Figaro heard the wagon driver call to the horses and they and the wagon came to a halt. He heard footsteps inside of the wagon. Whoever was watching him was walking towards the back of the wagon, apparently to open the door. Figaro guessed the purpose since the air in the wagon suddenly exchanged with outside air and the cool breeze again wafted across the uncovered parts of his face.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs once more and the commanding voice again said something in a low voice to another. Then the voice was near him giving instructions.
"Rise, jester. We shall remove you from this wagon. Stay calm and all will be well." Why the reassurances, thought Figaro. No... This made no sense at all. He was a prisoner and they reassure him? More out of curiousity than anything else, Figaro allowed the commanding voice to direct him. He did precisely as he was told. Soon he was standing outside of his wagon on the ground.
Figaro could smell smoke, like that which drifts from a campfire. He heard other noises too. Other men, women and a few high pitched voices of children. He felt fumbling hands at the back of this head and his blindfold suddenly was removed. Daylight blinded him momentarily. Whoever undid the blindfold waited patiently for Figaro to open closed eyes, changing them from squinted slits to generally open and focussed. Then the gag was removed.
Standing before him was a sword-wearing peasant in a woven cap who stood a fraction of an inch taller than Figaro. "Welcome to our humble encampment, jester. What is your name?" The voice was the one Figaro recognized as the order-giver. He answered directly, "Figaro. And yours?"
The man smiled. "So you say, jester. We shall see momentarily. And then I'll decide whether to give you my name or the edge of my sword." Figaro swallowed a little harder than usual, but kept his expression as steady as he could.
"So you say, stranger," retorted Figaro. The man smiled again. The taller man laughed and spoke to the others who had gathered around the scene. "He has spunk, does he not! Another test passed. Now for the final test.""What final test?" said Figaro.
The man answered promptly, "You'll see."
Figaro was turned around and directed with firm hands to a hovel built of branches, sticks, sod and other earthen materials. Before Figaro was pushed inside, the taller man pulled aside a piece of hanging cloth that served as a door. Figaro was guided inside. The dim light prevented Figaro from seeing clearly the face of the man propped up by worn cushions on a roughly constructed sleeping cot. If he had seen the man's face clearly, Figaro would have recognized immediately that this was someone he should have known at first glance. Instead, Figaro stood there staring at the man until he spoke.
The man's dry lips moved in his weatherworn, strained face. It was a face drained of color, pale, almost deathlike. The voice was weak, but distinct and recognizable, and only now did Figaro have an inkling whose face it really was. The man said, "Don't you recognize me Figaro? Has it been that long?"
"Too long, Mercutio," said Figaro, recognition now coming in a flood. "My friend, my teacher... What has happened to you?" They were at Figaro's bound hands immediately, removing the bindings that held them behind his back; but it was as if Figaro didn't notice or care that his hands had finally come free. All he thought about was how poorly his friend, the mercenary, looked lying there. Why... It was almost as if the cot itself was death's doorstep.It seemed as if Mercutio was reading Figaro's thoughts. "Yes, Figaro. You see before you a dying man. One who is happy to have found you before his life ran out." Mercutio drew in a labored breath. "I am wounded to death, Figaro. My last battle... A small one, albeit. Come, sit here, at my side." The others in the hovel left, except for the man who seemed to command. Figaro sat on the hard ground to hear what Mercutio wanted to say.
"I told them to find you. A jester, I said. He will be a jester. But they did not know you by face and they had to be cautious, so when the boy brought word of a jester nearby they decided this would be the best way to bring you here... and the safest. Antonio, there, is their leader." Mercutio raised a shaking hand to indicate the only other man in the hovel.
Antonio bowed his head. "Forgive us, Jester, we had no other choice. We did not treat you too harshly, we trust." The expression on Antonio's face was that of concern, not insolence. Figaro thought, no real harm. "Call me Figaro; and no, there is no ill will on my part." Antonio's expression changed to relief. "Bene, I am glad."
Sudden coughing wracked Mercutio. "I have little time so listen closely, Figaro. These men are not thieves, they are rebels. They fight to overthrow foul Duke Suciando's reign. These men have lost loved ones to the evil doings of the Duke. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters... and some even their children. The men of the Duke don't care about how they carry out their orders, and the Duke doesn't care what his men do when they are acting on orders from the Duke. Only that they fulfill his orders." Figaro glanced at Antonio only to see in reply a steely eyed glance of hate and determination when the Duke's name was mentioned.
Figaro looked at the dying man in puzzlement. "But how did you come to be wrapped up in this cause, Mercutio? Forgive me, but I do not see the incentive for you. There is no money in rebellion."
"Still think me a mercenary, do you, Figaro? I guess my disguise worked as well on you as others. God forgive me for lying to you, Figaro. I am not a mercenary. I am a fool of a paladin, that's what I am. Why else do you think I've remained so poor my whole life? There's enough conflict around the Po to make a mercenary rich three times over; but not me. I could never bring myself to apply my skills for personal gain. Oh... I was given money now and then, which I accepted. A man has to buy bread now and then, but that was all. It was the Master who provided; and it was my sword who protected you both while he taught you your trade."
"Why did you leave with that woman?" asked Figaro.
"She told me about her son and husband, both imprisoned by Suciando. I tried to save them... and failed. They were cruelly butchered by the Duke's men on his orders. It was then I found these rebels and joined them against the Duke. The result of my many battles since is what you see before you." *cough* *cough* *a deep, gurgling, cough* *involuntary shudder* Mercutio drew in a long, labored breath, perspiration forming on his face. "Figaro... I have asked them to give you... my things... They are placing them in the compartment... You know which compartment I mean... Inside the wagon... They are yours..." *another long labored breath* "Promise me this one thing. Use them well, wisely... for good... to help these people. Do them... no harm."
Figaro heard someone answer with a voice sounding like his, in fact, it was his. "Yes, Mercutio I promise. But how shall I do this thing you ask?"
Mercutio raised his fevered body a little higher in the cot. "Apply every skill... the master... taught you..." *a labored breath* "and every... skill... I taught... you."
*cough* *slow breath in* "Know and learn... the Duke... Find his weak... ness... Then strike..." Mercutio fell back onto the cot. "Antonio... will... help. You... must... lead..." *one last breath* "The saints... protect... you... Figaro... my friend." All breath left Mercutio's body and his eyes stared blankly at nothing.
"The saints receive you, Mercutio," said Figaro as he placed his hand on the man's face and closed his eyes for the last time.
LANCER
One word deserves another.
[This message has been edited by Lancer (edited 05-13-2002 @ 04:50 PM).]