These days Saruman the White did not often leave his fortress in Isengard to visit Gondor, but the death of his emissary had prompted him to action. The journey from Orthanc to Imloth Melui was a long one, and the cold rage Saruman felt inside had made it even longer.
The messages he had received in Isengard claimed that Martun had died of a heart failure. But there had been nothing wrong with Martun’s heart. Saruman would have known if there was. There was no doubt in his mind that Martun had been murdered. Somebody had murdered an emissary of Isengard.
Saruman had known Martun since he had been but a boy, but it was not exactly grief the old wizard was feeling, at least not the kind of grief people normally felt after losing a friend or a loved one. Saruman had hand-picked Martun as his personal servant many years ago for the promise and potential he had seen in the boy. He had raised him, trained him and schooled him, he had invested a lot of time, effort and resources to turn the savage, illiterate Dunlending boy into the beautiful tool he had seen in him. He wanted to do the same to all of the Middle-Earth. Saruman did not see people or things as they were, but rather as they could be. He saw how things could be improved upon and made better, and he had lots of plans to improve this empty, desolate world he saw all around him. The people he saw in their hovels and huts, toiling in their small fields to make a meager living, none of them could even imagine in their limited little minds how radically their lives could be changed in just a few decades with a little bit of science and technology. Changed, for the better. Progress! Nobody could stop the progress. But Saruman could make it faster. Much faster.
And now somebody had taken Martun from him. The grief Saruman felt was like the grief of someone who’s prized possession had been stolen from him. And there was more to it. Somebody had dared to murder an official emissary of Isengard. Martun had been in Saruman’s personal protection, and whoever had murdered him must have known it. The arrogance of the deed, the humiliation made Saruman seethe with anger.
Somebody would pay dearly for their mistake. Saruman would find out the culprit and make them regret the day they were born.
During the long journey from Isengard to Imloth Melui Saruman had had plenty of time to think about Martun. Who had killed him? Saruman’s world was so full of lies that he could not see the truth clearly. He had to wait for it patiently.
What should he do while waiting?
First he would have to see Romenstar. He would have to hear all of Romenstar’s lousy secrets. He would force them out of him. He would finish the job he had sent Martun in this place for. He would finish the job personally and make sure it was done right this time.
Saruman could have gone to the Hall of the Gentle Hand to visit the new chief healer and ask for a room there, but he opted to rent a room in one of the guesthouses of Imloth Melui instead. The innkeeper said that they only had shared rooms left because of all the visitors in Imloth Melui who had come to see the Blue Wizard, but Saruman had a very compelling voice and he had soon convinced the innkeeper to make all the necessary arrangements to get him a private room. Saruman was a very private man and he did not want to share a room with common riffraff. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.
Romenstar could wait. Saruman was in no particular hurry. He wanted to collect his thoughts and impressions of Imloth Melui first before making any moves. He always had notes to make and letters to write. He sat behind a writing desk and listened to the sounds from the outside. His thoughts moved restlessly back and forth in space and time. His face was cold, white and aloof.
There was a knock on the door.
”Who’s there?” Saruman asked.
”Saruman?” a voice replied.
Saruman stood up and put his vellums and writing utensils in the drawer. He made sure there were no vellums out in the open before he went to open the door. Behind it was a man in a dark gray cloak. The visitor’s face was pale and perfectly round, like the moon. It was almost like a toddler’s face in an adult body, and the visitor should have appeared harmless, almost comical, but his eyes broke the impression of a baby-faced clown. His eyes were completely empty and void of emotion or depth, dead and soulless.
”Are you Saruman?” the man asked.
”I am.”
”I was sent to you. To help you.” The man smiled, but there was no warmth or humor in his lizard eyes.
”And who are you?”
”My name is Demrîng. I come from Mordor.”
”Mordor…”
”You have looked into the Orthanc stone and reached out to my master, Sauron”, Demrîng said, still smiling. ”I am the answer to your call. Sauron has sent me to you.”
”Step inside”, Saruman said expressionlessly.
”Thank you”, said Demrîng.
Saruman closed the door and the two men stood in the small, dimly lit room, looking at each other in silence.
”Martun”, Saruman said at last.
”That’s right. Martun. I can probably help you with that. Everything is written in that diary.”
”What diary are you talking about?”
”Please don’t be so cautious!” Demrîng said. ”All the answers will be in that diary.”
”What are you talking about?” Saruman took a step back, but kept his cold eyes locked on the peculiar visitor.
”I’m talking about Romenstar”, Demrîng said softly. ”A member of your Order. In case there were any doubts still, I can assure you that it really is him. Romenstar. Rómestámo. Pallando. In the East he goes by other names as well. The companion of Morinehtar. Those two are bound to each other, and separated they are much weakened. Romenstar has been writing a diary. Everything is written in that diary.”
”What is?”
”Whatever it is we are looking for”, Demrîng said, still smiling his smile without warmth or humor. ”We, Saruman. Orthanc and Mordor. We have the same goals now. Our interests have aligned. We are enemies no more.”
