Legerdemain

Minas Tirith, August 2995 T.A.

The next time I visited Minas Tirith the city was sweltering under a cruel summer. Such had been the case since mid-May, I gathered as I passed up the circles. There was no green to be seen anywhere, only parched plants and hard white stone. I came to the Steward's House with great relief, and was brought into the library to await its master.

I wandered the room. There, in a quiet corner, sitting hunched over his desk, was a boy. He had his sleeves rolled up and he looked hot and tired. Stacked high in front of him was a large pile of grim-looking books. As I approached, I heard him muttering to himself. "Malvegil, thirteen forty-nine… Argeleb the First, thirteen fifty-six… Araphor… No, that's not right… Arvegil…?" He scratched his head."Oh, who is it…?"

Oh dear, I thought. When he checked inside the nearest book, he shook his head and rapped his knuckles against his temple. "Come on, old brain. We can do this…" Once again, he tried to list the dates; once again, the run of names in the middle defeated him. He faltered. His shoulders slumped. "Bother."

He fell back in his chair and stared out of the window at the evening. His eyes took on a wistful, dreamy look. When at length he did go back to his reading, he did not return to the big black book from which he had been studying. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid a slim blue volume out from the bottom of the pile. He opened it and his whole demeanour altered. His shoulders relaxed. He began to read peacefully, happily. Much better, I thought. With a little rest, he would return to his dates refreshed.

"Lord Faramir," I said, softly.

He jumped and turned, but the alarm on his face was quickly replaced with delight. "Mithrandir!" he cried. He scrambled to his feet, and gave me the most careful and precise of bows, fist clenched and placed to his heart. "How good to see you again, sir! Please, will you sit?"

Fine manners, I thought. "Lord Faramir, a pleasure to see you again." I pondered the chair opposite his. The evening was very hot and the ride had been very long… "Yes," I said, sitting, "yes, thank you…"

He waited until I was comfortable before returning to his own chair. Yes, very fine manners; far beyond his years.

"What brings you to the city, sir?"

"The same as you, I think." I picked up the big black book. An account of the Kings of Arthedain. "A weighty business," I said, putting it back down. "But surely on a day like this your time would be better spent by the river!"

A look of longing passed over his face, and then he hung his head. "I'm afraid I've had too many such days this summer. I've been somewhat remiss in my studies. Father's displeased." He looked across the full desk and sighed. "Reading has been assigned," he said. "And there's a test each evening, before supper."

"Yes? And what happens if you fail the test?"

"No supper and an early night!" he said, pulling a face. "Ugh – like I am six years old! I'd rather be thrashed and have done."

He must be what? Twelve? "Well, my lord," I said. "A scholar like you – I doubt there have too many been hungry nights."

"More than I would like. I fear tonight will be another." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "It's far too hot for this…" Then he remembered himself. "It's not so bad," he said, loyally. "I do like to learn…"

"It helps, however, if the conditions are propitious and the subject matter to one's taste, no?" I picked up the thin blue volume. "Hence, I imagine, your interest in this."

He flushed red and looked ashamed. "Please don't tell Father."

I snorted. Unlikely. I opened the book. A collection of verse from Arnor, very fine. "You have excellent taste."

"It's my favourite," he said, shyly. "But I shouldn't be reading it, not really… I don't want it taken away…"

Indeed not. "Well, Lord Faramir," I said, "perhaps I may assist. If you can force your attention back to your dates for a little longer, then I will hear you, and then we can read some of this together." I smiled at him. "Would that help?"

He heaved a grateful sigh. "I think so. Thank you, sir." He leaned back over his book.

"It might help," I added, "to picture the words upon the page."

As he studied, I examined the book. His mother's name was written in the front. No, he would not want to lose this. I read through. His grasp of Quenya must be very sound. After a while, I heard, from the court beyond the house, the ringing of the seventh bell after noon. "Shall I hear you now?"

"Please," he said. I nodded, and quickly and without fault he ran through the dates.

"Very well done!" I said. "Now – something gentler. Will you read to me? My old eyes are getting tired."

"I'd be delighted, sir!" He reached across to take the book – and then a voice spoke.

"Faramir."

He paled. He leapt to his feet. He looked guiltily, worriedly, around for the book of verse – but it was nowhere to be seen. A trick of mine; not difficult, but one that has certainly come in handy over the years. The boy looked bewildered, but not did not allow himself the indulgence for long. He had his father to attend to. For yes – there indeed was the Steward, frowning down at us. He looked greyer than I remembered, and grimmer. Poor boy, I thought.

"Father," said his son. He gave his flawless bow and then stood stock still and straight.

The Steward looked from him to me, and then back at his child. "Faramir," he said, "I hope you have not been disturbing the Lord Mithrandir. I am sure he has plenty to keep him busy and I know you most certainly do."

"Not in the slightest," I said cheerfully. "We have had a most interesting conversation—"

"Conversation?" He frowned directly at his son, who was standing perfectly to attention: hands behind back, shoulders rigid, a bland expression on his face.

"About the north kingdoms." That, I thought, even covered the Arnorian verse. I would not want to involve the boy in a falsehood.

"I see." He took his son's chair. He leaned back, picked up the big black book, and sighed. His manner perfectly conveyed the message: This hurts me far more than it hurts you. He nodded at his son. "Go on…"

The boy rattled flawlessly through the dates. Hearing him, I felt oddly proud.

"Hmm," said his father, when he was done.

"Was that not correct?" said the boy, anxiously.

"No, no – all quite correct," the Steward said. He flicked through the book. After a moment, he said, absently, "Well done."

The boy heaved a sigh of relief. Once again, his father looked from him to me then back to his son, as if suspecting some collusion, but not quite able to put his finger on what. He shook his head and turned to me. "Well, Mithrandir, will you join me for dinner?"

"Gladly," I said.

He rose from his seat. "Faramir can bring you. I'll be there shortly." He glanced at his son. "You may join us tonight. You might hear something of use."

"Thank you, sir," the boy said, and watched his father leave. Only then did he sit down again. He flashed me a relieved look. "That was close." He bit his lip, clearly desperate to ask.

"Go on," I said.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure. Then he whispered, "Where did the book go?!"

"Ah," I said. "Do you suspect me of some conjuring trick?"

"If it were anyone else, sir – no!"

"Alas I must disappoint." I shook out my long wide sleeve, and the book dropped onto the table. "A simple sleight of the hand, nothing more." I passed him his book. "A trick which it might do you no harm to learn!"

He turned the book around in his hands, as if still suspecting some enchantment. "Perhaps not."

Dinner was a subdued affair. The Steward, I thought, looked much older than when I had last passed this way, and his manner was, if possible, somewhat sterner. I gave him news from the wider world (such as I was able), and he talked of his own affairs (such, I assume, as he was able). The boy sat silently throughout, listening attentively, and unobtrusively putting away a substantial supper. Of course, I thought, when next I come this way he will have grown. He will be a man.

At length, the Steward rose. "You must excuse me," he said. "I must return to my office for a few hours. Please make yourself comfortable. I hope to be able to join you later." His eye fell on his son, who, having come to the end of a second slice of apple pie, was looking quietly content with his lot. "Faramir," he said. "Bed."

The boy jumped out of his chair. He looked regretfully at me as he gave his perfect bow. "Good night, sir," he said.

"Good night, my lord," I said. "I hope we shall have time to speak tomorrow."

His eyes said I'd like that, although he stayed quiet. Father and son turned to go and, as they left the room, I saw the man rest his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and – ever so slightly – the boy leaned towards him, but otherwise they did not touch.

I stayed a fortnight, well beyond the limits of the Steward's patience for me, I must admit. The heat became worse, and I fear I am not tidy… The days I spent in the city archives, and in the late afternoon, after the fourth bell, I would return to the house. There, in the library, straight from his archery practice, I would find the Steward's second son deep in his books. And so we would sit, and I would hear him, and then we would read together. Thus we made our way through the history of the north kingdoms, and also a fine selection of their verse. He was clever, this boy; attentive, meticulous, hard-working, and performed his duties in a way that made them not a burden but an honour. A fine son; a son to make a man proud. He was not going to like to go to war. But such were the times.

Each evening, at precisely the same time, shortly after the seventh bell (and how his habits helped!), the Steward would descend from his heights to hear his son's lesson, all the while glaring at me. By this, and various other tricks, I ensured his son's presence each evening at the dinner table, and each evening I expanded the scope of our conversation beyond what I think was usual. The Steward was irritated; the boy – even as he enjoyed his supper – was agog.

Perhaps it was these small successes that made us careless. But on my last evening, as we sat together in the library and he read faultlessly to me from his little blue book, we missed the warning bell. And there, before I knew it, was the Steward. Up jumped his son, and hastily I looked around—

But the book was nowhere to be seen. My heart thumping in my chest, I listened to him say his lesson, and the Steward departed, satisfied.

The boy sat down again.

"Well," I said. "That was close."

He smiled.

"Now," I said. "I know you are a quick study, but I can also see that your sleeves are rolled up. So where did the book go?"

His smile grew broader. Leaning across the desk, he retrieved, from behind my ear, a gold piece. He passed this to me. It had his father's face on it.

He waved his hand in front of my eyes. "Magic," he said.

Altariel, 23rd August 2018