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

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Chapter 21 - The King's Decree

Chapter Summary: Ar-Pharazôn offers a reward for Sûla’s capture and Annatar entices Tigôn with promises of help for Sûla.

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“By Ossë’s nutsack, it took you long enough!” Ar-Pharazôn barked when Tigôn and Darîkil presented themselves in the receiving room of the King’s bedchamber, already crowded with officials and servants. Darîkil cast a disapproving glance at Tigôn as if to say, ‘See!’

Tigôn noticed that the King was not his usual well-groomed self, apparently having just come from bed. He wore a dressing robe and no crown; his sable hair hung curling about his unshaven face and hooded eyes. Tigôn and Darîkil advanced past the crowd of staring courtiers, and dropped to their knees in front of the King. Tigôn now had a good view of his bare feet with their broad, crooked toes.

“Please forgive me, my Lord. I was slow to wake,” Tigôn said. “What is your will?”

“I’ll address you in a moment, Tigôn,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted. Seemingly mollified, the King ruffled Tigôn’s curly hair, a rather intimate gesture. Tigôn had to suppress his impulse to jerk away. That was not the hand he wanted.

“Darîkil, take this decree.” The King gestured at his head of household, Nibanuzîr, who hurried over with a scroll in his hand. “Go with the men at arms here, find Umbar’s crier, and tell him to proclaim throughout the streets that the Umbarian slave, Sûla, Cupbearer to the High King of Númenor, is wanted on suspicion of murder. He is to be found, arrested, and remanded to the custody of the King’s guards, but not to be harmed. Anyone caught harboring him will be imprisoned. There is a reward of, what did we say, Nibanuzîr? Ten? Ten abarim for information leading to his capture. Go quickly now.”

Darîkil rose, bowed, glanced importantly at Tigôn, and then left with the guards.

“Now then, Hazûn.” The King beckoned and Tigôn recognized the grim-faced man who had captured Annatar on that fateful morning nine days ago and since had been promoted to head of the Royal Guard. “You know what my zirâmîki Sûla looks like?” Ar-Pharazôn asked. Hazûn nodded. “Take a company into Umbar and find him. Instruct all your men – he’s to be brought back unharmed, and put into a well-watched cell in the palace prison.”

“Yes, my King. It will be done as you command,” Hazûn said and exited with a swirl of his red cloak.

Tigôn wished he could ease the clenching in his gut. This was hideous. Where was Sûla? He remembered his last glimpse of him climbing nimbly over the balcony in his borrowed woolen jacket, black silk trousers, and bare feet. Tigôn felt a wave of tenderness, coupled with fear. Could he be hiding in the palace? Or in some back alley of Umbar? What could Tigôn do to help him? Nothing, he could do nothing.

Ar-Pharazôn turned to him. “And now, my boy, I’m giving you an easy task, since I sent you on the difficult mission to the Haradren encampment. But mind, this one is no less exacting. The Lord Annatar will give you a list of items to be procured in the market. You are to follow his instructions precisely, to the word. Understood?” Tigôn nodded. “Lord Azgarad will give you enough coin, as soon as he gets back. Annatar, show him your list.”

The Zigûr came forward, brandishing a piece of paper. His normally smooth gait was marred by a slight hitch and Tigôn could see he was favoring a foot.
Annatar said, “If you please, my Lord, I will need time to instruct him, as many of the items are very specific and require explanation. Precision in the ingredients is key to the success of the formula. But, my Lord, I don’t want these trifles to keep you from your business here. Might I speak with him in my chambers?”

“Begone then,” the King waved, impatiently. “This day has begun most unpleasantly and I find myself missing my favorite body slave. Nibanuzîr, I wish to be dressed and have some breakfast before reviewing petitions this morning.”

“Of course, my Lord King,” Nibanuzîr said.

Tigôn rose, and bowed deeply. He glanced at Annatar, who was regarding him through lowered eyelids. An easy task? Why did he have the feeling it would not prove so easy? Annatar made a perfunctory bow to the King, who wasn’t paying attention since a servant was busy prepping him for a shave, and then he turned and led the way out of the room into the chilled hallway. Two guards followed. Tigôn recognized one of them, a man named Narûkh.

Annatar paused and allowed Tigôn to catch up. “So, you’re the one,” he said mysteriously.

“What?” Tigôn said, glancing up at him: tall, black-robed, and menacing in his fiery beauty. Tigôn’s stomach clenched again and Annatar’s mouth quirked. They continued on down the lamplit hall, their footsteps echoing on tile. The Zigûr’s shadow seemed to loom larger than his and Narukh’s, striding ever one step ahead of them. If Tigôn squinted his eyes, he thought he could see dark wings rising from it.

Here and there, they encountered groups of servants whispering to each other, ‘did you hear . . .?’ ‘dead in his cell . . .,’ ‘the Zigûr said . . . .’ Upon the sorcerer’s approach, they looked up startled, and scuttled off like roaches.
Annatar sucked a breath through his teeth, seemingly in pain. The dark shadow dwindled into human stature.

“What happened?” Tigôn said. “To your foot.”

“Your sovereign’s idea of theatrics happened,” Annatar snarled. “Not that I blame him. I might have done the same thing myself, had our roles been reversed. We’re birds of a feather, your King and I.”

“Why doesn’t that fill me with confidence?” Tigôn replied. It slipped out before he considered whether or not it was wise to speak so freely. He glanced at Narûkh’s grim face, which did not reveal anything. Tigôn had assumed such a blank expression himself many a time in the King’s presence. Often it was wise to be deaf to what others said.

Annatar halted. “You’re rather forward, for a page.”

“Forgive me, Lord Annatar,” Tigôn said. “It has been an upsetting morning.”

“That it has.”

They said no more until they reached a room located off the main corridor. The guards at the door admitted them. “Knock when you’re ready to leave,” Narûkh said shortly after coming in and making a cursory check of the room. He left and Tigôn heard a lock snick behind them, filling him with trepidation.

He found himself in a chamber with walls lined in thin bronze sheets. On the wall opposite hung a large tapestry showing elves battling an immense horned dragon. Tigôn was suddenly reminded of the dragon in his dream after the battle at Arzog’s Pass.

Annatar was watching him, his face still as a mask. He shifted his eyes in the direction of the tapestry. “Meant to be Glaurung, the Terrible. Not a good likeness. I should know.”

Tigôn didn’t need the reminder of just who he was dealing with. How could the King bear the Zigûr’s company for any length of time? To him, the sorcerer seemed like a bonfire – beautiful to look at, but deadly to touch. The very air around him crackled like an approaching storm.

With a hiss, Annatar sank down in the padded chair by a small table. He slid his foot from his sandal, lifted it onto his knee with one hand, and unwrapped the bandage to examine it. The foot appeared swollen and red. “This is most inconvenient,” Annatar declared. “No bones broken, but considerable bruising to the flesh. This is why you must be exacting about the items you bring back from the market. I can’t afford to have any more problems. Carefully, he set his foot down on a low stool. Now then, mîki, come over here and I’ll explain what I need and how you’re to obtain it.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Tigôn came as close as he dared and watched Annatar smooth out the list on the table. It was covered with strange symbols written in a flowing hand. Tigôn recognized the elvish script used to create the words, but when he tried to read it, the writing seemed to blur.

“Pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you,” Annatar said. “Do you need to take notes?”

“No, my Lord.” Tigôn tapped his temple. “I remember long messages from the King. I’m told I have a gift for it.”

“Do you indeed? Perhaps you’re smarter than most around here.” Annatar twisted the fall of bright red hair out of his way over his shoulder. “Some of these ingredients you can get from any good herbal market in town but others can only be obtained from a specialist. Therefore, I’m sending you to a man named Magân. If my sources are still correct, he owns a shop called Azûlada Batan. As the name implies, it’s in the eastern part of town. It is important that you buy the ingredients only from him. I hear there is a signboard out front sporting a coiling black serpent. He has a similar tattoo on his forearm and will have his hair braided in numerous small plaits tied off at the end in red strips of cloth.”

“One of the Lorcastra!” Tigôn exclaimed.

“Oh, so you know of them,” Annatar said.

“Yes,” Tigôn said tightly. He’d heard Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô, railing about them to the King, saying they were a scourge on Umbar, a sect of Zizzûn’s cult that practiced black magic, and that they were secretly in league with the Haradrim.

Annatar’s lip curled. “Ah then, little page, you know to be very careful around him.When you come with this list, Magân will ask who sent you. Say Zizzûn’s counselor and make this sign.” He put a finger on his right eyelid, drawing it shut.

Tigôn nodded. This was getting to be more and more like his foray into Aksan’s camp. He came around behind the Zigûr to look at the list over his shoulder. “I can’t read it,” he said flatly. “How will I know what to get?”

Annatar chuckled. “Do you think I want to give away my secrets? Magân can read it. However, you need to know a few things so he doesn’t cheat you. This one,” his finger hovered over a series of symbols, “is drake horn. He’ll try to give you a whole piece, but I don’t want that, I want a powder and it must be black and the full three miyâr, about a handful, no less.”

“Drake horn?” Tigôn gasped. “Where in Ennor would he obtain that?”

“Some things are not for you to know, boy,” Annatar said. “Are you going to keep interrupting so that this takes all day?”

Tigôn shook his head and Annatar went back to the list, running the finger alongside the wavering symbols. “And this is . . .,” he said a word that sounded like a hissing curse, and Tigôn suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He choked. Annatar raised his eyes. “Ah, I forget, you men cannot bear the sound of my tongue.” Tigôn had the distinct impression he was amused and that the slip had been no lapse in his memory at all. “This one is a root,” Annatar continued. “It must be plump and fresh, not dried, and have three rootlets, like fingers, coming from it. See here?” He formed his hand into a strange shape. Tigôn nodded. “And this one . . .”

Tigôn listened feverishly to a long list of specifications, wondering if, in fact, he’d remember them all. His brain seemed to be going numb and his thoughts kept straying to Sûla, wondering where he was. Perhaps he had hidden away in a trader’s wain and was far away from the city. Tigôn could only hope.

Then, in the midst of a sentence, something strange happened. Annatar froze. His eyes seemed to follow something across the room that Tigôn could not see. It was positively eerie. “My Lord?” Tigôn said tentatively, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when a strange voice came out of the wizard, silken and higher pitched than his wont.

“You think you’ve won. Just remember, I’m here, always here with you. You cannot escape me. I’m amused to think that it’s your own doing – a just recompense for your crimes.”

The language was not Adûnaic. Tigôn recognized Sindarin, the forbidden tongue that his family used in the privacy of their own home. Was the sorcerer addressing him? He wasn’t looking at him. It was most alarming. Tigôn bent down. “I beg your pardon?”

Annatar’s eyes refocused. He clutched the neck of his robe, breathing heavily, and then glared up at Tigôn. “You see how the pain is affecting me!” he cried in his normal voice, although instead of his usual purr, he snarled with fury. Tigôn cringed, stepping back so swiftly that he nearly fell.

Annatar inhaled several deep shuddering breaths; his nostrils flared. There was a long silence. Then he spoke in quieter tones. “Getting the right medicine is of utmost urgency. I certainly can’t brew the King’s elixir in such pain. Bring me a glass of the tea in the pitcher over there.”

Tigôn dutifully did as he was told, noticing that the liquid was greenish in color. He recognized that smell – morthul, a narcotic. He wondered if the Zigûr’s foot was making him feverish. How else to explain that strange lapse? He brought a mug back to the Zigûr, who rapidly downed it, then sat back, looking pale and shaken, cupping it in his hands. He looked at Tigôn. “Better. Now, do you remember all that I told you?”

“I think so,” Tigôn said.

“I must be sure. Repeat it,” Annatar said. And Tigôn found himself reciting Annatar’s instructions. Periodically the Zigûr corrected him until he finally seemed satisfied. “I can see why the King chose you to deliver his message to the Haradrim,” Annatar said. He looked into Tigon’s face and unexpectedly smiled with a bright flash of teeth as winning as his strange behavior had been unnerving a few moments ago.

Tigôn experienced a shiver of intense arousal, similar to what he’d felt with Sûla last night. He thought, Oh no, the King is in trouble. We’re all in trouble. He folded his arms protectively around himself. “Why did the King chose me, then?”

“Give me your hand,” Annatar said. Reluctantly, Tigôn found himself slowly extending his hand. Annatar took it in a warm grip, and closed his eyes. “As I sensed,” he said. “You are the perfect messenger. Incorruptible, brave, and loyal – without cause may I say, since you are expendable as far as the King is concerned.” He looked at Tigôn again. “I hope you appreciated your little friend’s intercession on your behalf. Do you know that you owe me a debt?”

“I do?” Tigôn snatched back his hand. Expendable! Annatar had hit his concern right on the head. The King hadn’t even seemed relieved that night when he finally showed up to deliver the message he’d nearly died to retrieve. Intercession? Did he mean Sûla’s spell? “What did you do?” Tigôn asked warily.

“I helped Sûla put up the shield that protected you while you were in the Haradren encampment. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” Tigôn replied. “If indeed you did that, I suppose I owe you thanks.”

Annatar eyed him with a smirk. “You are a smart one, indeed. As a precautionary measure, I’ll extend the shield around you while you visit Magân. You never know what he might decide to do. You can thank me by bringing back my ingredients forthwith, exactly as I specified.”

“I would do so, anyway,” Tigôn said, “because I do the King’s bidding, not yours.” He paused, his suspicions rising like sea jellies. “Did you teach Sûla the freezing spell?”

Annatar smiled. “How much does his embrace mean to you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“How far are you willing to go to save your lover?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you . . .”

“Oh yes, you do,” Annatar hissed. “I know where Sûla spent the night. I can smell him on you.” Tigôn’s heart began to thud. “Wouldn’t you say that was a dangerous dalliance? And rather disloyal to your sovereign to whom you owe allegiance and whose property Sûla is?”

Tigôn tried to shift his glance but it seemed locked onto the Zigûr’s unblinking eyes. He stared at the slitted pupils that opened onto pitiless black depths. Panic took hold of him. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t . . .,” he stammered.

“Do you think you can lie to me, boy?” Annatar declared. “I am a Truthsayer.” He reached out and again seized Tigôn’s hand. Tigôn yelped and attempted to pull back, but Annatar’s sudden grip nearly crushed his bones. “Hold still a moment,” Annatar said.

“No, no!” Tigôn cried.

“Foolish boy!” Annatar said. “I know what lies between you and the King’s zirâmîki. Don’t think I haven’t felt it building for a while now. Do you want to save him? Or would you rather see him fed to the crows?”

Tigôn stilled. He said nothing, suddenly feeling both hopeful and afraid.
“Ah yes,” Annatar said. “Much better. I’m your best ally just now. I have ways to discover the truth. If Sûla is innocent, and I suspect he is, as that is what my senses are telling me, the King shall know it. If not, then there is nothing I can do to save him. Now, open your mind so I can see what happened.”

“Why do I need to do that?” Tigôn asked, nervously. “I can tell you what happened. He left Lord Dulginzin’s chambers and came to my room sometime after midnight. Shortly before sunrise he left. He was concerned that Lord Dulginzin would wake before he could get back. If Sûla had killed him, I imagine he’d have fled immediately and not wasted time with me. It would be too risky.” Tigôn searched his memory. He’d detected nothing amiss with Sûla last night. Surely he wasn’t so brazen that he could have killed a man and then come to play lover’s games with him? No, there had been nothing in Sûla’s warm embrace that indicated he’d killed a lord.

“Perhaps he did it after he left you?” Annatar mused, stroking his chin.

Tigôn kept silent. Annatar had hit upon his own fears. “You said your senses told you he was innocent. What makes you think that?”

“I have an ability to read certain portents,” Annatar replied. “My sense are usually accurate, even if I don’t yet know the details.” His lip curled.

“But you don’t know the details yet?” Tigôn persisted.

“No, that’s why I want to read your memory and see if there is anything there that can help.”

“My memories are my own,” Tigôn replied stubbornly.

Annatar laughed. “Keep your privacy then. May your memories of lust in the night comfort you while you watch Izindor rip out Sûla’s intestines as he struggles on the gallows.”

That hit Tigôn like a mule’s kick. He crumpled to the floor. “Please, can you help him?” he begged, trying his best to keep back the tears. “You say you’re a Truthsayer. How can you find out who really did it?”

“I can investigate. The King has already allowed me full rein to use my abilities in pursuit of the truth.”

“And what if Sûla did do it?” Tigôn asked.

“Then he’ll pay for it, won’t he? That is, unless he can keep hidden from the King’s men. Perhaps we could aid him in that regard, huh? Now then . . .” Annatar pulled a chalk from a pocket in his robe, bent down, drew a circle on the floor, then wrote something around the perimeter. “Kneel just there,” he instructed.

Tigôn felt as if his will were draining away, leaving desperation in its place. He shuffled on his knees onto the circle and shuddered when Annatar put his smooth hands on his face. Annatar closed his eyes again.

The room around them began to blur. Tigôn felt as if he were whirling around and around. He heard the Zigûr’s purring voice speaking incomprehensible words that nevertheless cut him to the bone. Questions came swooping at him like bats.When did you first notice Sûla? What did you think of him? Why did you go to meet him in the King’s tent?

Too late he realized what he might reveal and resisted fiercely, but it hurt like a hundred hammers in his brain. Then came a sweet voice, petting and caressing. It said, You have a strong will, young messenger, but you must open your thoughts and let me in if I am to save your lover. That is what you want, isn’t it? Believe me, it is what I want as well. Don’t worry so. There is no need for anyone else to know your secrets. Give them to me.

The dragon from his dreams appeared, flipped him over onto his back, and with one iron claw opened up his belly. Tigôn cried out, then broke down weeping.

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Amandil sat at a table in the Regent’s dining hall, drinking hot black tea, and going over a long list of supplies he needed to lay in for the voyage home. He had a busy six days ahead of him mustering an entire legion back into the fleet of ships and no time to worry about the disquieting murders in the night.

Hearing someone call him, he looked up and saw the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Azgarad coming towards him. The Steward’s brow was furrowed, and the corners of his mouth drawn down, making his long face even longer. He looked dressed for slipping unobtrusively through city streets, wearing a cape over breeches and an embroidered grey tunic. Amandil offered a chair next to him.

Azgarad sat down and leaned towards him. “Do you have a few moments to talk?”

“Yes, only just. I have to go out soon to the markets and then there are ships to inspect. What do you need?”

“Have you heard the news?”

“About the murders? Yes. That kind of news travels quickly. Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet, although the King has two suspects – Rabêlozar is sitting in his own prison awaiting trial, and the King has sent men after his zirâmîki.”

“The whole thing is bizarre. Two murders in one night? I can’t remember such an occurrence before. I can comprehend Rabêlozar’s motive for killing his exchequer. He has every reason to cover up malfeasance. But a slave killing a lord?” Amandil shook his head. “Not that Dulginzin didn’t need some killing. I saw what happened at the banquet last night.”

“Well, I might agree with you there,” Azgarad said, knitting his thick dark brows. “It appears that while we were encamped, Dulginzin attacked the boy, which might explain why Sûla did it. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” His eyes shifted around the room. There was only one servant standing by the door. “You there,” he called. “Bring me a cup of hot cider and a plate of fresh biscuits.”

The man bowed and left quickly.

“There, now we have a few moments, so I’ll be brief,” Azgarad said. “Did you know that Annatar spent last night with the King?”

Amandil arched an eyebrow. “Did he? Well, are you surprised?”

“I thought Ar-Pharazôn had more sense than that,” Azgarad growled. “And I’m afraid of the consequences of having a wizard so close to the King’s . . . ear.”

Amandil snorted. “I’ve been unhappy all along about taking him prisoner. But Annatar has been surprisingly docile so far and he did help us in the battle against his former allies. He is a curious creature.”

“Do you believe for a moment that he has had a sudden change of heart and now is working for our best interests and not his?” Azgarad said.

“No, of course not. But what do you want me to do about it? I have already tried to warn the King in the strongest terms I could safely use.  He chooses not to listen. We both know how headstrong Ar-Pharazôn can be.”

“Indeed we do, but he must be made to see reason. I want the Zigûr out of the King’s bed and removed as far from him as possible. He must travel to Númenor in a separate ship. Your ship is the best choice.”

Amandil briefly replayed his daydream of the ‘accident,’ in which Annatar slipped and fell overboard one stormy night. Prudence kept him from sharing the thought. “And what argument do you suggest I offer the King?”

Azgarad fingered the beard around his lips. “We have six days to catch Annatar at whatever game he’s playing and then make our case to the King. Didn’t you have a spy working on it?”

Amandil nodded. “However, he seems to have dried up for some reason. But I’ll see what I can do. If nothing else, we can try to convince Ar-Pharazôn in the name of Prudence and Caution.”

Azgarad laughed. “Those are the King’s by-words for certain, aren’t they?” He looked up as the servant appeared with a covered dish and a steaming mug. “Ah, I was just beginning to wonder where you were.”                       

“Pardon, Lord Azgarad,” the young man said. “I had to wait for them biscuits to come out the oven.”

“Well, then, I’m off. I must locate about twenty barrels of tar this morning,” Amandil said with a sigh. He folded up his list and drained the last of his now-cold tea.

“Better than what my day entails,”Azgarad said with a wry smile. “Pity me. I must visit the slave pens and arrange to send the Haradren captives to the north and then I’ve a night of record-searching to try to find the King’s missing revenue. Happy hunting, Aphanuzîr. I’ll catch up with you tonight.” He nodded curtly at Amandil as he drizzled honey on his biscuit.

Amandil rose, inclined his head, and then headed for the stable to get his horse. All the business of preparing to go home had driven concern about the Zigûr from his thoughts. Now the Steward’s words had stirred his fears again. Azgarad was right. It was time to blunt the sting in the sorcerer’s tail.

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-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

Notes:
Thanks so much to Russandol for beta reading, discussions about plot and motivation, and moral support.  And continued thanks to Malinornë for beta reading and helping with a variety of language questions.
abarîm - an elfscribe invented Adûnaic word for gold pieces, like a sovereign. Abara would be one gold piece.  The name is related to canon Adûnaic bâr - lord
Magân -  means wright in Adûnaic
Azûlada Batan – eastern road in Adûnaic
Lorcastra - (Lorcastran) - a sect of the Black Serpent cult that practice black magic.  An elfscribe invented Adûnaic name from elfscribe canon (Ossë’s Gift)
miyâ (plural: miyâr)– a unit of measure equivalent to grams.  Malinornë invented Adûnaic but derived from a canon root meaning 'small.'