Directly across the shrine dedicated to He-Who-Sees-All sat the manor, its outer walls a cheerful coral color and shutters teal, by all outward signs, just another rich home in the Upper Ward. In the courtyard several dwarves fanned themselves with palm leaves as they loitered around a fountain of whitest marble, carved all over with marvelous designs. They were swarthy-skinned, with gold gleaming in their teeth and threaded through their thick beards. This must be the place, Naraal thought, and striding up to the large teak door, grasped the bronze door-knocker cast in the shape of a fish’s tail, and knocked three times.
Heavy bars of iron clanked and the door opened a crack. Through it Naraal saw a pair of small black eyes surveying him. “Why are your friends loitering in the courtyard?” he said in way of greeting.
“It is a dwarven holiday,” Duzir answered, and did a little mincing dance.
“Is it?” He moved to push his way through but was blocked. “Are you going to let me in, or have me stand in the dusty street?”
“Do you have my mithril?”
“No, but I will, soon. Let me pass!”
Duzir was shoved aside; the door swung open and a cool breeze blew out, a much welcome respite from the heat of the sweltering midday sun. Inside a foyer tiled in green and white glass glowed in the sunlight. Fragrant orchids and hibiscus in vessels of porcelain, tangled moss spilling over their rims, lined the walls in orderly rows, and the melodic sound of a tinkling chime grew fainter as Naraal breathed in moist air, his eyes gradually adjusting to the light. He became aware that Azrazôr himself was standing beyond the threshold.
“What is this talk about mithril?”
Naraal bowed low. “Sire, Duzir was given a mithril ring that was purchased back by its original owner, who offered a great sum for its return. It was of sentimental value, you see-”
“Blabbermouth!” cried Duzir.
Azrazôr turned his attention to the dwarf. “Who gave this ring to you?”
“Lady Zairaphel, my king.”
“Where is my aunt?”
“Unless she wished to visit Bith Gabâr, which I doubt because of the heat, she went to the Baths of Ilmai Iforikh, and she took the new arrival from Gondor with her.” He waited in vain for a reaction to this news, idly twirling his mustache, then said, “Step right this way, Captain Naraal, and I shall bring a footbath and refreshment.” The tiled foyer opened into a large hall with pillars of ebony inlaid with an intricate mother-of-pearl design. The corsair was led over to a low table where many gaily-coloured silk cushions were heaped upon a thick carpet. Duzir hastened to arrange the cushions to see Azrazôr made as comfortable as possible, and only until he was settled did Naraal sit a respectful distance away on a lower, less plump cushion. At an approving nod from his king he removed his boots and stockings, as was the custom when making oneself at home.
Duzir wheeled over a small trolley carrying a basin of hot water and soft cloths, and as Naraal soaked his feet, he set food out before him: golden plates of dried dates stuffed with cream cheese and honey, cold sliced meats, and a colorful variety of fresh fruits: oranges, pomegranates, and ice-cold green grapes. “This is but another humble meal thrown together at the spur of the moment, Your Majesty,” he said to Azrazôr. “I shall prepare a magnificent feast for later, to celebrate the occasion!”
“Very well,” answered the Black Númenórean.
Ankles deep in the basin, the water as hot as he could bear, cup of wine in hand, Naraal sighed with contentment. “I can see that a refined eye decorated this place,” he said, looking around the room with an admiring eye. The black-on-white design of the pillars had a dazzling effect, and made him feel a little giddy. “Is that a library beyond?” he said, tearing his gaze away from the hypnotic pattern to focus his vision on many leather-bound books.
“This house is small, but comfortable. It was undamaged when the mobs tore through the streets. We like its location,” said Azrazôr. Naraal wondered if this was because it was situated in the square directly facing the shrine with its dark altar.
“You two look like brothers, if you don't mind me saying so, my liege,” Duzir said.
“I mind!” Naraal objected. “You insult our king. I am not of royal blood.”
“So says the Shadow Fleet Commander,” said Azrazôr.
This statement had the desired effect upon the dwarf. He spluttered out, “Shadow Fleet Commander, now?” Quickly recovering his poise, and casting a big yellowy grin at the corsair, he mumbled into his beard, teeth gritted, “Is there anything else you want?”
“More wine,” said Naraal, benignly holding out his cup.
As Duzir refilled it, the ghastly smile frozen on his face, he said, “Since the baths are not far from here, you could go and see what your bride-to-be looks like, Your Majesty!'
Azrazôr stared at the dwarf as if he could not believe what he was hearing. “We will not offend the lady’s honour.”
“Lady Zairaphel should not be offended if other men wish to look upon her,” said Naraal.
“No, she would not be offended. On the contrary, she would like it very much.”
“Especially if it is Naraal doing the looking!” cackled the dwarf.
“Duzir, bring more wine, without commentary.”
Upon hearing these words, Naraal drained his cup dry, and said, “As they bathe together, I cannot please your aunt without offending the young lady, and yourself. Though, strictly speaking, your aunt is a young lady, too.”
“She is not young.”
“May I speak openly, sire?”
Azrazôr nodded, and leaning back upon the golden cushions, took up a handful of grapes to eat one at a time.
“I once told her she looks twenty, which is my observation, and she rebuked me for saying a day over eighteen. In truth, I suspect she is nearer sixty, old enough to have knowledge and wisdom, and to be your aunt.”
“Older!” they heard Duzir cry out from the next room over. Azrazôr said nothing. Older than sixty she was. How old, he did not know exactly. He did not care that much to ask her.
“Age alone does not make a woman more or less desirable,” said Naraal. The wine was cool and delectable on the tongue, and he was feeling more relaxed than he could remember. He was home again in the Great City, surrounded by the most exquisite furnishings and décor in the home of his gracious liege, who had already generously rewarded him for his service, and hinted at even greater rewards to come. The dark temple in Angmar with its glowering priests and bloody sacrifices was far away, nearly forgotten. “Your aunt has the appearance and vivacity of a young woman, but she possesses the knowledge of a wise old woman, and, as one of the descendants of the old kings, she does not change so quickly with the passage of time. She never seems surprised, either. Only persons of deep wisdom are so unperturbed by the unexpected.” He looked up from his empty cup. “Hurry up with that wine, Duzir!” he called out.
At that moment the dwarf returned with another ornate spouted silver jug of chilled wine. “Mistress Zairaphel has many powers,” he said, winking at Naraal. “Full of surprises, she is.” The dwarf was obviously eavesdropping, and he did not like it, even if his king did not seem to mind it much.
“She is an admirable lady, that is unquestionable,” he said.
Duzir stroked his beard, and said in mock sagacity, “Beauty is but skin deep! Oh, she feels real enough -”
Azrazôr’s eyes flashed with anger. The dwarf, knowing he had reached the limit of his impropriety, clamped his mouth shut and hastened to dry Naraal’s toes.
The corsair grinned. “I am not certain if I could consort with someone who could turn me into a slug on a whim.”
“You would be one of a long line of men, a long, long line,” said Duzir with a leer and another laugh.
“Begone with you,” snapped Azrazôr, and after the dwarf scurried out of the room, he confided to Naraal, “If it were not true, we would have his head for saying that. Now, let us talk of what we must do before our fleet is ready.”
“Indeed, Lord. You have a few good ships and loyal captains, but we need more men. I will go down to the port, and see what folk we may draw together.”
“This is no rag-tag flotilla, Commander. Shipwright Balkumagan will visit the port, and oversee the men he will hire to build our Shadow Fleet.”
“Yes, my liege; he will excel at that. Building swift and well-armoured ships is his specialty.”
“The shipwreck was inconvenient. Has your ship been fully restored?”
“The Shakagimil’s final repairs are almost fully complete.”
“Good. We need to return north.” Then the Heir of Castamir leaned forward and said, “There is news of a vein of mithril in the far-away mountains north of Lake Evendim.” By the time he had explained the general location of the ore, and the difficulties involved in transporting workers to dig tunnels in a near-inaccessible and inhabitable location, and how the Dourhands were not to be trusted, and how several men had been caught up and eaten by Ice-giants, the light was dim in the corner of the room where they sat; the shutters had been drawn on the western side of the mansion to deflect the rays of the brilliant afternoon sun that hung in the sky like a molten coin. Naraal sat motionless, his eyes bright and the wine in his hand forgotten as he listened. “The question then arises,” Azrazôr concluded, after describing everything in the most exacting detail, “should we remain here, or oversee the mining?”
All was silent, except for the drip-drip-drip of a water clock, driven by a miniature chain, another ingenious invention by the Easterling mathematician and engineer who was spared from an early death in the slave fields of Rhûn.
“That is your decision, my liege. Both have their merits,” Naraal answered, a gleam in his eye. He was eager to sail again, especially after learning that they were not returning to Angmar.
“Due to the distance involved, and the cargo, it may be wiser to see to it ourselves.”
“Perhaps, after you meet this young Lady of Gondor, we shall set sail?”
Azrazôr nodded absentmindedly. He had almost forgotten about her. The two men continued to talk of their plans in the frozen wastes. Eventually, after many cups of wine Naraal’s head began to nod, and noticing this, he called for Duzir to guide him to his chambers, and told him to send for a couple of masseuses on the morrow, and to expect a delivery to the house: his new raiment, a short purple tunic of silk. In this garb he would meet Ivoriel, lady of Gondor. That was her birth name. She was rechristened ‘Inzibel’ by his aunt, knowing his dislike of the old Sindarin names still used by the backward Gondorians. Did she think that was enough to satisfy him? he wondered, and sat there brooding until the room was completely dark, and then he went to bed.
