Jess had met a fortune teller when he was a child who had told him that it was the year of his birth. The visit had seemed like the most exciting thing in the world to a boy of just nine years. It was possibly due to the intricate kaleidoscope rainbow of a tent, cluttered with a thousand trinkets beautiful if only in their oddity. Perhaps the withered Grasslands gypsy with the outlandish and exaggerated accent - the jangling of her jewelry a hypnotic song- had managed to peak his curiosity. A wafting incense which had invaded the little boy's nostrils brought the promise of far-away lands, laying siege to his senses. Or maybe - just maybe - it was because the place had the air of destiny. A million thoughts had raced through the boy's mind as he caught one last glimmer of tarnished and well loved potch disappearing into the elderly woman's callused hand. He could be a hero, a ruler of men and charmer of women guided by the stars. But from her parched throat came rang not the clarion call of fate but a death knell for a young child's dreams.

The year of the rat.

It wasn't what he a had thought it would be. Not the glamorous and powerful snake, or the fiery and respected fighter tiger, or the aristocratic dragon. He couldn't believe that he was a rat. It was a petty rodent, a nuisance and a plague carrier. You never saw a hero from the old tales who befriended a rat!

As she leant over him, he couldn't help but feel a certain amount of apprehension mixed with a healthy dose of anger. He had paid her five potch to tell him he was a rat of all things?

The rat, she told him, was ambitious to the core. Ruthless yet oddly well liked, there was no glamor or myth in the rat's life. Yet he knew to keep his ear to the ground, when to run, how to bargain - the shrewd rodent would grow fat in the shadow cast by a more beautiful member of the zodiac. For after all was said and done, the rat was a survivor, the one who took over the castle once it's majesty was reduced to rubble.

The year of the rat.

When he had heard those words years ago, the young boy had run home from the fair crying. Fifteen years later, Chamberlain Jess Stanton of Muse couldn't help but smile as another plea for curtailing of the annual land tax shook him from his reverie. It was stupid, the kind of make-believe you bought into when you were a kid. Almost as stupid as this current pantomime.

The man who occupied the makeshift dais before the elderly farmer had a somewhat odd expression on his face. It was strange really, for though the farmer had a sixth sense about these things it was hard to pinpoint what exactly wasn’t right. Call it the intuition of one with a connection to the earth or an old man’s foolish ramblings - he had a bad feeling about the chamberlain. Worn coveralls bent easily as he turned to his son, the only familiar face in a mob which lined the nutoriously quiet building. For this one day of the year, City Hall gained a life beyond it's existance as little better than a tomb.

“Warrin, that Jess man, I’m a thinkin’ that..”

“Shush Dad. Lady An’belle is a tryin’ to raise the land tax ‘gain. We gotta talk ta Lord Jess so’s that Lady An’belle understands that we won’t pay...” a nondescript middle-aged man whispered to his father through a thick accent. He knew he should have left Dad with Margie and the kids. Warrin had arrived earlier in the day to join the lines and - although the motley group had started out as an orderly queue - oppressive heat had merged the people into a throng. It was what usually happened on budget day in the name of the dubious democratic process of Muse. Indistinguishably thin civil servants would hastily erect some sort of platform, and Lady Annabelle would send her chamberlain out to fend off the mob.

Warrin, forgetting the relic which stood behind him, took his turn to express the mass displeasure of the crowd to the only man who would listen to them. Surprisingly, the farmer’s question miraculously rose above the din to confront the youth who stood between the people their mistress.

“We cain’t pay tharty percent, Lord Jess! We’ve got fam’lies ta feed!

The old man scrutinized the chamberlain, trying to latch back on to that feeling of unease. Forgotten among the dozens of protesters, he was free to indulge his curiousity without fear of offending the second most powerful person in the city.

“I certainly understand that, citizen. Lady Annabelle understands that too.. which is why she does this. For your protection. I know that everyone here has their concerns - and I share them - but Lady Annabelle is doing what is best for the city. The lady is trying to make Muse a better place, and to do that she needs your help... the help of everyone here!”

Jess’s speech perfectly found the precarious between calming and passionate, the old man admitted. It was as though the young lord shared some bond with the people’s needs. No, it wasn’t what the young man said that bothered him at all...

“Our help.. the lady doesn’t need our help! We can help ourselves, Lord Jess! What we need is lower taxes!” came an anonymous rejoinder.

“Oh, but that is where you are wrong citizen. The most important people in Muse are not those of us who serve in city hall but you, the ones whom we are pledged to serve. We need your help so that we can serve you better, and who has been a greater servant of the people than our own Lady Annabelle? Surely you haven’t forgotten how she pulled our fair city through the recession two years ago, or her tireless crusade to rid the streets of the homeless. The good people of Muse must understand that it takes their support to make this city the centerpiece of the Jowston Alliance.”

“Doesn’t matter without bread on the table!” the croud chorused back.

Interesting. The chamberlain’s chestnut hair, his unassuming demeanor, his sensible conservative dress - all gave the impression that this was a man you could trust.

“Lady Annabelle understands... which is why I believe that I can convince her to lower food tarrifs by fourty percent in exchange for your support of this city’s greatness! In Muse, none shall starve this winter!” the young man cried.

With that, a cheer rose up from the crowd. Most clapped and yelled, while some screamed his name. Few of the people had ever met Lady Annabelle but Lord Jess was a known quantity. Someone ordinary, someone who cared, someone just like them who could face the legendary Annabelle herself to fight for them. Maybe it was the open, friendly way that he approached them or the disarming glint in his ash-grey eyes that subdued the cynics among them.

Pondering this, the elderly farmer came to a conclusion as men of both rags and silk dispersed from the building. The wealthy would leave to discuss the ramifications of the changes on their business, celebrating what was sure to mean increased profits. The majority- the commoners - would forget the added expense of owning a home at the thought of being able to afford sausage during the frozen months. A few stragglers remained, those who fancied themselves political rising stars but lacked the wits to realize that such bright lights would not need to attend a public meeting. Their petty disagreements would be entertained by the usual focused interest of the chamberlain as they haggled on for the rest of the day. The old man could stay with them unnoticed - blending into the waste and the marble by virtue of his age - but he had his answer. Lord Jess was just a little too much what one would expect from the devoted right-hand man, from the concerned people’s advocate. It was unnaturally perfect.

Yet he was just an old man. None would heed his warnings, and even if they did the farmer had another strange perception. There was some force of fate behind the youth this year, one that he was sure he did not want to meddle with. Hmph. He should have seen it coming earlier. There were all kids of people on this earth, and in the last few years peace had been good to the bovine ones- methidical, plodding, trying to make ends meet. They had grown fat. Yet such a period could not last long- had never lasted long in all his days.