The Second Offer

Er-Mûrazôr strode across the square between the two men. It was only a hundred paces from his store to the Guildhall of the Council of Captains, but each one seemed like an effort. The whole while, none of them spoke.

They reached the Guildhall. The wildflower garland above the door was still there, but the greenery looked tired, and the flowers seem to have curled in on themselves.

He grasped one of the wrought iron handles and pulled open the door. Inside, late afternoon sun cast long rectangles of yellow light onto the flagstones, and the smell of new lumber overpowered the scent of beeswax candles.

At the far end of the Hall, several smaller tables had to push together to form a single long table, the High Table from the feast the night before. The other tables from the feast had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large open space in the middle of the room. A low three-legged stool had been placed in front of the long table.

A dozen or more chairs, most of them empty and pushed back at an angle, crowded around the High Table. His brother Atanamir sat at its center in Er-Mûrazôr's own chair, as he had at the banquet the night before.

Two other men flanked his brother. One was Corwin, the good-natured emissary who'd been aboard every dispatch ship since the colony was established it. He was the one who'd brought the fatal message, "Gift the Haven to your brother."

The other was the hawk-faced man with a narrow beard and iron-colored hair that seem to have a mind of its own, the one who'd asked unpleasant questions on the tour. Er-Mûrazôr knew little about him, except that he was a Palace-intrigue friend of Atanamir's, and one of their father's advisers. Father used him to do things he'd rather not do himself, like deliver a reprimand or tell someone he'd been demoted.

Atanamir looked up from a sheath of papers. "Tindomul, please have a seat," he said, indicating the stool in the open space in front of the table.

Er-Mûrazôr sat down. The stool was too low for a man of his size, and the tip of the scabbard scraped against the paving stones. Standing, he was taller than the other men, but seated, he had to look up to meet their eyes. He was acutely aware of the implied loss of status.

"I expect you're wondering what this is about," said his brother.

Er-Mûrazôr's hands were shaking. He held them in his lap and willed himself to calm down.

"Will you to gift the Haven to me?" asked his brother.

"We've been over this before. "The answer is no, the Haven belongs to me." He tried to keep his annoyance in check. He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.

Atanamir exchanged a look with the young emissary, and held out his hand. The emissary opened a wooden coffer and produced an official-looking document, sealed with red wax, which he placed in Atanamir's hand. Atanamir slid it across the table.

"It's from Father. He's recalled you to Númenor and ordered me to take your place," said Atanamir.

A bead of sweat ran between Er-Mûrazôr's shoulder blades, and the fabric beneath his arms had soaked through. He regretted his decision to pull on a clean shirt over the one he was wearing, the room was too warm for two shirts.

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The first page was covered in his father's rounded handwriting, familiar and reassuring.

You will have no further role in governing the Haven of Umbar.

His breath hissed between his teeth. It was over. The decision had been made before they'd even sailed from Armenelos.

"I don't understand why Father wants me removed. I captured the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he asked."

He leafed through the pages, but in his rattled state, he wasn't able to pull meaning from the dense legal jargon. He went back to the first page and started over, reading more slowly. Even so, he only caught bits and pieces of it. How he'd hanged a man outside the powers given to him by law. How he'd tried to strangle his father's personal secretary and throw him over a cliff.

Nonsense. If I really had been trying, he'd be dead by now.

The text was full of strike-outs and repeated phrases, and ink blots where the pen had leaked. They hadn't bothered to write out a fair copy. It was disrespectful. He minded the insult as much as the description of his faults.

He finished reading the document. He set it down, and realized he hadn't seen the provision about staying on as his brother's assistant.

He finished reading the document. After he set it down, he realized he hadn't seen the provision about staying on to teach Atanamir how to run the Haven.

"Isn't there supposed to be a clause in here about showing you the ropes? Last time this came up, Father asked me to work with you for a couple of months."

"That's no longer on the table. You're to leave at once," said Atanamir.

"I don't understand. Why Father would want to remove me? I captured the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he asked. I'll keep doing whatever he asks."

A scribe scribbled furiously, but only when Er-Mûrazôr was speaking.

The young emissary said, "It's all in the letter. You captured the Haven using deceit, and you spent more than the funds you were allocated to build the city."

"I don't understand. Why are those important now?"

Atanamir shifted in his chair. "Father thinks you've gotten to powerful too quickly. You don't obey him as you used to, and he's no longer sure of your loyalty."

The room lurched. He clutched the sides of his head.

"Please, come with me to the barge. Right now. Once we're there, we'll send for your things."

Er-Mûrazôr lifted his chin and defiance. Once he set foot on the barge, he wouldn't be allowed to leave.

"Tindomul, this is serious. Will you step down of your own free will?" Atanamir's eyes were pleading.

"I will not." Er-Mûrazôr crushed the pages in his fist, and bits of wax clattered to the paving stones.

The hawk-faced man leaned forward. "In that case, the gloves come off." His voice was like gravel. Until then, he'd been so quiet, Er-Mûrazôr had forgotten he was there.

Hawk-face pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his tunic.

"I'd rather not use this, but I will if you make me." He leaned back, his eyes hooded as if he were enjoying this.

"Is that an arrest warrant?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Not quite. It's a writ of transportation. You won't be clapped in irons. You'll be given time to pack, and you'll have an opportunity to say farewell to your people and leave instructions for your steward, but you are getting on that ship."

"I won't."

"You can't escape. Twenty-five warships rest at anchor in the harbor, each under your brother's command. I believe we have three men for every one in your garrison."

Er-Mûrazôr rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'll see you in hell." His footsteps rang against the flagstones and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. The double doors were twenty paces away.

"Tindomul!" His brother's chair scraped against the flagstones.

The doors lay just ahead.

"Tindomul, wait!"

"Let him go," the emissary urged. "Give him time to calm down."

The rough wood left splinters in his palms as he shoved them apart, and he walked into the blinding sunlight, blinking hard.