"Meneldor was a hack," the Steward of Gondor commented the next morning, when told over a breakfast limited to his and the Prince's family of the discoveries of the previous night. "His prose lumbers along like a drunken Mûmak."
"Perhaps, my lord, but he was a hack who did go where he said he did, and see what he said he saw," replied Nimrien, her face pale and eyes dark-circled from lack of sleep. "His literary ability is not the issue here." Imrahil and Andrahar, equally exhausted, sat quietly eating their breakfasts. They had spent the remainder of the night looking through the rest of the books, only to find that Nimrien's discovery was the only useful piece of information available.
"So--how do the desert tribes negotiate, according to the esteemed Meneldor?" Denethor asked.
"When there is a dispute between them, they draw lots to see upon whose territory the negotiations will be held."
The Steward sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Why do they not just pick some third, neutral location?"
"There are only so many places in the deep desert that have sufficient water to support many people," Andrahar interjected, "and to use another tribe's oasis would require negotiating treaties with them as well. The web of alliance and enmity is complex, and the desert folk are very insular."
Denethor fastened his piercing glance upon Andrahar for a moment, then lowered his eyes to his cup once more. "It would seem that the tribe that held the negotiations upon its home ground would have a subtle advantage."
"Ah, but that's where this Speaker business comes in," Nimrien said. "The tribe that loses the contest chooses a Speaker from among them to represent them, and he comes with his entourage to the other tribe, and pitches his tent, which is symbolically considered to be the his tribe's territory for the duration. Then the host tribe sends to him a selection of their tribe's more notable members and he selects their Speaker."
"Thus negating the advantage. I see. Or perhaps even conferring one upon his folk. I know I would prefer to concede the place of negotiation in order to have the negotiator I wished doing my business for me. It would seem that the tribe that wins the contest of lots actually loses."
"And we are that tribe," said Imrahil, speaking at last. "They are here, in Pelargir, on our territory. If we are to negotiate a treaty with them, it will be with the representative that they select."
"Which brings me to my second question. How exactly does the selection occur?"
"That is where Meneldor's account grows vague, my lord," Nimrien admitted ruefully. "He has little to say about that other than it involves some sort of test. Apparently, he was not allowed to witness that part of the process, or he could not find anyone to tell him what went on--or it changed from Speaker to Speaker. In any event, we could not find anything to tell us what takes place--other than that the Speaker and the candidates share a meal."
"Do we invite their Speaker or do we go to him?"
"We go to him," Imrahil said quietly. "We announce that we have our candidates, and then he hosts the meal." The Steward sighed.
"I mislike this very much. It seems as if we are playing the game entirely by their rules."
"Well, the alternative is for us to take our toys and go home," Adrahil commented, speaking for the first time, though he had been watching the conversation most intently. "But if that is what you wish to do, Denethor, then I will back you on it."
"Thank you, Father," the Steward said with a surprisingly earnest show of gratitude.
He is feeling the pressure of this situation,
Imrahil thought to himself, picking up his cup of tea and taking a sip. He has been Steward barely a year. To be the one who starts a war with Harad, a war we might very well lose--I am sure that is not how he wants history to remember him!"It may not be such a bad thing for us to go along with their plans, Denethor," Finduilas said suddenly, looking up from where she was endeavoring to get more porridge into the inside of Faramir than upon the outside. This task was complicated by the fact that Faramir very much wanted to feed himself, and kept grabbing the spoon. Boromir was being very quiet and well-behaved by comparison, though Imrahil did see him start to say something once, only to be quelled by a look from Andrahar.
"What do you mean, my lady?" Denethor asked his wife.
"Did you not say that this desert lord has never been seen in the high councils of Harad before now? And did you not tell me that the desert people usually have little say in how Harad is governed? I do not believe they expect us to solve their little puzzle. You are dismayed at the prospect of Lord Khuzayam selecting our chief negotiator, but I have to wonder if the Haradrim would not be equally dismayed at the prospect of Lord Khuzayam actually acting as their chief negotiator."
Denethor sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. "You make a valid point, Finduilas," he acknowledged. "I suppose it would do no harm to play this game of theirs out a bit further, since the other option is so very grim." He straightened, then rose to his feet. "Father, Imrahil, will you attend me? We must speak with the others and decide who our list of candidates will be. I think we have just enough time before the morning session. It will be very…interesting to see what the Haradrim reaction will be." His smile was decidedly unpleasant.
**********
"This Lord Khuzayam is not a first-rank noble of Harad," Forlyn of Lossarnach declared, when the situation had been explained to himself, Hurin, and Denethor's other advisors, "so it would be inappropriate for you to offer yourself as a candidate, my lord Steward--always providing you actually intend to go through with this farce. It would imply that we are over-eager and are not bargaining from a position of strength."
"I do intend to go through with it, but I also agree with you about my participation," Denethor said calmly. "And for that same reason, Prince Adrahil should be excluded as a candidate as well. The Prince of Dol Amroth is hardly the same rank as the lord of a band of sand-scrabbling nomads." Adrahil said nothing to this, either yea or nay, but a couple of the advisors looked crestfallen. They were apparently hoping that the Prince would bring his brand of calm common sense to the proceedings.
"You, Forlyn," the Steward continued, "are a logical candidate, should you be willing to include yourself in the 'farce'." The Lord of Lossarnach inclined his head.
"The farce was not of your making, my lord, and I stand ready to serve you in any way I can."
"We need more than one, however," Imrahil put in, "for there to be a choice."
"Indeed. And there is the question of the nature of the unknown test," his father added. "What if it is some sort of physical contest? Forlyn, you are a doughty fellow, but you are not much younger than I. I think we should include at least one younger man, in the event that such a trial takes place."
"What you are too polite to say, Adrahil, is that I shall not shine unless it is an eating contest!" the overlarge Forlyn chuckled. "We've got young Hurin here, and your Imrahil. Let this Lord Khuzayam choose from one of them if he likes."
"It could be argued that the same conditions which disqualify Adrahil also disqualify his heir," mused Denethor.
"But there is no argument that, were it not for Imrahil, none of us would be standing here having this discussion!" said Adrahil tartly. " So I think he should be included. He will survive the slight to his dignity."
Recognizing the storm warnings of his father-in-law's temper, Denethor capitulated gracefully.
"Hurin should be included as well. That gives us three. Need we any more?"
"I do not know," Imrahil said honestly. "But three seems a reasonable number to me. Less than a mob, more than a pair. And you do not want them choosing one of the under-clerks." Though I expect the Steward might consider even the under-clerk preferable to me!
"Indeed. Very well then, my lords, let us go and see if we can take this game a step further."
************
As before, the dignitaries of the two nations gathered around the conference table. And once they were all seated, as before, the man at the right hand of Lord Khuzayam repeated his rote formula.
"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."
Hearing the phraseology once more, Imrahil wondered with a sudden panic if they had made a mistake. Perhaps they were supposed to merely present a Speaker rather than a choice? After all, they were not even certain what tribe Lord Khuzayam was from, or if all the tribes held to the same customs! Meneldor's journeys had taken place four hundred years ago--perhaps the custom had changed…He looked at Denethor, who had bowed his head over the documents before him, and wondered if the same doubts were assailing the Steward.
"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."
The Steward lifted his head, and smiled serenely.
"We would not wish to deprive Lord Khuzayam of his privilege. As is the ancient custom, our candidates for Speaker await his pleasure: Forlyn, Lord of Lossarnach and chief among Gondor's council; Lord Hurin, Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith; and Prince Imrahil, Heir to Dol Amroth."
The Haradric end of the table fell utterly silent. Imrahil, watching the appalled, angry and accusing looks crossing back and forth, began to feel a faint stirring of hope.
Then the silence was broken as the ever-silent Lord Khuzayam began to laugh. His laughter went on for some time as all present simply watched him. When he stopped laughing, it was to whisper something into the ear of his right-hand man. That nameless lord inclined his head politely and spoke.
"Lords Forlyn and Hurin, Prince Imrahil, it is Lord Khuzayam's desire that you attend upon him at dusk. We will break bread together, and he will make his selection then. Until then, he asks that you excuse us--there is much preparation to be made. This session is adjourned."
With that, Lord Khuzayam rose, and left the room, his two attendants following closely. The rest of the Haradrim got up and departed in more disorderly fashion, many among them already arguing. Lord Asadel's urbane, diplomatic mask slipped for a moment as he left, shooting Denethor a fulminating glare over his shoulder. The Steward merely smiled once more in that same maddeningly calm manner. When they had departed, he looked over at Imrahil.
"It would seem, my lord prince, that though Meneldor was a hack, he was at least an accurate hack. Please give my thanks to the Lady Nimrien and your Captain Andrahar. I will convey mine to my lady personally. And I would suggest that you use the day to get some rest, that you might have your wits about you for tonight. Father." Nodding to Adrahil, he rose and left in the company of Hurin and Forlyn, his clerks fluttering out anxiously behind him like a gaggle of geese.
"'Thank you, Imrahil.' Would that have been so hard to say?" the Heir asked his father, lips twitching.
"I am sure that the omission was entirely unintentional," Adrahil assured him, struggling to keep a straight face. The two men burst out laughing at the same moment. "He does have the right of one thing, though, my son," the Prince said when their mirth had finally subsided. "You need to rest. Your eyes are like dark holes in your head." Imrahil threw up his hands in surrender.
"I am going, I am going! What will you do with the rest of your day?" Adrahil gave his heir a smile that was mostly charm with the slightest hint of evil.
"I thought that I might catch up on my reading. There are all these books scattered about my chambers for some reason…."
************
Nimrien met him in the corridor outside of his rooms. "What happened?" she asked anxiously. "Why have you adjourned so early?" Imrahil laid his hands upon her shoulders, and endeavored to look somber. It must have been convincing, for she sucked in a breath and asked, "Are we at war?"
"Nay, lady," he said, taking mercy upon her after a moment and smiling broadly. "We adjourned so that Lord Khuzayam could prepare a feast for this evening for the potential Speakers-of whom I am one. You were right, Nimrien--you found us exactly what we needed!"
The archivist's eyes lit up, and she leapt up exuberantly, casting her arms about Imrahil's neck. Never one to lose an opportunity, he wrapped his arms about her waist, and spun her about, her feet flying into the air.
"You are a very, very clever lady!" he exclaimed.
"And you are…impossible, impudent…and rather clever yourself," she admitted breathlessly. "Now put me down!" When he complied, she smoothed her hair and skirts and smiled up at him. "I am so very glad, Imri--I have been worrying ever since you convened, and there was no way to get any news."
"We still have to make our way through this choosing of the Speaker," he warned her. "The negotiations have not truly started yet. But I feel more hopeful now. My father and the Steward both tell me I should go to bed that I may be rested for the evening, so I fear that I must leave you, lady." She waited for a moment for the inevitable proposition, and when it did not come, frowned concernedly at him.
"Are you feeling quite yourself, my lord prince?"
"What do you mean?" he asked. "I am tired, and I am sure that you are too. You were up all night long and would be best served to seek your rest as well." Once again, there was that odd pause. The smile, which had never left his face, grew larger the more her bafflement increased.
Suddenly he threw back his head, and laughed, and said, all in a rush--"And-since-you-have-to-rest-and-I-have-to-rest-why-do-we-not-rest-together-my-bed-is-big-enough-and-I-promise-to-be-a-gentleman-and-as-I-hold-you-in-the-deepest-respect-your-virtue-would-be-perfectly-safe-I seek-merely-friendly-companionship-and-would-that-be-so-very-awful-my-lady-my-dove-my-little-pomegranate?" He cocked his head to the side and grinned at her. "There. Feel better now?"
Nimrien sighed in genuine relief. "Much better. Thank you, my lord. I think that I could rest now." She dropped him a curtsey, and departed in the direction of her rooms.
Chuckling and shaking his head, he made his way to his own chamber, which adjoined Andrahar's. Cracking the door open, he peered into the next room to find his sworn brother asleep in bed, his right arm under the pillow--most likely clasping some deadly weapon. His sword hung by the bedpost close to hand. Andrahar did not snore that Imrahil had ever heard, and even when asleep he did not look sweet or child-like, though some of the severity that animated his countenance when awake departed. He was not a man who found it easy to relax, which was one reason he enjoyed getting massages at the Fairweather so much. His brothel bill was quite respectable for a man who never slept with prostitutes.
"What are you doing hanging in the door? Either come in or go away and let me sleep," came a grumble from the bed suddenly, and the Prince realized that irritated dark eyes were fastened upon him. Andrahar was a light sleeper too, most of the time.
"Sorry, Andra. Just checking on you, to see how you were."
"Tired is how I am! How did things go?"
"Very well. We were right about the Speaker business. Lord Khuzayam has invited three of us to dinner tonight to select one. I am one of the candidates."
"It is good to know that all that reading was not in vain."
"Come now--you like poetry as well as the next person."
"You had the only book of poetry last night and it is wretched stuff. I know because I read it once. Now go get some sleep!" The last statement came out in an exasperated growl, and Imrahil hastily departed. Because of their researches last night, Andra would have had to have someone else fill in for him this morning, and he was always very irritable when he had to admit weakness or was drawn away for whatever reason from what he saw as his primary duty.
With no further ado, the Prince lowered the shades, removed his garments, folded them neatly and crawled gratefully into his own bed. Some worry over what was to come that evening occupied his mind briefly as he lay there, but eventually weariness overcame him and he managed to sleep despite the growing warmth of the day.
