The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 6: Welcome Arrivals

Erestor takes a detour on his way to Uinen's Quay, where a Númenórean trade ship docks, bringing welcome arrivals.

Thanks to Scarlet, Randy O, Russa, Kymahalei, Kenaz, Drummerwench, Elfscribe, and Oshun for feedback and encouragement!  And a shout out of thanks to Elleth for giving me permission to the nod to her intriguing OFC, Estëlindë.  

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 Erestor ambled along the street that wound down from the King's keep to the harbor. He glanced up at the sun, just visible over the roofs of the buildings. The ship ought be passing through the harbor gates by now. From there, it would be guided to Uinen's Quay that extended into the deeper waters, where the vessel would be tied by the dockhands then any cargo unloaded. At least a good half-hour or longer would pass before the crew and its captain disembarked. So he took his time.

 

The cobblestones beneath his feet were still damp from the summer rain that passed over the city last night, but all the clouds had moved East, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky. The shops that catered to those who plied their trade on the sea and to those who supported them were quiet, save for the dressmakers' shops where a few women congregated. The glint of brass from Master Galadben's windows caught his eye. He slowed to admire the astrolabes and telescopes on display, waved through the glass at the shop's proprietor, who admirably paid his taxes on time, and then Erestor was on his way again.

 

The odors and noise of the market assaulted him before he even emerged from the shadows of the buildings. He blinked against the bright morning sunlight to see the familiar sight of stalls crammed nearly on top of one another, their colorful banners that advertised their wares waving lazily in the sea breeze. The crowd would have thinned since earlier in the morning, when many of the workers and servants of the nobility teemed through the market, the latter arriving in hopes of selecting the best fruits, meats, and fish, and the former by necessity before they began their day's labors.

 

His belly grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since yesterday's luncheon, so he made his way through the clusters of shoppers to a vendor whose wares he especially favored. There were several customers clustered around the stall, a popular spot. The owner — a baker — waved and called out:

 

"Master Erestor! I have one left. I have been saving it for you."

 

Stars' blood, but I am such a creature of habit! He had been dining on old Agorfain's pastries nearly every morning for the past three long-years, ever since the baker moved to Mithlond from a village near Forlindon and set up shop. Although all the breads and rolls he baked were delicious, one roll in particular had earned Erestor's love.

 

The other patrons moved aside and good morn'd him courteously, recognizing the Master of Accounts. That he merited such deference never failed to amuse him. Probably afraid that if they are not respectful, I will look into their taxes. They might not be wrong. He gave two coppers to Agorfain, who then plucked the object of Erestor's desire from a shelf near a small brazier, and laid the roll, wrapped in parchment and still hot, on his outstretched hand.

 

Erestor peeled back the paper and brought the roll to his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of cinnamon mellowed by hot butter, and was about to bite into the confection when he felt that he was being watched. He looked down to see wide grey eyes staring up at him. A child's eyes. It was rare to see a child out and about these days, when it seemed that so many in Mithlond had moved beyond the years of bearing children, a stark contrast to Ost-in-Edhil that fairly teemed with youngsters. The little girl's face was heart-shaped and pink-cheeked. Doriathren blood there, he thought as he assessed her features and the hint of silver highlights in her dark curls, although her mother, a small, willowy woman, had the look of the Falathrim.

 

Ah, Radgol's wife. That's who this is! The old Doriathren Sinda, once a minor bureaucrat in Thingol's court (and lucky enough to escape the fall of Doriath with his life), had done well for himself with a marriage to this lissome young thing. Erestor heard they had a child, but had not yet seen her. Until now.

 

He examined the yearning in those young eyes, edged with dark lashes, gazing up at him and his roll. Without saying a word, the little girl, who otherwise looked rather well-fed, pleaded with him.

 

He hesitated. He had eaten a cinnamon bun baked by Agorfain nearly every morning for years, more than many lifetimes of mortal Men, and longer than this child had been alive. Surely he could spare…

 

The bun was still hot and so fragrant. He returned his attention to the child, who still was looking at him and the roll, and batting her lashes while smiling so sweetly, and...too perfectly.

 

The first bite of the hot cinnamon bun was exquisite, just as it always was. The little girl's face fell, and rather than disappointment, he saw anger. Just as he suspected. The child was indulged, using her pretty youth to manipulate, and he had thwarted her. He leaned down, and took another bite out of the roll, chewed slowly, smacked his lips, and swallowed.

 

"I'm sorry, my dear girl, but you cannot always get what you want. Best you learn that now."

 

Radgol's wife bleated a protest, apparently accustomed to one and all accommodating her darling, but Erestor gave the baker another copper, saying, "Here, give this sweet child a rye roll."

 

The baker's smile was a bit sly, and Erestor caught Agorfain's wink. "Yes, m'lord," he said. "You are very generous, m'lord."

 

As he walked away, disciplining himself to savor the roll rather than wolf it down in a few bites, he heard the little girl's whine: "But Mother! I hate rye bread!"

 

Erestor swallowed the last bite of roll and sucked the honey from his fingers. Ahead were the fishmongers' stalls. Having no choice but to pass them, he gulped in a chest full of air and held his breath while he quickened his pace and strode past the piles of scaled creatures, their slime glistening in the morning sun. Despite his attempt to prevent smelling the reek, he felt the stench seep into his skin and clothing.

 

He wholeheartedly despised fish and reluctantly ate lobster and shrimps, only by social necessity. Several patrons clustered around a stall where they noisily slurped down freshly shucked oysters for their mid-morning snack. His belly clenched at the sight, and the cinnamon roll threatened to re-emerge. He willed back his disgust and moved along, releasing the trapped air in his chest once he was well past the fish market.

 

The guards gave him a sharp nod when he stepped out from the south gates of the city to the harbor front where a few fishermen were unloading their morning catches at small piers. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead, vying for any offal that the fishermen might fling from their boats. Cormorants dove into the water among the glass floats that marked the locations of lobster traps out in the harbor.

 

Most of the dock's human activity was clustered around Uinen's Quay. A battered carrack, its dingy sails furled, lumbered toward the wharf where dockhands waited to catch the ropes thrown by the crew. With the strength of the Firstborn in their wiry limbs, the dockworkers pulled the ropes, bringing the ship its moorings. By Númenórean standards, it was an old vessel, chunky and worn. A carved figurehead – a winged Suril — jutted from the bow, and faded letters named the vessel as The West Wind, a sleek name, he thought, for such a hulk.

 

Several elven-merchants also stood at the docks, waiting for the crew to unload their cargo. Among them were two green grocers. Erestor grinned. Without a doubt, they, too, hoped there might be oranges, lemons, or limes aboard. They would make a killing on the fruits in the market. The Númenórean sailors always carried some citrus fruits on board, having learned that during long voyages, their teeth would drop out otherwise, but whether or not this ship had brought enough for trade was another question.

 

A head of slick, silver hair rose above many of the others on the dock. Círdan. Now that was something of a surprise. This carrack did not appear to be a ship of enough importance to draw the Shipwright here. Then again, Círdan was known to step outside his huge warehouse, where ships and boats were built, to enjoy laboring with the dockhands. "Keeps my old bones strong and my heart fresh," he claimed.

 

However, the Lord of the Falathrim was not at work this morning, but standing off to the side and out of the way of the dockhands, his keen eyes focused on the ship. As Erestor edged past barrels and coils of thick rope, Círdan spotted him and waved.

 

"Good morning, Lord Moneybags!" the Shipwright called out. "I thought you might be along soon. Trawling for harbor taxes as usual?" Círdan's words rolled like pebbles tumbled by the surf; he had lived among the Falathrim long enough to affect their distinctive brogue. No one else called Erestor by that ludicrous nickname, at least not to his face, but Círdan tended toward irreverence, as did many of the more ancient Firstborn, a trait that Erestor appreciated.

 

"Good morning to you, too, old man. What brings you here?"

 

"Gossip, my lad. I could do with a dose of it."

 

Erestor grunted in agreement. Although not an articulate response, he agreed with Círdan, who mingled with the mariners to gather information from far-reaching lands. Some of the best news was to be had among the common folk, both mortal and Firstborn.

 

Side-by-side, Erestor and Círdan watched the ship's crew extend a wide gangplank from the vessel to the dock where it was secured. Three Faledhil maneuvered a crane to swing over the ship's deck where a few Men hooked chains to a large crate that was raised from the ship and carefully guided over the dock. Meanwhile, the crew unloaded smaller crates and boxes by way of the gangplank.

 

The Men of The West Wind's crew were a motley bunch, as typical for a merchant ship. A few true-born Númenóreans were aboard (and judging by their smart, blue livery of Lord Erelluntë's fleet, they were officers of various rank), most claiming descent from the folk of Hador by virtue of their sun-bleached blond hair, although Sea and Sun had weathered their otherwise pale skin to brown. Others of the crew hailed from more distant lands, their hair black and their complexions swart. Many Men sported outlandish tattoos on their skin. Most were in good spirits as they stepped off the gangway, greeting the elvish dockhands, who in turn clasped hands with them in the spirit of camaraderie among mariners.

 

However, the socializing between Men and the Sea-Elves did not extend to much more than this display of rough courtesy (for all these sailors and dockworkers, mortal and Firstborn alike, were rough men). Once the Mannish crew disembarked, most of the Men would not be allowed to pass through the city gates. The King quickly instituted that order some ten years after the Númenóreans first visited Mithlond when a brawl broke out at a popular pub, Osse's Goblet, which erupted into a full-scale riot, leaving a dozen Men and three Firstborn dead. For the sake of continued diplomatic harmony, Ereinion and Tar-Aldarion agreed that separation of Men and Elves in Mithlond would be prudent.

 

Instead, the mortal crew would go off to Tidebottom, a settlement, practically a small village, squeezed between the walls of the elven-king's city and the harbor. There the crews found food and drink at The Jolly Clam, a boisterous tavern of questionable repute where elvish sailors, boat builders, and dockworkers were also known to hoist a few pints with the mortals.

 

Even more disreputable entertainment was to be had at The House of the Sea Flower, or, as the sailors called it with predictable vulgarity, "The Sea Quim," often shortened to simply "The Quim," in the interest of expediency. There, mortal women and a few pretty boys plied a trade abhorrent to the Firstborn, although the rare elf-man would make his way there out of curiosity. The consequences, almost always a raging case of the clap or worse — the Umbarin pox — would knock back these more adventurous (and less fastidious, to Erestor's mind) Firstborn for a week or more while they linked fëar to hröar to stem the infection. The suffering involved during the healing process was usually enough to deter further adventures for a time, or at least until another drunken dare was made.

 

The ships' captains and first officers, on the other hand, were welcomed past the gates into the elven-city, where they must forego the pleasure-house, but have the privilege of rubbing elbows with the Elves. Erestor dealt with the first officers most frequently, collecting the harbor tax from them.

 

By the time the Sun reached her zenith, most of the crates and barrels had been unloaded from The West Wind. As custom, the captain was the last to disembark, leaving behind a skeleton crew to watch over the vessel. Three figures stepped onto the gangway. The captain, judging by the fine sword at his side and the silver trim on his uniform, waited for two men to step onto the gangway ahead of him. One of the men was stooped, his gait uneasy, perhaps ill or injured in some way, not particularly surprising, given Men's vulnerability to ailment and injury. The other man, short and stocky with a balding pate ringed by silver hair, walked just ahead of the ailing fellow, holding the stooped man's hand to steady him. When they reached the stability of the dock, the sickly man looked up toward Círdan and Erestor and gave them a weak wave with his left hand.

 

It was with horrified shock that Erestor recognized Ballain. The skin of his agent's face stretched tight against his bones, and his eyes were sunken with dark circles under them, giving him a skeletal appearance. His sun-ravaged hair hung thin and lank. However, there was no denying the familiar spark in his dark grey eyes or his expression of relief when he saw Erestor and the Shipwright.

 

Erestor did not make Ballain wait, but made his way among the crew and dockworkers, who milled about on the quay, planning to meet at the Clam to share drink and to exchange news.

 

"Ballain! It is good to see you at last!" Erestor reached out to shake his agent's right hand, a gesture of welcome appropriate between their stations, but Ballain withheld his hand. Erestor, annoyed at first by what he thought was discourtesy, glanced down at a wrinkled appendage, its curled, bony fingers covered with blackened hide.

 

"Bloody stars! What has happened to you, man? Sir!" He addressed the man who supported Ballain, recognizing the simple broach of the guild of ship's surgeons pinned to his tunic. "What is wrong with him?"

 

Before the surgeon could answer, Círdan, who now stood beside Erestor, spoke up. "Ballain is in need of one of our own healers, I should think." For a moment, Erestor wondered why Círdan was so concerned but remembered that Ballain's mother, a woman of the Falas, was of Círdan's house, and so Ballain was his kinsman.

 

Ballain shook head. "Master Dúnhir has taken good care of me, never fear, and I look worse than I feel." Indeed, his voice sounded stronger than he appeared. "At any rate, I do not think there is a leech among mortals or our own people who could have done better than he who saved my life."

 

"My apologies, Master Dúnhir," Erestor said. "I did not mean to call your skill into question. Obviously, you have done our friend Ballain here a good turn."

 

"No need to apologize. It was not I who saved him. Another did that, although Master Ballain does not speak of this talented healer. No, I have merely helped him recover aboard our ship, as best I might. But I do agree. He ought to see one of your healers."

 

"So he shall." Erestor turned to Ballain. "Now tell me, where is Helevair?"

 

Ballain's expression darkened. "Helevair is dead. We ran into trouble down South. It is a long tale, one best told elsewhere."

 

"Then tell it in my home," said Círdan. "After Cúronel sees you, that is."

 

"Cúronel? Estelindë's student?" Ballain smiled to hear a familiar name.

 

"The same," replied Erestor. "Just as learned and filled with almost as much vinegar as her mentor. Ereinion summoned her here two years ago. I shall ask that she see you as soon as possible once you arrive at Círdan's home."

 

"Erestor, might you also send word to the king and Elrond?" Círdan said. "Ask them to join me this evening. I daresay they will wish to hear Ballain's tale."

 

As they prepared to leave the quay, Erestor heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see the green grocers haggling with one of the officers, and eyeing one another balefully. He excused himself, telling Cirdan and Ballain he would see them later, and returned to the stack of crates. The grocers ceased their bickering as soon as he stood among them. He pulled out the small knife he always carried on his belt, and pried open a crate. He reached in, and pulled out an orange, surprisingly plump, and inhaled its sweet, sharp perfume.

 

"Good sir, are these oranges for sale?" he asked the officer.

 

"Yes, my lord, but we can only spare three crates."

 

"Ah. Well, then, have two crates sent to the King's keep, and yes, I know you can spare at least one more from your ship. You may then consider your harbor taxes paid in full. And you two? You each may have a crate." The grocers stared at him, their mouths hanging open. "Please don't gouge your customers too badly." He walked away, digging his thumbs into the peel of the fruit.

 

~*~

 

 

 

By the time Erestor, Ereinion, and Elrond arrived at Círdan's expansive house the evening had settled in and night approached from the East. The main house and its two long wings clung to the hillside, affording a magnificent view of the Gulf of Lhûn, where the Sun hovered above the Western Sea, burning a sword of fire to the horizon. The tall ship lord led them to an open porch that overlooked the harbor.

 

Cúronel had come and gone, pronouncing her charge on the mend, but alarmed, Círdan whispered, by the nature of the wound. "There are sure signs of necrosis, she told me. Decay and death of the flesh," he added.

 

"I know what necrosis is," Elrond replied gently.

 

Ballain, now bathed, dressed in a loose, long-sleeved linen shirt over trim blue trousers, and his thin hair plaited neatly, rose when they stepped out onto the porch. He bowed deeply to the king. "Your Excellency…"

 

Erestor saw the king's eyes brush over the gnarled, blackened fingers of Ballain's right hand, curled at his chest. Through the thin cloth of the shirt, his right arm looked notably smaller in girth than the left.

 

"Please sit, Ballain," Ereinion said. "From what I hear, you are in need of rest."

 

Ballain did as the king said, and Erestor, too, sat on a chair of silver wood, its curves flowing like waves and its cushions thick and comfortable. In contrast to Ereinion's keep, which was built of stone and followed the preferred architecture of the Noldor with its strong walls, soaring arches, and bold domes, Círdan's home, although resting on foundations of stone, was primarily constructed from oak, cedar, and cypress wood. Motifs of scallops and fish were carved into the capitals of the house's columns. Beams arching overhead resembled the ribs of a ship's hull, and the smooth plank floors were like a ship's deck. Tapestries with scenes of life by the sea decorated the walls, and iridescent abalone shell formed the shades of the sconces and lamps. The nautical effect gave the impression of being on a large, graceful ship, but thankfully, a stable one.

 

Servants delivered platters of food and decanters of pale wine and set them on side tables. To Erestor's disgust, seafood formed the greater part of the evening's repast, including a massive silver plate of shucked oysters lying on a bed of seaweed. He had to contain his nausea while the rest eagerly sucked down the vile things. Círdan and Elrond in particular were exceptionally noisy, no doubt for his benefit. He made do with ripe strawberries and brown bread slathered with sweet butter, as his belly sang a silent lament for beefsteak, seared on the outside and pink in the middle. Small talk was made, but Ballain's presence — and his obvious injury — weighed upon them all, so that it was not an especially merry gathering.

 

After the plates were cleared and each man had a filled glass of wine in hand, the servants left them alone. The Sun had set, and the first of Varda's stars glittered above the hills in the East.

 

"Well, then, Ballain," the king said. "This tale of yours. Are you prepared to tell it?"

 

"I am, my king, but I advise that it is a long tale in the telling."

 

"We are not going anywhere, are we?" Ereinion looked around at the rest of them. Erestor merely shrugged in response. "Very well. Proceed, Ballain. Tell us of your journey, your travails..."

 

"How Helevair met his end," Elrond added quietly.

 

Ballain, after taking a long drink of cool wine, spoke.