Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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Slipping Grades

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Chapter 9 – Slipping Grades

Caldûr looked over the classroom.

"We're going to do something different today. Instead of me lecturing you and telling stories, your classmates are going to perform a skit.

"Let's pick our first actor. I need someone physically powerful, supremely self-confident, someone who would do anything on a dare." Several hands went up. "Marös, come up here." Marös ascended the stage. Built like a bull, broad in the chest and well-muscled, he exuded self-confidence.

"Class, meet Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, twenty-fifth king of Númenor, and at this moment the most powerful man in the world." Marös grinned and struck a pose. "But you're king only because you forced the ruling queen, Tar-Míriel, to accept you as a husband. Incidentally, she's also your first cousin, and marriage between first cousins is not legal in Númenor. You've never been in her bedroom[1], and the marriage has produced no children."

"You've just seized the throne, but the courts could have your marriage annulled at any time, which, incidentally, would invalidate your claim to the throne. Your crown hangs by a thread. You have to do something spectacular to prove you deserve to be king.

"Now, let me ask the class, how many of you have ever moved to a new neighborhood? What's the first thing you do?"

Gaerna, the burliest of the charity students, raised his hand. "You show them how tough you are. Challenge the meanest one of all, and wipe the floor with him. If you don't, the others will think you're weak, and they'll hurt you."

"How do you know you're going to win?" asked Caldûr.

"You don't, but there are things you can do to even the odds. You pick your time carefully, catch them when they're tired, then hit them with everything you have It's a risk, but sometimes you have to be ballsy," said Gaerna.

"Correct. Ar-Pharazôn, that's the position you find yourself in today. Your rivals in Númenor who would love to see you fail, so you have to do something spectacular that says, 'Challenge me at your peril.' You need to thrash the toughest foe you can find, in the most public way possible. Now, who's the most dangerous person you can think of?

"A rival at Court?" asked Marös.

"Think bigger."

"Gil-galad, High King of the Elves."

"That would be a good choice, except that you and Gil-galad are nominally on the same side. It has to be an enemy, one so dangerous that if you subdue him, the kingship is yours forever."

Marös fell silent.

"Let's pick someone to play your adversary. I need a student who's quick-witted and resourceful, someone who's adaptable and keeps his emotions hidden." No hands went up. "Urzahil, come up here."

Urzahil put his writing tools on the bench and ascended the stage.

"You have a keen intelligence and enormous strength. You're proud, and you have no sense of humor. Your chief emotion is anger. You feel slights keenly and can nurse a grudge forever. But more than anything, you can't bear to be humiliated. Class, meet the one they call Dread Horror, Sauron Gorthaur.

"Now, Ar-Pharazôn, you want to show your rivals back in Númenorian just how tough you are by defeating Sauron Gorthaur, said to be the most dangerous creature in Arda. If you can pull that off, your claim to the throne is secure."

Caldûr gave them each a slip of paper. Marös read his, then raised his chin. The corner his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

"Get on your knees," Marös ordered. Urzahil knelt. The hard planks pressed against his kneecaps, and looking up at others from the floor was embarrassing.

Urzahil read from his own script. "A great king must have his will." [2]

Marös referred to his script again. "I want to see you eat dirt." Marös watched Urzahil with hooded eyes, his lips parted in a sneer. He was enjoying this way too much. Urzahil's hands curled into fists.

Caldûr was looking down his nose, his lip curled in a half-smile.

"Sauron, are you aware that your personal guard is watching this? If you expect them to keep the story to themselves when they reach home, think again. Your people will learn that the king from the sea made you crawl, and you, with your great need to be admired, will fall in their esteem." Caldûr's voice was gloating.

The city bells rang, signaling the end of class. Urzahil sagged with relief. But the usual sounds of the end of the last class of the day, a murmur of conversation as students gathered up their belongings, the scrape of benches against stone, never came. Urzahil stole a sideways glance. His classmates were leaning forward on their benches, transfixed.

Urzahil looked up to Caldûr for help, but his instructor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face unsmiling. "Do it," he ordered Urzahil.

"I said, I want to see you eat dirt," said Marös.

Urzahil didn't move. Caldûr took the back of his neck and shoved his face to the floor. The smell of dust rose from planks which hadn't been swept recently. One of his classmates tittered, several more laughed out loud.

"Do it," said Caldûr.

Urzahil licked the rough wood. Particles of grit stuck to his tongue. He sat back on his heels, spitting, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His chest heaved with anger, and his breath whistled through his nostrils. He clenched his teeth so hard they hurt.

"Ar-Pharazôn, how do you feel right now?" asked Caldûr.

"That was fun! I want to do it again." Marös had a big grin on his face.

Urzahil struggled to stay in character, and kept his face still, a mask of submission and acquiescence. It was hard, he was so angry his ears were ringing. He didn't think he'd ever been this furious.

"Sauron, how do you feel right now?" asked Caldûr.

"I will kill him. I don't care how long it takes, but I am going to f…. I am going to kill him." With difficulty, Urzahil bit back the word that could have gotten him suspended from school for a day.

"You can't kill Ar-Pharazôn. You just swore an oath that forbids it," said Caldûr.

"I'll have someone else do it, then."

"You can't order someone else kill him, your oath precludes that, too." Caldûr lowered his voice. "But consider this. You're patient, you're cunning, and you have almost supernatural powers of persuasion. Now, what will you do next?"

"I'd …" Murderous rage gave way to an icy, calculating hatred. "I'd dare him to do something stupid enough to get himself killed. Swim long distance in the open ocean, climb the outside of a tower, taste the flesh of the puffer fish, the one that makes your skin tingle," said Urzahil.

Caldûr pulled Urzahil to his feet and draped an arm across his shoulder.

"You're the greatest king who ever lived. Yet the Valar won't even let you set foot on the lands that confer immortality. Like all mortals, you'll die at your appointed time, and you have no heir to continue your line. A great king would seize those lands by force."

Caldûr released Urzahil and turned to the class. "What's the most dangerous thing Sauron could possibly have dared Ar-Pharazôn to do?"

Hooting and stamping their feet, the class shouted with one voice,

"Invade Valinor!"

-o-o-o-o-o-

That evening, as Urzahil filled tankards from the bung tap, he could still smell the dust from the floorboards, still feel the grit on his tongue.

"Why would Caldûr order me to do that? He could tell how upset I was." Urzahil muttered as he carried the heavy tray to a table on the far side of the room, where a dozen paying customers sat. "He must know that making someone lick a dirty floor, with all his classmates watched and jeered him on, was humiliating."

Urzahil rested the tray on the table, a broad smile on his face for the customers, and set each order in the right place.

"And Marös watched me the whole time as if I were a girl undoing her dress and letting it drop to the floor. He was enjoying it so much, I thought he was going to …"

Urzahil banged down a tankard harder than he'd intended. Ale slopped out and spread across the table.

"Excuse me!" Urzahil yanked a rag from his belt and tried to wipe up the growing puddle before it reached the edge of the table and overflowed onto the customer's lap.

If he was this upset from playacting, how angry would he have been, had it been real?

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, Urzahil was still upset about what happened in the skit the day before. He didn't want to talk about it, and made a point of arriving for Diplomacy just as class was about to start.

Marös and Ardamin were already seated on the bench. Urzahil took his usual place beside Ardamin and avoided looking at Marös, but Marös leaned around Ardamin to talk to him anyway.

"I hear Caldûr thinks you're the best actor he's had." Marös said.

Urzahil acknowledged Marös with the slightest of nods and looked straight ahead, a little cool, a little distant. Marös was about to say something else to him, but just then, Wynne, the Diplomacy teacher, rapped on the podium and began his lecture.

"It is the year 3319 in the Second Age, and the entire island of Númenor had just been destroyed following the failed invasion of Valinor, which provoked, shall we say, a larger reaction from the Valar than anticipated. The greatest fleet ever assembled was gone, the island of Númenor and the entire civilian population were gone.

"As survivors reached the mainland, word of the disaster began to trickle in, and the coastal colonies were thrown into turmoil. Coastal politics became a free-for-all as every colonial governor and minor lord scrambled to reposition himself in the unexpected power vacuum.

"When Sauron pulled himself from the bottom of the ocean and returned to Mordor, the Black Númenorians of Umbar were quick to ally themselves with him."

Caran asked, "Now why would the Black Númenorians ally with Sauron, when he'd just killed their king and destroyed their island nation?"

Tûlmir, the merchant's son, put up his hand. His plump face looked thoughtful. "It didn't matter whether they were mad at Sauron or not, the Black Númenorians couldn't afford to have him as an enemy."

Caran's friend Gaerna, who enjoyed fistfights in grog shops, waved his arms in the air and practically jumped off the bench.

"It was more than that. They weren't friends initially, but they were forced into it because they shared an enemy.

"How can I explain … oh, I know! Let's say that nations are people, and Umbar is Gondor's younger cousin. Umbar has just embraced the Cult of Melkor against Gondor's advice. It caused a rift between them, and they're no longer speaking.

"One night, they run into each other in a tavern. Both have been drinking. Gondor is a head taller than Umbar, and heavier by three stone[3]. Umbar knows it's in trouble. But Mordor is also in the tavern that night, and Mordor has a score to settle with Gondor. This is the end of the Second Age, remember, when Mordor is at the height of its power, and just might be able to beat Gondor this time.

"And if Mordor beats Gondor, Mordor might take an interest in Gondor's smaller, weaker cousin. Let's just say Umbar is scared.

"Let's say Gondor and Umbar were to join forces and take on Mordor, Mordor would go home bloody and humiliated. But they'll never join together, the rift between them is too deep.

"Now, Umbar is stepping to the middle of the floor and rolling up its sleeves. Do I dare wager a copper that Umbar will beat Gondor? No, I'd be throwing my money away. But then, Umbar does something brilliant, Umbar allies with Mordor. That accomplishes two things, Gondor can't invade Umbar, and Mordor won't."

The Diplomacy teacher looked stunned. "I have to admit, Gaerna, I've never heard global politics explained in terms of fistfights in taverns, but to your credit, you've got it exactly right."

ding ding. ding ding.

"And with that, we are out of time. For tomorrow, I want you to compare the geopolitical situation in the Second Age, so vividly described by Gaerna, with the tension growing between Gondor and Umbar today. Gondor is just as threatening now as it was in the Second Age, but with Mordor empty, we're on our own."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next morning, when Urzahil was leaving Diplomacy, he saw Caldûr in the hall. Too angry to speak to him, he turned away and increased his pace, but Caldûr caught with him and up and touched his arm.

"You absolutely nailed the part of Sauron. I've never seen anyone get inside his head the way you did." He paused, as if making a decision. "I want you to play Sauron in the skit next summer."

"I thought Sauron was always played by an Elf." Urzahil was noncommittal.

"I just learned that Sauron assumed the form of a Númenorian when he appeared before Ar-Pharazôn."

"What's his true form?" asked Urzahil.

"No one knows. A demon, I expect. But unlike other demons, he can take any form he likes, that's why he's so dangerous."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil sat in his Sindarin class, daydreaming out the window. The drone of other students reciting was making him sleepy.

"gil-galad" "star light"

'palan-tir' 'far looking'

'el-rond' 'star dome'

'mor-gul' 'black knowledge'

'ar-wen' 'noble maiden'

'mith-ril' 'grey gleam'

'mal-orn' 'gold tree'

'celeb-orn' 'silver tree'

'sil-mir-ril' 'white jewel gleam'

Then Chaered called on Urzahil.

'tol-siri-on.'

Urzahil could read Sindarin reasonably well, but he couldn't seem to understand the spoken language as well as his classmates did.

Chaered was waiting for his answer. Urzahil wrote the word on his slate tablet and studied it. '-on' meant 'great' or 'a lot'. Other than that, he had no idea.

The instructor finally rescued him. "tol sirion means an island in a great river.

The bells rang, and class was dismissed.

"Urzahil, a word?" The Sindarin instructor didn't look happy with him. "I can't understand why you're not doing well. Are you staying out in the pub until all hours?" Chaered had his hands on his hips.

If only he knew.

"Why is it that the charity students all have jobs, yet they earn better grades than you. Maybe it's because, unlike you aristocrats, they expect to work hard."

"I work hard." Urzahil spoke through clenched teeth..

Chaered snorted.

"No, really, I'm working two jobs, sleeping in a barn, and eating what I scrape off the plates at the tavern where I work. I'd gladly trade places with a charity student." Urzahil realized what he'd just said, and his hand flew to his mouth. "Forget I said that, I was just making it up."

Chaered looked him up and down. Urzahil was dressed like a nobleman, but his tunic was faded and there was a hole in the knee of his leggings the size of a copper coin. He looked less like a nobleman than like a servant wearing his Master's hand-me-downs.

"Urzahil?" His teacher's eyes were kind. "Go to the Head of the School and ask to have your tuition waived on the basis of hardship. No one else needs to know."

Urzahil's felt his face getting hot. Chaered probably hadn't meant to insult him, but charity was for the sons of dockworkers and day laborers, not the sons of noblemen. Urzahil would never fall that low.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] canon says that the couple never had children, reason unspecified.

 

[2] 'This is a hard doom,' said Sauron, 'but great kings must have their will', and he submitted as one under compulsion. "The Tale of Years of the Second Age: Appendix B", History of Middle-earth, vol. XII: The Peoples of Middle-earth

 

[3] one stone = 14 pounds