Sniper: Prologue (3/3)

Gareth stepped up on the platform and waved to the crowd. Owen was struck with a sudden pang of jealousy for the ease and confidence Gareth had even when he spoke in front of so many people. He pushed his feelings to the side. He had been born to fight, not speak, which in some ways was its own blessing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I stand before you today earlier than expected to bring you unfortunate news. Many of you have heard rumors about the king’s possible death and/or cause of death, and I have been sent to correct and clarify those rumors.

The king was found dead on his sofa at around 10:30 this morning. Word traveled fast, and before long there were many unapproved and unfair theories circulating. Some believe that it was the work of his son, others believe an enemy, others a suicide. None of these answers have been confirmed, and until we have further evidence, we can only rule the king’s death a tragic accident.”

Boos and hisses erupted, and Gareth raised his hands in self-defense. “I’m not saying that I agree with this. My job is to deliver the words of the king, and that is just what I am doing today for you.”

Francis raised his hands in protest, but Owen nudged him. “I hate the guy, but he’s right. He has to report what the king says to him, and that’s what he’s doing.”

Francis bit his lip, but nodded his agreement. Owen silently sighed in relief, and turned his attention back to Gareth. The news wasn’t sounding very good so far, but maybe there was a twist towards the end.

“The king was too young to name an heir, so naturally the title would shift to the oldest male in the family line, that being Prince Edward the Second. His inauguration will be held in the capital on the twenty-seventh day of the fifth month, and his rule will begin as soon as he says his vows and is accepted by the council. Until then,the Council will be the governing authority, as directed by our statute laws.”

Gareth tried to step down, but he was bombarded by questions, called out from virtually every single person in attendance, as usual. The mayor rudely shoved Gareth back onto the platform, where he faced the angry crowd once more.

“Everyone, everyone, please! Those are all the answers I have. I was told no more and no less than what I just reported to you.”

“The filthy, two-faced liar,” Francis muttered, and Owen full-heartedly agreed. Although the messengers fervently denied all accusations that they knew more than they reported, everybody knew that it was a lie. There was no one to check if they told everyone the full truth, and most of them liked to keep some tidbit tucked away for themselves.

“He gave us enough information. It’s not worth picking a fight over.”

“You’re right, I guess. No point hurting the messenger, even if that messenger is a scoundrel and a son of a—”

He was cut off by Gareth, who appeared in front of them seemingly out of nowhere. “Hi, gentlemen. What were you discussing?”

“Nothing, Gareth,” Francis mumbled through clenched teeth.

“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.” Gareth leaned in closer to Francis’ mouth, his smile broadening.

“I said nothing.”

“I was about to head out for a drink, if you would be interested in joining. Gotta get fueled up, you know what I’m saying?” Gareth gently elbowed Francis and smirked at Francis' wince.

“We’re fine, thanks. It’s getting a bit late.” Owen grabbed Francis’ arm and steered him away from the conversation before Francis really lost it, and after they were out of sight, Francis finally relaxed.

“Something about that guy just doesn’t seem right." Francis shook his head.

“Forget about him. What should we do about Edward the 2nd?” Owen urged.

Francis swore. “I forgot about that. Damn, that’s rough.”

“No kidding. What are we supposed to DO, though? I’m not going to sit back and watch him destroy all the progress we worked so hard to make.”

“For now, there’s nothing we can do. Everyone’s tired and frustrated from the news, not to mention that loose-tongued messenger is still lingering.”

“He’s at a tavern, probably on his second or third drink by now. He won’t hear.”

“You make it sound like nobody would ever tell him anything. You forget how resourceful that man is. Slippery as a snake, and his money is a powerful motivator. I’ve seen many a person fall for that trap, sacrificing themselves for a fraction of another’s riches.”

Owen just nodded in agreement, occupied with his own thoughts, of which there were many. “You’re right,” he finally acknowledged. “We can’t persuade anyone tonight, but tomorrow we’ll start to find some people who might be interested in forming some sort of rebellion.”

“Shh!” Francis hissed. “You can’t talk that way around here. People are listening, and Richard the Second won’t take kindly to that type of treason. You’ll be seen as a threat, and you know what they do with threats.”

Owen nodded at the rebuke. It was certainly fair, even wise words. Even though his words were empty right now, they carried a certain weight to them. The real danger wasn’t in Owen himself, but in the type of people he might persuade by speaking that way. He could start his own rebellion, and that was the king’s worst fear.

“Good night, Francis. I’ll be heading back to my cottage now. It’s an early workday tomorrow.”

“Ah, I remember those days of waking up before the sun. Those were some of the lowest points of my careeer,’ Francis reminisced, dramatically staring off into the foreground.

Owen rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Francis patted Owen on the back. “It’ll look up for you. You’re young, energetic, bright, passionate. Everybody wants to hire people like you, and once you get some experience under your belt, the cash will start flowing in.”

Owen chuckled. “I certainly hope so. I think a lot of the farmers have started to catch on to my clever negotiation skills. I might not be able to rely on them for too much longer.”

Francis chuckled and waved goodbye, and Owen let the light from the center of the town square guide him back to his own house, adjacent to some of the shops that had been set up around the marketplace area, a big, open area. Every week, merchants and farmers and peddlers and craftsmen set up tents for their venues, but apart from that time, the square felt empty and hollow.

He followed the road out and down not quite a stone’s throw until he reached his house, identical to the other rows of houses except for the bronze number displayed on the front door. He reached into his secret hiding place, behind a loose brick, and unlocked his door.

Stumbling inside, he dodged the piles of junk and clothes and made his way to his bed, flopping onto the mattress and not even bothering to lock the door. The events of today had worn him out more than he realized, and within seconds, he was asleep.