*

In the middle of the room there was a round table, and uniformed peoples sat at its edges.

The whole place reeked of smoke and dried sweat.

Amidst the jovial chatter and raucous laughing, there was a fat man. Serious and solemn, he was quiet as a mouse. Withdrawn, he seemed to meld with the gloom of a particularly dark corner. For reasons beyond him, the noise hushed to a murmur.

"Wait for it." Cried one. A tense pause... and then a burp ripped through the room.

"Oy – Oy – Oy." The crowd began drunkenly chanting, banging their tankards against the table in approval. Large foamy swathes of mead splashed around. The man made a point of ignoring.

It was plain to see he was concentrating. His beady black eyes unmoving, his bushy brows furrowed and a slight crinkle of the nose. Underneath the rim of the table, his sausage fingers held onto a pair of well-worn cards. A pair of kings.

The game resumed.

"I'll call." Said one.

"I'll call." Mumbled another.

Most threw their cards away and the buzz of conversation filled the room once again.

"The stinking slut." A slurred voice to the mans left began. "I foken carried every bag, up and down, and she dinny even give me a lou-sy copper, nad even a thank yur. Cann'ya belief it?"

"You think -hic- that's bad. I ripped -hic- one of 'er dresses. On accident."

" 'f course."

"I fold, I swear I get the lousiest hands-."

"That harlot got me –hic- privy duty. Me. Imagine dat –hic- a royal fuckan guard up to my ears in shite for a monf. Over a blodey dress!"

"I only took the fudgen job cus of the easy money."

The man felt expectation upon him. Glancing up at the table, his suspicions were confirmed. It was his turn. If he played this hand right, it could mean one, two weeks extra pay. But he had to play it right.

"It's a right'o shame. We're supposed to be headed to Hyute, but she's decided to take the backroads. Says she's got a stop on the way. What stop? There's nothing 'ere, no one but farmers and-"

"I herd she's going to visit her lover."

"Nah yus wrong it's 'er bastard kids we gonna see."

"Load of rubbish."

Things were heating up. He'd cast a line, and a few were nibbling. Nonchalantly, just like he'd practiced, he reached for his own tankard and took a long, drawn sip. The mead was bitter and bubbly, tickling its way through him.

While he did, he casually scanned the table. The cogs in his head whirred, taking notes of every pause, each card mucked, who was drunk and who was acting. He did this meticulously, adding and subtracting it all on one grand abacus. Purposefully, he put down the tankard and flung a handful of acorns to the growing mound at the centre of the table. They represented their pay.

"I raise."

"Nonsense. I heard she's got chests in the back of her carriage, filled with cursed gold pieces-"

"Gowd pwices? Wuddis a Duchess gwoing to do wit those?"

"Umm-uh-I don't know, maybe she's hiding them? Planning an escape? Run off with her lover."

"Escape? Wy bwing all of us den?"

"Yur talkin out –hic- yur ass Decks. Ain't no lover –hic- it's obvious!"

"Wud is it then?"

"She's payin someun -hic- to off her 'usband. No secret those two don't get along."

The acorn mound in the middle had grown hefty. The man reckoned it was at least a week or two's pay. Only one left. An old man. He put on a brave face, but in the same way sharks could smell blood, the man reeked of it. Defeat, it was practically written on his forehead. It was almost too easy.

"Then she shat me out. In front of everyone! Just cause I didn't say your highness. If only she knew what I'd really want to call her."

"Aye, it's not right. Even for a royal."

"Royal pain in the arse."

"Ya know, I dun even care wat the Dut-chess is 'ere fore. I just 'ope she gets wat she deserves."

"Here -hic- here." Someone lifted a tankard. "To 'er getting wat she deserves."

"To her getting what she deserves." They agreed in raised voices. There was a clinking of tankards. More mead spilled over.

"Oi you tits you're disturbing the game."

"The game...?"

The pile had swelled, bigger than it had the whole day. Two month's pay. A fortune. The boisterous buzz and bumbling had stopped completely. No one dared speak above a whisper. A palpable tension hung in the air, mixing with the streaks of translucent smoke. A long silence.

"I'm all in." Said the old man, adding the last of his acorns to the stack. Ooo's and Aaa's rippled across the room. Every eye fell on the fat man now.

A loud creak, and stark white light bathed the smokey room. Chairs squeaked loudly, most complained in colorful language. To them, a religious moment was being interrupted.

The head of a soldier, barely old enough for service popped out the door frame.

"Captain, you're needed up front."

"Give me two seconds." The fat man responded, not lifting his head.

"It's rather urgent." A tankard of mead was sent flying in the soldiers direction, who dodged swiftly and exited equally fast.

Then all attention fell on the two remaining players.

"I kinna feel un comin." Another pause before a bassoon like belch boomed from inside. Impossibly loud and long. A cacophony of whistling and bravos erupted, silenced instantly as the door shut. The captain barely noticed. Two months pay. Even he couldn't resist a grin.

"Right then." Said the captain, circling around. Facing forward, he ignored the boy-soldier and began down the steps. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Some cuckoo on the road cap'n." The boy caught up and followed.

"Cuckoo?" His feet slapped against the wooden flooring.

"Aye captain, senile old lady won't let us past."

The man groaned. "Why not?"

"Says she wants to see the Duchess."

"See the Duchess?" said the pudgy man. "Out of the question. Get her off the road this instant."

Hesitant, the boy made a face. "We're trying captain, but it's proving harder than we-."

"Harder than you what?" He stopped, and so did his companion. "It's an old woman for goodness sakes. Put her in chains, run her over, tie her to the underside of a wagon for all I care. We're already late, and you want us to stop? For some deluded peasant?"

"No sir."

"You're a fighting man are you not?"

"Yes sir."

"A fighting man in the employ of the army no less?"

"Yes sir."

"And she is an old lady is she not?"

"Yes sir."

"Hmph." The duo careened left. "I don't see what's hard about it."

...

"You know where the Duchess stays?"

"No sir."

"It's back by the end, big and fancy you can't miss it. You can go tell her what's going on. I hope you come back in one piece."

"Yes sir." The boy soldier split off.

Hemmed in between the two tree lines, everything was at a standstill.

"She's going to be pissed." He muttered to himself knowingly.

Entering the thick of it now, he saw a patchwork of men and women busying themselves. Some tended to the horses, feeding and watering them. Nearby a commanding voice rattled off orders, while others offloaded large boxes from stationary wagons, unpacking and repacking.

Most merely loitered. Three cooks badgering away, all portly women. To his right, a simple looking girl with her back against a trailer wrapped her hands around one of the traders.

Threading in and out of the lines of caravans, he eventually found his way to the very front and was spat out from the herd. Laid out before him, was the path ahead. Still untouched by the grinding of hooves and axels, yet felled trees blocked the road.

Now out in the vast open he heard voices. Huddled close, he saw two lightly armed watchmen... and another. A figure hunched over, cloaked in black.