The sun had just risen, and yet the city of Minas Tirith was already busy. Merchants were setting up their stalls, calling greetings and friendly insults to their business competitors.
A lone girl with a drab scarf tied over her hair and wearing a well-made, dark gray dress walked through the market with an air of joy and breathed in the fresh morning air. The merchants around her ignored her, for which she was grateful. Anonymity was a rare gift to be enjoyed. She did not want to be bothered anyway; since she was looking for specific goods, and she didn't need the merchants calling out hyperbolic descriptions of their items and enticing, understated prices. She passed the ubiquitous food stalls, as well as the foreign weavings, and the expensive, imported wines. Stopping at a book booth, she browsed for a short time, and finally bought a book of old myths that she had never seen before. She continued to weave through the crowds. Suddenly she spotted what she wanted. Making her way towards it, she smiled at the old trader.
"Good morning," she said.
He looked her over. She looked just like any pretty middle-class daughter, and most girls in that station went to market for ribbons and dresses, not swords. In his younger days, he would have smiled back and flirted a little, but those responses had not come out of the middle-aged man for years.
"What do you want with me, girl?" he answered more than a bit rudely.
"I would like to buy one of your swords, sir."
"You? A girl?" the man guffawed. "Now, young miss, what do you really want?"
"A sword," she said, no longer smiling. At that moment, a wisp of her hair was stolen from the scarf by the wind, and the old man recognized her from its black color. It was said that only one in the entire capital of Gondor possessed hair the color of ravens.
"Begging your pardon, my Lady," he stumbled quickly, and gave a jerky bow. "I -- I didn't recognize you, you see, and . . . " he trailed off.
The princess Calandra sighed. "You weren't meant to." She tucked the hairs back into their fabric cage. "Now may I buy one?"
"Yes, Princess -- any one you wish -- how about this one? Man I bought it off said it was Dwarven, it's got rubies and emeralds --" Cal tuned him out and shifted through the myriad of swords. One caught her eye. The hilt was plainly sturdy and well-made, but not excessively ornate; a single, polished stone was set on the edge. Cal drew it out of its hackneyed scabbard, surprised by its lightness, and found it had perfect balance. It was nicely sharp as well, she discovered as she placed her finger gently on the blade, and only one look at its scabbard told her it was completely weatherproof.
"-- this one, look at that gold inlay! It has a history, I'll tell you about it . . ."
"I'll take this one, sir," she interrupted softly.
"That one, my Lady?" he looked perplexed. "I have much finer swords"
"This one," she repeated, and smiled. "Please." She reached into her small purse. Coins dropped out of her hand onto the merchant's table, enough to easily cover twice the worth of the sword.
"Have a good day, sir. Namarie."
Calandra strode up the streets from the third tier of the city to her home on the sixth. As the grandchild of King Elessar, she was easily recognized in the City and rarely had the full freedom of anonymity. She had always hated being a Princess; her mother, Roswen, was the youngest daughter of the King, and her father a Rohirric lord who had died when Roswen was pregnant with twins and Cal was three. After his death Roswen had withdrawn from public and family life, preferring to study books and help Aragorn with politics than to raise her children.
"Cal!" she heard her younger sister, Aryane, calling. Aryane was thirteen, five years Cal's junior, and loved being a princess. Aryane had always been addicted to old stories and mythology, and there was always a princess in those tales; she found it a very romantic position.
"Cal, why were you at market?"
Cal swore under her breath. Her sister was often too quick; she had registered Cal's clothing, basket, and purse in a split second.
"Why were you there?" Aryane repeated. "Did Mother not ban you from going?"
Calandra stopped. Only two weeks before, she had been caught sneaking down to the third tier by herself, only to be forbidden to go without an escort again. There was no way Aryane could have known about that; Cal hadn't told anyone, and she doubted Mother had.
"Aryane, did you eavesdrop again?"
Her sister flushed. "Maybe," she said, not meeting Cal's eyes.
"I'll make a deal with you," Cal said. "You don't tell anyone I went to market again, and I'll give you the gift that I bought for you there."
"Done!" Aryane squealed happily. She waltzed over to Cal and tried to peer into the basket. Calandra pulled it away.
"Later," she promised. After I get a chance to take the sword out of the basket, she thought guiltily. "Come to my rooms in a few minutes."
Aryane grinned. "I will," she said. "I love presents!"