Part Twelve:

"Sir, there is a gentleman to see you."

To Mistress Tarmanil's intense relief, for she had already repeated the announcement three times, Master Gemthir raised his head and said, "Who is it?"

Her lips pressed together in firm disapproval, the Gondorian woman glanced back into the entryway. Her household keys swinging rapidly, she hastened to her employer's side and whispered, "One of those Swertings, sir. Shall I send him away?"

"By no means, madam." The tutor set aside the documents he had been studying and smoothed the sleeves of his robes. "Send him in and bring us some refreshment, please. An herbal tea would be appropriate and some of those excellent cinnamon cakes you served at the noon meal."

"But sir, he's ..."

When the tutor raised his eyebrows, she clamped her jaw shut tightly, gave a stiff nod and returned to the doorway. The sharpness of her "The master will see you now" would have left furrows of blood on a less worthy opponent. However, Ahmose of the House of Tharan, having faced many enemies in his long years and knowing well the desire of a loyal servant to protect the solitude of a scholarly master, merely touched his fingers to his forehead and bowed low before passing through the door the portly woman held open.

Taking the prescribed three steps into the room, the dark man bowed again and kept his eyes lowered in accordance with the customs of his country. In rhythmic, yet eloquent Westron, he said, "Gemthir son of Ralthir, I bring you greetings from my master, Karif, Phazgân of the House of Tharan. If it pleases you, I am called Ahmose."

Gravely polite, the Gondorian replied, "Ahmose of the House of Tharan, you are welcome. Your master is well respected in Minas Tirith."

The gold wires twisted amidst his black hair shone as Ahmose bowed low again, his full robes of deep red sweeping the floor. "My master is, as are you, sir, a scholar. He turns his thoughts to learning the lessons of the past in hope that a better future might be created."

"A worthy purpose," Gemthir said. "Will you be seated?"

"It is my honor, sir."

Allowing his curiosity about his surroundings to be seen, Ahmose lowered himself into the chair Master Gemthir indicated and ran his fingertips along the smoothly carved arms. Well made, yet worn with years as was the tapestry above the doorway. Sunlight sifted through pale curtains to reveal tall shelves bulging with bound books and tattered manuscripts. An ornate cabinet, specially designed to store rolled scrolls, stood open in the far corner of the room; its contents spilling out upon the floor. A smile flickered across the lined face at the thought that scholars did not differ a great deal, no matter what their country.

The rattle of cups heralded Mistress Tarmanil reappearance. Settling the silver tray upon the small table before Master Gemthir's chair, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room, eyes averted at all times from the visitor.

"I apologize for my housekeeper," the tutor said as the door closed rather more firmly than was necessary.

Ahmose lifted his hand in a brief gesture of denial. "Apologies are unnecessary; a loyal servant is a treasure beyond price."

"Loyalty does not excuse rudeness to a guest."

"Ah, but then she is female. Perhaps she is attempting to attract my attention." The small smile flashed again as if inviting Gemthir to join him in a private jest. "Surely, the women of Gondor are not so different from those of Harad."

Closing his eyes briefly at the thought of his housekeeper's reaction to such a suggestion, Gemthir said dryly, "No, I rather believe that women everywhere are much the same. Allow me to pour you some tea. Will you take a cinnamon cake?"

Accepting the steaming cup and a cake, the Southron waited until the other man had partaken of both food and drink before taking a delicate sip of the strong herbal tea. Nodding graciously, he said, "If you will pardon my haste, my master has directed me to discover the truth of information he has recently received."

"How might I be of assistance?"

"It has reached my master's ears that you are making inquiries concerning items found upon the field below." Ahmose glanced toward the window standing open to the warmth of the springtime air.

"Your master has heard correctly."

"Anticipating that the tales were true, my master has extended to me the privilege of examining the objects."

"To what purpose?"

At the tutor's sudden bluntness, Ahmose returned his cup to the table and placed his hands upon his knees palms up in sign that he held no weapon. "Forgive me, I do not understand."

"Sir, I have been entrusted with these objects by my clients for the express purpose of offering them for sale. It would be inappropriate for me to allow those who have no intention of purchasing to examine them without more reason than you have given me." Though polite in both tone and word, the tutor's voice held a touch of steel.

Ahmose blinked slowly. Defiance of the wishes of a phazgân of the Twenty Houses was a rare occurrence. One, however, must make allowance for the fact that the Gondorian did not realize his error.

Bowing his head respectfully, the Southron said, "It is my master's understanding that you seek to ascertain the meaning of various markings upon items you have been commissioned to sell. It is his intention to offer you assistance."

"Assistance? What manner of assistance?"

Raising a hand to touch his chest, Ahmose dipped his head deferentially. "Myself. I am familiar with many aspects of my master's studies."

Gemthir considered the man opposite him. There was an air of vitality about him that belied the seamed appearance of his face. What else was not as it appeared about his unexpected visitor? Karif of the House of Tharan was known as a scholar and a driving force behind the treaties recently made between Gondor and lands to the south, but never before had the phazgân indicated any interest in artifacts discovered upon the Pelennor Field. Among the Haradrim, if those who had died had done so in defeat, neither the bodies of the dead nor their armament were to be recovered.

Could the phazgân's sudden interest be why his attempts to decipher the markings upon the dagger had been met with polite silence? Yet, word had obviously spread about the blade's existence. Ahmose of Tharan was not the first to come knocking at his door this day. There had been two respectable dealers in antiquities and rare commodities, and others had also appeared whose reputations were not so well known.

"Forgive me if I seem unappreciative of Karif Phazgân's offer, but the interests of my clients must take precedence."

Muffled voices were heard from the entryway. The housekeeper's voice raised in protest as several younger, and rather insistent, speakers clamored for an audience with Master Gemthir.

"Pardon me," the tutor said ruefully, rising from his seat, "I believe Mistress Tarmanil has met her match with these visitors."

The corners of his eyes creasing with amusement, Ahmose murmured, "A situation one would not believe possible."

"Indeed," Gemthir agreed.

He opened the door to find not the three youth he had expected but all six of his young clients and their canine companions. Liberally streaked with dirt and excited almost beyond comprehension, they swarmed upon the tutor. Voices spilling over one another, the boys proclaimed a new discovery.

Mindful of Ahmose's presence, Gemthir raised his hands and attempted to halt the flood. "Gentlemen, let Tarmanil take you into the kitchen, and I will be with you momentarily."

"But Master, this is truly important," protested Estev.

"Yes, it's even better than that dagger," insisted a wild haired lad. Whom Gemthir guessed was Ferlan, as he resembled Farmer Harlan.

Estev retorted, "You're only saying that because you found it."

"Am not," argued the other boy. "You'll see. This is going to be worth even more. Show him, Shaymur."

"Boys, boys, I can not ..."

His words died as Shaymur held out a bronze armband. The coiled serpent of the noble houses of Harad gazed at him with fiery eyes. Along the edges were twisted iron and copper wire in a pattern instantly recognizable as matching the dagger now resting in a locked chest.

"Are they real rubies?" asked Ferlan eagerly.

"Yes, young masters, they are," was the soft reply of an unfamiliar voice.