A Place at the Table
by RavenoftheBlack
Status: Public
Word Count: 5111

“Meal’s almost ready, Aurélie.”

The scarred woman glanced over at the door, registering the cut and bandaged face of the speaker. Her expression softened slightly. “Thank you, Remy. We’ll…” She stopped short, turning her head to glare at her companion. “I’ll be down in a few moments.”

Remy nodded and silently closed the door. Aurélie Cerveau closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip before opening them again and looking at the infuriating form of Henri le Douce. It had been only two days since the massacre at the Masquerade, where the rebellion had revealed itself at the price of the lives of countless nobility. One of the casualties was the husband of the Baroness of Fleche, killed by Henri’s own hand, although it had been accidental. Still, the Baroness and her soldiers had chased the revolutionaries for a day and a half before losing the trail, the Baroness swearing vengeance at every step.

And now the rebels were holed up in a safe house in Port Nulle, a small, mostly overlooked support town for ships travelling along the Foraine coast. This particular structure had once been a fish tannery a few blocks from the wharf, but the business had long-since folded up and moved to more lucrative markets in a bigger coastal city, leaving the large building abandoned. The wooden walls were old and beginning to rot, the paint was chipping and dull, and the floorboards creaked even under the weight of the mice that infested them, but it provided a safe and unsuspected place for the rebels under Aurélie Cerveau to meet.

Aurélie and Henri were in a large room on the second floor of the tannery, a room that had once served as an office for the owner. It seemed an appropriate place to conduct their business. Having not been exposed during or after the massacre, Aurélie had been able to come straight here, trusting in Remy and the few other surviving rebels to get Henri to her. This was the first opportunity they had had to speak since the brutal incident, and it wasn’t going well. They had spent much of the past hour yelling at one another until they had finally both turned away. Then Remy had come in and announced that dinner was nearly ready, and Aurélie knew they needed to finish this now.

“Well?” She asked him, trying to sound less impatient than she actually was.

The man looked up at her. From his expression, it was clear she hadn’t succeeded. “I just don’t know!” He exclaimed, burying his face in his palms. “I never expected any of this,” he continued, his voice muffled by his hands. “I never wanted any of it!”

Aurélie ran one of her hands down over her face, feeling the ridge of her scar as she did. “This world couldn’t give a Faerie’s curse what you ‘want,’ Henri. Do you think this is what I want? Do you think this is what any of us want?”

Henri le Douce turned to stare at her, eyes shaking. “Yes! Yes, I do think this is what you want. It’s your damned rebellion, isn’t it? You’re the one who gathered these people. You’re the one who went to that Masquerade hoping to kill!”

Aurélie exhaled sharply. “We were there to gather information! You’re the one who started the killing! I tried to warn you what would happen if you talked to that man.”

“I thought it was Raiker Venn!” Henri screamed back, climbing to his feet. “You told me it was Raiker Venn!”

“I told you no such thing,” Aurélie challenged back. “I seem to recall telling you to forget about him, that talking to him will hurt everyone. You chose not to listen.”

“I needed to speak with Raiker,” Henri insisted. “I still do.”

Aurélie rolled her eyes. “Forget about Raiker Venn. He’s not part of this. You and I are, whether we like it or not.”

“He can undo this,” Henri said, lowering his voice. “He has to.”

“He’s a poet, Henri!” Aurélie yelled. “What do you expect him to do, rhyme us all out of this?”

“He’s more than a poet, Aurélie,” Henri said, stepping closer to the woman. “I told you that. He’s some kind of mage, and…”

“Poet, mage, négociant, it doesn’t matter!” She said, closing the distance between them even more. “He could be the reincarnation of Queen Fabienne herself, and it wouldn’t matter less!”

“Raiker’s the one who got me into this,” Henri pressed.

“Maybe so,” Aurélie agreed. “But he only set the table. You and I are the ones sitting at it now, and we’re the ones who have to eat what’s been laid out for us.”

Henri le Douce turned away from the scarred woman and walked to the window. Below, he could see the worn, ragged streets of Port Nulle, rain pooling between the cracks in the cobblestone. It had been raining since he arrived. The sky was cold, gray, and hopeless. Henri himself wasn’t much better off.

Henri’s shoulders slumped. “I’m no revolutionary, Aurélie. I’m no leader of women and men.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Aurélie said bitterly. Then she hesitated, and sighed. “But we need you. ‘Vocal Henri’ has taken on a life of his own, bigger than you or me. Bigger than this rebellion ever would have been. You may not be a leader in any true sense of the word, but people will follow you, Henri le Douce. People will flock to you.”

“To what end?” Henri asked, a tear escaping one of his dark brown eyes. “To slaughter more people who disagree with you? Isn’t that exactly what’s being done by the people you’re rebelling against?”

“You don’t understand!” Aurélie yelled, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “They oppress! They knock down, and then keep kicking until they see blood. And it’s not out of desperation, Henri. It’s not out of hunger or cold or fear. They do it because they can! They do it because they feel like it! They do it, Henri, because they believe no one can stop them.” She paused, once more raising her fingers to the scar running from her forehead to her top lip. “They do it to the innocent.”

Henri le Douce stared at her for a very long moment. A part of him wanted to feel sympathy. A part of him wanted to agree with her. But too many parts of him had seen what happened at the Masquerade. Henri stiffened, and his lip curled.

“Are you telling me that not a single person at the Ball was innocent?”

Aurélie looked away as though slapped. “I told you. What happened at the Masquerade massacre was not what we intended.”

“Really?” Henri asked, incredulous. “It was your people who went there ready for war, wasn’t it? I didn’t see the revelers pull blades when everything began.”

“The Baroness’s husband had called for your death, if you remember. If we hadn’t done what we did, the guards would have done it to you!”

“The guards were doing their job,” Henri challenged. “What were your people doing?”

“Their duty.” Aurélie said simply.

For a long time, the two stood there, Aurélie’s sky-blue eyes meeting Henri’s darker brown ones. When it became clear that he had no answer for her, Aurélie continued, her voice lower and softer.

“We lost a lot of good people at the Masquerade, Henri. A lot of valiant women and men who believed, deeply, fully, and completely, in what we’re doing. Women and men who risked, and then gave, their lives to protect our cause. To protect you.”

“I don’t want people dying to protect me, Aurélie. I don’t want people chanting my name as they kill.” His voice was steadily rising as he spoke. “I don’t want anything to do with your damn revolution!”

“Did you hear me, Henri? I said they died to protect you! Don’t you think you owe…”

“I don’t owe anything to you or your people!” Henri screamed back. “I didn’t ask for any of this! All I wanted was to be known! To be able to affect people! I didn’t ask for this.”

Aurélie scoffed. “The fox doesn’t ask to be caught in the trap, does she? And yet, does the hunter spare her?”

Henri looked away but did not answer. Aurélie decided to take another approach.

“Besides,” she said, “what will you do if you leave?”

Henri furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Aurélie indicated toward the room around her. “You’re in a safehouse, Henri. This is a place we have scouted out, and spent a great deal of time cultivating into a place that is safe from the prying eyes of the aristocracy. And we have more, all over Foraine. If you’re not with us, where will you go?”

Henri looked away, turning his back on the woman and once more staring out onto the street.

“Everyone knows who you are now, ‘Vocal Henri.’ Your description is plastered in every barony, everyone loyal to the aristocrats is looking for you, and they even know what you look like.”

As she spoke these last words, she withdrew a single sheet of thick parchment and walked over to Henri, who was still staring at the rain. After a moment, he glanced over and looked at the paper. In a large, black box at the top was an artist’s rendering of him, the detail nearly flawless. Just below, in loud, chilling typography, was the word “Wanted.” Henri gulped audibly when he saw it.

“They work fast, don’t they?” He asked.

Aurélie nodded, feigning sympathy. “The Baroness is seething, almost howling for blood. Rumor has it she’s already sent a request for troops from the Queen herself. If the Queen sends them, there is no turning back.”

“Do you think there is any turning back anyway? Even if she didn’t send for aid?”

After taking a few moments to think, Aurélie finally shook her head. “No. There were already those in the aristocracy who wanted to hunt us down even before the Masquerade. Their voices will be all the louder now, and the Baronesses will undoubtedly agree.”

“So you’re telling me I either go with you, or I die?”

Aurélie sighed. “I’m telling you that you are in this war no matter what you might think of it, and you can either fight it alone, or you can fight it with us.”

Henri shook his head. “And what if I go to the aristocrats? What if I tell them everything that happened, and where to find you?”

Aurélie narrowed her eyes at Henri, but indulged him. “We could just kill you.” She paused, but Henri made no reaction. “But I don’t think we would. For one thing, we’d be cleared out long before you could get anyone here. Secondly, if you approached any of the aristocrats, I can promise you that the only noises you’ll make will sound nothing like words.”

Henri stared at her, but eventually let his head drop. “I could go into hiding.”

“It would be easier with us,” Aurélie offered.

He looked up at her. “I could leave Foraine.”

Aurélie shook her head. “And go where, Henri? Where in Thorneau is there beyond Foraine? They say the Great Beasts still stalk in the Wilds, and even if you could brave the waters, where would you find a ship to take you that isn’t loyal to the aristocracy?” She paused, trying to gauge his response. “Besides, why not try to do something good with what you’ve been given?”

“Good?” Henri asked. “What’s ‘good’ about this? What’s good about the anger, and the fires, and the killing? What’s good about war, Aurélie?”

“What’s good about war, Henri, is when it ends.” Aurélie stared at Henri intently as he struggled to meet her gaze. “I told you, the table is already set. There is nothing you or I or anyone can do to change that. The war is here. It doesn’t stop just because somebody doesn’t want to fight it. But if you help us, Henri. If you become the voice of the revolution and let me be the brain behind it, we can win this war. And by winning, we end it.”

Henri looked like he was about to answer when a knock sounded at the door, and Remy stepped through again. “Food’s ready, Aurélie.”

She looked over to see the grey shape of Remy’s sleeve disappearing back through the doorway. Aurélie sighed. “We don’t have to like what we’re given to eat, but you either take your place at the table, or you starve in the corner.”

She let the words hang there for a moment before turning away and following the other rebel. Henri le Douce just stared out the window, watching the rain wash away the dirt in the road, while he contemplated his place at the table.

No one dared to speak a word in the cavernous dining hall of the Baroness of Fleche. The room was mostly dark, illuminated only by a few scant candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the gathering storm. Servants scurried around as silently as they could manage, afraid to draw the attention of the mistress of the house. Every one of them knew they were a suspect in her mind. Every one of them knew that her wrath could very well land directly on their necks.

Everyone knew she might just blame them for the murder of her husband.

Only two nights had passed since the Masquerade. Only two nights for the Baroness to mourn, or for her ire to cool. Neither had happened. For the first day, the Baroness had ridden out with her guards in search of Vocal Henri and his band of cutthroats and traitors. They had cut down several rebels, or at least several peasants the Baroness had assumed to be rebels, but Vocal Henri himself had slipped through her fingers. The Baroness had returned that night stewing, steaming, and furious, and her servants had been holding their breath ever since.

The morning of the second day saw the Baroness storming through the halls, screaming at and threatening anything she saw move. Her voice echoed through the halls as those around her cowered into darkened, adjacent rooms. It took the Baroness until shortly after noon to calm down enough to allow her handmaids to dress her properly for the day, a stark contrast to her usual habit of being prepared for the day at dawn. She spent most of the afternoon in her study, writing letters. The servants, wisely, stayed as far away from her as their duties allowed, and only went to her when they were called.

Now, however, it was dinner time. In her usual place at the head of the table, the Baroness sat with a frightening scowl plastered on her face. The wine had come first, of course, as was the Baroness’s custom. The chef had set aside a perfectly aged bottle of Queen’s Vintage Chateau Lenaire, one of the most expensive and immaculate wines available. The Chef had been saving it for the Baroness’s anniversary later that month, but fortunately, the Baroness didn’t know that. The Chef was merely hoping that the impeccable wine would help lift the aristocrat’s spirits.

The Baroness drank her wine in total silence. The room seemed to echo with every heartbeat as the servants watched her with nervous eyes. After she finished her first glass, she silently extended her arm, indicating her desire for another. More torturous moments passed as the Baroness sipped slowly from her crystal glass, staring intently at the empty table before her. Eventually, she finished this glass, as well, and moved to demand a third, before stopping herself, and setting the glass at the corner of the table.

Still staring only at the table, the Baroness spoke, her voice low, but commanding. “I will take my meal now.”

Instantly, her servants sprang into action, bringing forth all of the trappings of proper, aristocratic dining. As the Baroness sat there watching, the servants covered the table in a beautifully embroidered tablecloth that had been a gift to the Baroness’s great, great grandmother from the Queen herself. They set in front of the mistress of the house the most beautiful crystal plates, bowls and glasses they had, given to her on the occasion of her ascension to the barony from the Baroness of Vigne. An array of magnificent silver, jewel-laden forks, spoons, and knives were laid out in their proper order, resting atop fine silk cloths, gifts from the craftswoman guilds.

“Stop!” The Baroness bellowed as the last of her servants began moving off to make way for the servers. They all froze instantly, and the nearest to the Baroness moved sheepishly to stand by her mistress. The Baroness gestured toward the table. “What is this?”

The serving girl struggled to find words, scanning her eyes relentlessly over the table to see what they might have forgotten or done poorly. When she saw nothing, she spoke, her voice a trembling whisper. “I am sorry, my Lady. Does…does something displease you?”

The Baroness turned her head to stare at the young girl, narrowing her eyes as she did. “Yes. Something very much displeases me. Look at this table. Do you not notice something missing?”

The girl again scanned her eyes across the table, mentally checking each and every rule of proper etiquette to see what she was missing. The setting was flawless. There was not a knife or a fork out of place, not a single wrinkle in the tablecloth. “I’m…I’m sorry…I don’t…”

Without warning, the Baroness reached over and grabbed the girl by the hair, pulling downward. The young serving girl fell heavily to one knee, but somehow managed not to scream out in her pain and surprise. A moment later, the Baroness thrust the girl’s head forward, just a bit, in the direction of the table. “Why have you not set a place at the table for my husband!” She demanded, screaming into the serving girl’s ear.

The girl’s eyes widened. “Mistress, I…” She trailed off, and the Baroness shook the girl’s head.

“I will not have my husband disrespected in my own home!” With one great shove, she pushed the poor girl down to the polished marble floor. For a moment, it looked as though the Baroness was going to stand and follow her, but she restrained herself. After a long pause, she spoke again, her voice almost eerily composed. “Set a place at the table for my husband.”

Immediately, the servants were moving. One of them quickly helped the crying girl to her feet while the others scrambled to obey the Baroness. They were clumsier and less organized than they had been with the Baroness’s setting, because they had not been expecting it, but nonetheless, they set the Baroness’s husband’s place. The Baroness, of course, sat at the head of the table, while her husband always set next to her along the other side. The Baroness watched them coldly as they assembled his setting, her eyes never straying from the table.

As they finished and started to leave, the Baroness raised one hand to stop them. “My husband has always preferred his salad fork on his right,” she said. “It is a peculiarity I have strictly forbidden, of course. Tonight, however, I have decided to indulge it.”

When she said nothing more, the closest servant moved to make the change.

“No,” the Baroness interrupted.

The servant froze in mid-step, reaching for the salad fork. He looked up at the Baroness, his expression merging fear and confusion.

“I want that girl to move it.”

The servant looked over toward the kitchen, bowed, and hurried off. There was an exchange of harsh whispers, but the girl emerged quickly, knowing that reluctance would only cause more danger to herself and the other servants. Quickly but cautiously, she moved to stand next to the Baroness. With trembling fingers, she picked up the salad fork and moved it to the right side of the plate, then pulled her hand back and looked toward the Baroness for some sign of approval, or mercy.

Finally, the Baroness gave an almost unperceivable smile, and nodded to the girl. The servant’s expression melted to one of relief, and she started moving away, until the Baroness grabbed her roughly by the wrist. The Baroness’s eyes were seething as she spoke.

“If you ever disrespect my husband in this house again, I will see you and everyone you love hang from the parapets. Have you understood me?”

The girl nodded emphatically. “Yes, my Lady. Please forgive me, my Lady!”

Before the Baroness could let go, the voice of her butler sounded out through the hall. “Announcing Vicomtesse Perrine Labelle, my Lady!”

The serving girl went pale at the arriving guest’s name. “Madame du Collet,” she whispered as an exhalation of breath.

The Baroness snapped her attention back to the girl. “Mind your tongue, girl! Or would you offend my guests as well as my husband?”

“I am sorry, my Lady! I am merely overcome!”

The Baroness eyed her for a moment, then finally released her wrist. “Out of my sight.”

The serving girl bowed low and hurried to obey just as the vicomtesse entered the room through the far door. The woman was stunning, and frightening. Her dark blonde hair was drawn up tight behind her, tied with a thin golden rope that tapered down both sides of her head to fall in front of her shoulders. She wore an intricate gown of white and black, the traditional frills lining the seams replaced with masterfully affixed ropes a bit thicker than the one in her hair. At the elbows, the ropes were fashioned into nooses that bounced slightly as she walked. Her eyes were light in color, yet dark in purpose, and she could not hide the traces of a smirk as she approached. The Baroness rose to greet her.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said.

The vicomtesse stepped in close and gave a perfectly practiced curtsy. “It is my honor, Baroness.” She stood up and leaned in as the two women exchanged kisses on the cheek. “And may I offer you my condolences.”

The Baroness eyed the other woman for a long moment before responding, perhaps sensing a note of insincerity in her voice. “Thank you. You lost your husband as well, did you not?”

Perrine nodded sharply. “Some months ago, yes. The plague rats some deign to call ‘peasants’ overcame his coach on the road.”

The Baroness nodded. “I remember. And now those same rats have invaded my home and taken something of mine.”

“With all respect due, Baroness, I recall warning you of the bite of these rats. What was it you called them? An ‘insignificant nuisance?’ I forget your precise words.”

The Baroness’s eyes flashed momentarily with rage, but she cooled quickly, sighed, and sat down once again in her seat. “You were right.” She glanced over at her husband’s place at the table. “I never thought they would be so brash. This little unrest…”

“This is no unrest, Baroness,” Perrine interrupted. “This is revolution. How are you at your history, Baroness?”

“How do you mean?”

The vicomtesse smiled. “I mean, how many revolutions have there been in Foraine’s history?”

The Baroness thought for a moment. “Five,” she said, then corrected herself. “No, six, when the nobles retook the throne from Rosalie’s heirs.”

Perrine shook her head. “Incorrect, Baroness. There have been six great revolutions, true. But there have been dozens more than that. Probably hundreds. And in each one, important people like you and I lost things dear to them. But these revolutions are never talked about, and do you know why? Because important people like you and I did what was needed to stop them.”

The Baroness stared at the younger woman for a moment, considering her words. “And what have you done to stop them so far, Perrine?”

“As much as I could,” the vicomtesse said, “which is far too little. If you recall, Baroness, it was you who shackled my hands. It was you who told me to tread lightly, to not risk angering the peasants, and through them perhaps the craftswomen and the scholars.”

“You blame me?” The Baroness asked, her voice rising.

“No, my Lady,” Perrine said as she touched her wrists together. “But now that you have been shown the truth, it is within your power to decide whether this will be the seventh great revolution, or a footnote in Thorneau’s history.” She paused, extending her hands with her wrists still touching. “Unshackle my hands, Baroness.”

“I warn you, vicomtesse,” the Baroness started before Perrine interrupted her.

“You and I both know what I am capable of achieving, Baroness. I can put an end to this. But I must move unbidden! If I must clear my every action through you, the rats will slip through my fingers.” She stopped while the Baroness considered. “The feast of war is set, my Lady. I only ask that you allow me to take my place at the table.”

The Baroness looked away, glancing again at the place her husband once sat. Then, slowly, she climbed to her feet and approached the vicomtesse, laying one hand on each of her wrists. Staring into the beautiful woman’s eyes, the Baroness slowly and deliberately separated the other woman’s hands. Perrine gave a broad, honest smile.

The Baroness turned her head back toward the kitchen. “Servants! The vicomtesse will be joining me for dinner. Set a place at the table!”

Aurélie sat in the main room of the abandoned tannery, repurposed into a dining hall for the rebels. The room was less than half-filled, and the mood decidedly somber. Four days earlier, the tannery had been crammed full and lively, with everyone talking and joking and boasting about what was going to happen when the revolution comes. Many of them had gathered their costumes and ridden off to the Baroness’s Masquerade, assured that Vocal Henri himself would make an appearance, and perhaps join the rebellion.

Few of them had ridden back again.

Vocal Henri had ridden back with them, but now he was upstairs, pondering alone on his decision to stay with them, or leave them to their fate. Everyone in that room was thinking about everything they had risked and everything they had lost just to bring him here. The thought that he might abandon them now was almost too much to bear for the desperate revolutionaries. Their losses were not a recent development. The things and the people they loved had been taken from them, repeatedly and maliciously, throughout their lives. Vocal Henri was a beacon of hope for them, and one of the few they had ever had.

The head of the table was empty. Just to the right, Aurélie sat staring down. The table was nothing more than simple, long wooden planks stolen from an old pier at the wharf. The wood was rotted and eaten away in places, and it only barely sat level on the rudimentary supports they had found for it. On the table sat lines of poorly crafted wooden plates, sparsely covered in barely recognizable slop that passed for food. It was a sorrowful sight, and the best that most peasants could do.

Aurélie could not bring herself to look around at the other rebels gathered there. She was responsible for them. She had been the one to first gather them together in an attempt to do something, anything, to crawl out of the gutters that the aristocrats had put them in. It had been her decision to go to the Masquerade, knowing that Vocal Henri would be there. Their numbers had increased rapidly since Henri had made his speech against the nobles some weeks earlier, and every new recruit wanted to know when Vocal Henri would be joining them.

Now, they were all waiting for that answer.

It was everything Aurélie could do not to scream. The revolution was a passion for her, something she cared about more than anything in her life. More than her life itself, in fact. But alone, she knew there was no hope. Few knew who she was, and nobody had ever flocked to seek her out, to join her cause. It was only Vocal Henri they looked for. He was the face, and the voice, of the revolution. Aurélie knew that it was Raiker Venn’s doing, but that didn’t matter anymore. As she had told Henri earlier, their table was set, and it was too late to change it. All they could do now was look to the future.

And right now, that future looked as dismal as the weather.

Aurélie scowled. She knew Henri le Douce better than any of them there, and she found herself increasingly frustrated with each minute she spent with him. The man was arrogant, foolish, and self-centered. He cared neither for the aristocrats nor for the peasants, only for himself and his own popularity. He was shallow and short-sighted, bitter and childish, and completely unfit to lead. Aurélie stole one quick glance at the rest of her revolutionaries and sighed heavily. Whatever else Vocal Henri was, he was also needed.

Suddenly, the door leading to the upstairs office swung open, and Henri le Douce stepped through. Instantly, all eyes in the tannery were on him as he made his way slowly toward Aurélie. He moved cautiously and awkwardly, as if he were concerned he was going to fall. He scanned the poor excuse for a table over once as he walked, his face hardly masking his disappointment. Finally, he came to the head of the table and stopped, glancing down at Aurélie where she was sitting. Then he straightened and looked at the rest of the gathered revolutionaries.

Henri cleared his throat, and spoke. “If you good people wouldn’t mind,” he said, pausing dramatically, “would you set me a place at the table?”

Aurélie smiled, mostly for the good of those gathered there, who cheered their figurehead loudly at his words. As she glanced up at Vocal Henri, she could see the doubt in his eyes. But the others couldn’t see it. All they could do was hear his voice, and believe that he was the savior they needed. She looked back down at the table and let her smile fade away. The table was all set now, and everyone was in their place. The meal, however, was yet to come.