The Price of a Kingdom
The moment he stepped into the room, Falathor knew something was amiss. Closing the door softly behind him, he wrinkled his brow. It took a moment for him to realize just why the room felt so empty: it was empty.
"Indithel!" It came out as an explosive whisper. Fists clenched, Falathor glared wildly around the room, as if expecting to find the King's daughter concealed mischievously in some corner. The room remained empty. Muttering and shaking his head, he stomped across the small space and flicked aside the curtains. After gazing briefly out the window, he shook his head and turned back to the room.
He froze as something on the table caught his eye. Slowly this time, he stalked forward, stopping stiff-legged beside the small piece of furniture and staring down blankly.
It was a sheet of parchment.
He picked it up, expressionless, knowing already that it was a letter, and knowing who it was from. Murmuring under his breath, he began to read.
"Dearest Falathor,
I know you asked me to stay, but I simply got bored. You were gone quite a while, you must admit. I did wait for a bit. I hope you're not too angry. I found what I wanted for Ravenna. Now I can go back to the Havens, like you wanted. Isn't that nice? I hope to see you there. Regards,
Lady Indithel,
Daughter to Arvedui, King of the joints realms Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, etc."
Falathor replaced the letter on the table mechanically and sat down, burying his head in his hands. A soft sigh escaped through his fingers; it might have meant anything. Slow moments passed, the silence remaining unbroken. One might have thought the young man had fallen asleep, or into a trance.
A knock sounded at the door, and Falathor jerked, eyes widening. He leaped to his feet, unconsciously straightening his jacket.
"Come!"
The door opened and a maid peeked in apologetically. "Please, sir," she said, "here are the clothes my lord required." She tiptoed into the room, laying a bundle of cloth on the bed, and turned to go uncertainly.
"Wait." The word escaped Falathor's lips before he could stop himself.
The maid halted, obviously unsure and slightly apprehensive. She looked at him humbly with great, innocent blue eyes.
"Yes, my lord?"
Falathor hesitated, then continued as if forcing the words out of himself. "Did you, by any chance, see a... lady leave some time ago?"
The maid looked confused. "Not many ladies be comin' to the Wasp, sir. Not many lords neither, sir, save yourself."
"I see... so you saw no one? A woman. Tall, beautiful, black-haired, and blue-eyed, graceful like a... like a fawn. You did not see her?"
The maid shook her head blankly. "I didn't see no one like that, sir. Mayhap she was here, but I didn't see her." She curtsied and turned to go. This time he let her.
When the maid had left, Falathor turned to the bundle of clothes she had left. A short examination yielded two suits of fine quality, though not too remarkable in cut. They were children's suits, in different sizes: one for a boy of about ten, another for one of perhaps thirteen or fourteen. The smaller was dark blue, trimmed with silver; the larger pure black, garnished with green. A smile flicked over Falathor's face, barely visible.
It took him only a few minutes to change into his own suit. Scooping up a double handful of water from a basin by the bed, he splashed it over his face quickly. Shaking his head to cast away the stray drops clinging to him, he caught sight of himself in a mirror on the wall.
Falathor paused. Slowly, as if he feared what he might see, he stepped closer to the glass.
Nothing, only his own face. Yet for a moment, before, he had been sure it had been Lomin staring out at him.
Dismissing such notions angrily, he picked up the children's suits and tucked them under his arm. Checking that his sword remained at his side and his eye-patch was in place, he strode out of the room.
It took only a few minutes to reach the Honeydrop. The sky had grown dim and those houses and businesses that could afford outside lanterns had lit them. Fitful light crept about his feet as he made his way into the café. It was crowded, as usual, but the wooden partitions separating the tables still guaranteed an amount of privacy to customers. The main room was shaped roughly like an octagon, with narrow hallways leading away to private chambers that could be reserved beforehand.
Falathor stood for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the even dimmer light inside. The only illumination came from the candles standing in the centre of each table. Low light for low deeds – he smiled again, briefly, bitterly. Then he began to weave a path through the tables and partitions, searching for an empty one. He had not gone far, however, when a voice hailed him from close by.
"Falathor!" It was a whisper, low and insistent, that made him turn his head searchingly until he had found the source.
In a corner, a cloaked figure gestured to him. The movement was calm and controlled, and yet slightly hurried. A sudden sense of urgency made the hair on Falathor's neck prickle. Glancing around covertly, he took a seat serenely at the table. The figure moved back slightly as if to keep at a distance from him. He, whoever it was, sat hunched over as if hugging his stomach in pain. Falathor barely noticed; he was far more concerned with the fact that only one sat at this table.
The partitions now screened them from view, but Falathor kept his voice down; it always paid to be careful.
"Well?" he asked, uncertain. He had told two to meet him, and here was only one.
His companion pulled off his hood, revealing the still-too-pale face of Beleg the Elfit. For a moment the two regarded one another, each seeming at a loss for words. In the silence, Falathor busied himself with examining the Elfit. He looked somewhat better than he had when last they had met, there in the alley. At least he no longer seemed on the brink of collapse. Still, he was not the lithe, graceful creature he had been at the Last Council. Pallid skin and dark hair emphasized the dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were too tight, too strained.
Finally, the silence became uncomfortable, and they broke it together.
"Where is Trotter?"
"Where is Anna?"
They paused, both surprised. Then Beleg grinned. It was not a joyous expression, more rueful than happy, but Falathor felt his muscles loosening nonetheless. He realized he had been gripping the edge of the table. There were splinters in his skin, and his knuckles ached. He rubbed them absently and repeated his question.
"Where is Trotter? I asked you both to meet me here. Has something happened…?"
"In the company of Trotter the Hobbit, there is always much happening, little of it savoury," Beleg replied with his trademark wryness, "but if you wish to know where he is, I'm afraid I can say little that is helpful. You see, I don't exactly know myself. He has gone missing." A shadow of worry crossed the Elfit's face, belying that, despite his casual tone, his friend's fate concerned him deeply.
"Missing?" Falathor could not keep the surprise out of his voice. He realized he had spoken the word nearly aloud, and dropped his tone back to a whisper. "Where? How do you mean? Has he… left?"
If he was implying that Trotter might have fled the city, leaving them and continuing his errand, Beleg dispelled his fears with a curt shake of his head.
"He disappeared when we were returning to the healer's house. There was no warning of any sort. I was walking before him at the time, and I heard a sound. Just a very soft, muffled sort of sound, but it made me stop. But when I turned around, there was no sign of Trotter. I went back and checked for… signs, tracks, anything. There was a spot on the cobblestones… it might have been the mark of a body in the dust. I saw no one. Still, I suspect… attack."
"Why did you not look for him?"
Beleg looked chagrined. "I was not well," he muttered bitterly, glaring at Falathor, "and I could not guess which way they might have gone. I thought of checking the houses, and of the rooftops, but I could not climb, and in the state I was in they would have taken or killed me easily. I returned to the healer's house – she helped me. Quite a brilliant woman." His expression turned thoughtful and mildly reverent. "It is thanks to her brews and herbs that I am here now. And now that I am here, I may see fit to ask you those questions you have been promising to answer. As well as some new ones that occurred to me – for example, what you had to do with Trotter's kidnapping."
"Elbereth!" Falathor exploded before he could help himself. He forced himself to speak softly once more, but could not keep the fury out of his voice. "You accuse me? Are you mad? If it weren't for me – your friend Anna would be ashes in the wind by now! I put myself on Trotter's side, I aided him and you, I backed him at the Last Council, I disowned my own brother, and you, you – accuse me of treachery!" His fists clenched reflexively on the table and he began to rise, overcome for a moment by the injustice of it all.
He froze in the middle of the movement when Beleg straightened, revealing the small crossbow he had been concealing close to his body, under his cloak. The iron head of the arrow gleamed wickedly in the light of the candle. Falathor could imagine it gleaming as it flashed into his ribcage all too well. He seethed with anger, but did not move further.
"Sit down," Beleg said softly.
Slowly, Falathor lowered himself back onto the chair. The crossbow remained fixed on his heart.
"Fool!" he sputtered, "you – fool!"
Beleg's face remained impassive. "I'm afraid eloquence will get you nowhere. I want answers, Falathor. You claimed you had them. In fact, you seem to know an awful lot for my liking."
"Trotter would not agree with what you are doing."
"Trotter isn't here, and you might well be responsible for that."
"Trotter is my friend!"
Beleg leaned closer, a fierce light shining in his eyes. "Listen, you arrogant Man," he hissed, "Trotter is my troth-brother, my companion of long months and hundreds of miles. We are sworn to each other. You're nothing to that. Talk."
For a second more, Falathor kept his mouth stubbornly shut. It was useless; a retort was already welling from his lips when a servant appeared by the table, bearing a look of polite curiosity. In a flash, the crossbow fled out of sight. Invisible, perhaps, but Falathor was sure the deadly point remained fixed on him. He did not speak.
"What may I bring you, good sirs?" the servant enquired.
"Tea," Beleg replied, "peppermint, with a drop of brandy."
"Excellent choice, young master," the servant murmured, "and you, sir?"
Falathor's gaze drilled into Beleg's eyes. The Elfit gave no sign of distress.
"Order," he said, with the barest hint of a threat.
"Ale," Falathor said, unable to think of anything else. He wouldn't drink it anyway.
The servant nodded and made his exit. The crossbow remained discreetly under the table, but Beleg looked no less alert. If anything, his concentration seemed to have narrowed to a very dangerous point.
"Now," he said, "I would like to hear what you have to say."
"Very well," Falathor said stiffly, "I have dealt with worse than you, Master Elfit, but I will indulge you. I promised an explanation, and I will not break my vow."
Beleg did not reply, though he looked amused.
"I have been in Tharbad before," Falathor continued, "many times. I… watch the situation, for King Arvedui. Rhudaur has already fallen to the Witch-King; the uncivilized tribes have been his for years. If Cardolan succumbs, Arthedain will stand alone. And Cardolan wavers, Cardolan is faltering even now. It is corrupt. I have seen it. I come here as a lord, directing merchants… I have befriended the Three Lords. Perhaps "befriended" is not the best word – I spent much time in their company, but I bear them no love. The First Lord especially craves my conversation. He thinks that he will learn through me of doings in the North. It is… a delicate game. Knowledge balances knowledge. But a year ago, the First began to suspect his brother Telpedur of conspiring for the title of Lord. He believed Telpedur was receiving aid from the North in a plot to kill him. He approached me, thinking that I might help him discover his brother's fellow conspirators, or that I might be one myself…"
"And were you?"
"Why would I take part in such a conspiracy, Master Elfit?"
"I can think of several reasons quite easily. Telpedur might have promised that Cardolan would remain loyal to Arnor should he become First Lord. You might have learned that the First Lord was planning to capitulate to the Witch-King. A dead First Lord could have been very beneficial to Arthedain. Could still be beneficial, for that matter."
"Such dealings would be dishonourable."
Beleg grinned. "I would expect no less from the brother of Lomin."
Falathor clenched his teeth and willed himself not to snap back. "I am not my brother."
"No," Beleg agreed, eyes twinkling ironically, "he is doubtless much more skilled at the game of politics than a young man like you, unscrupulous as he may be. Or… is he? Perhaps you have more talent in politics than your appearance betrays."
"Young?" Falathor countered, ignoring the last comment, "You can hardly be older than I, from the looks of you."
Beleg's lips twitched. "Looks can deceive the unwary," he said, "I am quite a bit older than you think. Now, continue with your story. It was getting very good."
Falathor looked at the Elfit sharply. "Just whose side are you on?"
"I am on Trotter's side. I hope your story will lead to him eventually, otherwise…"
Beleg trailed off smoothly as the servant reappeared, carrying their drinks on a tray. He placed the tea and ale on the table and bowed.
"Thank you," Beleg said.
The servant did not leave. Instead, he shot a meaningful look at Falathor. Immediately, Beleg tensed. Falathor could almost hear the crossbow creaking beneath the table.
The servant did not seem to have noticed. "My lord?" he asked, addressing Falathor.
"Yes?"
"You are the one they call Falathor, of the Northern Realm?"
"Yes."
"I was told to relay a message: the conspirators will be unmasked."
Falathor nodded a casual dismissal, his heart constricting in his chest, and the servant, with another bow, withdrew. Beleg sat quite still.
"The conspirators…" he said slowly, "then my guess was correct. You have conspired, and you have caught Trotter and Anna up in your plots, whether intentionally or no." His gaze sharpened. "What does this message mean? From whom does it come?"
Falathor gripped his mug of ale unconsciously. "Very well, Master Elfit, you have won. But we are out of time. The message is from the First Lord. When I spoke with him this morning, I threatened to reveal the truth to the townspeople. I could ruin him with what I know. I bargained for Anna's life. Where Trotter is and who has him… I do not know." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "But if anyone can find out, it will be the First."
Beleg studied him. "Where?" he asked simply.
"At his great house, Daer Thirgobel – that's Mickleview Manor in the common tongue."
"I know," Beleg said dryly, "I am, to my sorrow, half Elf. Where is this manor?"
"On the north-eastern outskirts of town… a ball is being held tonight. I had planned for the three of us to go. Anna is waiting there. Now, without Trotter… I still can think of no better option. We must go, and disentangle these muddy lines before they drag your errand down."
"A ball," Beleg said thoughtfully, "how poetic. It would make a good story." He cast one more fleeting glance at Falathor's face, then nodded. "Very well. I believe you. Let us go!"
*******
The first thing Trotter became aware of was the sound of his own breathing. It seemed louder and closer than normal. It was then that he attempted to open his eyes and found that it made no difference. Blackness stared back at him indifferently.
The air in his nose smelled strange, musty and stale. He tried to move, and could not. As sensation and consciousness returned, he felt the ropes biting into his wrists, elbows, and ankles. The air, stuffy: there was a bag over his head. He was lying on cold dirt, but there was no noise of wind or trees or anything that would help him pinpoint his location. Sounds were muffled as his own breath rang thunderously in his ears. Still he could make out the voices penetrating through the cloth.
"What d'you reckon it is?" A man-like voice asked.
"Dwarf, I'd say," was the reply.
"No, stain me! I've heard about Dwarves, I have. Them creatures have great curly beards down to their knees, all decked out in gold and jools. Besides, they's made of rock."
"Rock! Jools! Now you listen to someone who knows a thing or two about matters. Dwarves are half-sized, they are, and what else would you call this fellow? They used to have great cities down underground, the Dwarves, but then the dragons came and chased 'em all out. Now they wander around all over, peddling their fancy trinkets. Wouldn't mind a bit of Dwarf gold myself, not at all!"
"You reckon this fellow's got gold on him?" The voice squealed eagerly.
"Hands off!" Trotter tensed, but the expected touch did not come. "You can loot him later, if the Lord says it's alright. But first he needs him for something."
"What's he need a wandering Dwarf for? Maybe – you think – he's going to make him teach us the secret of making gold from metal? We'd all be rich as thieves."
"Ha! If the Lord learns any such secret, he'll nary be teaching it to the likes of us! Besides, those are fairy stories, like the Elves and magic wine and all that. No, I don't know what the Lord wants with a runt like this, and I ain't asking neither. I'm just an old guard taking care of my lord. Besides, I like fire well enough in the hearth, but I'd rather not end up as the wood."
"Ha ha – sure, just a plain old guard is what you are!"
"But a right funny one, you must admit."
The other voice chuckled interminably into the dark stillness, until somewhere above hinges squeaked. They were inside, then. Thumping footsteps followed, rustling noises and voices.
"Here now! Come up out of your little hole! The Lord wants them both, the little man and the girl."
Trotter's heart leaped and his muscles bunched convulsively. Had he heard correctly? Was she here – in this room? His heart urged him to call out, but another voice, deeper and calmer, advised him to hold his tongue. Moments later, he was hoisted over a Man's shoulder, his head dangling dizzily downwards. He was carried a few steps, then they began to climb upwards: a ladder. Then more walking, for a long way, a corridor perhaps. He had the distinct sense that they were underground. Not for long – steps followed, many of them in an endless spiral, in the darkness with the breathing of Men all around.
They reached the top and halted briefly. Light seeped into the bag over his head. He heard music and laughter, the voices of many people. Then they were moving again, away from the sounds. It was only a short trip this time before he was dumped onto a happily soft rug. Before he could recover, another body was thrown against him. The person was small, thin, and he knew immediately that it was Anna, his Anna. He bit back the words that came unbidden to his lips. Was she conscious? Did she know he was beside her?
The voice of the knowledgeable guard began to speak again, respectfully this time.
"My lord, here are the prisoners."
"Good. You may go." The answering voice made Trotter's breath catch unpleasantly. It was raspy and hard, like serrated metal, and not at all reassuring.
Sounds of muffled footsteps and cloth rustling; some of their escort must have exited, though he strongly doubted that they had been left entirely unguarded. His guess proved correct. He might have been pleased in more promising circumstances.
At some invisible sign, a pair of hands fumbled roughly at his neck and jerked the hood from his head. A muffled exclamation came from his side as he blinked owlishly in the suddenly too bright light.
"Find the other two," the metallic voice ordered from directly in front of him.
Looking up, Trotter found himself not at all surprised to be staring into the iron face of the First Lord of Tharbad.
*******
One could not deny that Mickleview Manor was deserving of its name. Imposing as the twilight, it reared from the hunchback of a flat hill on the north-eastern outskirts of Tharbad. On the southern slope rich houses and gardens languished in the shade of their superior; on the north side, the fields and hovels of the farmers working the First Lord's land stretched out to greet the forest border on the far-away horizon. From this modest perch the great house frowned down on city and wilds alike, secure in the superior smugness of its builders and inhabitants. While the manor ruled over Tharbad, inside the First Lord presided over his ball, mentally extending his sovereignity over even the wind that had just nudged the two latest guests inside.
To Beleg's eyes it had looked a strange mixture of hall and castle as he passed through the doors at Falathor's side. The Elves and the Men of the North did not build in this fashion, preferring simplicity and utility to extravagance. Mickleview Manor, breathtaking in its grandeur and luxury, sprawled upon the brow of the hill, stretching its several wings out as if to possess the earth. Constructed all of fine, most likely imported stone, its several floors and numerous small turrets made it as delicately lovely as it was defenceless.
Despite its size, the manor was crowded. The First Lord's balls were famous, and anyone with enough money or heritage scrabbled for an invitation. The rooms, plush and colour-coded, swarmed with the elegant elite of Tharbad. Some were masked or costumed, others in traditional but equally radiant garb. At the centre of this domestic web lay a great hall, filled by a chamber group with brave strains of music whose rhythm the guests' feet tapped out on the shining floor.
"Why all the clocks?" Beleg asked his companion idly. Every room they had passed housed at least one clock, usually large and exotic.
"The First Lord is measuring his time," Falathor replied with a touch of irony. Beleg declined to comment, giving his attention instead to the dancers on the floor. The two of them lounged inconspicuously near the door, watching the proceedings with eyes that sought the dagger amidst the velvet.
"The amusements are charming, one must admit..." Beleg said neutrally. Falathor glanced at him knowingly.
"Be patient. We did not come here to dance. I gave my word all would be revealed to you. But we must wait for him to summon us."
Beleg merely looked up at him innocently before returning to his scrutiny of the guests. He had abandoned his crossbow, and was left feeling naked and insubstantial. Still, at least he had enough strength now to stand steadily. He did not doubt Falathor's word; in truth he had never doubted it, but it was always better to be sure.
He hated waiting. Falathor had promised him the truth from the lips of the First Lord himself, eventually. There was a conspiracy at work – Beleg was sure of that, and he would learn of its nature. But beneath that, carefully controlled and yet so powerful that it made him nearly nauseous, was a wrenching worry about Trotter and Anna. It was not something he had experienced before, so unfamiliar indeed as to make him wonder whether it was merely a side effect of the Warg poison. He had loved before, and he had his honour, but never like this, as a brother and friend. The feeling made him all the more determined to reunite them all, by whatever means available.
He stole a glance at the tall Man beside him. How far would Falathor go for them? He felt no love for this human or any human, but Trotter considered the Dúnedan his friend. At what cost might Anna's life and Trotter's freedom be bought?
And who would pay?
"I would..." Falathor murmured, frowning thoughtfully, "I would think that is our man." He gestured discreetly toward a rather scrawny servant who was squirming with difficulty through the crowd of dancers. Sure enough, the Man made straight for them and bowed low before Falathor, unable to hide his curious glances at Beleg.
"My lord Falathor," he said in the universal tone of servants, "the First Lord requests your presence."
"My companion and I are honoured. How fares his lordship?"
"He is most eager to speak with you," the servant said, "if you will follow me?"
*******
Anna looked frightened, but did not seem to be hurt. Her face was pale and smudged, drawn, her garments ragged and filthy. Uneasy green eyes flickered out at him.
She looked like she wanted to speak, but he shook his head slightly and they both remained silent. Suddenly, despite his joy at seeing her, Trotter felt his murky doubts resurfacing. He turned away to hide the expression he knew must be on his face. His surroundings proved no more reassuring than his feelings. Cold stone walls enclosed what seemed to be an antechamber to somewhere, lit by two torches and made no warmer or more welcoming by the sumptuous rugs and stately furniture filling the brooding space. The First Lord stood like an ancient monument in the centre of the room, grim and rigid.
The air grew no warmer when the door opened and a servant ushered in Falathor and Beleg. Once again Trotter nearly cried out, but kept silent with an effort of will, mindful of the guards still surrounding them.
"My lord." Falathor bowed elegantly, seeming completely unruffled at this reception and the sight of his friends in bonds. His eyes flickered only briefly towards Trotter, flashing what might have been a warning. The Hobbit needed no further prompting. He felt achingly tired and tensely curious at once. It was clear to him that now, at last, they had come to a culmination, and someone would finally explain something.
"No need for courtesies," the First Lord said in reply to Falathor's bow, "they will only hamper us now. As you can see, your attempt to force my hand has failed. I have your acquaintances in my power. Your influence here may have become strong, but you cannot protect them."
"The people would revolt if they knew the truth about Telpedur."
"They would not. There would be unrest, yes, but I would control it. The people know they cannot survive without the Lords in these times. You would do them no favour; they do not want to know the truth. They wish only to work and play, and leave high matters to the Lords."
"Anyone can be a Lord."
"You think to replace me with another more to your taste? If I fall, I will not hesitate to take Tharbad into ruin with me. That also is within my power. You know you cannot allow it."
"Then it seems we are at an impasse."
At this, Beleg moved impatiently, stepping forward from his place by Falathor's side. "No," he snapped, "I've had enough of waiting. Whatever is going on here, it must be resolved now. We have no time to waste."
The First looked at him with mild curiosity, the way a housewife looks at a chicken she is about to butcher. "Great words for a small warrior," he said softly, "but perhaps you are right. I am curious, Falathor, as to just how many strings your hand has been pulling this last year."
Falathor nodded, mild resignation mixing with wariness in his eyes. "It seems the time for explanation has come. I believe you think I am in league with the dark forces and intend to betray Cardolan to the North, Lord. It is not so. I will elaborate, if you allow. Will your guard stand down?"
Only the briefest of hesitations was evident on the First Lord's face before he flicked a slight gesture with his hands. Leather creaked as the remaining guards eased away from the five figures confronting each other and slipped discreetly into the shadows of the room.
"Speak," the First Lord commanded quietly.
An invisible tension filled the air as four pairs of eyes locked onto Falathor's face. A light flush coloured the young man's cheeks, belying his calm demeanor. But when he spoke, his voice was calm.
"Very well," he said, "it begins, I suppose, in the North." He paused for a moment as if to say where else? "King Arvedui has known for years that an attack was massing. He knew that Rhudaur was already lost beyond recall. Arthedain is weak, weaker than Cardolan, wanting in men and resources. Together, the two remaining thirds of Arnor might hold off the North, but Cardolan has withdrawn from the King. No messengers ride between Tharbad and Fornost. But the King knows well that Arthedain cannot stand alone... he sent me here some years ago to open communications with Cardolan.
"My first impression was of utter hopelessness. This city is driven by profit and money-lust. The rich abuse the poor, using them as workers in the mines and mills. How would these merchants and businessmen ever be moved to take up a war while they are not personally threatened? The people of Tharbad knew as good as nothing about the shadow in the North, and did not care to know. I settled here in the guise of a noble merchant from the North. I did not expect that this fact would draw to me certain people who might after all have an interest in the cold war games played on our snowy northern downs.
"Telpedur came to me, requesting an import of Elvish wine. I did not personally visit the shops under my control, so he came to my room at the Golden Wasp. I thought nothing of it until I learned that he was the brother of the First Lord, and had a reputation for mystery.
"He visited me again, always with minor requests for some specialty from Arthedain or Lune. I began to ponder, and it came to my mind that he sought more than rare luxuries."
"He conspired against me!" the words burst like chunks of raw iron from the First Lord's mouth. "He wished to depose me with Arthedain's help! He would have collaborated in your wars in return... do not deny this! I have known the treachery of my worm of a brother."
Falathor was shaking his head. "You are so close to the truth that you fail to see it. He did wish to depose you, buy favour with the North and collaborate in its war. But it was not with Arthedain that he conspired." He began to pace restlessly, almost forgetting the presence of his listeners. "He used me as he did you, seeking information. Telpedur had an outside source... someone in the service of the Witch-king, who told him of my rank and mission. I know much of the plans and defences of Arthedain – all knowledge I might share with an ally. He would bring Cardolan to the Witch-king, and in return rule as Lord.
"I almost came to trust him. What might have happened had I shared with him the secrets of our defences in the Weather Hills... it would have been a short war. We built plans for an alliance between Arthedain and Cardolan, but always I spoke more, and he listened. It was only on the day of the flood that I realized my mistake."
"We had planned a meeting for that afternoon, outside by the riverbanks. The waters had been rising all day and I was concerned. I went to Telpedur's house on the premise of discussing cloth prices with him. He was not there, and the servants informed me that he had gone to the city to do business with a paper merchant. I became worried, for the flood waters had become dangerous. After inquiring after the name of the merchant, I set off on Telpedur's tracks. When I arrived, he was not merely purchasing paper, but writing a letter. By chance I caught a glimpse of the lines. It was an account of the architecture of the palace of Menechenneth. I had been boasting of its defences and beauty earlier that day.
"Harsh words passed between us then, for my quiet suspicions had become realized. He could not deny that he served the Witch-king. Nearly we came to blows, but he fled. I called after him that I would expose him to you, Lord, and the city. If the people did not tear him apart I would do it myself. He fled in a panic."
"He was a coward," the First Lord interjected stiffly.
"He proved himself one that very night. Telpedur knew that I do not threaten lightly. He feared that you suspected him..."
"I did, but not of conspiracy with the Witch-king. I am not a fool. I knew of his visits to you, Falathor, and kept track of them. It took no great thought to equate your meetings with plans for my downfall."
Falathor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. It would seem so, to you, Lord. I never suspected you of watching him... I thought only of his betrayal of our plans. But if you distrusted him as well, he must have feared attacks from both you and me."
A cold gleam of curiosity awoke in the First Lord's eye. "And that is why he had the girl kill him. Fearful, yet too cowardly to do the deed himself."
"Perhaps. But there may be yet another rhyme to this riddle. Telpedur would not have taken his own life had any hope of his salvation remained. He would have fled to the Witch-king and taken up service there – unless he could not."
"What are you suggesting? He could easily have left the city."
"Yes, but to go where? To join the agent of the Witch-king he had been in contact with. But he didn't."
"The... his contact would not receive him."
"I believe so. Perhaps he did not report on time, or perhaps Telpedur concealed yet another ulterior motive, yet another secret plan for personal gain. But somehow he broke with his master. Thus beset from three sides, despairing and terrified, he wished to die, but was too weak to do the deed. And wandering through the flood into this invisible web came Anna Applethorn, innocent of all intrigue. He forced her hand to end his misery, lifting the blame from all our shoulders and dropping it onto her unsuspecting head."
The First Lord turned his head slowly to look at Trotter and Anna. Trotter repressed a shudder at the gaze. It contained no hostility, only calculating, dispassionate coldness. The First Lord was evaluating the truth of what he had just heard, and deciding how to act upon it.
"Why did you leave Tharbad?" he asked. His eyes remained directed at Trotter and Anna, but the question was meant for Falathor.
"To warn King Arvedui of the Witch-king's influence in Tharbad. If evil had reached a Lord's brother, I could not guess where else it might dwell. I felt I could not work alone any longer. But I became side-tracked in the wilderness and came only much later to Bree and Fornost."
"Yet now you are in Tharbad once more."
"Yes. I acted hastily before. The King advised me to return, and be frank with you. I have waited for too long; I can only hope that my hesitation has not caused our downfall. These three are messengers, sent to request the aid of Gondor in Arnor's hour of need. They may well be the last hope of the North. I meant to help them, but my own devices have snared us all four."
Silence heralded the end of this speech. With that lie, Trotter felt the burden of the clandestine descend upon him. Falathor's meaning was as clear as if he had shouted it aloud: say nothing of Anna and Lomin. The secret burned into his breast, lodging like a coal in his ribcage. He kept silent, hoping that somehow the Dúnedan could pull them out of this.
It was the First Lord who broke the silence, asserting his superior station with every calm syllable. "So. You claim that my brother betrayed Cardolan and myself, but that it was none of your doing. You claim that this girl is innocent in spirit. You offer me no useful information. What about the supposed agent of the Witch-king with whom Telpedur conferred? Where is he?"
For the first time since he had entered, Falathor hesitated, visibly unsure of himself. Bright spots of colour adorned his cheeks, and his eyes were very bright, the lines of his mouth fixed in strange determination. He seemed to be steeling himself. "I believe I may answer your questions after all, Lord. I have reason to suspect that the man with whom Telpedur conspired was the one they now call the Nine-fingered Captain."
"Ah!" another man might have smiled ironically, but no such grimace touched the First Lord's lips. "He is beyond our reach, then. And now – you wish me to release your friends, no? I am to set them free."
Falathor remained silent, looking steadily back at the older man.
"Or perhaps you fear that I will not. You have misjudged me as thoroughly as I misjudged you. Let me, then, enlighten you. The people call me cold – the word 'cruel' is in their thoughts, though they dare not speak it aloud. I do not claim to be altruistic. I look out only for my own interests and those of Cardolan. But I am not such a fool that I do not see the threat in the North. If Arthedain falls, Cardolan will follow quickly. No, I will not aid you – I will not send you men or swords or gold. Cardolan looks after itself only. But I will not hinder you. Send your messengers! I will let them go, to Gondor or wherever they wish – on one condition."
"Name it."
"The Nine-fingered Captain led to my brother's demise. He lurks now on our borders, harrying the outskirts of my land and drawing ever nearer with the shadow of the Witch-king on his shoulders. You wish your friends' freedom. Very well. The price is the head of the Nine-fingered Captain. You are a skilled swordfighter and woodsman. Protect Cardolan, and I will send these three swiftly with a trading caravan to Gondor. They will arrive safely and quickly, perhaps even in time to save Arthedain. Only one head, for the price of a kingdom."
For a moment Trotter was sure Falathor would refuse. His own mind could not quite grasp what he had heard. Surely the First Lord could not know... no one would be so heartless... it was impossible. No one could send a man off to kill his brother. Falathor had faced Lomin before, and come off the worse for it. He could not accept such an errand, he was not capable, physically or morally, of such an act. He, Trotter, would certainly never to consent to such a thing, not to save his life...
But Falathor had already answered.
"Consider it done."
A/N: Finally, a new chapter! Falathor is a better spy than even I thought... but what will he do now? Can Trotter tell Anna the truth about her heritage? Time is running out, and the Witch-king is not a patient Ringwraith!
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