Becoming famous would be very dangerous, Randall knew. Bringing himself to the attention of the people of Elmton would also bring him to the attention of the priests, and he was new in town. They would want to check him out, even if just to rule him out as one of the hibernators. A simple handshake was all it would take to positively identify him, with their ability to sample his DNA with instruments hidden in their hands and the fact that his DNA was on record in the lunar data archive. Randall had to establish a prominent position for himself among the normal people of the city, therefore, while somehow not getting too involved with the priests.

     Randall had spent a lot of time figuring out a strategy that might accomplish that, and as he returned to the city with Deeks, the rat catcher, the wool menchant and his surviving men he began to put his plan into effect. He would let his companions tell the tale of what had happened in Duffield while he gave the appearance of self effacing modesty. The next time he met Loach he would get him to tell the tale as well. That would, hopefully, allow Randall to keep a low profile while the legend spread, being told and retold by people hoping to become part of the legend. 'I was there when it happened,' they would say, whether they actually had been or not. 'I saw it with my own eyes!'

     To help things along, Randall spent the return journey continuing to sermonise the evils of taxation to his companions, especially Deeks, who seemed to have become some kind of disciple after seeing him fight the chieftain. He never seemed to tire of hearing Randall repeat his tragic made up backstory and stared with rapt attention as Randall stated and restated his determination to tear down the oppressive rule of the aristocrats in order to replace it with a fairer system. A system in which the common people made the rules. Randall would become the people's champion, copying a tried and tested method used by countless rebels and revolutionaries down through history.

     The first instincts of the aristocrats would be to catch and execute him, Randall knew. That was always their favourite method of dealing with agitators, but history tought that if a rebel could avoid their notice for long enough, allowing him to create a large enough power base, then his death would make him a martyr, creating more problems than it solved. In that situation, the Establishment almost always turned to the same Plan B. Assimilate the upstart. Turn the rebel into one of them so that he would become a part of the very system they thought he was trying to destroy.

     They would invite Randall to become an aristocrat. We share your desire for a fairer system, they would say, but you can accomplish that better by associating with the people who have the real power, giving you the ability to influence them directly. To do that, of course, he would have to fit in. Wear expensive clothes, live in an expensive house, and once the former rebel got a taste for that kind of life he would lose the desire to destroy it. His former followers would abandon him in disgust, and when he was finally alone the aristocrats would be able to kill him safely, unless one of his former followers did it for them first.

     That was the move Randall was hoping the aristocrats would make, knowing that, once he had a foot in the door of aristocratic society he would he able to use his head phone to gather information on them. Power to influence. Possibly by direct blackmail, although he preferred more subtle methods if possible. Once he had enough of them under his sway he would be able to make himself an aristocrat in reality, giving him what he really wanted. The resources he needed to attack his real target. VIX, the machine god.

     "Home at last!" he said as they rode their horses in through the city gate along with a stream of refugees from nearby towns and villages seeking the safety of the city walls. Randall's gratitude that their journey was at an end was genuine, his tailbone was starting to ache from being so long in the saddle, but he could hardly say that. It was hardly heroic and, above all, he had to appear heroic.

     "Home?" said the rat catcher, now sitting on a horse like the rest of them. He had been inconsolable at being unable to find his donkey after the battle of Duffield, but many of the wool merchant's men sadly no longer needed their mounts and he had accepted the loan of one of them with only a token complaint. For appearances sake, Randall suspected.

     "You said that Rayleigh was your home," the rat catcher continued.

     "After what happened there, I can no longer think of that place as my home," Randall continued, allowing bitterness to creep into his voice. "Elmton is my home now. Even after just a few short days since my arrival, it already feels as though I've been living here for years. This is a place where good people live. People willing to stand up to injustice and tyranny. People who won't stand for the greed and cruelty of the aristocrats."

     "Right!" cried Deeks, bringing his horse close alongside. "All they need is a man to lead them. A man like you! When they hear what you did in Duffield they will flock to follow you!"

     He spoke loudly and people in the street were looking up at them curiously. Randall leaned across to touch the townsman's arm. "Speak softly for now," he said. "We don't want word to get back to the aristocrats too soon. There will come a time when we can shout our demands to the heavens so that even VIX will be able to hear us, but not yet. Not until we have more men behind us."

     Deeks nodded soberly. He glanced around at the people who had overheard, but most of them were nodding their agreement with his words and staring at Randall with something like admiration in their eyes.

     They led their horses to the gate stables and returned them to the stalls they'd hired. The wool merchant's men then left, still talking about what had happened in Duffield. Randall watched with interest as they sauntered down the street towards one of the city's less reputable taverns where, he hoped, they would regale the entire establishment with the tale. Human nature being what it was, they would very probably exaggerate their own parts in the battle, but Randall had high hopes that the alias he was operating under would also be mentioned.

     He and the others returned to The Interesring Weasel where they made straight for the common room and ordered drinks from the bar. "Well, that didn't go quite as expected," said the wool merchant, bringing laughs from the others. "And we're not going to get another chance for quite some time. There'll be no tax collectors leaving the city until the orc incursion is over."

     "And that might be a year or more, with most of the army down south," agreed Deeks. "Guess we'll have to wait until then to strike our blow for justice."

     That didn't suit Randall at all, though. A year from now the priests would probably have found him. His only chance of taking back what was rightfully his was to act quickly. He needed another big stunt, something to bring himself to people's attention. His original plan had been a series of rallies. Public demonstrations in which large crowds of people would protest the high tax rate, but another idea was now growing in his mind. Maybe he could use the orcs. The aristocrats sat safe and sound in their walled mansions waiting for the incursion to come to an end while farmers and labourers, pressed into service defending the city, died on the walls. That had to create a burning resentment among the common people, maybe even more so than taxation. A vast source of energy that a cunning and creative man could use.

     He drank his ale and the four men talked about what had happened and what they'd seen, but Randall talked less than the others as he thought and thought, turning one plan after another around in his head.

☆☆☆

     Afternoon turned into early evening as the four men continued to chat and drink, and as they did so the common room filled up around them. Soon they were surrounded by a dozen different conversations, and although Randall paid little conscious attention to them his head phone went to work. Sophisticated voice recognition software separated and enhanced the mingled voices and took note of each fact as it was mentioned, creating a database of information about each speaker. It had been doing this continually since Randall had woken up in this new world. The former businessman had been taking every opportunity to sit in crowded rooms where conversations were taking place, and his database of information was finally becoming large enough for him to put it to use.

     At the table closest to the kitchens, a leatherworker who'd been complaining about a recent supply problem with a friend was left temporarily alone as his companion went to the bar to get some more drinks. Randall saw an opportunity and rose from his chair, heading towards him. As he passed the leatherworker he pretended to stumble and brushed against him, causing the man to look up in annoyance.

     "Please forgive me," said Randall, moving around to his companion's vacant seat and standing beside it. "Too much drink. I was trying to drown my troubles in ale and it has affected my balance somewhat."

     "No trouble," said the leatherworker, deciding to ignore him. He took a sip of his own drink and pointedly fixed his gaze in another direction.

     Randall called up the information his head phone had gathered from listening to his conversation. "By your clothes, you're a leatherworker, right?"

     "What's it to you?" demanded the other man, looking up suspiciously.

     "Didn't mean to intrude," said Randall, raising his hands in a placating manner. "I just wanted you to know that I have tremendous sympathy for your troubles at the moment. The situation with the tanners."

     The leatherworker stared harder at Randall. How could this man know what he and his brother had been talking about just a moment before? Eavesdropping on a private conversation was a breach of etiquette in any society. He looked across at the table Randall had just come from. No, he couldn't possibly have overheard from that distance in a noisy, crowded room. His suspicion ebbed away as he told himself that it had to be a coincidence. "Thank you," he simply said therefore.

     "Does anyone know what the tanners did to be labelled as sinners?"

     "No," the leatherworker replied, looking around for his brother. If he returned, it would prompt this annoying man to go away and leave him in peace.

     "I heard they were experimenting with another way of turning raw animal skins into cured leather," said Randall. "There was some kind of accident, wasn't there? A great blast of fire like they said the Old Ones could create. A man was killed. That's what brought it to the attention of the priests."

     "Whatever they were doing, they never intended to violate the laws of VIX," the leatherworker replied. "They were good people. They did nothing to deserve that kind of death."

     "What kind of death, exactly?" asked Randall. The two brothers hadn't mentioned that in their earlier conversation."

     "VIX sent his wrath down from heaven and destroyed the whole town," said a voice from behind Randall. He turned to see that the other leatherworker had returned with a tankard of ale in each hand. He set them down on the table and took his seat. "The priest said that, while experimenting with new ways to cure leather they discovered a way to use fire as a weapon. They use piss to cure leather, did you know that? That's why tanners generally work outside city walls, out in the countryside. Because of the smell. How can piss be a weapon? That's what I don't get. Who are you anyway?"

     "I just happened to be passing. I just wanted to let you know that people are aware of your current hardships and have sympathy for you..."

     "We don't need anyone's sympathy," the first leatherworker said, a hostile gleam in his eye.

     "No-one's offering charity," said Randall hurriedly. "Everyone knows how proud and independent you are. You worked for everything you have and take charity from no man. You still have to pay the King's taxes, though, and until you find another supplier of cured leather you have no way to ply your honest trade."

     "We have money put by," the brother replied, "but with taxes as high as they are it won't last long. We were thinking of tanning our own leather, as a stopgap measure. It won't make us popular if we start working with putrified urine inside the city walls. Our workshop is just across the street from The Green Man Gentleman's club, but what choice do we have?"

     "You're not alone," said Randall, dragging a chair across and sitting with the two leatherworkers. "Everyone is suffering because of the taxes. I'm organisg a meeting where people are going to talk about it, see if there's anything that can be done."

     "Like what?" asked the first leatherworker.

     "That's what we're going to talk about. We're just knocking ideas together at this stage. Seeing where we are, how many people would be willing to stand up if we decided upon some kind of action."

     "You mean..." The first leatherworker glanced around furtively as if there might be spies for the aristocrats hiding behind the oak pillars, listening in. "Agitation? They hang you for that."

     "They can't hang everyone," pointed out Randall. "If every working man stands together and steps forward as one, what are they going to do? It's not just our taxes they take. It's our blood! We're the ones who die fighting the orcs, not them. They grow fat and lazy behind the high walls of their fancy estates thinking they can keep pushing us and pushing us, a little more every year. Sooner or later we have to stand up and say no more! Blood for blood! Shed your own blood alongside us fighting the enemies of mankind or maybe we'll shed your blood for you!"

      The two leatherworkers stared at him in astonishment, wondering who it was who dared say such words so openly. Randall saw them torn between wanting to agree with him and wanting to run away before they were arrested for being accessories to agitation. They would need time to think about it, Randall knew. Discuss it in private, see how the idea sounded when they spoke it out loud in the safety of their own homes. Randall stood therefore, apologised again for bumping the first leatherworker and went in search of his next potential recruit.