Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Behind the Veil

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Chapter 13 - Behind the Veil

Urzahil took to spending his afternoons watching construction on the Tower. The day was warm and his clothes stuck to him uncomfortably. The usual camp smells of cooking, unwashed laundry, and latrines seems stronger than normal, and across the field of black basalt, the straight lines of the Tower shimmered in the heat.

In the few weeks since he'd arrived in Lugbúrz, its ragged upped edges had risen by the height of several men. It now stood ten or twelve stories above its foundations and easily cleared the top of the debris pile behind it.

Cranes perched at regular intervals along the top, each one dangling a massive block by a chain that looked too thin to support the weight. The shouts of workmen reached him even at this distance.

Footsteps crunched in the gravel made him jump.

"Urzahil, I'm glad I found you." Mordor's Chief Ambassador slowed to a walk, breathing hard. "The letter you carried to Khand has borne fruit. A messenger just arrived from Khand with a formal dispatch from their Caliph saying he'd be honored to accept Sauron's offer of friendship. The messenger said their ambassador would arrive in two days' time."

Urzahil pursed his lips. Lugbúrz was a construction site, barely habitable even for those who were used to sleeping rough.

"How can we hope to impress important guests if we make them sleep in tents and picked their way through piles of stone?"

Ambassador Kiran clapped him on the shoulder. "I think we can pull it off. The audience chamber has a roof now. The interior may not be finished, but in the dim light, they won't know the difference. And there's a guardroom inside the main entrance that's close to complete. It can be turned into a suite of rooms for our visitors, but we don't have much time. Follow me."

Ambassador Kiran led the way between the closely spaced tents to the edge of the debris field and found the path leading to the base of the Tower.

Urzahil hadn't ventured into the wreckage since the day of the tour. The path into it was flanked by high walls of broken stone which threatened to slide down and collapse at any moment. The air stirred, carrying with it the smell of stone dust. Urzahil blinked, his eyes watering from the grit.

They reached the shadow of Tower. Urzahil was suddenly cold after the heat rising from the charcoal colored rock a few steps away.

The path led to the base of the Tower and passed through an arched tunnel that pierced the wall. It was several stories high, and wide enough for a dozen soldiers to march abreast, or for a war machine to pass through without losing any parts. No door sealed its entrance, although holes drilled into the rock showed where the hinges would be.

Urzahil had never been inside the Dark Tower before. The size, the heaviness of it made his chest feel tight.

The Ambassador headed for the opening with Urzahil following. The clak-clak-clak from a ratchet caused him look up. High above, a block of basalt dangled from a claw in the air. He jumped aside, unwilling to walk beneath the huge stone. Laughter floated down from the top of the wall.

It was dark in the tunnel. The base of the Tower was at least thirty feet thick, and their voices echoed from the surface of the stones. It smelled of damp, and of small furry animals like mice or bats.

They emerged from the tunnel and found themselves inside the Tower itself. An interior wall stood directly in front of them, a stone structure three or four stories high with scaffolding built against it. At its foot were piles of construction debris.

The walls of the Tower rose around them on all sides. High above, Urzahil saw a patch of blue sky and the towering clouds of late summer framed by dark stone. It was like the view from the bottom of a well.

"It's an empty shell," Urzahil said, disappointed.

"Not quite." The Ambassador took them around the wall with the scaffolding, through a makeshift door, and into a warren of roofless corridors. He stopped in front of a pair of doors twice as tall as himself. Finely-made ironwork covered their surfaces. The Ambassador gripped an iron ring and pulled. The door barely moved at first, but once it began to swing open, it kept going.

Urzahil followed the Ambassador into the room beyond. Rows of pillars flanked an aisle stretching the length of the chamber. His eye climbed from the torch bracket up and up to the dimness of the vaulted ceiling, easily four stories above the stone floor. Dots of sunlight showed between the rafters.

In the back of the space, workman climbed on ladders propped against the wall, hanging Sauron's banner. It appeared to be the same one that used to hang in the dining hall at Minas Morgul, black with the emblem of the Eye. It was as tall as three men, but in this chamber, it looked tiny.

He followed the Ambassador the length of the aisle to a raised platform at the back. It held a cube of black granite, larger than a man is tall. Light from the torches reflected from its polished surface.

The Ambassador beckoned Urzahil onto the platform.

"This is Sauron's throne," he said.

Up close, it wasn't a cube at all, it had multiple planes that formed a seat, back, and arms. It was utterly plain, lacking ornamentation of any kind. Urzahil was secretly disappointed. With all the right angles and sharp edges, the main impression was one of discomfort.

Urzahil laid a hand on the glassy surface, and almost immediately felt the heat drain from his flesh.

"It's icy cold. Is that a supernatural effect?"

"No, anything made of granite or marble does that. I tried to tell him, but he doesn't listen."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They left the audience chamber by a nearly invisible door in the back and cut through a tiny closet with wooden pegs in the walls, very like the robing room where the priests dressed before entering the sanctuary.

They emerged in a hallway open to the sky. The Ambassador narrated as he walked. "The audience chamber is the only part of the Tower with a roof, save for a few storage rooms and offices. The masons and carpenters have less than two days to create the illusion that it's finished."

"Why not just tell the truth, that we've only recently begun to build the Tower?" asked Urzahil.

"Sauron needs to appear strong. Khand is a traditional ally, but people will talk, and word will get out. We don't want Gondor to hear any rumors that we're not ready to defend ourselves."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They headed back toward the main entrance. Off one side of the tunnel, a door opened onto a large chamber with the barrel vaulted ceiling.

"This is where we'll house the ambassador and his delegation."

Urzahil looked around. It was dark and uninviting. Three doors concealed tiny alcoves. One housed a narrow bedstead with a chamber pot underneath, the others had pallet beds on the floor.

"Sleeping quarters for the watch commanders," said Ambassador Kiran. Behind the fourth door was a large room filled with a dozen bunks and the belongings of the twenty or so Orcs who occupied the space. "Barracks for the men at arms."

"It's a guardroom." Urzahil's mouth hung open. It was an insult. No diplomatic-minded nation would do this to their visitors.

"It's the only set of rooms in the Tower with a ceiling," said the Ambassador. "You're going to furnish it as a suite worthy of the Ambassador from Khand and his delegation. We must impress them with both our power and our wealth."

"Technically, we're weak and we're poor."

"Details. Concentrate on making a good impression.

Within an hour, Urzahil was plunged into a whirlwind of preparations. He found a way to make it work. The barracks would become the state bedroom, the watch captains' alcoves would go to the younger emissaries, and a storeroom off the guards' common room would house their servants.

He furnished the rooms with the personal possessions of Mordor's upper nobility. The Exchequer loaned his own canopied bed, and Sauron's Steward and the Chief Ambassador for Mordor gave him enough carpets, tables, and footstools to make the State Bedroom look complete.

Once the visiting ambassador's room was furnished, Urzahil climbed a ladder and laid canvas tarpaulins on the floor above the hallways they would walk thorough so sunlight wouldn't shine between the cracks, revealing there was nothing above the planks.

"What if it rains?" Ambassador Kiran asked.

"Let's hope it doesn't, or they'll learn the Tower is as hollow as a chimney."

Similar quarters were cobbled together and furnished only slightly less elegantly for the other emissaries and their servants.

"If any of them bring an extra scribe or manservant, we're in serious trouble," Urzahil muttered under his breath.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The delegation from Khand arrived during the night before. Urzahil learned of it at first light when his manservant woke him. A few hours later, he followed Ambassador Kiran down the unfinished hallway, the sun beating down on his head. The security of their southern border hinged on how it went today. He was sick to his stomach from nerves.

"Now remember, when you escort our visitors from their rooms to the audience chamber, only take them down the hallways that are finished, even if the route is longer. We can't have them seeing anything like this." The Ambassador looked up, where there should have been a roof.

They crossed an open space to a tall stone wall, the outside of the great hall that held Sauron's throne. Ladders and scaffolding lay against its sides, the roof had been finished barely in time.

The Ambassador stopped before a narrow door. He pulled it open and stepped inside. The small space was filled with people, a dozen or more. Many of them were already dressed in black robes with embroidery on the cuffs and collars or satin piping along the seams.

An Orc so ancient she might have served in the first Barad-dûr was handing out robes. She moved among the dignitaries of Mordor, adjusting a fold here, straightening a collar there.

A row of chests against the wall held stacks of black fabric. The matron dug into one and unearthed a neatly folded bundle which she handed to the Ambassador. He lifted it over his head and let the hem drop to the floor. She went back to the trunk to get a robe for Urzahil.

The Ambassador struggled to fasten the tiny buttons with clumsy fingers.

"Sir, your collar is crooked," said Urzahil.

The Ambassador fumbled with the buttons, then tugged on the collar to pull the two halves apart.

"Stop! What are you trying to do, send buttons flying all over the room?" The matron closed the gap between them in a single stride and smacked his hand away. "Here, let me. I can't trust the likes of you with such an expensive garment, you'll wreck it."

The ancient she-Orc undid the buttons and did them up again properly. "There! And don't touch it. If you need help, call me. That's what I'm here for."

Ambassador Kiran looked stunned. He held perfectly still, keeping his hands well away from the robe.

Urzahil shook out his own robe and held it up. It was finely made, the stitches were small, and the collar and cuffs had been trimmed in black embroidery. He put his arms in the sleeves, the fabric scratchy against his skin. He fastened the buttons as carefully as he could, trying not to draw the matron's eye.

The room brightened when the door to the hallway opened and then slammed shut. A man in workman's clothing leaned against it, breathing hard. Reddish-brown hair framed his unremarkable features. He smelled of smoke, and his hands were covered in soot. He pushed a strand from his eyes, leaving a streak of soot across his forehead. He looked familiar. Urzahil thought he'd passed him on the stairs back in Minas Morgul.

"You're late," said the matron.

"Sorry, I lost track of time."

The delegation from Khand must surely be standing in the antechamber by now. Urzahil hoped they weren't feeling ill-used by being made to wait. He glanced at Ambassador Kiran, expecting to see him reprimand the newcomer, but the Ambassador was silent.

The matron brought a robe for the man and held it as he shrugged into it. Unlike the other robes, his was without ornamentation of any kind. He stood still while she draped a veil over his face, then pulled the hood forward over his eyes.

"I can't see for crap," he said.

"You always say that. Deal with it," said the matron.

A servant opened the door to the audience chamber. The man threaded his way towards it, turning sideways to squeeze between Urzahil and the Chief Ambassador. The heat from his body was like coals on a hearth. The sleeve of his brushed against Urzahil's hand, as soft as the finest cashmere.

The newcomer stepped through the door into the audience chamber and the others followed. The light was dim in the vaulted hall. Rows of torches, mounted on the pillars at shoulder height, ran the length of the chamber, but they were just enough to turn darkness into semi-darkness. The vaulted ceiling far above their heads was lost in shadow.

The Dark Throne, that massive structure of black granite, sat on the dais in the center of the room. Huge and utterly plain, its polished surfaces without decoration of any kind.

The man crossed the room and started to mount the dais but missed his footing. There was a sound of ripping cloth, followed by a muttered curse.

"Do you have any idea how much that fabric costs?" said the matron.

"Sorry."

The newcomer stood before the Dark Throne, and faced the door where the visitors would enter. Two Nazgûl appeared from the shadows. He spoke a word to them and they moved into position, one on either side of him.

The Ambassador mounted the dais and took a place to the side. Urzahil followed and stood beside him.

The newcomer sat on the Throne and laid his arms along its sides, his black-gloved hands hanging over the ends. One finger was missing.

The matron arranged the folds of his robe so the rip didn't show. When she finished, he raised a hand, and the sentries threw open the doors to the audience chamber to admit their guests.