The King and the subjects

Voices shouted over each other, wood clattered against wood, and darkness reigned outside the chaotic glow of candles. Where there was talking, there was drinking; where there was drinking, there were cheers. The merchant walked confidently through the late-night cacophony, his newly purchased shoes sticking to the ale-soaked floor with every step.

As he reached the bar, a drink slid toward him, its golden liquid catching the flickering light. The man who offered it stood out amidst the rabble, his clothes finer than most, though slightly disheveled. His scruffy beard curled around a face framed by long blonde hair, and his dark green eyes seemed to pierce straight through the merchant's thoughts.

"Done with your inspection, guardsman?" the man asked, his tone laced with mockery.

The merchant smirked, gesturing toward the pouch hanging heavily from the man's chair. "If I were a guardsman, you'd owe me half of that purse."

For a moment, the man said nothing, his gaze unwavering as if drinking in every secret the merchant carried. Then he chuckled, the sound rough but infectious. "Fair enough. Name's Herman. I take it you're the merchant everyone's whispering about—the one 'inciting rebellion.'" He mimed air quotes, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The merchant glanced around, his eyes darting over the crowd before leaning in slightly. "You've got quite the pair on you."

Herman erupted into laughter, clapping the merchant on the back. "Someone's got to have them! Been trying to stir up this rebellion for ages. About time someone with brains showed up to carry the load."

The merchant's expression tightened briefly, his thoughts racing, but he quickly masked it with a wry grin. "Perhaps we should talk somewhere less crowded?"

Herman grinned back, raising his nearly empty cup. "Not before finishing this." He downed the drink in one long gulp and slapped the bar with gusto. "Bryan, put it on my tab!"

Bryan, the barkeep, glanced over at the two men and raised an eyebrow. "Your tab's big enough to buy the whole bar, Herman. Maybe your merchant friend can cover this one."

Herman turned to the merchant with a mock-disappointed expression, sliding the half-full cup toward him. "You heard the man. Finish that, and we'll talk."

The merchant hesitated but raised the cup, taking long gulps until he was forced to lower it, coughing slightly. Herman grabbed the cup and drained the last of it, laughing as he slammed it down on the bar. "Not bad. You've got spirit. Let's go."

As they moved toward the door, their eyes scanned the room. The crowd was a mix of leather-clad men and poorly dressed laborers. The former stood out, their postures stiff and their eyes sharp. For a brief moment, the merchant locked eyes with one of them, the tension palpable. Herman's hand drifted casually to the pommel of his sword, a silent warning. The man in leather smirked before turning back to his drink, his laughter low and unsettling.

Once outside, the cold night air bit through their clothes, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the bar. The merchant gestured for Herman to follow, and they walked through the empty streets, their breaths forming clouds in the frosty air. The flapping of bird wings echoed faintly, the only other sound in the stillness.

They reached the caravan, where a single guard sat slumped against a wagon, snoring softly. His makeshift leather armor was an assortment of mismatched hides and pelts, stitched together from game they had hunted on the road. The antlers of a stag were faintly embossed on one shoulder, while patches of fur still clung to parts of the crude chest piece. His sword, however, gleamed with care and precision, a stark contrast to his rugged armor. As the merchant and Herman approached, the guard stirred, one eye cracking open to assess them before grunting softly and letting it close again, his grip tightening briefly on the hilt of his weapon before settling back into his slumber. The merchant climbed atop a cart, making space for himself and Herman to sit.

Herman let out a long sigh as he settled in, his usual jovial expression giving way to a rare seriousness. "So, what's on your mind, merchant?"

The merchant leaned forward, his voice low. "Were those men in the bar Lord Cartlian's?"

Herman laughed, though it lacked his usual mirth. "No, bounty hunters. Cartlian's too proud to send his men into a place like that."

The merchant's eyes narrowed. "So, he knows about the rebellion?"

Herman's gaze turned sharp, he hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the weight of his words. After a pause that seemed to stretch endlessly, he finally said, "I have a last name."

Confusion flickered across the merchant's face. "What are you the Lord of, then?"

Herman threw his head back, laughing loudly. "I am the Lord of the bottom of the cup, the Lord of love and dandelions. But if you must know, my last name is Roness."

The merchant froze, the weight of the revelation crashing down on him like a landslide. His breath hitched as the name echoed in his mind, unraveling the pieces of the puzzle he hadn't known he was solving.

"Roness," he repeated under his breath, the word almost reverent. His hands tightened on his knees, his mind spiraling through a storm of implications and strategies. He blinked, the realization carving a sharp line across his expression.

Leaning forward, his voice steadied with purpose, he asked, "What of becoming the true Lord of Roness?"

Herman's smile faded as he clasped his hands, his eyes distant. "If you help me dethrone my uncle, it could be… profitable for you."

The merchant's voice carried conviction. "It would give legitimacy to my efforts and bring justice to these people. You would be a righteous Lord."

Herman raised an eyebrow. "You'd trust me over my uncle? He's not perfect, but he's not a bad Lord either."

The merchant chuckled darkly. "If lording over suffering were a skill, your uncle would be the best Lord in the land."

For the first time that night, Herman looked genuinely moved. "If you give me the throne, I'll make you my vassal. Maybe even Minister of Finance."

The merchant's shock was evident, but he composed himself quickly. "It would be an honor, provided my caravan is offered positions as well."

Herman let the words hang in the air for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the merchant. "If your guards are as skilled as you say, I'd offer them positions on the spot."

As if reminded by his own words, Herman glanced at the slumbering guard. His eyes sharpened with curiosity, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That one there? Woke up the moment we got close. Didn't even need to open his eyes to know we were coming—his hand was already on his sword." He chuckled, shaking his head. "That's the kind of skill nobles pay fortunes for."

Turning back to the merchant, he leaned in slightly, his tone playful yet serious. "I'll be honest, if they're all like that, I'd offer them positions on the spot. We could use instincts like those."

The merchant nodded, his tonemeasured. "Good with swords, though manners might be lacking.

Herman finally collected his jaw from the floor. "Yes, it'd make sense if they put their everything into learning the sword that they wouldn't know how to clean."

The merchant laughed again. "No, we do have some good cooks though, if you'd be willing to take them as well."

"Of course, if they are willing and able," Herman said.

Feeling secure about his and his comrades' positions, the merchant asked, "Just in case things don't go the way I believe they're going to go, how many do you have?"

Herman seemed lost in thought for a short while before saying, "We have twenty knights, and a few squires. Everybody else are just rumor spreaders we picked up off the street."

The merchant shifted around a few more times while muttering to himself about what they could do. After some time, his eyes seemed to return to the world of the living. He began, "We'll double our efforts in spreading rumors, but this time, we will let the people know of your existence and that I have pledged my loyalty." He paused. "Once this is done, we will let the people know of a day. A day that everyone will surround the palace—our own troops included—demanding an audience with Lord Cartlian." Pausing again, he pointed towards the two of them. "Only then will we go in and demand he abdicate the throne. If he refuses, we only need to use a little bit of this."

A vile perfume lit up the entire cart, its ooze seeping from a black liquid spewing a green fog into the lid. Herman began to gag before gathering his wits and looking up at the merchant. "This… will… definitely… work," he spat out in between coughs. The merchant put the vile liquid back into his shirt. "Perhaps, I ought to instate you as the minister of internal affairs," Herman let out breathfully. "Should I even ask why a merchant carries around so much putrid poison?"

The merchant let out a short laugh. "It's usually reserved for myself. You never know what might happen on the road."