Brian swung the cellar door to the Towers house open with a squeaking creak, and shuffled down the dim and stony stairs. He groped his way along the wall with his good hand, and, with the two fingers of his other, gripped the edge of a candleholder he'd looted from the manor. Candles were dear, and few could afford them. Elena would gladly have given him some--but there were matters of pride to consider. And matters of suspicion; he knew he'd been seen with her, and it bothered him that he might be considered a traitor. Never mind that he was in charge of all of this.

Outside, he knew, the moon was near its apex. Soon he'd have enough people gathered--Cael and John Fisher would be by soon, they always were. Cael was dedicated. But then, his wife had just died, and all his children, so what else did he have do to but smith weapons for them? Those they'd gathered lay, dimly illuminated, in a pile in one corner. Generally, Brian kept it covered by a tarp, but it had grown to impressive proportions by now. Soon they'd have to do something.

He lit some of the torches in brackets on the wall and dragged a crate to the center of the room, then waited for everyone to arrive. He'd think of some things to say and then leave it up to democrat tick speechifying, whatever that was. Father Hubert had told him about some of it, but he didn't know, really. He'd learn. Or not. Learning words wasn't half as important as learning what was right, and he knew that already.

A few of her associates had insisted on accompanying her, Abbey had declined vehemently. It was the planning of a rebellion, how would she look striding in with a band of guards, like some scared noble or something? No, Abbey had to go alone, in the company of only the darkness and a dagger concealed expertly in the folds of a tattered linen shirt. She had adorned herself as inconspicuously as possible, concealing her disfigurement with a red bandanna tied bandit-style around her nose and mouth, and set out into the night.

Finding the meeting place might have been difficult for any ordinary person, for Abbey however, picking gossip out of a web of contacts like a spider picks flies, it was easy. The moon was high in the sky, and shone prettily on the side of the tower. Abbey stopped for a moment, forgetting her sordid life as she stared at the moon soaked stone, finally she had to continue. She hadn't reached her success by gawking, she knew she wouldn't keep it that way either.

The tower's door was loud, the hinges in desperate need of oiling, and it made her wince. Perhaps the meeting's planner had meant for it to be this way, to be alerted whenever someone entered. Briefly, Abbey wondered if she was being set up, what if the monarchy had spread the rumors themselves, attempting to weed out the dissenters? She snorted, so what? If it turned out to be a trap, she was still a fifteen year old girl, she might be lashed, locked up, perhaps given to some lord, but she wouldn't die, and she would easily escape. No, Abbey was safe here, there was nothing to do now but carry on. Somewhere far below she saw the flicker of torches, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, she wasn't the first.

The stairs were steep but her footing was sure, and Abbey made her way down the tower with ease, stopping only when she reached the final bend in the stairway. She took a deep breath, whatever surprises waited, she was about to find out. Slipping her dagger loose fro,m its hiding place, she peeked her head around the wall. She was met by the sight a blond haired man, not much older than her really, and attractive in an odd, almost feminine sort of way. She pushed that last thought out of her head, already building up an emotional wall.

"You must be Brian Farraday." She stated coldly, albeit in a girlish voice that made her wince internally. She twirled the dagger in plain sight, setting stern eyes on the man. "I'm Adele."

Brian raised one eyebrow at the sight of a dagger-wielding girl. She looked young, perhaps Elena's age, certainly too young to have such a cynical look about her. And what was her mouth covered over for? No one in his right mind would put a little girl on wanted posters. It was simply silly. Still, maybe she had some other reason for going unseen. Some other reason for keeping such a sharp eye to her dagger. Brian certainly knew what of reasons like that.

And she'd given a false name. Of that he was sure; it slipped too easily from her tongue, and no surname? Besides, no one named their daughter 'Adele.' And he'd learned something about false names from Conn, who had about a thousand of them. Robert Morrigan, was that what he was supposed to call him? Brian didn't particularly care. To be honest, his brother frightened him, downright gave him the creeps.

Her green eyes looked calculating, very distant, and a little mad. Brian felt the skin on the back of his neck creep, but he kept his face pleasant.

"Aye," he said carefully, extending his good hand, his bad one tucked into his pocket, as usual. "And you must be something other'n Adele, but I don't have too many cares what people call themselves, so long as they have a wish for freedom in their hearts--" He glanced up quickly; Cael was descending the stairs, Roger holding onto one of his arms to support him. Good, people were arriving. He turned his attention back to the girl, a stranger.

"But how'd you ever hear of the meetin'? It's a bit secret, y'see." Unconsciously, he untucked his bad hand and scratched nervously at the back of his neck with his two remaining fingers.

Abbey almost laughed out loud, a wish for freedom in her heart? This Brian Farraday was idealistic, foolishly optimistic. Abbey had learned history from anyone willing to read to her, social sciences from anyone willing to share theories, revolutions were hardly about freedom, they were about turning over social order, putting the lower class on top, that is, until a new revolution turned it over again. No, Abbey was more interested in a revolution for reasons of power, favor was easy to gain when one backed the right cause. Still, she hated to crush his dreams so early.

"Aye," She agreed, "I can't be happy until my brethren have thrown off their chains." Beneath her mask she grimaced, the sentence was so silly sounding. She saw Brian glance over her shoulder and cast a look back herself. Two more people were descending the stairs, she hardly gave them a glance, she found it best to view people as expendable until she really grew to know their value, better that way in case they would die. She watched him untuck a hand he had kept hidden the whole time, a hand possessing only two whole fingers. He seemed insecure about it, Abbey couldn't help but smile sadly, what did he know of insecurity?

"How did I find out about your meeting?" She repeated. "Nothing's a secret when you know where to look. Maybe you haven't been out on the streets much? There's always some bit of news to hear in the darkest corners of taverns."

She slipped her dagger into her waistband. This man, whoever he really was, was hardly any sort of authority. He lacked a rigidness she had learned to avoid, lacked true masculinity. Most of all, he seemed nervous, hiding it well, but nervous nonetheless. She stuck out a hand.

"Well, if you want to know my real name, it's Abbey, the surname's not important, wouldn't tell you anything anyway. I can probably be of some use to you, if you let me stick around."

Brian took her hand firmly and shook it up and down. Her palms were calloused.

"I try not to hang about in dark corners." He tilted his head downward, and let go of her fingers a little too quickly. It wasn't entirely proper, after all, to keep hold of a girl's hand too long, even if she was, unaccountably and somewhat scandalously, wearing breeches instead of skirts. "So why the cloth?" He nodded toward the bit of red fabric covered her mouth and nose. Red was a fiercely expensive dye, and surely worn by no serf he knew could afford such a thing.

She scared him. That was it, he had to admit: put him on edge, so he wanted to put her on edge right back. Ridiculous! But she did remind him fiercely of his brother, false names and all. Conn... Brian scanned the room uneasily, one eye out for his brother, who had the most disturbing tendency to loom at you out of corners all of a sudden. He'd be by soon enough.

"I'm only saying, it hardly seems sporting to cover up your face in a room of friends--as we are all." Hardly sporting, and, more to the point, aggressively separatist. Brian didn't want shady characters in his revolution. People kept streaming in, and he nodded at them all, but he didn't back down, his chest going out and his fists, such as they were, clenching at his sides. She was just a girl. She ought to behave like one, or he'd feel even more off-kilter than ever. And she'd better uncover her face.

Abbey grinned beneath the bandanna, Brian was obviously uncomfortable, put off by the character she had worked so hard to create over her career.

"Then you need me more than ever." She said, a hint of mirth on her voice. He was charming in an idealistic sort of way, and undeniably handsome, still, he hardly seemed like her type. Not to mention, his ideas on revolution were...idiotic. "Do you think revolting is only going to attract roguish do-gooders with reform in their minds? This whole city is crawling with human vermin who don't want anything other than what they think is their fair share of wealth. You're going to start seeing so many vile creatures it'll make you want to puke! Now like I said, I can be of benefit to you, I'll hang around dark corners for you, maybe then you can keep this thing under control, maybe keep tabs all the shadows waiting to put a dagger in your back."

She touched the fabric covering her face, unsurprised he had asked. They always asked, it didn't make it any less painful. She decided to go for the more aggressive route. "Perhaps the same reason you keep trying to hide your hand. I don't miss much, Brian Farraday." She gave him a wink and slid back into the growing crowd.

"You may feel hopeful." She imparted as she drifted away. "But revolution is about hate and anger, keep your eyes open for those who might embody that more than you would like."

A few days in the city and Fletcher had become a different man. He was one sort of bloke out in the countryside, but give him a week in a town full of people, and the wild man became a wild card. The defenses he lowered while wandering the countryside alone rose up, and suddenly he was smiling through a mask of cunning lies and artful charisma.

So it hadn't been too much trouble, once he'd donned his city face, to start wheedling out information. He hung out in the taverns where the tankards were never washed, and the pubs where the ladies of negotiable affection leered over the upstairs banisters. First he'd listened to the rumors, casing out who seemed to know what was what, then he'd started asking questions and making deals. He'd found out about the meeting from a furtive, ferret-like man in the back booth of a derelict bar. It had taken several ales to loosen the man's tongue enough to get a decent set of directions, but eventually he'd struck gold.

He'd lingered in the alley, and watched a number of cloaked, dark-clad figures scurry (or in a few cases, limp) through the shadows, into a cellar door. Fletcher grimaced. While he understood the mystique of the literally underground revolution, he found that cellars tended to have an inconvenient lack of back doors out of which one could bolt if things got dicey.

But it was a risk he was willing to take. He covered one eye with his hand, then emerged from the door where he'd taken refuge. He didn't sprint or scamper, but strolled nonchalantly across the road and casually opened the cellar door, as if it were the threshold of the house where he'd been born and raised. It was one of the many tricks Simon had discovered and taught him; don't try to be inconspicuous. If you walked as if you hadn't a care in the world, you drew less suspicion.

The door closed behind him and he was plunged into darkness. He removed the hand from the eye he'd covered and blinked. Yet another trick of Simon's – by letting one eye adjust to total blackness, he wouldn't have to wait for his vision to adjust. Already he could see the stairs in front of him, and began to pad gently downwards. The staircase emerged into a dimly let cellar, full of the people he'd seen filtering through the alley. It was a motley crew to say the least – beggars and cripples, old men, young women, and a few folks Fletcher reckoned still counted as belonging to the category of 'children.' But in the corner, a half-concealed pile of weapons gleamed, suggesting that this odd assortment of rebels was not entirely harmless.

He bumped into a slim young woman as he tried to cross the room. She was speaking to someone over her shoulder, and while the bandana roguishly tied about her face muffled her words slightly, she was easy enough to understand. "...revolution is about hate and anger," she told the fair-haired boy just visible behind her. "Keep your eyes open for those who might embody that more than you would like."

"Hate, anger, and lots of pointy objects, sweet-lips," he corrected with a crooked smile, confident tone carrying over the muted murmurs of most of the so-called revolutionaries in the room. "'Fraid I'm a touch on the fashionably late side. 'Ave I missed anythin' or ain't we started yet?"

As if fate had decided to strengthen Abbey's point, she bumped right into a scruffy vagabond, or at least, that's what Abbey thought he was. Right on cue the man launched into cocksure rantings peppered with mildly patronizing statements and stupid cliches. She shook her head, ironically, he had called her "sweet lips," he couldn't have been farther off if he tried.

"How about you watch where you're heading next time? How does some collection of filth and misery, miraculously cobbled together by some cruel mockery of nature know what a revolution is about?" She slipped the dagger back out, figuring it was best to make a strong impression now before people got the wrong idea. "When I give advice to people I don't expect it to be expanded upon by some foul drifter!"

She shook her head again and pushed past him, dagger held loosely but alert in her hand. "I suggest you tone down your voice as well. It's the fool who must shout to have his ideas heard."

She let the dagger slide back into her waistband and pushed aside a few people who had stopped their chatter to stare at the tiny girl who spoke so boldly.

Fletcher's eyes widened as the young woman pulled a knife on him. He was used to girls hauling off and slapping him or sniffing and pretending he wasn't there, but few ever bothered to threaten his life. It was perplexing to say the least. "Easy there, love," he said, taking a step back, aware that several pairs of eyes were on him. Apparently he could add the violently insane to the list of misfits at this gathering. "Just tryin' to lighten the mood. It's like a funeral down here."

She spouted off venomously at him, spitting out words that struck Fletcher as a mite eloquent for a revolutionary of the lower classes. An' I ain't that filthy! In addition to his recent frolicking in the river, he'd gone and washed nearly all the blood out of his shirt just a few days ago. "I dunno, raisin' me voice seems a touch less drastic than pullin' knives on comrades," he muttered.

Then he turned to her retreating back, grinned impishly and called out:

"Ye got t'admit though – I was right about them pointy objects!"

It's like a funeral down here. The man had said. Abbey had let his comments slide, he was an idiot and a loud one at, but that particular statement had struck her. How many of the men and women gathered down here knew they would be fighting for what they viewed as their freedom? Undoubtedly they had come here expecting to get riled up, then they would perhaps spill in the streets, maybe throw rubbish at buildings and then they would have their freedom. Abbey sighed, it was a funeral, many of the people she had to fight through now would die in those streets, if they really wanted their chains lifted, they would pay for it in blood.

She heard the vagabond shout after her, and briefly she stopped, should she fight him? Instantly she put that line of thought down, she wasn't a good fighter, and really there was no gain to it. She had pushed far enough, any farther and she would probably be removed from the meeting. No, best to leave it. She took a spot near the wall, listening to the idle chatter for a minute or two, but soon she grew impatient. There was money to be made, and she sure wasn't making it here.

"Let's hear what you've got to say then, Brian!" She called, hoping her childish voice cut through the talk.

Brian threw a glance at Abbey, but didn't waste his time with a cutting remark. Girls these days! Granted, they were the only days he knew, but he still had the vague notion that girls really shouldn't be scary; they ought to be soft and pleasant. And now he'd met at least two really terrifying ones.

"Right!" he called, stepping up onto the crate and clapping his palms together. It didn't really work, perhaps because, even on the crate, he wasn't particularly intimidating as a figure of authority. "SILENCE!"

The bellow seemed to do it. In its wake, Brian remained red-faced and heaving for breath, and waved his hands like a conductor, playing the room into a sloshing sort of quiet.

"We're all here," he said at last, "because we want..." He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. The words had to be right. "We all want to be treated as people," he said at last, and his tone was fervent, tense. Not at all that of a preacher, but it was the most Brian he had been for quite some time. "We ain't been. We haven't been," he corrected himself, his voice getting stronger. "There comes a time when we have to recognize that even good men have to fight for what they've got. Look at our so-called masters. Now they're nothing--Darien Lawley I wouldn't use as a training dummy. He's a sop, a sot, an idiot. His mother's cruel." The sister he didn't mention. "And the new steward is no better than the Botolphs." Now Brian's voice was edged in acid.

"But a long time ago, all of our so-called masters got their power--well, where?--from fighting. They took it. Every animal, when it's wounded, lashes out." Brian wasn't actually sure this was true, but it sounded good. "We can't be the only ones as just curl up and wait for more abuse. What I say is we take no more than what's ours. The fief's army's off to war soon, and even Darien's leaving. If we can get to a position of power--we could finally--just be us, you know? I'm not saying we'll be kings, and we can't all be kings, or all eat with gold forks or that shit--" He spat the word. "But a little more--some fairness--enough food to eat in winter and a place to keep warm at night--that can't be too much to ask. And it isn't. We've been gatherin' up weapons and we got enough, soon, that we can move against 'em. Won't be too hard, and we don't want too much blood, but we want some." His good fist clenched; the other twitched. "I dunno if anyone's heard of a thing called democracy. It's a Greek thing. It means everyone being equal and deciding thing together and making votes with pebbles. We can have that, and we can live free."

Brian took a deep, shaking breath, and blinked life back into his eyes; while he'd been speaking, he had felt blind, looking only inward, but he scanned the faces staring back through the gloom, and felt fear again.

"Are you all with me?"

Fletcher saw her pause, then keep walking without a reply. He grinned triumphantly, then tugged his forelock to a passing man and made his way to a heap of old crates at the end of the room that looked like it would provide a bit of seating. He shifted the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder as he sat and winced, the motion having tugged at the stitches in his side. The crossbow wound had been well-tended to and was healing remarkably fast, but it could still be a world of pain if he twisted himself wrong. Grimacing, he reached into his cloak gingerly with the arm opposite the injury, withdrawing a small waterskin full of the hardest liquor he'd been able to find earlier that evening.

It wasn't that he was making light of revolution. Fletcher had seen far too many gallows jigs danced, and had come close to a short drop and sudden stop himself, more times that he was comfortable with. But you didn't get folks riled up for anarchy by rattling off a potential death toll. You got them happy and drunk and shouting silly slogans. Whenever he'd needed mates for a scam or heist, he made sure to get them good and liquored up afore they shook on it. He figured puttin' together a rebellion wouldn't be half different, though there'd be more people and therefor, hopefully, less spitting...

He took a deep swig from the skin, the alcohol burning at his throat, creeping up his sinuses and making his eyes widen. Damn. Good strong stuff. He turned to the bloke sitting beside him, who Fletcher hadn't even noticed arrive. "Want a draw?"

Before the stranger could reply though, a call for silence reverberated through the cellar, making all the would-be revolutionaries shut up and stare at the lad standing on a crate toward the center of the room. Fletcher listened to the boy orate, but his eyes scanned the crowd at the same time, guaging the reactions of those around him. The boy wasn't half bad with the words, but he looked nervous, which was making others nervous to boot.

"Are you with me?"

Fletcher stood. "Aye!" he cried, voice full of confidence. "We'll take back what's ours!"

This so-called meeting had Cat all worked up again. Neil had finally managed to calm her down a few days ago. Lord Lawley, though she hated calling him that, had come home from the King's wedding in a very bad mood. Since then, things had not been easy for the serf. She had wanted to do so many bad things to him but valued her life too much to do so. It wasn't that she wasn't willing to die for the cause. She just didn't want to leave her son without a mother. Heaven knew that Neil wouldn't know what to do.

Then yesterday, out of the blue, a thief named William Fletcher showed up at her door. She had half a mind just to throw him out after he trampled her tomato plants. She had worked forever on those and now they were ruined. Of course, she decided to let him stay after he mentioned there being a meeting to talk about a certain Lord they all disliked. She knew Neil had heard about it and felt hurt that he wouldn't tell her. He didn't really want a part of any of this anyway.

When she got up in the middle of the night to leave, William was already gone. That was so typical of someone like him. She saw him when she got there. He was conversing with a young woman Catria didn't recognize. She was about to say something to him when Brian started talking.

Conn snorted, leaning back on the three-legged stool he'd dragged along, tipping it back so he rocked onto one leg, then two. The fellow next to him had a flask of something, and he grabbed it when it was offered and took a long, careful swallow as he listened to his brother.

"Are you with me?"

"Aye," Conn said laconically, toasting the little blond kid with the liquor before he handed it back to the standing man. "Thanks," he added, glancing up the length of the stranger. "Got the right idea 'bout fuel for a revolution." With a theatrical groan, he unfolded himself from the stool and got up, leaving it to rock itself back into place. Standing cheek-by-jowl with Fletcher, he hardly let his eyes rove away from the inspiring oratorical figure of Brian Farraday. His thoughts were tinged with acid irony. Brian! He had so little understanding of what real life was. Why hadn't the boy just come with him ten years ago? Fled the suffering and pain. Fighting it from inside was like fish biting their ways out of nets. It was useless. It was pathetic.

And in this case it just might work. Oh, not if the went by Brian's plan. But the fiefdom would be deserted--ripe for plunder, if nothing else. And his kid brother would never know the difference, really. Or he'd learn a hard lesson about life. Wouldn't they all.

"Chap's my brother." He indicated Brian, his lips still barely moving. "My name's Conn."

Abbey leaned against the stone wall, listening to Brian's speech in stony silence, inwardly shooting down his points. For one, she had seen many animals that merely took abuse, dogs were a splendid example, whimpering and crying when someone kicked them. She sighed when he put down the wealth of the nobles, it might serve now, but it would make him look like a hypocrite later. He was giving a speech to a crowd of thieves, peasants and vagabonds, nearly everyone in the room had dreams of fabulous wealth. Whoever happened to be in the inner circle of the revolution, if it were successful, would no doubt cash in on their success, stowing away whatever valuables they could find. Abbey herself fully planned on establishing a permanent position within the new government, and abusing her power wherever she could get away with it. It made her feel heartless, she felt for the lower class, she truly did, on the other hand, everyone yearned for power, Abbey just had the means to make it happen. Still, it wasn't like the serfs would be getting a raw deal, Abbey would be a far better noble than that spoiled bastard Darien Lawley.

Despite the shortcomings, Abbey was impressed with the speech, though her expressionless eyes showed none of it. The crowd seemed excited, shouting out support for the handsome, blond man. Abbey nodded, this part at least, was going smoothly, the band of rebels could be like clay in Brian's hands if he worked them the right way. Still, she wondered how persuaded they would be when they started dying.

Very. She told herself, there was just a lot of work ahead for Brian, or whoever ended up in charge. Idly, her eyes left the crowd and their eagerness to sweep over the half-covered pile of weapons in the corner. She shook her head, open rebellion was fine and dandy, but she could offer so much more: poisons, hijacked supplies, inside agents. She would have to talk it over with Brian once he got done with his speech.

Fletcher smiled as he took the flask back, finding it perceptibly lighter. "Aye... fill 'em with vengeance, righteousness, an' a pint a piece, an' we'll have a right rebellion by mornin'."

The stranger, now standing, proved to be a half-head shorter than Fletcher, and a touch stockier. He was dressed no different than any other peasant in the room, but seemed to carry himself with the confident disdain of a tom-cat. "Chap's my brother," he murmured, indicating the blond orator. "My name's Conn."

"Call me Fletcher," he replied with a nod, corner of his mouth quirking upwards. Some of the other serfs, following his earlier lead, began to call out a consensus, shouting primitive slogans of rebellion. The effect was like a snowball rolling down a hill, the sound spreading across the cellar and growing as it did so. "Mind me askin' why it ain't you up there, mate?" Fletcher queried of his new companion, forced by the hubbub to lean in as he did so.

Fletcher was taller than he was, but most people were. Farradays were many things, but never tall. Conn leaned back toward his interlocutor, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the din. He watched Brian as his brother gestured. He was, he had to admit, the perfect figure for a revolution, as pale as though carved from stone, but vulnerable, almost frail. His brother had always been the more fragile and sensitive. And that was why it was he who was up there while Conn waited at his ease. Relatively speaking.

"Never saw need to make a spectacle of myself," he muttered thoughtfully. "Besides, it ain't rightly my worry. I've been a free man nigh on ten years now, alone and by my own hand. I offered to take him--" He gestured toward his brother. "Said no. I made it on my own, happy enough, but y'know, there's something about revenge."

He gave a long, almost satisfied sigh.

"That there is. And then there's the money." He glanced sharply toward Fletcher. "My brother's not quite right in the head, see. Some things that happened--" He tapped his head with one finger. "I'm here along to protect him and--when things go wrong--pick up the pieces. The pieces, and the money, to be honest."

Conn wasn't quite sure if he were colder and more calculating than he claimed to Fletcher, or kinder. He really wasn't. But he did know this much unshakably: he and everyone else who was sane was in this for themselves. Brian wasn't, and that was what scared him--for his brother, and for himself.

It was not hard for her to creep down into the basement unnoticed. The boy had started his speech and most of the people in the dingy room were too focused on his words to notice anything. She wondered what would happen if it were not her descending down the stairs, but one of the Lord’s soldiers. One would tear the other up, Maha was certain. She recognized the fervor building in the eyes of the men and the few women here—she had seen the preachers cause such fury in the hearts of their disciples, she had seen other young charismatic men give rallying speeches. Once or twice, the fury had even been directed against her.

Maha was almost surprised that it had gotten to this point. She had not been able to take the boy’s angry ramblings as anything more then what they were, but it seems that the anger was not just limited to him. Perhaps there was wickedness in their nobility, but what was there to do? God would reward them for their perseverance—or at least the virtuous ones. Maha had seen enough to know that while the people here may be mistreated, they were digging their own pits with their licentiousness.

But that was really no matter to Maha—people chose to live the lives they desired. Wicked or virtuous, neither would be safe in a rebellion. Her job was not to judge, but to tend. That was why she had come, not because of silly ideals. She began to weave through the crowd, trying to make her way to the boy. The crowd was sweaty and smelled heavily of alcohol, but if they could remember her words, then she would hopefully have less trouble in whatever riots would result from this meeting.

“You!” She said when she finally was able to shove her way past the last few men, “You will listen to me now. You and your drunkards, boy.”

Late.

She was late. But how could one be late when they weren’t expected? Her mind had tossed and turned constantly. Should she go to this meeting? Should she try and stop her brother from possibly doing the worst thing in his life? Didn’t he realise the consequences that would come with this? He could be hung, quartered, locked in a dank cell for the rest of his life. She didn’t have to be older to know the penalty that came with rebelling against authorities. She knew his reasons, but after all this was done would it have made anything better? Would it really be worth it?

She’d followed the healer, guessing she’d probably know where to find the gathering. Brian had not given her details enough for her to find her way, but she had a fair idea that it would be in an unexpected place. She guessed that the reason for not giving her the directions could have been for her own protection, but she was fed up with always being worried about. It was hard being the youngest of the three siblings-- the fact that she was a girl made it even more annoying. Why could they have all the fun. But it wasn’t fun at all really. It was just adrenalin and revenge playing with their minds.

Elsie didn’t have many quarrels with those they intended to rebel against. Except for the fact that the serfs and pheasants were treated like lesser people compared to their majesties who soaked in warm baths and barely used their own feet. Or the fact that whatever they said was literally a law, and no-one could stand up against them. Even for their own protection. But there were reasons that tempted her to join the rebellion. She had learned what they had done to Brian, had watched what they did to her parents, seen what they did to others. It was tempting enough.

But she was old enough to know that there were always consequences and it made her tremble. The pathway up the tower was something different altogether. It was not an expected challenge, but it was dark and it was near impossible to see where to place your feet. The moonlight offered some comfort at least, occasionally lighting up the passage here and there. She could hear voices, a familiar voice as well. It was Brian, definitely. She closed in behind Maha as they came to the room. She didn’t recognise anyone, except Brian. As they entered, he was just finishing up his speech. Darn! She had missed it.

Maha made her way through the crowd, and instead of following on the woman’s heels like a faithful puppy Elsie kept to the back of the crowd. She wasn’t going to jump into it-- just yet. She’d be content with hearing what everyone had to say before she said anything herself. She pushed her hood back and folded her arms across her chest before leaning up against the cold stone wall behind her.

Fletcher found himself liking this Conn bloke. Oh, he seemed like a right bastard, for sure, but an honest one (or at the least, dihonest but honest about it). Revenge. Money. Fletcher could relate. Though, while he appreciated a good meal and a warm bed as much as the next bloke, he found the allure of revenge to have a much stronger pull over him.

"Sounds like a right plan," he replied with a crooked grin. He'd come to Lawley looking for a revolution, and a revolution he had found. And even if he hadn't found it... he was damned well ready to make one. As it was, he was happy to merely help things along – maybe speak up now and then to get to them folks for whom ideals simply weren't enough. After all, it took all types, yea?

A voice pealed through the mixed hubbub of assent. “You!” it cried. Something pricked at the back of Fletcher's mind – a sense of familiarity. The crowd shifted as a familiar, dark-clad figure pushed her way to the front. “You will listen to me now. You and your drunkards, boy.”

"Oh hell," Fletcher groaned. What was she doing here?

Maha paused for only a moment to inhale before continuing. “You know my skills—I am good at what I do. I will heal your, ah, revolutionaries as I can. However, let none of them stand in my way. I will heal your nobles as I heal the others.” She turned to the crowd behind her, speaking with both her voice and her hands. “I am clear, yes? Those who would deny me will be denied themselves.

“I know many of your faces, I remember more then a few. I have taken full payment from those who were able to give, but very few pay me what I should demand. From many, I have only taken what you could offer, not matter the sum. Few of you have received my services for free! Would you strike me down for tending to another human, as is my duty?

“I have not seen revolution with my own eyes, but I have felt its affects. Do you have someone to watch your children, to keep them safe while you are out trying to overthrow your lord? Is there someone to care for them if you are killed? Is there someone to take care of your children if the first is killed? I am told there is not enough enough people to tend to the fields as is—who will make up for the lost work?” Maha felt the excitement of the people here, the only difference now was that her efforts were against the mass. She swallowed; her mouth was dry. She wanted water, but did not want to ask. It felt like the crowd was looming over her, even if they weren’t. Old memories are hard to kill. Even if they weren’t against her before, it would be too easy for them to turn against her now.