O Brother, where art thou? part II

Memoirs of Antonio Mondavi.

Revolution. It is a word that sends a chill along the spine of many a noble born. For myself, I had never really thought about it as a possibility. The people of Mondavi always seemed reasonably happy, and I always believed my uncle to be fair in most of his rulings, so the thought of revolution never really crossed my mind. But in the last year, many things that had never before crossed my mind have forced themselves into my awareness. Revolution is but the latest.

Emerging from the sewers of Cherouse, we find ourselves mercifully close to the place where we are to obtain our forged papers. The stench from the sewers was at times overwhelming. The only one of our number who did not seem to mind was my newfound friend, Pistol - a rather odd chap (which is, of course, not unusual in this group!), but one who is always of good spirits and ready for a drink at a tavern. The sewers seemed to have merely added to the "distinct" odour that has always accompanied Pistol's presence. But I digress.

We managed to get to the forgers without incident - surprising really - where we purchased, at some considerable cost, our papers. We also changed into some spare clothes and looked for a place to get our regular wears cleaned. After sorting all this out we decided to acquaint (or re-acquaint in some cases) ourselves with the city, particularly since we had to find this "Circle du Chant" . Sure enough though, no sooner than we step out to the street than trouble manifested before us.

We saw a crowd coming down the street making that sort of noise only a bloodthirsty mob can make. Looking around we quickly found a balcony we could climb to see what was happening. From there we were privy to the sight of a terrified little man being dragged to what was certainly his execution. They were calling him names like "traitor" and "royalist conspirator", while the poor man wept with fear. Without hesitation Borstenn pulled out a weighted line and cast it around an overhanging pole.

We waited for the crowd to get closer and when the timing was right, Borstenn swung down, grabbed the hapless victim and swung on through, kicking his body forward to gain enough momentum in order to be able get back to the balcony. With Borstenn half carrying our rescued friend we set off along the rooftops to make our escape. Unfortunately carrying the petrified fellow slowed Borstenn considerably and we soon found a group from the angry crowd grabbing at our heels. Eduarde, Borstenn and myself quickly stopped them in their tracks without causing any serious injury.

We made it back to our temporary hide-out and asked the still shaking man what happened. "I do not know," he wept, "My name is Etienne Sarte and I am just a poor tailor. One day my neighbour accuses me of being a royalist sympathiser and the next thing I am being dragged out of my store and told I was going to Le Coiffeur for my crimes." So this is revolution, I thought, people turning on their neighbours and executing innocent people. I do not know. Perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye but thus far I am not impressed.

Eventually our papers were ready, and with clean clothes we made our way to the Knights of the Rose and Cross chapter house where Avon (a Knight of the order) will try to get some information and perhaps some help. On the way we were stopped and had our papers checked. We passed without any suspicion so I suppose the money we paid for them was worth it. When we reached the Chapter House, Avon went inside only to emerge a short time later saying the place was in mourning. Aristide Baveux, member of the council of the eight and apparently a leader of some sort here, has been assassinated.

Assuming we would not get any help there, we left, and found ourselves an inn to stay where we waited until we could go to the "Circle du Chant". Being a theatre it would of course not be opened until later.

Arriving there after dark, we were surprised to see that there was a reservation under the name of Dandelion. Our friend, Chevalier, must have let them know we were coming. Once inside I was reminded once again why I always loved visiting Montaigne. Montaignians may be pompous and arrogant, but by Theus they know how to entertain. The food and wine were excellent. Soon the stage candles were lit and a woman appeared, and began to sing, and oh how she sang. There was not a sound in the house, except that magical voice. She sang of the revolution, of triumph, of people oppressed finding their freedom, of the poor and sick picking up their crutches and marching against their tyrants. She sang with such power and emotion that I found I had tears in my eyes. Perhaps if this revolution can inspire such devotion, then there is more to it than I first thought.

When it was over, a tall blonde man came over to our table and introduced himself as Adrian Fletchyr, owner of this establishment. I complimented him on his excellent taste and asked him to sit with us. It turns out Fletchyr is an Avalon and knew quite a bit about us. He even hinted that he knew why we here there. As we spoke, there was a loud distubance at the door and turning, we saw a troop of revolutionary soldiers marching into the theatre. They went directly to a table near the front of the stage and arrested a woman there. She stood up straight and proud, but even from where I was I could see there was no defiance in her stance. "Jamais Sices du Sices", I heard Fletchyr whisper. Eduarde moved behind me. I turned to see his face pale with shock, his hand already moving to his blade. Both Dandelion and myself moved to stay his hand. "Not now, not here" I whispered urgently. I did not know if Eduarde heard me, but he did not resist when we pushed him back in his chair.

When the soldiers had left with their prisoner we turned toward the grim faced Fletchyr. "Now we have two to rescue," he whispered.

And so we bent down and Fletchyr told us of his rescue plan involving a red scarf and a red cloak.