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The sun had barely risen over the yardarm, but Captain Gaeradan could feel yet another crop of grey hair growing.
"I should like to go to the lower market, just for a little while before we leave," his charge, the young Heir to Dol Amroth said. "It is on the way to the ship."
"It is not the route suggested to us by the Lord Khaldun. And it will make us late. Besides, my lord prince, you've already shopped the upper markets."
"They were too much like Dol Amroth's." It was not quite a pout, Prince Imrahil's nature was too sunny for that, but it was close. "I want to find something gruesome and Haradric for Fin. Like a dried baby Mumak foot."
"The Lord of Umbar gifted your mother and your sister with many fine gifts. I'm sure they will suffice. And I doubt that your sister would appreciate a dried baby Mumak foot."
The Prince stopped in his tracks, causing Gaeradan's marines and his escort of Swan Knights to come to an untidy and sudden halt.
"Captain, I have been good!" he declared. "I have gone nowhere during this journey without the huge escort you insisted upon. I have drunk no more wine or liquor than the minimum hospitality requires, and taken none of the drugs I was offered. I paid court to Lord Khaldun's older daughter as was expected, even when she was obviously enamored of young Lord Husayn. And when Lord Khaldun's younger daughter slipped her skinny little eleven-year-old body naked into my bed so that she could compromise me and make me betroth her instead , you said I behaved just as I ought. I successfully and diplomatically fended off no less than three attempts to seduce and bugger me on the part of the court's lords, and four attempts on the part of the court's ladies to seduce and commit adultery with me. And I am now going shopping for a dried baby Mumak foot by way of reward."
Gaeradan, who had been Prince Adrahil's dear friend since boyhood, recognized all too well the obstinacy of Adrahil's wife, the Princess Olwen, as manifested in her son. With a sigh, he conceded the battle.
"Very well then, my lord. But let us not tarry long. My sailors long to see home again."
"As do I. This should not take long, captain. I'm sure there are all manner of interesting things there."
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The sun was barely over the rooftops, and already Andrahar was having a very bad day. He was old enough now that the slender boyishness most Haradric men preferred was filling out, so his career as a male prostitute was almost over. This meant that more and more he had to rely upon thievery as a means of survival. There were risks in either profession, and neither appealed to his sense of honor, but whoring was at least an exchange of goods and services rather than outright larceny. His dislike of theft caused him to do it as little as possible, and when he did, he chose the richest target he thought he could manage. Which was how he had come the night before to be fleeing over rooftops from the very competent bodyguards of a very wealthy man. He had succeeded in evading them with his spoils, but then had slipped upon a loose tile while climbing down from a rooftop, fallen instead and injured his foot, which had cracked against the edge of a stone water trough.
There was a bone broken within it, he was reasonably sure, perhaps more than one. And that was a calamity for a young man who had finally gotten the growth he needed to go ask for work in one of the mercenary companies. The regular army would not take a bastard who could name neither his house nor his father, but the foreign mercenaries were not so particular. And though he'd not held a sword in his hand for five years, such weapons not being permitted to the lowly, he'd kept in practice with his knives and felt confident his skills would return when he was given the chance to practice them once more.
But now he was injured and would be unable to seek such work, or indeed steal any more for a while. So the admittedly rich haul he'd gotten the night before would have to be stretched to serve him for some time to come, since there was no job he could do for the immediate future save that which could be done upon one's back. And he had resolved to be done with that in any event, except in the case of utmost desperation. Having pulled the whore's braids from his hair, he went about now with it simply bound back, and of a length appropriate for a common man of no rank or status.
This morning, after a night made sleepless by pain, Andrahar had paid the month's rent for his tiny room from the proceeds of his night's work, with extra thrown in so that the landlord's wife would cook for him for the next month. Then he had ventured forth in the light of day, which was not his usual habit, to hire a barber-surgeon to set and bind his foot, and to obtain herbs to make teas for the pain, and to speed the knitting of the bones. He'd bound it the best he could himself with an old head-scarf and forced his soft boot back on over the result, though it had made him dizzy and sick to do so. Once the surgeon had seen to the foot, his intention was to lie low for a month and stay off of it so that it would heal properly. He would become somewhat soft, but there was no help for that, and it was better than being permanently lamed. When the foot had healed, he would at last be able to seek honorable employment, something he'd been looking forward to ever since he'd achieved his freedom from slavery by killing a man who would have raped and tortured him.
Being an escaped slave was one of the reasons Andrahar did not go abroad much during the day, the other being that both of his means of earning money were better suited to the evening hours. And when he did go out, he made sure to keep to the poorer quarters of the city for the most part, that he might avoid possible encounters with anyone who would know him from his former life, for members of the khan of Bakshir's household did come to Umbar fairly often. These precautions had served him well for the two years he had been free, and might have served him again this day, save for a couple of coincidences. One was that Irrishdar son of Isulhar just happened to be passing through the lower markets on the way to the docks. A vessel that was one of his father's trading ventures had made port, and he was going to inspect the goods, accompanied by a sizeable escort to spare him the indignity of having contact with Umbar's poorest element.
Irrishdar was Andrahar's cousin, though he would have been gravely offended had someone pointed out the connection. His father was Andrahar's uncle by blood, but his mother had been one of the man's wives rather than a slave. He was his father's heir, and a man of some consequence in Bakshir, and very disinclined to let anyone forget it.
The other coincidence was that during Andrahar's most recent growth spurt, the one that had curtailed his career as a prostitute, he had lost softness in his face as well as his body, and the handsome, hawkish features he'd inherited from his father were far more obvious, as was his overall resemblance to the late khan of Bakshir. Not having regular access to a mirror, this was not something that he was aware of, nor was he someone who worried a great deal about appearances in any event. But it might have given him pause, and caused him to try to disguise himself in some way, had he known about it. As time had passed, he had in fact relaxed a bit, figuring not unreasonably that the possibility of being identified had decreased with the passage of time, that it was unlikely that anyone would see the slave boy in the face of the young man.
So he was startled when, leaning on a stick, he limped out of the apothecary with his purchases and an angry voice accosted him.
"YOU! SLAVE!" A cold thrill of fear ran through him, but he was careful to keep moving calmly as if he could not possibly be the person being addressed. The ruse did not work, however, and he soon found himself confronted and surrounded by Irrishdar's guards. He waited stolidly as Irrishdar himself approached, with the patient air of one of lowly caste at the disposal of one of higher estate.
"We had heard that you had escaped your master! Have you become so bold that you do not fear the retribution due you? You were always impertinent!"
Andrahar endeavored to look puzzled, and was careful to coarsen his speech. "Most excellent sir, this lowly one does not know of what you speak. I am a hostler. A thrice-accursed mule kicked me yesterday, and I seek medicines for my injured foot. Is there some way my unworthy self might be of service to you?"
Irrishdar was taken aback for a moment. Then, studying Andrahar's face once more, his own expression hardened. "Take off your shirt."
Andrahar bowed his head. "'Tis not seemly, my lord." Whereupon the Haradrim lord made a gesture and two of his guards seized Andrahar by the arms, pulling them out to the side. One of the guards, gripping his forearm, frowned and pulled the knife from the hidden wrist sheath there.
"My lord, he is armed." The other guard followed suit, and deprived him of his other knife. Irrishdar examined the blades, and smiled unpleasantly.
"A hostler you say? Who goes armed?"
Andrahar tried to look as guileless as possible. "A wise man goes armed in the streets of this city. It is a dangerous place."
A third guard came and searched Andrahar more thoroughly, in the process discovering the small throwing dagger in the boot on his uninjured foot. Irrishdar raised an eyebrow, and commanding the guard to kneel and seize Andrahar about the thighs, stepped forward himself and pulled up the worn linen shirt. There was a white, wealed burn scar beneath the left arm upon the upper ribs, where a slave tattoo was customarily placed.
"A peculiar place for a burn. One might almost think it was to obscure a slave mark."
"I was burned as a child, mighty lord." Which was a patent untruth. After he'd slain his would-be oppressor with a fireplace tong, Andrahar had thrust the implement into the flames, fanned them till it was red hot, and with a supreme act of will had seared the tattoo from his flesh. "I am not a slave."
Irrishdar stared at him for a long moment. "Perhaps not," he conceded. "Release him and return to him his weapons," he instructed the guards, who did so slowly, with disbelieving looks at their master. Andrahar quickly sheathed them once more in their accustomed places. The Haradrim lord retreated back behind his escort.
"My apologies for detaining you, hostler," Irrishdar said. Andrahar bowed, as was proper and required, though it made his skin crawl to do so. And rightly so, for when he was bent forward Irrishdar suddenly cried, "TAKE HIM!"
There were two guards upon him, and no time. Dropping the stick, left hand to right sheath, right to left, two knives snapped out barely in time to parry two scimitars. Andrahar ducked to his left, onto his good foot, right-hand knife scraping free with a screech and planted it into the side of the guard's neck. As the man fell, he intended to spin back around and parry the other guard's second swing, but his injury slowed him too much. The other guard slipped past his blade and deliberately stomped a booted foot down upon his injured one.
Pain exploded whitely behind Andrahar's eyes, and he screamed, dropping to the ground helplessly, sobbing and retching upon the cobbles of the market place. Eyes blinded by tears of agony, he felt hands seize him once more, removing his weapons again, but he could do nothing to resist them. They endeavored to haul him to his feet, but he was doubled over and could put no weight upon the injured leg, so he ended by hanging in the grip of two guards. Irrishdar stepped forward once more, glanced at the gurgling, dying guard impassively, then hauled Andrahar's head up by the hair. He regarded the former slave's tear-stained face with some satisfaction.
"I knew it was you, Andrahar. Who would have thought you could have survived so long upon your own?"
"Who would have thought you could have acquired some wit in your old age, cousin?" Andrahar spat back, for his life was forfeit now and there was no need to prevaricate any longer. Irrishdar backhanded him across the face with a pleasant smile, once, twice, thrice.
"Impertinence. Uncle always indulged you, 'tis why you never learned your place. And Ulantoris was overly kind as well, or you would not have endeavored to escape. Perhaps I should return you to him. You are not what you once were, but you've reached Second Maturity, and the Khandians can always use more eunuchs." He reached a hand down between Andrahar's legs, seized and squeezed. Andrahar, beginning to recover himself, let out a soft groan, but nothing else. His black eyes were filled with impotent fury. Noting this, Irrishdar took another look at his now dead guard and shook his head with mock regret.
"No, perhaps that would not be a good idea. The man is an ally of our house after all, and I deem you entirely too dangerous to return to him. I should not like harm to befall him. T'would be best to kill you instead. Slowly, of course. Bind his hands behind his back," he directed the guards. "The thousand cuts, I think, is what is called for here."
Grinning, the guards pulled his hands behind his back, and a couple of them sacrificed turban cords to bind him. Andrahar struggled, but it was a futile endeavor--they were too many and too strong. He contemplated the next, last, excruciatingly painful hour of his life and decided that the morning was not going at all well.
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Things had not improved much for Captain Gaeradan either. The young prince strolled slowly through the marketplace with a complete disregard for tides or military schedules. He was not having any luck finding a dried baby Mumak foot, but there were plenty of other sights, sounds and smells to beguile him. Tossing a silver to a snake charmer who had intrigued him started what would have been a veritable flood of beggars, but they were repelled by the prompt interposing of blue and silver bodies between them and the prince.
"Don't do that again, Imrahil!" Gaeradan growled. "You're just asking for trouble." The Heir looked at the captain, noted the lack of honorific, decided that he was perhaps being a little too provoking, and gave the captain a beatific smile.
"Very well, Captain." Then he sniffed appreciatively. A nearby stall was selling little skewers of some sort of meat and vegetables. "Those smell good! What are they?"
"The Valar only know. Cat, dog or rat, most likely. Though they'll claim it's chicken." But if the captain had hoped to dissuade his royal charge, it did not work.
"Really? I've never had cat or dog or rat before." Imrahil started towards the stall, only to be halted by the captain's upraised hand.
"No, my lord prince. 'Tis not a cleanly kitchen. Eat that, and your bowels will run out your backside." The crudity of the image caught the young prince's attention as a more reasoned argument might not have.
"Oh. Well. After having to be so careful about the water, I suppose it would be foolish to invite trouble." He turned away from the stall with a last regretful sniff, and Gaeradan took the opportunity to hasten him past the next section of stalls, hoping to forestall further difficulty. Instead, he unwittingly ushered him right into it.
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The day was beginning to heat up. In a couple of hours, the marketplace would shut down until the late afternoon, when it would become cool enough again to come out and shop. But for now, there were plenty of gawkers to gather about the space in the center of the market place where nine men with scimitars surrounded one young man with his hands bound behind his back. Irrishdar, deprived of his usual protection because all of his guards were in the circle, was nonetheless at the center of small clear space of his own at the side of the circle. Respect was being given him both for his birth and as the architect of this morning's entertainment.
"I am Irrishdar, first-born son of Isulhar of Bakshir," he announced to the crowd. "This man is a slave born of my house and sold to an ally. He escaped from our friend, and has gone renegade. See where he slew one of my guards! For his escape and many other crimes, I have declared that he should die by the thousand cuts." This announcement having satisfied the legalities as far as the laws of Harad were concerned, Irrishdar indicated that the guards should begin. A roar went up from the crowd.
A scimitar snaked out, and kissed the back of Andrahar's upper arm, causing little more than a scratch, whilst another did the same to his thigh. Someone in the crowd began to count, and others took up the tally. The thousand cuts was a long and painful way to die, the length and duration depending upon the skill of the swordsmen, the strength of the victim, and the patience of the executioner. The cuts, mere scratches at first to non-vital areas, would in time become deeper and more serious wounds. It was considered the height of artistry for the victim to survive until the very final slash was delivered, but in actuality this did not often happen, save at the court of the Kha-khan himself, who had master swordsmen and practitioners of torture, and the leisure to see such things properly through to the end.
But even with a more abbreviated form of the method, Andrahar's death was a given, and the only thing left to him was the manner in which he would go about it. Victims often tried to throw themselves upon a blade to end the torture, but it usually did not work. The swordsmen expected such actions, and were ready for them. And his foot slowed him too much to make that practical in any event, or to attempt to dodge between two of the swordsmen and escape. In fact, for the moment, he made no move to evade the weapons at all, simply standing in the center of the circle, enduring the slashes, barely dotting his broken foot onto the cobbles as he plotted his best course of action.
For he still had one last weapon left, that had not been discovered by any of the guards. Another slender throwing blade, slimmer even than the one in his boot, lay bound into the back of his thick black hair. It might as well be across the market or even the sea for all the good it was to him at the moment, but he was thinking that if he could summon the strength to dodge backwards the wrong way at just the right moment, one of the scimitars might sever part of the bindings about his wrists. It was a risky move, for his hand or arm or fingers might be severed as well, but he had little to lose at this point. If he could free his hands and one was still functional, then it was his intention to use his hold-out weapon for one last act of defiance. He was going to die, but he was determined to take Irrishdar with him. Another benefit of his plan was that more likely than not, if their lord was slain, the guards would give up on artistry and see that his own death followed swiftly after.
This decided, he began to move slowly and dodge a bit, to make them work for his death, awaiting his chance to move and die as something other than a shredded, mutilated, mewling travesty of a man.
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Gaeradan had hurried the prince into the next part of the market, only to stop in dismay at the spectacle before him; the crowd chanting the count, the blood-spattered young man in the center of the circle. Turning away immediately, he gripped Imrahil's upper arm and began to urge him back the way he had come.
"Come, my lord, this is none of our affair." But Imrahil stiffened, dug his heels in and refused to move. His eyes flickered over the scene and his face paled.
"What goes on here?" he murmured, distressed.
"Nothing we can do anything about. Come away, my lord prince!"
Taller already at sixteen than most of the Haradrim between himself and the circle, Imrahil could see clearly the young man in the center. He looked to be no older than Imrahil, his clothes of no particular quality, one foot obviously badly injured. Moved by his plight, the young prince started forward, only to find the captain a large, immovable object clamped onto his arm.
"NO, my lord! We know nothing of what goes on here! The punishment is probably deserved and it is a custom of these people. You risk a riot if you intervene!"
The normally cheerful prince's eyes became grey ice, his voice chill as a northern storm.
"Captain. Take your hands offof me!" Hearing the note in the prince's voice, two of the Swan Knights stepped forward. One of them, the commander of the detachment, Valandil by name, laid a hand upon the captain's shoulder.
"Let us handle this, captain," he said respectfully; then, turning to the prince, asked, "What is your will, my lord?"
"To get closer." Captain Gaeradan stepped back, affront plain upon his face.
"Your father will hear of this, my lord prince," he warned.
"Of that I have no doubt," Imrahil replied absently, intent upon his destination, his Swan Knights closing up around him. When they had done so, he moved swiftly towards the edge of the ring. The crowd parted easily before the armed men, and it took but a few moments to achieve his desired vantage point.
The count had just reached twenty, and it was easy enough to discern that the crowd was numbering the sword slashes inflicted upon the young man, who even with an injured foot was managing to avoid some of the blows.
"Swift of foot, even with only one of them working," Valandil commented, watching the action.
"What is wrong with it, do you think?" Imrahil asked.
"Very badly sprained, or broken. I suspect broken from the way he's carrying it. It's a miracle he can even stand. He's had some arms training, I can tell you that from the way he moves." As they were speaking, three more slashes had found their mark. The young man's shirt was beginning to look quite shredded, and small bloody patches were growing upon it.
"A slave with arms training?"
"He may have been being groomed to be a bodyguard of some sort," the Swan Knight speculated.
Imrahil watched, body taut with sympathy for the boy. Awkwardly but successfully dodging blades coming in from both sides, he turned in the prince's direction, and his eyes met Imrahil's for a moment. Black eyes, dark as coal or shadow or despair. The prince sucked in a quick breath at the intensity of that gaze.Yet there was no despair on the boy's handsome face, or fear for that matter, only determination. Even now, outnumbered and helpless, he had not given up.
And when Imrahil saw that, his heart was moved, and he decided in an instant that he could not let such courage perish in so base and unfair a fashion. He looked at the Swan Knight with a rueful smile. "I apologize in advance, my lord Valandil. Ifear I am about to intervene and cause a riot. Stand ready."
Valandil, his face grim as he watched, nodded. "I understand, my lord. Completely."
And as Captain Gaeradan and his marines looked on in horror, the Heir to Dol Amroth lifted his head and shouted, "HOLD!"
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Things were not so bad yet, but Andrahar knew they were just beginning. The slashes stung and burned when he moved, and he was sweating now, so that made them sting even worse. The pain in his foot was both sickening and frustrating--he knew what he was capable of when he was well, and he kept trying to move as if he were, only to be brought up short by the pain.
The gleeful smiles upon the faces of his tormentors, and the crowd's joyous numbering of his injuries were no more than he expected, in the last act of a short life which had never known friends or love outside that given by his late parents. The mob thirsted for his blood, and when they had had their fill of it, his body would be tossed upon the refuse heap for the dogs to eat, even as his mother's had been. There would be no one to mourn or remember him. He tried to set these thoughts aside, to keep his mind clear so that he could make the last decision left to him, the timing of his attempt to free himself and kill Irrishdar. But it was hard, for in the end he was truly little more than a boy, weary of the cruelty that had been his lot to endure and certainly not ready to die.
Two of the swordsmen made simultaneous moves, and he barely avoided them both, having to spin awkwardly to do so. And then, amidst the howling spectators, he saw something inexplicable, something that had not been there before. A pairiki he thought it must be at first, the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, white-skinned save for where the fierce sun had kissed a blush onto high-boned cheeks. Then he realized that the lad was one of the Gondorrim and of high degree, judging from the richness of his garments. Night-black hair fell about his shoulders, and eyes grey as rain met Andrahar's. There was a shock, as if the two of them had physically touched, and the Gondorrim'seyes widened for a moment. To the former slave's amazement, there was sympathy in the gaze of he who should have been Andrahar's enemy.
Like some sort of beautiful messenger of death the boy seemed to Andrahar. So what he did next was totally inexplicable. On a morning when the boy-whore could find no friend among his countrymen, it was a lord of Gondor who commanded that the execution should halt.
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The swordsmen, confused, did stop but looked over to someone on the other side of the circle for direction. There was a bit of muttering from the crowd, and the prince could hear Captain Gaeradan softly cursing. Having learned a bit about how things were done in Harad, and being reasonably sure that he was the ranking party (for unless the Lord of Umbar, the kha-khan himself or one of the other khans was involved, he was), Imrahil waited with an expression of patient hauteur, one hand hooked in his belt, the other studying his rings.
A Haradric lord moved around the perimeter of the circle to confront him, a young man in his early twenties, whose anger at the interruption was quickly throttled back when he saw the Swan Knights and who it was that he was confronting.
"Irrishdar, first-born of Isulhar of Bakshir," he introduced himself.
"Imrahil, first-born of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," the young prince said pleasantly. There was a delicate emphasis upon the word prince, so that Irrishdar would know that he claimed precedence.
The son of Isulhar took the hint. "How may I serve you, worthy one?"
The Heir gestured towards the circle and the bloodstained young man who stood in the middle, catching his breath. "What is this?" he asked in a tone of polite interest. "Some sort of public amusement? I have not seen the like during my visit."
"This? This is an execution, my lord prince. The man is a slave, formerly of my uncle's house, sold to an ally. He escaped two years ago. Such a crime is punishable by death. I discovered him this morning, whereupon he endeavored to escape again and in the attempt, killed one of my guards. So I told his crimes to the crowd, and am executing him with the thousand cuts."
"What is that?"
"My men are skilled swordsmen. They will slash him with small wounds until he dies. It is a interesting spectacle, when done by able men."
"It seems as if it would take a long time."
"With respect, worthy one, that is the very point of the method."
"Ah. I see." Imrahil studied Andrahar for a moment. "Satisfy my curiosity about one other small matter, if you would, my lord Irrishdar. How is it that a mere slave was able to slay one of your highly trained guards?"
Irrishdar grimaced. "He was trained in arms as a young lad by his…master, for he had a gift for such things."
The prince's eyebrow arched delicately. He was aware of the captain watching him, and Valandil and the other Swan Knights scanning the crowd for trouble. "How extraordinary. I thank you for satisfying my curiosity about the matter." He looked Irrishdar up and down for a moment, studying him. "Allow me to express my appreciation with a small gift." And he pulled the richest of his rings from his finger, a band of gold with diamonds and a sizeable sapphire, and presented it to the Haradrim lord.
Captain Gaeradan's eyebrows flew up in surprise. The young prince had apparently been paying attention during the endless presentations at court after all, it seemed. There could be a degree of calculated cruelty in the giving of gifts by the high-born. When one above your station condescended to present you with a gift, you were supposed to swiftly reciprocate in kind, or lose face. And Irrishdar, while richly clothed, had nothing upon him that was the equivalent of what Imrahil had just given him, which Imrahil knew well.
The Haradrim lord accepted the ring with the same enthusiasm he might have shown upon being handed an asp. "My lord is generous. I have nothing to match such munificence at present, but if my lord would accompany me to my quarters here in the city…"
Imrahil turned limpid eyes upon him. "'Tis not necessary, worthy son of Isulhar. You have something that interests me. Give me the slave, and I will consider that a princely gift indeed."
"The slave? He is a renegade, my lord prince, a condemned man. He is hardly worthy of your notice."
"On the contrary. You have no idea of the difficulty involved in getting appropriate subjects for my Swan Knights to practice upon." Behind the prince, Valandil cleared his throat. "Pirates are disappointing as a rule, they have few true swordsmanship skills. If he has been trained as you said, I dare say he will last longer than the pirates do. I consider him a most satisfactory gift."
The boy is cannier than I thought, Captain Gaeradan reflected, as Irrishdar surrendered to the inevitable, gave the necessary orders, and had his men drag the slave forward. Had he sought to buy the slave, the Haradrim would have been sorely offended. But by gifting Irrishdar, he left him with no other choice.
The crowd, being deprived of their morning amusement, muttered angrily. Irrishdar rounded on them. "Be silent, you curs! The noble prince takes this one to torment in the land of the Gondorrim, where he will suffer beyond any imagining." That, as well as the presence of two sets of armed guards who would not tolerate any trouble seemed to impress them, for they began to disperse back to their morning tasks. The Haradrim lord, having reflected upon Andrahar's eventual fate and the value of the ring, seemed reasonably pleased as well. He bowed to Imrahil.
"I regret that business calls me away, my lord prince, but it was a pleasure meeting you."
The Heir to Dol Amroth inclined his head graciously. "And you, my lord Irrishdar. I will not forget your generosity when I send my thanks to the Lord of Umbar for my very pleasant visit." He turned to Gaeradan. "Captain, have a couple of your marines carry the slave--he cannot walk, and we have a ship to catch."
"Finally remembered that, did you, my lord?" Captain Gaeradan muttered, but ordered the men forward. Andrahar was picked up much like a rolled carpet, with one man holding him about the knees and the other about the shoulders. Whereupon the Heir of Dol Amroth processed grandly from the lower market, having successfully shopped for his Haradric souvenir.
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Andrahar was a bit overwhelmed at having cheated death, at least for the moment, and offered no resistance. Whatever the prince intended to do to him would not be done immediately, so he took the opportunity to rest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the pain of his more minor injuries as well as that which jolted through his foot at every step the marines took. The foot was swelling within his boot, he could feel the constriction and knew that he would have to get both boot and bindings off soon. But there was nothing he could do about that at present, so he tried to calm himself, control his breathing and ride out the pain. And listen to his new captors, who were unaware that he spoke fluent Westron.
"And what exactly am I supposed to tell your father, my lord?" Captain Gaeradan was growling, as they made their way towards the docks. "He put you in my charge for this journey, and will blame this upon me."
"You do not have to tell my father anything, captain. I will inform him that it was my responsibility."
"That ring you gave Irrishdar was worth--"
"--the price of a man's life, don't you think?" Imrahil interjected. "Again, my responsibility. I think Father will understand."
"Understand what? That you risked your person and that of your party to rescue some Haradrim criminal?"
"He is a slave who did not want to be a slave. Hardly a crime."
"We do not know what other crimes he may have committed. But in any event, what are you going to do with him? Simply set him loose in Dol Amroth? How will he get along, not speaking any of our tongue? He is your responsibility now as well, my lord prince."
"I am familiar with the old adage, captain, and I will see that he is taken care of."
"How?"
"With all due respect, sir, that is my problem, and not yours."
"We could always use him for a pell," came Valandil's dry comment. "Wasn't that what you told Lord Irrishdar? That we bloodthirsty Swan Knights run through Haradrim pirates more quickly than you can catch them?"
"I told Irrishdar what I thought he wanted to hear. That was theater, lord Valandil. And I did apologize to you in advance."
"You apologized for the potential riot. Not for slandering the Swan Knights."
"I start my esquire training upon our return, Valandil. You can take it out of my hide then."
"Fair enough, my lord."
Andrahar, listening to all of this, suddenly realized that he was not going to be used to blood fledgling Swan Knights; that whatever his fate might be, death was not going to be a part of it. The knowledge went a long way towards enabling him to relax.
Captain Gaeradan subsided, muttering, and no more was said until the party reached the ship and boarded. Then the prince turned towards where the marines were setting Andrahar down, and followed by Valandil and another of the Knights, moved to his side. Kneeling, Imrahil carefully severed his bonds with a belt knife, then laid a gentle hand upon the Haradrim's shoulder, and spoke to him in his native tongue.
"Do not try to get up by yourself. I will help you."
But Andrahar did not seek to get up, for honor demanded otherwise. Rolling onto his belly and seizing the prince's hand, he kissed it, then pressed his forehead to the planks. His injured foot was cocked up so that it would not touch the deck.
"My apologies, most worthy one, that I cannot properly prostrate myself," he said in flawless Westron. Gaeradan and the Swan Knights exchanged surprised glances. "A life lies between us. Until I redeem that debt or death take me, I am your man."
Imrahil squeezed his hand in return, and looked up at Gaeradan with a smile. "There. You see, captain? The problem is solved already. He is my man."
8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8
Andrahar awoke to a rocking sensation. It took him a few moments to remember that he was on a ship bound for Gondor, and that he had oath-bound himself to a prince of that land. He found himself in a bed that was built into a cupboard in the hull of the ship, narrow, but well-padded. His broken foot rested upon a pillow, and though it ached dully was not overly painful. It had been swathed in some sort of stiffened wrappings to hold it immobile.
Pale grey light could be seen through the cabin's leaded window. He remembered the previous day, when he had been helped to bathe, his minor injuries tended by the surgeon accompanying the prince, and clothed in one of the prince's extra nightshirts. Food had been offered him, then later that evening the surgeon, a Master Kendrion by name, had returned and dosed him with poppy so that the foot might be set. The prince had stayed at his side as he had fallen asleep, and his concerned grey eyes were the last thing Andrahar remembered.
He looked slowly about for his benefactor, and after a moment saw a hammock slung close to the opposite wall. A tall, lanky figure lay within it, a rumpled blanket over his face. A breeches-clad lower leg and bare foot dangled over the edge of the hammock., from which came a sound of gentle snoring.
Bemusedly, the Haradrim contemplated the spectacle of a prince who would give up his best bed to a street-rat. The Gondorrim were obviously even stranger than he'd always heard.
As if sensing his regard, the prince stirred, yawned, squirmed a little, tried to pull the leg back up, then tried to turn over. The whole hammock turned over instead, and the Heir to Dol Amroth tumbled out onto the floor with an "oof!".
Andrahar quickly stifled the laugh he felt welling up in him. It would not do to express humor at the sight of his lord falling in such a manner. And he was a bit surprised at himself, for it had been a long time since he had felt the urge to laugh at all.
Whispered curses issued forth from the royal lips, and a decidedly bleary pair of grey eyes looked up and met his.
"Is it even morning yet?"
"It is just before dawn, my lord." The prince sat up, scrubbed at his face with his hands, and regarded the tangled hammock balefully.
"That looked like it was going to be easier than it turned out to be."
"T'was my place to sleep there, my lord. Or upon the floor."
"You cannot afford to take a fall like that at present. And no one sleeps on the floor in my presence."
"I apologize, my lord, if I have offended against one of your customs. It will take me some time to become accustomed to your peoples' ways."
"You're doing well enough so far. You speak our language very well."
Andrahar bowed his head. "I was a slave in a noble house. Such was the custom there." He looked up again after a moment and met the prince's gaze directly. "There are things that you should know, my lord. I was a pleasure slave after I was sold out of my original home, and after I escaped, I continued to sell my body for the money I needed to survive. . I have also been a thief. I did not wish to do either, but I had always been small for my age and my fugitive status made regular employment impossible. It is only the last few months that I finally grew enough that I could seek honorable employment in a mercenary company. If you do not wish to accept my service, knowing these things about me, then I will understand. You may cast me adrift in the world, or slay me if that is your wish." He looked out the stern window for a moment. "If I might be so bold as to presume…if you do decide to slay me, I would prefer it be with a sword. I should not like to drown."
Imrahil got to his feet, and sauntered over, bending his head a bit to keep from hitting it upon the low ceiling of the cabin, but adjusting easily to the movement of the ship. He settled himself carefully upon the edge of Andrahar's bed, so as to avoid jarring the foot.
"Goodness, what a morose fellow you are! Is it your intention to break your oath to me?"
"No, my lord!" ire flashed in the black eyes for a moment before being quickly suppressed once more. The young prince chuckled.
"Then why would I wish to slay you?"
"How can you believe the word of a slave? I have no honor!"
"Where I come from, there are no slaves, and anyone can have honor. They make it for themselves. Besides, from what little I've seen, you made a very poor slave. You may as well try your luck as a free man--perhaps you'll do better."
"I am not a free man, my lord. I am your man."
Imrahil's brow furrowed at that. "It is hardly my intention to treat you as a slave! Not ever having had a sworn man of my own before, I would like to think it would be a condition that was an improvement upon slavery!" He gave Andrahar a sincere look. "Though I will warn you--those who know me best say that I have a very impulsive nature."
Andrahar stared up at the young man who had saved his life, seen to his wounds, fed and clothed him and given him his very own bed, and wondered if he dared say what was on his mind. He would not have among his own folk, but this Gondorrim lord was definitely nothing like the nobles of his own people. He decided to risk it.
"From my point of view, my lord, your impulsive nature is one of your more attractive qualities."
Imrahil stared at him for so long that Andrahar began to wonder if he had made a dreadful mistake. Then a huge grin broke over the prince's face like sunrise, and he threw back his head and laughed long and merrily.
"Oh! You do have a sense of humor! I am so very glad, because you are going to need it!" He rose to his feet again. "I will go see if breakfast is ready. Do you need the chamber pot?"
Andrahar stared at him, appalled. "That is not for you to do, my lord!"
"If you wait on Master Kendrion, you'll be waiting a while yet-he is not so young as he used to be." Seeing the Haradrim's disapproving look, the prince laughed again.
"Very well then. On your head be it…" As the glower continued, Imrahil shook a finger at him. "Cheer up," he chided. "All will be well. You'll see." And he departed, leaving Andrahar to watch the dawn of his new life through the window.
This morning, the former slave reflected to himself, looks to be getting off to a better start than the last one!