The Gloves Come Off

Perhaps it wasn't wise to move through the city alone, given how tense things had become in the last few days, although the newer areas around the marketplace ought to be safe enough, especially during the day.

He wove around the booths. Something was going on in the center of the square. A group of people stood around the statue of his father, pointing and laughing.

A sign hung around the statue's neck, a thin board with large letters painted on it, "Remove Me." It could be interpreted as a call to abdicate, although the maker could just as easily have claimed it referred to the sign itself.

A sheet of paper bearing the words, "The Ban" had been laid over the plinth. It had been arranged to look as if Tar-Ciryatan, with his his foot lifted to stride forward, was grinding it under his heel. The model boat he carried had been vandalized, too, with the words, "Valinor or Bust" in dripping red painted the length of its hull.

A call to abdicate was unpleasant but not illegal. People had a right to their opinion. But it was a very bad sign that the topic had come up at all.

###

At the Númenorian Arms that evening, Tindomul squeezed in next to Sven and accepted a goblet of wine. A few minutes later, Mikkel came through the door. There was a purple bruise around his eye, and his lip was cut.

Tindomul gasped. "What happened to you?"

"On my way home last night, I took a shortcut. Someone knocked me on the head and took my money. His friend kicked me in the face when I was down," said Mikkel.

"Did you see who it was?" asked Tindomul.

"No, it was dark in the alley, and they caught me from behind."

Most likely, it was thieves. That's how they operated. But Mikkel was outspoken and well-known for being a Black Númenorian. He could have been attacked for his beliefs.

###

Back at the Palace, Tindomul realized he hadn't seen Griffin all day. Atanamir hadn't seen him either, nor had any of the servants.

"Don't worry, he'll turn up," said Father.

The bed felt empty without Griffin at his feet. The huge mastiff didn't turn up the next day, or the next. Tindomul was seriously worried.

"It's spring. He might have run off with a lady dog. If he's like every other dog, he'll be back in a day or two, looking terribly pleased with himself," said Atanamir.

Tindomul was reluctant to voice to his fears, that something had been done to Griffin in retaliation for the crackdown on the Faithful.

###

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the diamond-paned windows in Father's study, making the stained glass medallions glow like jewels.

Tindomul sat next to his father at a table overflowing with letters. He took one, then cracked its seal and skimmed the contents.

"concerned citizen … deeply upset … opposes those who would break the Ban." He tossed it in a bin. "Different writing, different choice of words, but always the same message."

He and his father had been working for over an hour, but the pile didn't look any smaller than when they'd started. He reached for another.

Beside him, Tar-Ciryatan opened a letter. "Oh, finally, a personal note from someone I like." His eyes moved over the page. Then he leaned back, his lips in a tight line.

"What's the matter?" asked Tindomul.

"It was from one of my closest friends. He said, using the most formal language possible, that given the current political situation, he desires no further contact with me." Father set the letter down and stared at something far away.

Tindomul ached for him. Father was trying to take Númenor into the modern world. But it was hard, when doing the right thing cost him his friends.

Just then, a window exploded, leaving a ragged hole yawning at the center. The stained glass medallion that had decorated its center, a ship in blue and green, was just gone.

"What the…" Father's eyes were wide.

A shard of glass fell from the window frame and shattered on the tiles. Something lay on the carpet in front of the hearth, the size of a fist, wrapped in paper and string. Tindomul crossed the room and picked it up.

"It feels like a rock," he said, handing it to his father.

Tar-Ciryatan cut the string and unwrapped the paper and read it. His brow furrowed. He started to crumple it up, but stopped. "This is evidence. When I learn who wrote it, I will have him hanged."

Tindomul stared with his mouth open. "What does it say?"

"It's a death threat."

A call to abdicate was worrisome, but threatening the king's life was treason.

###

That night, without any holidays to celebrate or ambassadors to entertain, dinner was a quiet affair in the royal apartments. Tar-Ciryatan sent the servants away, then got up and bolted the door behind them.

"I'm going to cut the head off this beast, by which I mean, I'm going to execute the leader of the Faithful," said Tar-Ciryatan.

"But we don't know who that is," said Tindomul.

"I had an informant report this afternoon. He belongs to one of the oldest and most respectable families on the Island, so this has to be handled delicately. We're gathering information on any minor offenses he might have committed. When we have enough to write a warrant, I'll have him arrested."

###

Tindomul led a group of soldiers through the cobbled streets of the oldest part of the city. The streets back here were narrow and irregular. Carved wood decorated the door and window frames. Alcoves in the stone walls held shrines where offerings of fresh flowers had been left. The district had been built over a thousand years ago in the city's earliest days, a historically preserved district favored by families of ancient lineage and ancient wealth, the lair of the Faithful.

He stopped in front of the door named by the informant, a residence of modest size, the home of one of the oldest families on the Island. Tindomul knew the house, although he hadn't been here since childhood. It was the home of one of his oldest friends, although they'd fallen out recently over political differences. He felt ill.

Tindomul struck the door with three blows of his fist. "Open in the name of the King."

The spyhole slid back. Tindomul undid the lock with an enchantment. He kicked the door open and strode inside, the soldiers at his back. Inside the single room, the father of his childhood friend was speaking to a group of the Faithful. The man faltered, but he recovered and kept talking.

"Who is your leader?" Tindomul demanded.

Several men glanced at the speaker, accidentally giving him away, but it didn't matter. The man straightened and looked him in the eye. "I am."

Tindomul took a deep breath. The leader, his friend's father, was a good person. Tindomul had always liked him.

"Arrest him." Tindomul's stomach twisted in knots. He hated having to do this.

###

The morning after the arrest, soldiers scrubbed the graffiti from the walls. A day later, it hadn't reappeared. There were no more demonstrations, no more acts of vandalism, and Elvish-style garb disappeared from the streets.

Tindomul breathed a sigh of relief. The crisis appeared to be over.