dignity, and a nod later, Jameson saw the servant's acquiescence.

“So, will we be calling ye Jameson?” Itchy wondered. “Seems a bit obvious.”

“Maybe Jass?”

“I like it,” Itchy grinned. “If I were more familiar, I'd be calling ye Jass the Ass.”

Jameson cringed. “Maybe not.”

“But Jess is a close approximation. Suits ye, nay?”

“Aye, Itchy. It'll do as well as any other. Now, all we need to do is fix this fiction that we are undertaking.” Jameson stared at his friend. “For starters, we must develop a story that explains our situation.”

The old woman nodded her son out of the room, and Jameson smiled his appreciation.

“You counseled me wisely in Bennigton, and I think we go forward as a tradesman and his associates, but how do we garner support as from the merchant class without attracting attention.”

“Aye. I fear that, with a garrison of soldiers, thy appearance will not match thy story. While I awaited thee in the pub, however, some stories came to my ears that might offer an explanation for our unusual setup. Ye know of the rumors about the outskirts of Banda?”

“I do,” Jameson allowed. “I am unsure whether they are lies by Maximus or incursions by him.”

“Well, there have been similar rumors of raids in the interior, base criminals who are using the unrest for monetary gain. These have stirred up much anxiety among the common folk, and the merchants in particular are concerned about their safety. Traveling between towns has grown more perilous, what with goods growing scarcer and more expensive.”

“So, it would not seem completely unlikely for a tradesman to hire protection.”

“Though probably not in the number you intend to recruit.”

Tapping his fingers on the table, Jameson considered the dilemma. “I will limit the number of troops who accompany me on any excursion into the towns, leaving the rest to camp in the forest. Still, it will take me some time to drum up that many followers – that is why we have planned for two months. I think that we deal with the problem of appearances when it arises. With the unrest begun under Maximus, our plans may have to evolve over time. Do you think we should seek support from the nobles? It is the commoner who will supply the troops, so I think it wise to consult with them.”

“Maximus will be enlisting nobles to stand with him – already has, from your observations in Capigan – how will ye counteract that? It is why you were wise to leave, and why you would be wise in enlisting help. Even with the support of the commoner, you will need nobles to supply ye.”

“Or merchants. I can think of a dozen nobles whom I can trust; I will appeal to them. But the merchants will be quite as helpful with supplies, and there are at least two in every town.”

“Ye could ask that charming Lorne to aid you...”

“You had better jest, Itchy. I would not ask anything of him for the support of a hundred kings. I will never prove so desperate.”

“We will have to be clandestine,” Itchy brought the topic back around. “There are twenty towns to apply to, and each might easily supply five or ten trustworthy soldiers.”

“I hope at least ten.”

“I do not think we will have time to visit every hamlet in the duchy.”

Jameson shook his head. “Probably not. Glowigham, Bennigton, Lolly, Trandel…I’ll make a list of those within a five-day ride of the castle. We will sweep along the south of the forest of Banda, along the foothills, and swing back north near the valley ridge by the marsh.”

“Good,” Itchy agreed. “Perhaps we skip Bennigton, though, lest your identity become compromised.”

Jameson cursed. “If only we had determined our strategy before we started from Capigan. To be honest, my father’s sickness and the plan for my removal had overwhelmed me, and I could not manage a proper analysis. It is why I rely on your level head. I will return there to retrieve a few important possessions, then we will forsake that town to concentrate on others. There are two merchants there, but only one whose support I covet. And few men of age to fight.”

Itchy played with his chin for a moment, rubbing his hand over the scattering of whiskers that had begun to grow there. “I think it will cost us little. The merchant who haled you in Bennigton did not seem of a character to help us, and as removed from Capigan as the village stands, there is no real noble family there. The townsfolk are less likely to be supportive of any political maneuverings from Capigan, too – quite independent.”

“As I wish all of our towns could be, to say truth.”

“Even though the dissidents propagate most successfully there?”

“You err, Itchy. It is not the people of Bennigton nor the nearby hamlets who foment the unrest. Outside elements utilize the freedom of the town to entrench themselves, but with the proper portreeve, the people of the town will eventually run them out.”

“A portreeve unlike the one currently in office…” Itchy asserted.

“An issue I intend to rectify as soon as I am able. Yet, I still cannot regret the liberty in the towns. The autonomy not only serves the citizens, which is where my motivations lie. It would also serve the nobility to hold more freedom to negotiate amongst themselves rather than playing politics in Capigan. That kind of interaction only breeds corruption, and it reflects poorly on all landowners.”

“Aye, sir,” came the creaky voice from the corner.

Jameson turned to take in the sight of the old woman where she and her son had eased back into the room. As soon as Jameson turned to her, she froze, suddenly timider.

“Speak, dear woman. You have nothing to fear from me.”

After a quick glance at Itchy, she drew in a rushed breath and seemed to steady herself. When she continued, her tone barely whispered in its nervousness.

“I am assured by your servant that you are a man who helps those who need it, and so I will go on in boldness. Do I understand by your name that you are the son of James?”

Jameson exchanged a look with Itchy, but as they had not yet held a clear conversation about hiding his identity, Jameson could not upbraid his servant. They would need to set out some clearer terms about his story.

“That I am,” he allowed, “though it is vital that no one but you hold that knowledge.”

“Of course, sire. Why I spoke, sire…I do not wish to be the bearer of unpleasantness to one such as yourself, but I must offer some unpleasant news. You are right in saying that the corruption reflects poorly. See,” she ducked her head, suddenly hesitant again, “until I heard this conversation, I believed your father a scoundrel.”

Jameson started. He had known about Maximus’s plan to create instability, but he had not considered that the people would blame James. Once he heard the thought, he realized that he should have expected it. The thought disheartened him, but his righteous anger overcame his despondency, and he found himself aching to begin his quest. “On what basis?” he prompted.

“His support of a noble miscreant. See, a man with much wealth wants to build himself a near-palace on this spot. Of course, he has also promised to take over the nearby homes, and seeing as we have no fireshots or spears or training – having traded them for food when the portreeve added the wheat tax – we have little with which to defend our position.”

Jameson narrowed his eyes. “And my father?”

“Has supplied the soldiers to keep us in line.”

Though he controlled his expression, a fire-red haze rose in Jameson’s vision. “And my father is being blamed for this?”

“Well, friend,” Itchy offered, “should you have expected differently?”

“Certainly, rule by Maximus would prove very different from my father’s rule. You’re right, I should have expected these types of partial and avaricious policies from such a man.”

“And people will believe this, as they often mistrust authority.”

“As is meet, Itchy. Rare is the leader who deserves the honor he receives. Governing man is a privilege and responsibility, and it is difficult to accomplish with virtue. Part of that responsibility is protecting myself from those who would hurt my people through me. When authority is grown fat and lazy, they are likely not giving proper respect to their office.”

“Thou art not fat,” the old woman cackled.

“Nor an ounce lazy,” Itchy corrected. “Ye have followed after your father, I see.”

“That is more than I can aspire to, though perhaps if I can manage this, I will have earned my position for a while. It is possible that Providence, knowing that my father intends to hand me more responsibility, must prepare me to deserve the honor.”

“Thou art a goodly man, son of James,” the woman assured him, “and if I live to see your rule, I anticipate a good one.”

“If solemnity equals competence, I think we are all safe,” Itchy smirked, throwing his friend a mocking glance.

Jameson would not reply in his usual manner, not in front of the sweet old matron. “Well, one thing I can tell you, dear lady, is that no one will build a palace on this site unless they get your permission and let the people of the town inhabit and work in it. But if you would prefer, I will not let them remove one brick from the buildings of your village.”

With a grin, the woman nodded. “I would live in a palace, if my Edrick could take a minor employ among its workers.”

“I will see to, if it is in my power. Who is the foreman responsible for the proposed building plan?”

“Master Pogro, am I right mother?” the son spoke up.

“I believe ye are, dear boy,” she agreed. “Ye can find him at the cottage on the road to Bennigton, the one on the property of Sir Worthingham.”

“And it is that sir who would overtake your village?”

“It is, sire. I've been thinking that in a town so small, little would remain behind a palace so large. All of my neighbors would find themselves displaced.”

“And are your neighbors faithful men?” Jameson prodded.

“Most of them, sir. Just honest laborers who want to care for their kin.”

“Well, if they're willing to help with the work, then I will make sure that they have an improved circumstance. May I proceed?”

A giggle bubbled from the woman's mouth. “And ye, a noble, ask my permission? Aye, sir. I give it, with my blessing and gratitude.”

With a small smile, Jameson turned back to Itchy. “We have much work to do, my friend.”

“Your father's name needs a resurrection and revival.”

“And the people of the region. They have suffered too far.” Jameson turned pensive for a moment, unable to force the levity that he tried to maintain for Itchy’s benefit. He shook off his melancholy quickly, though, standing to his feet to force himself forward. “So we will begin presently. I return to Bennigton on the morrow, which will place me in the way to Worthingham. Expect news tomorrow after your midday meal.”