Another Man's Trash by Uvatha the Horseman

---

Chapter 7 - Sauron's Lair

---

Chapter 7 - Sauron's Lair

Saruman spoke in a low, persuasive voice. "Yes, it's all very sad, but we have work to do. Take me to Sauron's study."

With an effort, Urzahil got to his feet. He led them further down the corridor, then up a narrow flight of stairs built into the thickness of the wall, like something put there for the use of servants. The timid bureaucrat gestured Saruman to follow.

"Are there a great many more stairs?" Saruman's legs still ached from all the climbing yesterday.

"Just a few. Sauron's study is on one of the lower levels."

Eight flights later, Saruman hobbled off the landing with his calves cramping, and silently cursed his guide.

Many turns later, the corridor ended in front of a round-arched door with ironwork decorations which looked like something Sauron might have made. Urzahil tried the door. It didn't budge, but Urzahil unlocked it the words of a spell.

Once inside, Saruman started to close the door behind them, but Urzahil stopped him. "Leave it open. Orthanc is sleeping now, but if there's a tremor, the building might shift, and we could get trapped in here."

Trapped inside a structure that was threatening to collapse. Wonderful.

The room had the look of an office or study. A tall chair sat behind a substantial table. Several lesser chairs were arranged in front of it.

A table took up most of the space in front of the bookcases. A large map had been unrolled on the table's surface, with lead figures indicating the movements of troops. He saw ledger books, routine military orders, and slips up paper releasing funds, all in Sauron's careful handwriting.

Behind the table, books lay face-down beneath empty shelves. "The room's been ransacked," Saruman said.

"I don't think so. The highest shelf lost most of its books, while the ones within easy reach are untouched. I expect they were knocked down by a tremor."

The flagstones trembled beneath his feet, and another book fell to the floor. Saruman relaxed, insomuch as one can relax inside a fragile building during an earthquake.

Saruman didn't find anything about how to make a Great Ring. "Is there more?" He looked around the room for a box or chest where Sauron might have stored important papers.

"The most valuable documents are in here." Urzahil knelt and pulled a strongbox from under the table. He whispered a chant, and the lock snapped open.

Saruman's pulse quickened. This could be it. The strongbox was iron and surprisingly heavy. Urzahil used a spell to unlock it. Saruman lifted the lid. Inside, parchment scrolls tied with red tape filled the strongbox.

He picked up the scroll that came to hand, untied the tape, and began to read a tribute agreement with Rhûn. He tossed it aside, knocking over the lead markers on the map. Urzahil hurried to set them back up, then retrieved the tape, rolled up the scroll, and tied it closed.

Saruman unrolled a treaty with Umbar, a proposed treaty with Harad, a tribute agreement with Near Harad. That was it. He slammed down the lid, making Urzahil jump. As Sauron's clerk had said, treaties and tribute agreements were stored here. Nothing else.

"Where did Sauron keep his personal papers?" asked Saruman.

"I have no idea. Maybe in his bedchamber," said Urzahil.

"I went up there yesterday and found it empty. When I arrived, the Elves were carrying off the Ithil Stone."

"The Ithil Stone? He wouldn't like that." Urzahil looked alarmed.

"Well, Sauron's not here to mind. My point was, his room had been stripped bare."

"The room below the Observation platform? That's not his bedroom. Sometimes he'd use the Palantir until late, so he kept a cot in that room and a change of clothes."

"That wasn't Sauron's bedroom? Then where it is?" asked Saruman.

Urzahil crossed the study and pushed on the paneled wall. A small door swung open, revealing a bank of windows looking onto the volcano. Rivers of orange-red lava ran down its sides, and the smoke was thicker than they had been this morning.

Saruman entered the bedchamber and cross to the windows. Looking down, he realized he was almost directly above the section of the foundations he'd inspected that morning, the part that had begun to sag alarmingly. He imagined the outer wall of windows tipping outward and plunging thousands of feet to the plateau below. He shivered and stepped back. He still wanted to search the room but decided to make it quick.

At the end of the bed was a painted chest. A tapestry hung on the wall, and a small table used as a writing desk stood against the windows.

He approached the table. Loose papers littered its surface, all in Sauron's handwriting. Saruman picked up a handwritten calendar. Appointments filled many of the spaces. A few were several days in the future. Obviously, Sauron wasn't going to be able to keep them. It was a small thing, but for some reason, Saruman found it achingly sad.

The was also a half-written letter addressed to the Witch King.

"I want to apologize for what I said last week. The words were spoken in anger. I didn't mean it."

More text followed, rambling paragraphs full of defensive self-justification. Each had been scratched out and rewritten even less effectively. In the end, he'd crossed out everything but the simple apology. It was dated March 15th.

The letter had never been sent. It was too late now. The Witch King had died that day. Saruman shook himself out of his reverie. This wasn't what he'd come for.

Saruman turned his attention to the painted chest, decorated with the image of a kraken. He lifted the lid and dumped everything on the floor, leaving nothing inside but the unfinished wood at the bottom.

"You're disturbing his things. He won't like that," said Urzahil.

"He's not here to care," said Saruman.

Saruman sifted through the heap. It seemed to contain nothing but clothing. Most of it was black, but there were also browns and russets, the colors they'd worn back in Aulë's forge.

He held up a black cashmere robe and shook it. Nothing dropped out, no folded paper, no letters, no pocket diary. He examined the next one, a rust-colored linen tunic. Same result. He went through the whole pile but found only clothes.

He looked under the bed but found no hidden sketchbooks, scrolls, or drawings. He pulled down the bedcurtains, looked behind the tapestry, lifted the rug, and overturned the writing table, but found nothing pinned underneath. Urzahil watched from the doorway, cringing whenever the lid of a chest banged shut or overturned furniture hit the floor.

There was nothing useful here. Saruman decided to take a gigantic risk. "I'm looking for something from the Second Age, the notes Sauron made while he was planning the Ring."

"You won't find them here. Nothing in the building is over sixty years old," said Urzahil.

Saruman blinked in surprise. "But Barad-dûr is ancient. Why…"

Because this wasn't the first Barad-dûr. The original had been pulled down centuries ago, and everything in it lost in the rubble. That's what the smell of new wood and fresh paint had been trying to tell him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"We're done here." Saruman kicked the overturned clothes chest and chipped a tentacle of the painted kraken. He moved toward the door with heavy feet. There was nothing to do but walk out of the Tower, right now, and tell Worm they were going home to Isengard, or whatever was left of it.

A chandelier hung from a ceiling beam, its candle holders shaped like dragons. One had curved tusks, another breathed iron flames, and a third napped with its snout resting on crossed paws. Like the decorative ironwork on the door, it looked like Sauron's own work.

The chandelier began to dance on its chains. Saruman didn't feel any tremors. Then it began to swing back and forth as if caught in a windstorm. One of the candles came loose and struck the floor. A low rumble emerged from the earth. In the study next door, a bookcase fell over with a crash. Saruman wasn't sure, but it seemed to him that when the quake hit, the outside of the room dropped slightly.

"Let's get out of here," he said, pulling Urzahil toward the door.