Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe

---

Chapter 20 - Rude Awakenings

Chapter summary: The murders during the night are revealed and an investigation to find the perpetrators begins.  Mairon’s fëa is becoming unstable and he desperately needs to make the potion that will cement it.  Meanwhile Sûla escapes into the city and asks his aunt for help.

---

Mairon stared at the glowing coals in the brazier, momentarily transported to his forge when he’d been Aulë’s apprentice, so very long ago.  Briefly, he wondered what existence would be like now if he’d never joined Melkor and had stayed in Aman. Safer, no doubt, but incredibly boring. No, he preferred action, plans, crafting a future where he, not his foes, held the reins.  He wondered if, as Melkor had foreseen, it would all end badly for him. Although, he thought with a sneer, Melkor had not been able to prevent his own demise, so perhaps his power was less than his own hubris had made it. Mairon felt sure he could avoid Melkor’s mistakes. Absently, he rubbed a finger over the flower of coppery hair that he’d found in the hole where he’d left the Ring. Shortly afterward, he had pinned it to the neck of his robe and had kept it there. He found it oddly comforting.

Ar-Pharazôn began snoring in an irritating staccato fashion. Mouth open. Mairon looked up, walked across the cold floor and bent over him, musing that he need only command the carotid artery to pinch off, just there, and the snoring would be stilled forever. He wiggled his fingers. It was tempting, so tempting. Mairon straightened. What was he doing? Patience, my lovely, he thought. He had outmaneuvered Melkor. In comparison, this man’s life span was a mere snap of the fingers. 

He felt a strange jump as if sucked through the air, and thoroughly disoriented, he found himself back in the chair by the warmth of the brazier. No! He began to shake. This was not good. He needed to brew his potion to cement the elf’s fëa and quickly. How should he do it without tipping his hand to the King?

First, he needed to learn if there were new developments out there. Drawing his legs up under him, Mairon felt for the threads in the fabric of space and time, plucking and sounding them to learn what he could. His nerves felt raw and his temper ready to flare. Someone had disrupted his plans by killing the Lord of Arandor’s son and he could not tear the veils aside to see who. His power was not what it had been when he had the Ring. Was Sûla the murderer?  By the Door of Night! This venture balanced on the edge of a knife. It wouldn’t take much for it to fail. He needed to get to Sûla soon and learn exactly what had happened.

The seeing was obscured by mist, but now he heard boots clattering down the cobbles of Umbar’s streets, and he saw a dark-cloaked figure, hood drawn low over his face as he ran. It was Sûla. Mairon could feel his panic. Tendrils of his dark magic trailed after the boy like a broken spider’s web.    

Well then, the courtesan was out of the picture for the moment. Best to give the King a strong motivation to order someone else on the errand. It would take just the right spell, not too much. Muttering and stroking the air with his fingers, he conjured stiff joints and exhaustion, a sour stomach, headache, and darkened skin under the eyes.  The King groaned and turned over in his bed. 

Mairon smiled. He loved feeling clever. He brushed a finger over the flower and was propelled suddenly into a vivid, erotic dream in which a slender body rode him astride, golden hair swinging back and forth. It ignited an aching void in his chest.  He rocked in the chair, once, twice, thrice. 

There was a tentative rap on the door and Mairon jerked back into a present awareness. A servant’s voice called, “My Lord, your morning posset is here.”

“Bring it in,” Mairon answered gruffly.  “I hope you have two of them.”

**************** 

Still wearing his dressing robe, Pharazôn sat on the edge of his great bed, spooning the custard layer out of his posset.  He was feeling singularly rotten this morning.  His very bones seemed to ache; he had a bad taste in his mouth, and the mirror had not been kind. He wondered if fucking Annatar so much last night had drained him of some essential essence.  Or was this some of Annatar’s sorcery? 

Pharazôn glanced suspiciously over at that lissome body lounging on a couch across the room. Annatar was lying on his side, sucking the posset from the spout on his cup. His long red hair spilled over his shoulders and pooled around him, and the sleeping robe had parted to reveal a long, delicious slice of white skin from that elegant neck, decorated with red bite marks, all the way down to his navel.  He raised glowing golden eyes to look at the King and then arched an eyebrow. Suddenly Pharazôn was filled with an aching desire to rush across the room and throw the Maia face forward over the couch.  He casually brushed a hand across his crotch and became frustrated when his body did not respond as it had before.  

Annatar sat up and his robe slipped off one round shoulder.  “Ah, finally you’re awake, my Lord,” he purred.  “I’m most eager for another go.”
     
He rose, padded across the room, hiked up his robe, and straddled Pharazôn’s lap, rocking their loins together.  He worked his hand downward to fondle the King, then glanced up, a shadow of disappointment crossing his lovely features. “Ah, I forget that there is a limit to men’s stamina.  A shame we had to lose so much of your seed when we could have used it to brew my elixir.  That would certainly renew your prowess.” 

“Get off!  You take too many liberties!” Pharazôn growled.  “I should hang you up by your wrists and thrash your impudent backside.”

“As you did in the tent,” Annatar said.  He moaned softly and his eyelids fluttered shut as if the idea excited him. A corresponding desire rippled again through the King.  Abruptly, he pushed Annatar to the bed and then rolled on top of him, holding his wrists down. The feel of the Zigûr’s body between his thighs was like a buzzing nest of bees, the desire to master him overwhelming.  He bent down and spoke aggressively against the sorcerer’s lips.      

“You know what I think?” Pharazôn said. “I think you are over-eager to make this elixir for me.  I wonder, Annatar, if it might have an adverse effect on me?”

Annatar chuckled. “You’ve asked that before, my Lord.  Surely, you know best. It’s less taxing for me if I don’t have to brew it.  Takes a lot of my magic.” 

“Would it cure morning aches and pains?”

“You’ll feel like a callow youth again.  If you do not, you may thrash me as you like,” Annatar replied.

“I could thrash you anyway,” Pharazôn growled and his lips brushed against Annatar’s.

“Perhaps I’d like that,” Annatar said smiling most lasciviously.  Unexpectedly, his body became completely boneless and he stared vacantly at the ceiling.  

Pharazôn felt a curious desire to laugh. “You are an odd one,” he said, then sat up, releasing the Maia’s wrists.  Annatar lay still as death. Disturbed, Pharazôn shook him hard.  “What’s the matter with you?”

The eyes came into focus.  “Lack of sleep,” Annatar mumbled.  “And my foot is hurting me. I must have the morthul. You promised me!”

“Very well, you’ll have your herbs and what not.  Make a list and I’ll see that Sûla goes to market this morning.”

With a soft hiss, Annatar rose, shook his robes back into place, and then walked across the room to a secretaire where he found parchment and ink.  He began scratching a list, occasionally pausing to look up at the ceiling, his lips moving.  Pharazôn watched him, admiring his grace as he bent to his task, in the same way that one would admire a cat’s silky motion.  Had Annatar bewitched him?  Whatever it was, Pharazôn could not rid his mind of last night’s sensations.  He  must have more.   

A sharp rap sounded at the double doors to his chambers and he jumped.  A man called, “Please, my Lord King, may we enter? We have news that will not wait!”

***********

Pharazôn’s bed chambers had become crowded with servants, along with Lord Azgarad, and various officials from Rabêlozar’s household, including the Regent himself, and the captain of his prison guard, Igmil.  The captain’s dark complexion had become ashen and he kept glancing nervously at the Regent as he answered Azgarad’s questions. Sipping a cup of morthul, Annatar sat quietly in the corner near the archway that lead to an immense balcony, from which one could see dropping away down the hill a spill of Umbar’s angular rooftops brightening in the morning sun.

That light streaming through the archway was not helping Pharazôn’s headache. There had been no time to dress completely in his formal robes and he was feeling vulnerable and irritated in the extreme as he sat in his large chair, trying to make sense of what had happened.

“Slow down,” Lord Azgarad was saying. “Tell me again, Captain Igmil, did you personally find Ephalak hanging in his cell this morning?”

“No, it was Belza, who was standing guard over the whole unit last night.  He went to take breakfast to him and found him hanging by his gold neck chain from the beam in the ceiling. Belza said it looked like suicide and when I went to investigate, that’s what it looked like to me too.”  There was again that glance at the Regent, who didn’t look back.  Instead Rabêlozar stood, hands folded, woefully shaking his head with a corresponding waggling of his triple jowls.

Azgarad stroked the patch of beard on his chin.  “What makes you think it was suicide?”

“Well,” Captain Igmil cleared his throat.  “Lying on the floor near his feet was a stool that had been kicked over.  It was his necklace as hanged him and no one visited him last night.”

“How do we know that?” Azgarad asked.

“Both guards assigned to him swore that no one came in or out.”

“Send them up here, I’d like to question them myself,” Azgarad declared.  “With your permission, my Lord,” he addressed Pharazôn.

“Um, we can’t,” Captain Igmil said, and his forehead broke out in a sweat.

“Why not?”Azgarad demanded.

“Because, my Lords, they were executed this morning, both of the guards, for dereliction of duty,” Captain Igmil said.

“What?” Pharazôn cried. “Who authorized that?”

In the corner Annatar chuckled quietly. 

Captain Igmil’s glance flicked to the Regent, who looked back at him, seemingly shocked at the news. 

“Are you deaf, Captain?” Azgarad cried. “The High King of Númenor asked you a question!”

“My Lords, please.” Igmil fell to his knees. “I’m a simple man obeying orders.  I was told by the Regent’s chancellor to do it, so I did.  He said the orders came from the Regent.”

“I did not give any such order!” Rabêlozar exclaimed.

Pharazôn felt he was witnessing a staged performance. 

Wearily, Azgarad pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.  “Where is the Regent’s chancellor now?”
 
Rabêlozar looked at other members of his household and they all looked back. 

“Well, find him!” Rabêlozar roared. 

Igmil jumped to his feet, but before Rabêlozar’s servants could leave, Annatar stood and slowly clapped. “This is all very convenient, isn’t it?” he said as he prowled towards the Regent in a wave of crackling power.  “The man accused of embezzling funds to build a temple, a project you were very involved with, Lord Rabêlozar, is found dead in his prison cell.  The two men guarding him are executed and the man who gave the order is missing.  I smell a rat.” He tilted his head, looking snidely at the Regent.

“I assure you, my Lord King,” Rabêlozar said, heavily lowering himself to one knee before the chair where Pharazôn sat, “Ephalak killed himself because he knew we would uncover his misdeeds. I had no idea he was betraying me and so I’m well rid of a man who sought to enrich himself at my expense.  But, my Lord, I’m eager to undo the damage he caused, which has harmed my excellent reputation. I’m willing to make good on the missing funds.  I know Lord Azgarad looked at the books last night.  Did you find out how much was missing?”  This was said with an earnest glance at Azgarad.

“It would take some time to sort through those records,”Azgarad growled. “But be assured, I will do so.” 

“I agree with Lord Annatar,” Pharazôn said.  “Something doesn’t add up here, Rabêlozar.  Annatar, you have the ability to read the truth. I’ve seen it.  Show us what our Regent knows.”

All heads turned towards the sorcerer.   

“As you wish.” Annatar cracked his knuckles and approached the Regent, whose eyes widened in terror.

“Don’t let him touch me!” he squealed. “I’ve heard what the Black Arts can do to a man.  He’ll make me lie.”  He paused, quivering like a cornered boar.  Then his eyes narrowed craftily.  “My King,” he said.  “I agree that the circumstances are suspicious.  How do we know the Lord Annatar, master of sorcery, didn’t himself go to the dungeons and murder my exchequer?  No one saw anyone go in or out, isn’t that true, Captain Igmil?” The man nodded.  “We’ve never had anything like this happen in my prison before.  I think you did it and planned to pin it on me!”  He heaved himself to his feet and pointed at Annatar. 

“Well played,” Annatar said, calmly.  “I commend you.  However, his Majesty knows precisely where I was all night.  Don’t you, my Lord?”

Pharazôn noticed Azgarad’s startled expression and narrowed eyes. Anger surged through him at the pungent man standing before him. “Indeed, I’ve had enough of your schemes and dissembling, Rabêlozar!” he cried. 

The double doors opened and a flustered Nibanuzîr, the King’s head of household appeared, bowing awkwardly.  “Pardon the interruption, O King, but the Lord Izindor is here to see you about an urgent matter.”

“What now!” Pharazôn roared.           

Nibanuzîr quailed.  “My Lord, his son, the Lord Dulginzin was murdered last night!”

Pharazôn clapped a hand to his forehead.  “What a piece of work this night has been. You and you,” he beckoned at his personal guards, “put Lord Rabêlozar in his own prison.  And if I discover he’s mysteriously disappeared from his cell, I will hold all his servants and their families accountable and their lives forfeit.  Do you understand me?” He glared around at the Regent’s servants, who blanched in terror.  “Now,” Pharazôn turned back to Nibanuzîr. “Tell Izindor . . .”

“My Lord King,” Izindor cried, pushing past Nibanuzîr and striding into the room. “I must see you at once.  I demand justice for my son!”
       
****************

Someone was pounding on the door.  “Tigôn! Get up.  The King commands your presence.  Tigôn, are you in there?”

Painfully, Tigôn’s consciousness crawled up from a dead slumber.  He smiled and reached for his beautiful, dark-haired lover, but his hand met naught but the soft pelt on his bed. Then he remembered.  Sûla had left just before daybreak. He sat up. What time was it?  And why was someone trying to beat his door down?  Grabbing his woolen tunic off the floor where Sûla had tossed it, he pulled it on, and staggered to the door, which he opened a crack.

There stood Darîkil the page, with his fist raised to thump some more. “By Ossë’s balls, Tigôn, you sleep like the dead.  Did you get drunk at the banquet last night?”

“Yeah,” Tigôn yawned, running his hand through his unruly curls.

“I thought so. You look like something the dog dragged in,” Darîkil said, much too cheerfully.

“Thanks a lot, Darîkil. What does the King want?”

“The whole palace is jumping like a school of sardines,” Darîkil replied, seemingly pleased to be party to knowledge that Tigôn did not have.  “There’ve been two murders during the night!”

That seized Tigôn’s attention. “What? Who?”

“There was a prisoner down in the dungeon, one Ephalak by name, the Regent’s exchequer.  Hanged in his cell.”  Darîkil grasped his own neck, made a choking sound and stuck out his tongue. “The other was that Lord of Arandor, Dulginzin.  Someone cut his throat! Can you imagine?”

Tigôn felt a sudden terrible grip on his heart.  “D-do, they know who did it?”

“No, but they’re saying it must be the King’s Umbarian zirâmîki, Sûla.  Dulginzin requested his services at the banquet last night as reward for his valor in the battle, and the King was forced to honor his promise. You must know, you were there!  I’m told the zirâmîki wasn’t too happy about it. Everyone knows what a brute Dulginzin can be, so no doubt he had it coming. Still, Lord Izindor is carrying on something fierce and the slave has disappeared and . . .”

“Sûla has disappeared?” 

“Yeh, no one has seen him since last night. So of course it looks very bad for him, doesn’t it?  Wanna make a wager on whether or not he’ll hang for it?”

“I don’t have any money,” Tigôn said shakily.  His heart was pounding now.  “What time is it?”

“It’s about two hours after sunrise.”

Only two hours since Sûla had left his bed.  How could so much have changed in so little time?  Two murders!  “Do they think Sûla killed the prisoner as well?” Tigôn demanded. “How is that even possible for him to have passed the guards in the dungeon?”

Darîkil shrugged. “Or the prisoner might have hanged himself.  The palace guards are saying suicide. Listen, we can’t dawdle. The King has commanded all his pages to attend him immediately.  I’m sure we’ll find out everything soon enough. I’ll wait for you. Hurry up!”      
          
Darîkil started to push past him into the room before Tigôn thought better of it.  His room was awash in incriminating evidence.  Sûla’s borrowed mail shirt lay on the chair, the empty bottle of oil sat uncorked on his nightstand, and most likely the air reeked of sex. He could still feel the lines Sûla had raked down his back, which he was sure would be more than visible. “Hold on there,” Tigôn said, putting his hand on Darîkil’s shoulder.  “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“I’ll just sit on your bed while you get dressed,” Darîkil replied.

“I don’t need you eying my naked body,” Tigôn snapped. 

“Oh, as if I were interested in your fair white arse!” Darîkil laughed, and the dimple deepened in his cheek.  “I’m not like the King.”   

Tigôn opened his mouth but could not think of a single clever retort. Instead, he shut the door firmly in Darîkil’s face.  Even though his ‘fair white arse’ was rather sore from what Sûla had put it through last night, in truth, their time together had been the best of his life. Now, his head seemed filled with mud and his throat with sand. How could such a glorious night have turned into this nightmare?

Quickly, he pulled on his woolen hose, then changed his tunic, stepped into his boots, splashed water on his face and ran a comb through his hair. While he was getting ready, he tried hard not to panic. What in Arda had happened to Sûla?  Did he really kill Dulginzin?  Tigôn thought it unlikely Sûla would have done anything so stupid, but then he recalled the level of anger in his friend’s voice last night. “He had better watch out. Some day he’ll meet with an accident, if I have anything to say about it!”  What if, after Sûla had gone back to the room that morning, Dulginzin had hurt him, and Sûla had struck back, accidentally killing him?  That could have happened, easily.

This was terrible!  Tigôn knew what they would do to his friend. . . , his lover, Tigôn corrected himself, if they caught him, and the pain in his heart increased. Oh, Sûla, he thought. Why? When everything seemed to be going well?  Then he had another thought. What if Sûla was caught and tortured into confessing where he had spent the night? 

Tigôn collapsed on the bed and pressed his hands to his temples, momentarily overwhelmed with anguish.  It does no good to panic, he thought.  You know nothing yet.  Maybe there’s another explanation. Go find out what exactly happened.  But first . . . he shoved the mail shirt under his bed, recorked the oil bottle and put it in his pack, then opened the balcony door to let the room air. 
When he finally left his room, Darîkil was leaning sullenly against the wall.  He popped upright. “You took your time, O prudish one,” he said. “I wondered if you were hiding one of the Regent’s zirâmîthin in there. Let’s go, quickly now. I don’t want a beating.  The King looked fair fit to wield the lash himself.”

He sprinted off down the hall and Tigôn followed on his heels, feeling as if the roof was caving in. 

****************      
                               
The Lord Izindor stood before Pharazôn, twisting and writhing more than usual in his grief and fury. The room was rife with tension. 

“My Lord,” Izindor cried, “we must be swift to declare him an enemy of the realm and send soldiers after him.  The little son of a whore cannot have gotten far.  I claim the right of vengeance.  The right to gut him myself.”

“Izindor,” Pharazôn warned, “are you presuming to tell me how I should administer justice?”

The Lord of Arandor’s face blanched. “No, of course not, my Lord.”

Annatar stirred. “We do not yet know if Sûla is the culprit,” he said in a soothing voice. 

“Indeed,” Pharazôn agreed. “We’re talking about my cupbearer and a trusted servant. I would never have sent him to attend your son if I thought him capable of harm. I’m finding it hard to believe that he would do something like this without provocation.”   
   
“How could it be anyone else?” Izindor cried.  “My son’s servant Pâroth saw Dulginzin take Sûla into his room last night.  When Pâroth went in to shave my son this morning, well, there he was, just as I described to you.” Izindor’s jaw worked for a moment. “And the little bitch had fled. Besides Sûla had reason . . .”  He stopped.

“What were you about to say, Lord Izindor?” Annatar said.  “He had good reason to kill your son?”

“The boy was proud,” Izindor replied sullenly.  “After serving you, my King, apparently, he thought he was too good for anyone else.”

“That’s not what he told me,” Annatar said, looking at Izindor with unblinking golden eyes. Pharazôn was reminded of a panther watching a deer from the underbrush. 

“What?” Izindor stiffened.   

Pharazôn turned to Annatar.  “What did Sûla say to you?” he growled.

“It was the day after I surrendered and you took me captive. Sûla came to bring me a meal and I could tell all was not well with him.  His face was tense and streaked with tears.  When I asked him what had happened, he said that Dulginzin tried to rape him in the camp and that Lord Izindor gave him gold to keep silent about it.”

“Sûla never told me this,” Pharazôn declared, his temper mounting.  

Annatar tilted his head, coyly. “He was afraid to tell you because our friend here said he would swear before the Bawîba Manô priests that Sûla tried to seduce Dulginzin. Sûla didn’t think you would believe his side of the story.  Isn’t that right, Izindor?”

“No, that’s a lie!” Izindor cried. “Everyone in camp knows you were the one who tried to seduce the zirâmîki, for which offense the King rightly punished you. Why should we believe anything you say!”

“Ah, well, the truth can always be discerned when we examine cause and effect, personalities and motivations,” Annatar replied airily. “All of us at the banquet witnessed your son making a fool of himself drooling over Sûla’s charms.  As you’ll recall, he was so enamored that he squandered the King’s boon for one night with the boy.  I also saw Sûla’s reaction, which I would characterize as one of revulsion, consistent with a prior unwanted encounter.  Don’t you agree, my Lord?” 

Somewhat guiltily, Pharazôn remembered Sûla’s abject pleas the night before not to be sent to Dulginzin’s chambers.  It made sense now.  Why hadn’t Sûla explained why he didn’t want to go?  If he had, Pharazôn told himself, he would never have sent him. So, Sûla had brought this on himself.  Had that wretched Dulginzin tried to help himself to one of his possessions?  If so, he deserved what he got, but Pharazôn had to admit this revelation only made it more likely that Sûla was guilty of murder and he would hate to have to hang such a delightful bed partner. But he might have no choice. He cleared his throat. “Sûla told me he did not want to go to your son last night.  Now I see why.”

“There could be many other explanations for the courtesan’s reaction,” Izindor said, darting a furious glance at Annatar. “I deny your claims. In any event, he is a slave and has no rights. Do the Lords of the Realm not have a claim on their King for justice?”  Suddenly, his demeanor changed.  Shaking, he covered his face in his hands and moaned, “Oh my boy, my boy.”  

“I assure you,” Pharazôn said. “We will find the murderer and you’ll have your vengeance.  I will send out a decree calling for Sûla’s immediate arrest.  Anyone caught harboring him will be executed. Will that satisfy you?”

“I wish to interrogate him myself,” Izindor said.

“You’ll have your opportunity at the trial.” Pharazôn replied.

“There is to be a trial?” Izindor asked.

“Of course, even though a slave, his guilt is in doubt, and I have unique means at my disposal to discover the truth.”  Pharazôn glanced at Annatar, who smiled creamily.  The sorcerer blinked and Pharazôn had a sudden thought.  “Did you move the body?”

“No, my Lord,” Izindor said. “I came here immediately.  I was worried that the longer we waited, the more time the little bitch had to get away.”

“Azgarad, go investigate,” Pharazôn growled, “and bring me back a report. I’m finding all of this extremely suspicious and I wouldn’t be surprised if you,” he pointed at the shaking Regent, “are at the bottom of all of it.”

“My Lord, please, please, I know nothing about Lord Dulginzin!” Rabêlozar stammered.

“Shut up! Get him out of my sight,” Pharazôn roared. “By the Curse of Mandos, what is keeping my pages?”  

**************
Gasping for breath, Sûla slammed his back against a crumbling mud wall in one of Umbar’s back alleys.  Nearby, a skinny dog ceased bolting down something revolting and eyed him, its upper lip drawn back in a snarl. Sûla found the dog much too symbolic of what he was likely to become, that is, if he were lucky. Unlucky, and he’d be hanging from the palace gate, riddled with crows. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. If you were playing bones, you’d be near to throwing naught. It’s a delicate game now.  You can’t be running, dressed in such finery.  You’ll draw suspicion.

As his breathing eased, he considered his next move.  His aunt lived somewhere in the weaver’s section of town, at least that’s what he remembered from the last time he’d visited as a ten-year-old boy.  After a particularly vicious beating, his mother had briefly left his step-father and sought her sister’s house in Umbar.  As he recalled, his aunt had not been pleased to feed them, although she had fussed a lot over his looks, cooing about how pretty he was and warning him about slavers. One day his mother left and took him back home to their village in Brûni. Sûla had never been sure why, but suspected she and her sister had a falling out. So, his aunt was a gamble, but  his best option until he could purchase a horse and escape into the countryside.  After all, he was not that naive boy anymore.  He had become quite good at charming and negotiating his way around tricky situations. And this time he didn’t come as a poor relative but as someone important, privy to the inner councils of the King, and wearing gold.  That must be worth something. 

But for now, it was time to doff the trappings of a zirâmîki. Gathering in a shaky breath, he looked for a horse trough and carefully washed the remaining paint from his face, combed his hair through with his fingers and adjusted his clothes. With a sigh, he drew off his rings, one by one, along with the moonstone circlet from his forehead, and the dangling, golden earrings, and stuffed the lot in a pocket he found in Tigôn’s jacket.  The wide bronze bracelets still decorated his wrists but he thought that gave him a warrior’s mien. Pulling the hood over his head again, he emerged from the alley into a main thoroughfare near the grand market.

The market was already awake with people setting up their stalls under the flapping awnings, while others huddled around coal braziers, drinking hot goat’s milk and honey in ceramic tankards and eating fresh-baked rolls.  The smell made Sûla’s mouth water.  It had been a long night since he’d sat at the King’s table, and he had not eaten much before Dulginzin’s demand had made him lose all appetite.  Putting on his best smile, he approached a friendly looking old woman who was setting out jewelry on the table in front of her shop.

“Hello Mother,” he said.  “Cold morning, isn’t it?”

“Sooth,” she replied, and looked up at him squinting her eyes in the sun.  A quick glance and she immediately became deferential.  “What might I do for yeh, young sir?”  She gestured.  “I have lovely baubles here to grace a man of means such as yourself.”

Sûla couldn’t help preening a bit. Drawing his hood back from his face, he stopped for a moment and looked at the wares, mostly made of thin wire and glass beads, definitely too cheap for the King’s cupbearer who had become used to solid gold and bright jewels.  Well, those days were done. A wave of mourning washed over him, so that he nearly burst into tears.  All his plotting and sacrifice for naught! But keeping up a brave front, he admired several pieces. Then he said, “Perhaps, I’ll come back, but just now I’m looking for Kathalômi the weaver.  I have heard she does good work.”

The woman frowned and hesitated.  For a moment Sûla worried that his aunt had died or left town, but then she said, “I’ve not seen you around before and I would surely remember your face, pretty as it is. But you look like one of us and speak Umbarian as born to it.”

“I’m originally from up the coast," he lied. "I’ve been hired as a requisition officer with the Númenórean king’s army and I’m looking to lay in supplies for the voyage.”

“Ah well,” she said. “There’s quite a few of you about, in’t there?  Good for business, I daresay.  Yeh, I know that one, Kathalômi, and it’s true she does good work when she wishes.  I can better recommend my sister-in-law.  She keeps a shop called the Black Dolphin.”

Sûla inclined his head.  “I shall be sure to look her up.  Where is the weaver’s quarter?”

“A bit of a walk from here, east of town. Go down to the crossroad there,” she pointed, “turn right and follow it all the way until you see the signboards.”

“Thank you, Mother.  May Zizzûn smile on you.” Sûla made an elaborate courtly bow that caused the woman to grin gap-toothed at him.  He moved off before his growling stomach could cast doubt on his disguise.

A breeze came up and began blowing hard.  He bent forward into it, disguising himself by shuffling like an old man and holding the hood close about his face.  As rapidly as he could in this fashion, he made his way down the streets past the pot-makers, the herbalists, and the metal smiths until he reached the weaver’s quarter with signboards showing pattern specialties.  He asked several passersby and finally a tall man directed him to a shop down a narrow lane. 

Sûla slunk down the alley and then paused in front of the vaguely familiar, sagging wooden door.  It would be better to appear prosperous. He reached under his cloak for his pocket, put one of his rings back on, and slid the earrings in his lobes, leaving the rest of the jewelry hidden.  Lifting a fist to the door, he had a crisis in courage.  What if she cast him out?  Where would he go next?  He was about at his wit’s end. But there was nothing for it, but to trust to family, such as it was.  Please, my Lord Zizzûn, he prayed fervently.  You’ve not been overly kind today.  Have I not paid my dues?  I promise to make sacrifice to you if this goes well.  And, with that, he knocked.

He waited and then knocked again.  And again.  Finally, he was about to pound the door down, when it was opened with a pop by a small, grim-faced woman with dishevelled grey hair, strong features, and yellowed bags under her eyes.  Although her face had changed, now looking older and more weather-beaten, Sûla recognized her as his aunt.

“We are not open yet,” she snarled.  Then her eyes widened as she took him in. “Forgive me, sir,” she said more softly.  “We are not accustomed to clients this early.  Come in.”

Relieved to be quit of the all-too-public street, Sûla entered the darkened house.

The front room’s bareness spoke of poverty. But there was a small fire burning on the hearth next to the great loom with a half-finished piece on it.  Sûla was grateful for the warmth and moved over to put out his hands.  Kathalômi eyed him, hugging a robe woven in stripes of red and black about herself. She had deep lines around her mouth, giving her a pinched, forbidding look.

“What may I do for you?” she said. “I’m working on a commission now, but it will soon be finished.  And we have other pieces, not many just now, but there,” she gestured at shelves with a dozen bolts of colored cloth.

Sûla pulled his hood off his head, then turned around to look her squarely in the eye.  “Do you not recognize me, aunt?”

She squinted at him and then her face lit.  “Sûla? Could that be you?”  He nodded and her lips twitched into a smile, making her almost handsome.  Sûla’s bone structure was clearly from this side of his family. “Oh, let me look at you.”  She walked around him.  “How you’ve come up in the world from that little mite of Saibêth’s,” she said.  “Such finery!  Why, we heard you served in the Númenórean King’s court.  Is it true?”

“It is,” he said. “Cupbearer to Ar-Pharazôn himself.”

“And you took time out to come visit your old aunt!”  Kathalômi reached out a bony hand and grasped his shoulder. “Here am I, not even properly dressed to receive you.” She grabbed up a stool from behind her loom and set it next to the fire.  “Now you sit down right here while I get dressed.  Would you like something to eat?”

“That would be lovely,” he said, trying not to sound terribly eager.

“I’ll be back shortly.  Don’t go away.  I want to hear everything.”

I doubt that, Sûla thought.

It wasn’t long until Kathalômi returned and beckoned at him.  “Come back to the kitchen, Sûla.”  He followed her through several sparsely furnished rooms filled with clutter and sat down at a small table while his aunt took the cloth from a loaf of rye bread and set out salted sardines, olives, and some watered wine.  “It’s not much,” she apologized, “but I wasn’t expecting you.”

Sûla averred that it was more than enough, and loaded sardines and olives onto a slice of the bread. “Where is Uncle Yakalud?” he asked before taking a bite.

Kathalômi sat in a chair across from him and poured herself a cup of wine from a battered jug.  Sûla noticed that her hand shook.  “You remember my son, Nûluroth?”

“Of course,” Sûla said.

“He joined the Númenórean army to fight the Haradrim and disappeared two years ago.  Yakalud went looking for him.  I haven’t seen either of them since.”  The corners of her eyes drooped with sorrow.                                       

“I’m sorry,” Sûla replied.

“Yeh, well, it’s been hard, very hard trying to make it by myself,” Kathalômi said. “There is no one now to help with the business and it’s a lot of work, let me tell you. The price of cotton and dye have gone up since the war last spring. I have a lodger, an older man, but he’s not much help.  He fishes and when he brings back a catch, takes the money right off to the gambling dens. I have to threaten to throw him out before he’ll pay his keep.”

“That is unfortunate. Have you heard from my mother?” Sûla asked.

“Not in several years.”

“I was wondering how she fared.”   

“Do you have time to travel down to Brûni?”

Sûla hesitated, unprepared for the wave of anger that came over him. Kathalômi looked at him shrewdly.  “No,” he said shortly.  “I wouldn’t go near the place.”

“Ah, well, can’t say as I blame you,” Kathalômi said. “From what I heard.” She finished her cup and poured another.

“What did you hear?” Sûla asked.  “Do you know what they did to me?”

His aunt took another swig from her mug, then sat back in her chair. “About four years ago, Saibêth came to stay with me.  She said her worthless husband, Khunig, had brought you here and sold you to the Númenóreans. She came to look for you, but by then they had taken you West over the water.”

Sûla tasted bile and had to force himself to swallow. Well he remembered that day.  His step-father had brought him along on the pretext of needing help hauling goods back from market. He had been uncommonly pleasant, buying him some cheap jewelry and a nice tunic and renting him a tub at one of the bathhouses. Then, in the dead of night, Sûla had been hauled from bed by rough hands and thrown in the slave pens.  He was auctioned the next day and when it was done, he saw the buyer counting out money to Khunig.  He would never forget that feeling of betrayal when his step-father cast an ugly look at him as he was shoved off the block.  The rest he did not want to remember.  His answer was short.  “Yes, it’s true.”

“You know your mother was distraught at what he’d done and left him for a time.  That’s why she came to see me. She stayed . . . for a several months. That was a rough summer.”

“You said you hadn’t seen her in a while. Where is she?” Sûla asked.

Kathalômi shrugged.  “I hate to say this, Sûla, but your mother is a weak woman.  She went back to him.”  Belying her words, Kathalômi appeared to relish the fact.

Sûla should have felt something, anything, but it was as if he were dead inside.  He drained the last of his watered wine.

“Nice earrings,” Kathalômi said, reaching out to flick one of them.  Sûla could feel its weight shifting on his earlobe.

“A gift from the King,” Sûla replied.

“It doesn’t look as if you’ve done so badly for yourself, after all,” she said. One finger traced along his cheekbone over the bruise where Dulginzin had struck him. “Huh,” she said. “So, tell, me, Sûla, why are you here? And don’t say it’s because you wanted to see me. We both know better.”

He thought of lying and then realized it would do him no good. No doubt they would send guards to look for him and gossip flew quickly around the docks and market. She would soon learn the truth. He said, “I need your help, aunt.”

Her face grew hard.  “I thought so. What have you done?”

“Nothing. I’m innocent, I swear.  But it appears as if I’ve done something bad.  Very bad indeed.  I need you to hide me.”

Her mouth thinned.  He could see the ravages of fear in her face.  Her eyes roved over him.  “Have you done something to the Númenórean King? If so, there’s nowhere in Ennor to hide.”

“No, no,” Sûla said.  “Nothing to do with the King. It’s . . . there’s been a murder and whoever did it made sure it looked like it was me.”

“Well,” she said, sitting back.  She shook her head.

“Think of the advantages I could offer you,” Sûla said quickly. “I’m young and strong and smart. I could help with your business here.  I’ve learned much in the King’s court about negotiating.  I’ve been well-trained and have manners fit for wealthy households. I can get more clients, bargain for your supplies, and help with the weaving.  And I’m uncommonly good at playing bones.  I promise, I’d be able to double your earnings. More than that.”

“I don’t believe in gambling,” she said. “The odds are stacked against you. In the end, you lose everything.”

Sûla’s mouth quirked. “You haven’t seen me working a set of bones, Aunt. You’ll believe in it again. I swear by Zizzûn’s dice.”

He could see in the slow flicker of her eyes that she was considering it.  Time to nail the bargain.  He stood, shrugged Dulginzin’s magnificent dark blue cape with the ermine lining onto the chair and then unbuttoned Tigôn’s woolen jacket and drew it off so that he stood bare-chested, shivering a bit in the chill. The golden dragon curled on his upper arm, ruby eyes winking in the half-light. He touched it reverently.  “I have assets that I’m prepared to sell.  This is worth a fistful of gold, at least twenty abarîm. You will live well, I promise.”

Kathalômi’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a very distinctive piece. Did you steal it?”

“No! It’s mine. The King gave me this for good service.  I swear!”

Kathalômi smiled tightly. “You are very persuasive, nephew.  And I confess, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for you. Very well, by Zizzûn, you have a bargain.”  She thumped her fist twice on the table and then offered her hand to Sûla.  He took it.

“Thank you, aunt.  I shall not forget your kindness.” 

He’d convinced her; he was safe. Sûla put the jacket back on, and suddenly overcome by exhaustion, struggled to do up the buttons.  He sat down again and his eyes began to close on their own.  He jerked them open.

“You seem tired,” Kathalômi said gently.  She set a hand on top of his. 

“I was up all night,” Sûla said. “Please, is there a place you can hide me, where I can lie down for a bit?”

She nodded.  “My supply shed.  Come.”

Sûla followed her out the back door and across the yard past some cackling chickens, to a shed.  Kathalômi had to lift the sagging door to let him into the cold, dark interior, splashed with narrow lines of light coming through slats in the wood.  “Back here,” she said, indicating a pile of lumpy sacks lying underneath a shelf.  “You can lie down on these and I’ll hang a blanket so you’re out of sight.”

The sacks looked dusty and were pungent with the greasy smell of wool.  Sûla sighed and ducking his head, crawled under the shelf.  At least the wool sacks made for a soft, if somewhat lumpy, bed.  He spread the cloak over himself. Meanwhile Kathalômi shook the dust from a striped cotton blanket and hung it over the opening.  Sûla heard her moving heavy objects on the shelf to hold it down.  He sighed again, shut his eyes, and slipped into blesséd oblivion.  

-tbc-

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much to betas Malinornë and Russandol.  Russa betaed part of this from her laptop while on holiday and deserves particular thanks.    

Language notes:

Igmil - means “star-shaped figure” in canon Adûnaic
Belza - the name is a fragment of an untranslated canon Adûnaic name. No word 'belza' has been identified with certainty; it exists as a hypothetical element of the name Belzagar. Thanks to Malinornë.
zirâmîthin- plural of zirâmîth which is a feminine form of zirâmiki. The word is formed from canon Adûnaic meaning beloved + young girl, but the combination is an elfscribe invention.
Kathalômi - Sûla’s aunt, means roughly ‘all night’ in Adûnaic
Yakalud - invented Adûnaic name for Sûla’s uncle.
Nûluroth - invented Adûnaic name for Sûla’s cousin, roughly meaning “night foam”
Saibêth - Sûla’s mother. Means “assent” in Adûnaic
abarîm - invented Adûnaic for gold pieces, like a sovereign.  Abara would be one gold piece. Name is related to bâr - lord