Hurray, another chapter up and in less than a month. Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed; I was worried that no one would even remember this story. You guys are great. That being said, on to chapter eleven!

Disclaimer: The character, places and events in this story are from the Lioness Quartet, Alanna: the First Adventure and belong to Tamora Pierce. Direct quotes from the book are in double quotation marks (""Like this"").


After dinner, somehow Alex, Jon, Raoul and Francis all made their way to Gary's room. For a while, they all sat rather uncomfortably, each waiting for someone else to start. Francis let his eyes wander around Gary's room aimlessly.

The majority of Gary's room was chaos. There was hardly any floor visible beneath the mounds of papers, practice weapons, dirty clothes and numerous other things that Francis couldn't identify upon it. Gary never seemed to throw anything away, always claiming that it might come in handy some day. Despite how disorganized it might appear to the untrained eye, Francis knew that Gary could always find what he was looking for in the fray, no matter how much mess there was. Francis almost smiled, remembering the time Gary had rushed out of Deportment class to dig up some of his old notes in attempt to prove to the teacher that he had contradicted himself on the use of Gallan soup spoons. He had earned himself a two thousand word essay on Gallan etiquette and the Deportment master still refused to admit his mistake.

""It was Ralon!"" Raoul growled finally, breaking the uneasy silence.

""He didn't like what happened yesterday,"" Francis replied. Being shoved into the water by a little guy like Alan must have been a blow to his ego.

""It's time we dealt with him," Alex suggested, looking to Jon. In the end, it would be the crown prince who would decide what they were going to do about Ralon. They all knew it. ""He forgets his place.""

""I'll teach it to him,"" Raoul steamed.

""He forgot the lesson you taught him yesterday,"" Gary pointed out.

As the other boys discussed their plans of getting back at Ralon, Francis' mind was going in a different direction. He knew that he wasn't much good when it came to getting things done with fists. He would take care of his personal revenge in his own way: quietly, with lasting effects. While Ralon might forget a beating, what Francis had in mind would stay with him for a long, long time.


The next day, during a run in hand fighting class, Raoul pulled Ralon into one of the many nooks in the castle wall and repaid him every blow he had rained on Alan, five times over. When Ralon finally managed to drag himself the rest of the way along the wall to where the other pages were wrestling, he ratted Raoul out. Master Shortfoot almost seemed sorry to send Raoul to see Duke Gareth. Francis could have sworn he heard the hand fighting master mutter, "You've got a hell of a left hook Goldenlake," as Raoul trudged off to receive his punishment.

When Francis finally caught up with his friend later that night, he could hardly get him to calm down.

"That little piece of…" Raoul began as he stalked his room. He slammed his massive fist down on his desk for emphasis, then cursed and grabbed his newly injured hand. It looked like the desk hadn't faired well either: a thin crack now snaked across the once smooth writing surface. Raoul paced his room some more before falling to his knees, opening a trunk at the foot of his bed. Noisily he began to rummage through it.

"I can't believe he told. What self-respecting page would whine about getting a little beating? Mithros, we get them every day from our training masters!" He stopped digging through the trunk for a moment to throw his hands in the air and look to Francis for encouragement. Francis nodded dutifully in agreement.

"Exactly!" Raoul cried as he returned to his search. "There's a code!" Raoul was, for the most part, a very cheerful fellow who was easy to get along with. However, if someone crossed him and made him angry enough, Raoul could get very mad. In all the years that Francis had known him, he could count the number of times Raoul had been really mad on one hand.

"I've got to work in the launders for three months!" Raoul continued, "And on top of that, I have to write a formal apology to that rat." He evidently found what he was looking for in his trunk because he stood up briskly and kicked the trunk closed with his foot. Clasped tightly in his hand was a small flask and he took a quick drink of whatever was inside before continuing.

"Do you know what the worst part is though?" He plopped down onto his bed next to Francis, who was scratching out yet another mistake on his math work.

"What?" he asked, putting down the parchment and giving Raoul his full attention.

"Duke Gareth thought he deserved it," he said incredulously, "It's just that his hand are tied is all." Raoul took another gulp from the flask. Francis caught a whiff of Raoul's breath and it smelled suspiciously of whiskey. Strong Scanran whiskey if he had to guess. The last thing that Raoul needed was for one of their training masters to catch him drunk and off guard. It could ruin his chances of getting chosen by a good knight master when they became squires.

Raoul caught Francis staring at the flask and shook his head. "You're right, this won't help anything." He put the stopper back into the flask and tossed it into his desk.

"Well, working at the launders won't be so bad," Francis said quietly as he stood up. The bell summoning them to bed had just rung and began to gather together all of his books. "I know some people there. I'll see to it that they treat you right." Raoul laughed and lay back on his bed. On his way to the door, Francis grabbed the flask and stuffed it back into the depths of the trunk.

"Good night Raoul," Francis said over his shoulder, slipping out into the hallway and closing the door. As he turned around to head to his room, he crashed right into Alan. They both dropped all of their papers in the confusion and fell to the floor to try to sort them out.

"Sorry," Francis, muttered, blushing profusely, "I should have looked where I was going." He began to blush more brightly as he noticed that he was closer enough to brush his lips against hers. Now where did that come from? Francis thought, giving his head a little shake to toss those ideas out of it.

"It's my fault as much as yours," Alan said sorting the papers out into two piles. Francis looked at her profile out of the corner of his eye, checking to see how she was healing up from the fight yesterday. It seemed impossible, but it looked as if her black eye had gotten even worse.

It took Francis a moment to realize that last night it had been Alan's right eye that had been swollen, but now the swollen eye he was looking at was her left.

"What happened to you Alan," he whispered fiercely, gesturing to her eye.

Alan stood up and busied herself in organizing her papers. "I already told you. I fell down yesterday, remember?" she growled.

"Last night only one eye was swollen," Francis pointed out as he stood up. "Tonight there are two."

Alan reached her fingers up to her left eye and winced as they brushed the bruised flesh. She shrugged. "The bruise must have just not shown up until now." They began to walk in the direction of their rooms, Alan walking briskly in front of him, trying to get away.

"I'm no healer," Francis said softly, "But I'm not a fool either. Last night you had only one black eye. Ralon must have given you trouble again." Alan spun around and stopped in front of him, blocking his path to the door. "It's because of what Raoul did, isn't it?" he finished, surprised for the second time that week of his boldness.

"I told you I fell," Alan hissed.

"And I told you I was no fool," replied Francis evenly. She shifted her papers and punched him in the arm. Hard.

"I. Fell." Alan cried. "What don't you understand?" With a vicious glint in her swollen eyes, she stormed into her room. She turned around quickly before she closed the door.

"And even if I had been in a fight, I can handle it myself. I don't need you to look out for me." She slammed the door in Francis' face. Francis stood there a moment, shocked to have been scolded so thoroughly for merely trying to help. Of course, he understood what she was feeling, not wanting to appear weak to her friends. He had been there himself.

Against his better judgment, he knocked softly on her door.

"What?" She yelled as she opened the door.

"I know you can handle yourself Alan. I don't think you're weak, if that's what you're getting at."

"Yeah, then tell that to Alex, Jon, Gary and Raoul," she said calming down a little, no longer yelling.

"They don't think it either. They just jump at any excuse to beat on Ralon. It's their hobby you know." Alan shrugged, rubbing her arm uncomfortably.

"I can handle this," she repeated quietly, yet fiercely. Francis nodded his agreement and turned to leave.

"If you ever fall again, make sure you go for the ground's nose. It's his pride and joy, I've seen him admiring it in the mirror," he muttered as Alan closed her door.

Francis returned to his room, quietly changing into his night robe, and took a seat at his desk. Instead of finishing his math work as he knew he should, he pulled a piece of parchment from his desk and set about to finishing a letter he had begun to work on the night before. He worked by the light of only one weakly burning candle, not wanting to attract attention to the fact that he was up much later than lights out.

He had to word the letter very carefully and the draft was full of blotches and scratch outs. By the time the watchman announced it was midnight, he finally had everything the way he wanted it. Bleary eyed, he set about to copying it over dozens of times and finally made it to sleep about an hour before dawn.

He had sealed each letter, imprinting the coat of arms of House Nond on to each with his insignia ring. Francis' family seal would ensure that each letter would be read without delay upon arrival; his father had turned Nond into one of the most respected and wealthy fiefs in northern Tortall and he had made many friends through his horse trade. The more lords who read the letter, the better.

Francis fell into bed, feeling quite pleased and when he awoke to the bells an hour later, he forced himself to wake quickly. He paid a palace messenger a silver noble to ensure that his letters reached their destinations promptly. As he watched the messenger scurry away, he nodded contentedly to himself.

He knew that Alan would deal with Ralon in her own way, and that she might hate him forever because of the letters he had just sent, but soon Ralon of Malven would learn that he should never cause trouble for any friend of Lord Francis III of Nond.


Well that's it, please leave and all CC. Thanks!