Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.
"It is true, híril Manadhlaer. The Dwarf-merchant Frimsi Gembeard has returned, and he remembers your liquor."
The lady addressed listened to Arradril while brushing down her silver hair. She had been making a heroic effort not to look like herself -- in fact, today, she was clad in rough skins and linens, supple and silent clothing, possibly some of the Arrow Captain's own.
"That is kind of him, I suppose -- but word has already reached me that he was selling some perfume. Tell me about this, please."
Arradril bowed slightly out of habit, a habit of very long standing, indeed longer than she had dwelt in Imladris. "Yes, híril. The Dwarrow claimed the perfume was made with an herb that grows only in far Harad, for which there is no Westron name."
That piqued the healer's interest. New herb-lore? But then her eyes widened as she grasped the implications. "And you smelled this?"
Arradril nodded. "I offered to buy his entire stock, so that the usual socialites -- such as the girls sitting right on the table, as if people did not routinely eat and drink from it -- would not go forth and leave even more confusing scent trails."
"But you did not succeed."
"No, híril. One of the ellyth, called Nauriend, frowned and scowled her displeasure the instant I made the offer. So I changed my plan, and allowed her to barter her sapphire earring for a single vial of the perfume. I was suddenly awfully curious to smell it appllied to her skin -- to see if it changed things."
Manadhlaer looked up, her eyes of the grey sea seeming to darken as if a storm threatened. She recalled her husband's brother, Sergeant Daegond of the Hammer, smelling recruits and claiming he could sniff out disrespect. "How much did her scent change when she put it on her skin?"
"Completely, híril." Arradril seemed to be dreaming as she found words to explain. "Before, she smelled like any other elleth. A bit more pungent, perhaps, as she was wearing a fur mantle -- right next to those immense fires." Arradril paused. "I wonder if aught ails her, wrapped up so when the Hall was quite warm at that end."
"Do you wish to become a healer's apprentice now? That worked out poorly for Lothilind. Leave the diagnosing to me, if you please, and tell me what changed about her scent."
"When this elleth put the perfume on her wrists, it bloomed. I can find no other word." Arradril continued her description, unperturbed. "There was clearly an herb or flower in the mixture, one not common to the Trollshaws, or for that matter Eregion. But it also smelled like spice. Like an Elfling had dumped out Telpenaro's cabinet of spices and mixed them all together. The difference was complete -- as if she had vanished from my sight. It sounds very irregular, but it is the truth."
Manadhlaer rose from her cot and turned to the younger nissë with a visage as stone as sea-cliffs. "So there are perfumes in this world that could fool even a seasoned tracker, an expert of the art, at least for a short time."
"Yes, híril. I hasten to add that I had never smelled this mixture before, and certainly not where Lothilind... you know. I deem Frimsi, for all his boldness in selling counterfeit gems, is probably innocent in the matter of the skulking rat."
Manadhlaer, for her part, finally realized what was nagging at her. Like a sensible scout, Arradril wore her hair in a braid out of habit -- a long black braid much like that of the Lady Ambassador Tingruviel. Seeing the tall Noldë with such a braid, Manadhlaer both missed Tingruviel acutely and rejoiced that she was away from the Vale. Safer that way.
"I tend to agree, frankly. While he would sell the gems out of his grandmother's beard if someone offered enough, he is not such a fool as to become a willing accomplice to murder. You said he even recalled the liquor."
"Even so, híril. He offered ten vials of this new perfume for a full cask of the liquor."
The Lady of the Order of the Pillar rolled her eyes. "What use do I have for a yén's supply of the stuff? I should smell like my garden right now. I should smell of earth, of supple new shoots of celebrant, the first tentative fragrance of the priceless blue roses." She paused. "I will trade him a cask, to be sure. But not for perfume. Nor for coin. Any mortal might wish to slay me if they knew how much gold Anglachelm lavishes on me, that he calls a widow's pension, every coin reeking of his unwarranted guilt."
"What then, híril?"
Manadhlaer looked Arradril in the eye again. Lightning now flashed on the sea. "The most priceless commodity of all -- information."
Arradril bowed again, a gesture that normally annoyed Manadhlaer, but which she found oddly reassuring this day. "Either Sarmëtecil or I shall develop a sudden interest in learning whether Dwarf-pedlars wander south. And perhaps the techniques of theatre -- where one goes to buy pretty masks and costumes." She did not add that she herself felt costumed, swirling about the Vale in her indigo dress uniform; she guessed that this much was obvious.
"Oh, poor Sarmë. Pray do not bother her. She has enough to do, with making my house look lived in, and feeding a whole menagerie -- Norliriel's cat, too -- and then tracking down where I am, and which courier bearing important papers can be trusted to shake off any pursuit."
"I crave pardon, híril. That is not all her burden. Even grumpy Curulinn has taken on a bit of the cat wrangling -- Fân, for example. But I understand that your excellent secretary has been going far above and beyond her usual remit." Arradril lowered her head in sympathy with the highly strung scribe.
"It is a burden on her. And on you, and on the Captains of Arrow and Fountain. I never meant this, Arradril. I never meant for everything to collapse the very moment Tindir set a toe on the road to the accursed Hithaeglir."
Arradril clasped her hands behind her back and let a few breaths pass. "Some of us who were at Eregion took up sword, or bow, or hammer in defence of this refuge. Allow us, híril, to do that which we may. Others are gentler -- Sarmëtecil and her kite-flying, hedgehog-feeding brother, or Elloen, and that is well because... because what we do, your scouts and spearmen and shock-troops, is done so that everyone else can lie about, listening to music in safety."
"And mostly, that works."
Now Arradril's eyes flashed. "Lady, my word on it, my Captain and I would place ourselves between you and a Balrog of the Elder Days, were it necessary. The coward will be found."
"So we all said last winter." Manadhlaer, for all her unimaginable age, sounded like a child fighting against its bedtime with a string of complaints. Abruptly she bent and picked up the tiny dog that had been lying sprawled, without a shred of dignity, on his back upon the rustic braided carpet. Arradril marveled at the Lady's skill in handling the strange hound, a sort of black pudding with legs and a tail -- and a reputation for mauling the unwary.
"You yourself oft counsel patience," she said.
"So I once did, before I found myself thrown from pillar to post, with my dog, my diary, and a change of clothes, from one safe house to another." And yet Manadhlaer spoke softly as she cuddled the snoring murder beast.
"Lucky is she who has many friends in a crisis. And it is so, híril."
Once Arradril had unburdened herself of anything and everything Manadhlaer thought relevant, and departed with the Lady's blessing, she turned on her heel and headed off to lay her lovely clean tabard on her little cot and change into something practical. She had to focus, to think properly, and a simple over-tunic that reflected the hues of the forest was a garment in which she could think. The arms of Vanimar had served their purpose this day, being seen in public -- Arradril reckoned you could stand among the Ered Luin and see the highly contrasting swan-wings on someone in Eryn Galen.
But now? Now it was time to climb a few trees. Now it was time to get dirty.
