Miserable, furious, confused, Calla sat on a bench in a hallway flanked by two impassive guards. So far she'd been asked about her parents, her living arrangements, how long she'd been in business, who her previous clients had been, who her regular suppliers were, and whether she had got herself into some kind of financial trouble, but she had not yet been told exactly why all this was happening. How long had it been? Two hours? Three? At least she hadn't been put in a prison cell. Yet, anyway.
The door opened and Calla looked up. An older man whom she had not yet seen looked out and motioned for her to come in. Calla got up and did as she was told, entering an office, accompanied by the guards. The man went and sat at a chair behind the large desk towards the back of the room, looked at her and gestured towards the chair that faced it. Calla sat and waited. The man looked at her for a moment before sighing and pushing something—a bit of paper—towards her on the desk.
"Is this the receipt you gave to the seamstress Nadial for your reimbursement?" Calla leaned forward and picked up the paper.
"Yes—well, no." The man raised an eyebrow and frowned. "I mean this is the right receipt, the one he wrote and signed, but it's been changed. He wrote me a receipt for twelve gold and thirteen silver coins, and this is for one hundred and twelve gold coins."
"Quite."
"And you think I changed it? But I—I didn't! I wouldn't! I—I'm an honest person, I really am, just ask anyone. And besides, if I'd done this I'd have an extra hundred gold coins and I don't. I got back just exactly what I spent, just twelve gold and thirteen silver."
"Oh? So you just handed in the receipt exactly the way you got it and picked up just the amount the merchant wrote it for? What happened to the extra hundred gold, do you think?"
"I don't know. I don't. All I know is that I picked up twelve gold and thirteen silver coins just like I was expecting to." Calla gripped the edges of her chair and tried not to squirm. It was obvious to her that this man was deeply skeptical of everything she said, but how on earth was she to convince him? "There must have been some kind of a mistake, or…" She trailed off, feebly.
"And what about this merchant you went to—he's missing some very valuable gold thread, think that's a mistake to?"
"What? I don't know anything about that!"
"Really? Why don't you tell me what you did at his stall yesterday."
"All right." Calla took a deep breath. "There was a crowd when I got there and the merchant and his two assistants were busy, so I stood about for a bit and admired a few things—some of their bolts of cloth that were on display. And then one of the assistants came over to help me. I told him how I was employed and that I'd heard that they had some silk embroidery thread that my partner, Shiriel, would want to use later on. He showed it to me, and—well, he did show me some gold thread as well, but I didn't think we needed it, so I said I'd just have the white silk. Then the merchant came over to haggle with me, and when we agreed on a price I paid him and he wrote the receipt and the assistant packed up the thread for me. And… and that's all."
She wasn't entirely sure why she still wasn't mentioning that the assistant had been one of the Haradrim in disguise. But if the burning, shameful sensation that gripped her when she opened her mouth to tell him was anything to go on, it was because she knew that she wasn't interested in telling him for the benefit and safety of Gondor, but only to save her skin. In her mind, she listened to herself disclosing his secret (tattling, snitching; the words sounded in her ears before she could stop them) and she could not rid herself of the feeling that it would be a cowardly, whining thing to do. The man's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"So if we were to search your house, we wouldn't find this gold thread or the extra money, is that right?"
"Yes, it is. Please, do go search it."
The man looked up at one of the guards and nodded to him. The guard left the room and the man wrote something down, then stood, paced around the room for a minute or two, and then stopped by a window and looked out. Calla sat nervously in her chair, not sure what she was meant to do. She was very tired and very wrought-up and very close to tears. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed and maybe fish her old rag-doll out from the bottom of her trunk and curl up for ever and ever. And then she wanted to wake up and find this was all a bad dream. Or else know who was responsible for all this. A rejuvenating wave of anger flowed through her. She hadn't done anything wrong and she loathed being bullied. She was damned if she was going to so much as sniff in front of this man. Justly or not, Calla convinced herself that he had deliberately kept her waiting in the dark all those hours just to see if she would crack. Well, he'd just have to be disappointed, wouldn't he? Calla sat up a little straighter. What was all this waiting meant to do? Intimidate her? Not likely.
"They'll have reached your house by now." The man returned to the desk and looked at her with his piercing grey eyes. Calla looked straight back, coolly. "Don't you think it would be better to be honest? Things might go easier for you if you confess."
"I have nothing to confess to. I have not lied, and I have not stolen. They won't find anything at my house." The man shrugged and settled back in his chair. Calla suddenly became aware of how uncomfortable her own was. She wanted to shift or get up and stretch a bit, only she was worried that he might think it looked like she was uneasy. She wished she had a book or something she could fiddle with casually. She wasn't sure where to put her hands or where to look. The minutes seeped by in agonizing sluggishness. Somewhere outside a dog barked. The man behind the desk tapped his fingers together and watched her through half-closed eyes. Calla clenched her fists and tried not to go insane.
At last there was a clatter of approaching feet in the passage outside, and then a knock at the door.
"Come in," called the man. Two guards entered the room and walked up to the desk.
"We found these underneath the woodpile in the kitchen. They looked as though they'd been stuffed there in a hurry." One of the guards dropped a leather purse and a bundle of cloth on the desk and stood back. The man leaned forward and opened the drawstring purse, pouring a pile of gold coins onto the desk. Slowly and deliberately, he counted them out into piles of ten. There were, of course, a hundred. Then he picked up the bundle of cloth and unwrapped it to reveal a spool of shining gold thread. He looked at Calla.
Her heart had sunk within her. If he had doubted her before then she was lost now. She looked back at him bleakly.
"I know you won't believe me, but I really have no idea how those things got there. I didn't steal them. I don't understand what's going on, but I didn't take those things." The man just gave her a sort of tired frown and nodded at the guards.
Calla found herself marched briskly along hallways by two guards, each of whom kept a tight hold of her arms. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. She was not about to be locked away for theft. For how long? What happened next? This could not be happening. She didn't quite believe it, not even when then heavy oak door grated along the stone floor and clanged heavily, solidly to behind her. Not even when the jailor wrote down her details on a plaque and slid it into the iron slot on the outside of a cell. Not even when she stepped inside and the doors were slammed behind her and she heard the great key turn in the lock. Not even when she looked out through the little barred window and felt the cold iron in her hands.
Not until she stood in the middle of her cell with nothing left but silence did it sink in. There was a narrow wooden pallet with a worn blanket on it sticking out of one of the walls and a chamber pot, and that was all. Calla went and sat on the wooden bed, wrapping the blanket tightly around her shoulders. It was cold in here, and she hated the cold. Would it be cold all year? Oh, Valar! All year! She was shaking now, and she wanted to cry, but all her tears seemed to have dried up. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them as her mind began to race.
How had all of this happened? It must have been a mix-up, a mistake, only if that were true, how did those things end up in her house? And what about Shiriel? Was she all right? Would they see each other again? Would they let her have visitors? How long would they keep her locked up, anyway? What was the sentence for theft and embezzlement? She wasn't going to see Shiriel's wedding, she wouldn't be there to see her friend in her lovely white dress and her face all wreathed with smiles. There would be no last, warm squeeze of her hand before Cadfael took her away to be his wife, and no friendly chatter, no hearing Shiriel's happiness and pride of being mistress of her own house as she set things in order and got them just so. And when summer came, she wouldn't be outside to see it. There would be wild roses climbing up the wall of her house and she wouldn't see their buds in the morning, or smell them when they first opened. The Pelennor fields would be redder with poppies than they had been with blood, and the wide-open blue sky, free for the first time in memory from the black blot of Mordor—who knew how long before she would see it again?
And… and Legolas. He would be there tomorrow—or was it today?—to see her. He would come in, as strong and golden and merry and as the sun itself, and she wouldn't be there. And then Chanda would tell him—and maybe smirk while she did it—that she was in prison for being a thief, and he would go away disgusted by her and never think of her again, unless maybe it was to condemn her memory.
Chanda… Calla's hands tightened. Chanda had stayed late the day Calla had left the receipt. Calla had been there early in the morning. Could it be? No, surely. Unpleasent, yes, but criminal? Surely, surely not. That would be too appalling. It must be a mistake. But it wasn't a mistake. Those things hadn't grown legs and walked into her kitchen. That altered receipt hadn't been carelessly smudged. And somebody had to have taken the extra money before she, Calla, got to it and realized there was too much. Calla's head spun. She jumped up off the pallet and flew to the door, peering out through the bars. A torch flickered dimly on an empty chair. Would someone be there tonight? In the morning? Calla shivered. She wrapped the blanket around herself and began to pace.
For Calla it was the longest, most wretched night she had ever known. At one time she lay down and tried to rest but sleep, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with her. Through most of the night she walked restlessly back and forth between the little barred window and the back wall of the cell. Morning seemed years away, and the chance to tell someone—anyone—of the idea she had had. Not, she thought bitterly, that that meant anything. If Chanda was responsible for all this, then she had gone as far as taking the stolen things to Calla's house and planting them there, and it would be difficult to prove otherwise. If she was even right. Calla continued to shake. It must have been getting towards morning when she huddled on her pallet and fell into a half-wakeful stupor.
When the outer door clanged and scraped open she gave such a jump she nearly fell to the floor. She scrambled up and moved over to the door of the cell. There were voices outside as the guards shoved at the door, and then an exclamation that sounded like 'Oi!' and a slim figure darted into the prison ahead of the guards and Calla gave a little gasping sob as Shiriel rushed towards her. Calla clutched the bars of the window and Shiriel held her fingers and kissed them and cried.
"Oh, Calla, Calla, my darling, don't worry, we'll have you out in another moment, don't worry, it's all all right now, I promise. They're going to let you out, my sweet, so just don't worry about a thing, I'll take good care of you."
"Let me out—what do you mean? Did they catch her?"
"Yes, darling, they did, here, I'm going to stand back now so that he can unlock you. Oh, my poor sweet Calla!" Shiriel fell back against the wall, and a guard came up and turned the key in the lock and the door swung open. Calla stumbled out into Shiriel's arms. Shiriel wrapped her in a cloak and put her arm around her waist.
"Come on, darling, come with me and we'll get you a nice hot bath and some breakfast and you can have a nice nap, and when you wake up, it'll be like this was all just a wretched, awful dream, I promise… Do you mind that we go to the inn instead of home? The house is a bit of—of a mess at the moment, and at the inn they'll do everything for you, and also there's someone there that you probably ought to meet, when you're feeling up to it…"
Calla nodded numbly and followed Shiriel out into the daylight, squinting. Her surprise was wearing off, and she was beginning to realize that she was cold, and hungry, and greasy and exhausted. A bath sounded wonderful. As for where they went, she didn't really care. She concentrated on Shiriel's soothing chatter—something about a hot cup of mulled wine-- as she moved dazedly through the streets. When they got to the inn Shiriel left her propped up against a doorframe, ordered a room and a bath, and told the innkeeper they'd want breakfast afterwards. Her friend had had a nasty shock and needed a little looking after. The innkeeper, a heavyish old man with a wooden leg and an avuncular air, looked at her kindly and told a maid to show them to a room.
It was not until Calla was relaxing in the bath—a great wooden tub had been hauled into the room and filled with steaming water—while Shiriel combed her hair that she began to feel herself again. The world, which had been moving in a dizzying swirl around her, began to stablize again. She took a deep shaky breath.
"Shiriel, what in Arda happened while I was in there? How did they catch her? Last I knew my house had been searched and a purse full of money and a spool of gold thread were found in the woodpile. Then I got shoved into cell, and the next thing, you're there and I'm being released. I feel as though I've gone mad, or else everyone else has."
"Well, I'm actually exploding to tell you about it, but I think we should wait. It wasn't me, you see, who was mostly responsible for getting things cleared up, so I won't know how to tell it so well. To be perfectly honest, I've just had the briefest little outline of an explaination myself, and when I heard the point of it, that you were being let out, I didn't stop to listen to any more and just ran to the prison and just badgered the guards until they opened up the door. If you're feeling better, we could go and talk to him over breakfast, the one who managed it all, he's here, in the inn."
"Mmm, sure…" Calla picked up the bristle-brush and gave herself a thoroughly enjoyable scrubbing. When she was dried and dressed and her hair was braided she felt hugely restored. Exhausted, yes, and hungry, but warm and clean did a lot for her mood. She and Shiriel walked down the stairs arm-in-arm to the dining room and bar. Sun poured in through the windows and at one of the large wooden tables sat a well-fed and cheery party, and at another sat two old men, veterans of the guard, one missing an eye and the other and arm, expressing their hearty approval of the dark ale they were drinking, and at a third sat a man with his back to the rest of the room. The whole place, sun-soaked and cheerful, was such a contrast to her surroundings from just a few hours ago that the memory of the cell and the prison drifted further from Calla's senses and began to feel distant and unreal. The innkeeper looked up as they entered.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
"Two," said Shiriel. "We'll be over there."
Shiriel led Calla over to the table where the young man was sitting by himself. He looked up at her and she gasped. It was the assistant, the merchant's assistant from the other day. He smiled lopsidedly as she and Shiriel sat down.
"Calla, this is Pador," said Shiriel. "Whom, I believe, you've already met." For a moment Calla just gaped in confusion, but then she pulled herself together.
"Yes, only I didn't get your name the other day. I'm pleased to meet you, Pador." This was the person who had helped her? But how...? Calla was much too tired to even try working it out. She looked from one to the other. "Now, please, I don't mean to be rude, but will one of you tell me what has happened before I lose my mind?"
Pador grinned again and fiddled a bit with the mug he was drinking from.
"Of course. Well, Let me start with how I got involved. I found out what was going on because of Himdir, the merchant I was working for, the one you bought the thread from. It was an accident, really. Early yesterday evening I had gone to look for some peace and quiet and a place to read, and settled in with my book in a corner of our storeroom. I'd made sure I was screened by some crates because I didn't really want to be bothered, when I heard Himdir come in and start stumping about. So I kept very quiet and waited for him to go away, when there was a knock. A woman came in whom I hadn't seen before. I was annoyed at first, but as soon as she started talking I forgot all about wanting to read.
"She asked him if he remembered a girl who had bought some white silk thread the day before, for whom he'd written a receipt. He said he did, and the woman asked if the girl had looked at anything else. Himdir told her about my showing you the gold thread and the woman said that she'd pay him twice its price if he'd give it to her, and twice again if he'd go to the authorities and say it had been stolen."
"But how could she possibly have so much money?" Calla gasped. Pador shrugged.
"I don't know. My guess is she's been stealing from her employers for a while. She seemed half frantic. I reckon this is the first time her... activities have been noticed by anyone and she was desperate to cover it up. Anyway, I remembered you from the day before, and this sounded like a frame-up if I ever heard one. Shortly after she paid him, the woman left, but Himdir hung around for nearly an hour afterwards. The stars were out by the time he left. I followed him through the streets to the guard station at the prison where he made his complaint. When he told the guards his name they woke up a bit and started asking him questions—whether he remembered a certain girl he'd sold something to the day before. They gave him your description and he said that sounded like the girl who'd been looking at the stolen thread so they brought him inside to make a statement, and I guessed that you had already been arrested." Pador stopped while a maid brought over breakfast for Shiriel and Calla. Calla was devouring it with her eyes before the plates were even on the table; big, thick slices of crusty bread and slabs of butter and sausages and fried eggs and a pitcher full of cold, fresh milk.
"I went a little ways away to think what I'd better do and wait for Himdir to come out of the station, and that's when—"
"He met me," Shiriel broke in. "I, of course, was practically driven to distraction by then, since nobody would tell me what was going on, and all I knew was that you'd been arrested and dragged away to prison, and when I went there they told me that they couldn't divulge anything to me at the moment and I would just have to wait. Well, I'm sure you know that I didn't take too kindly to that, so I started to throw a fit and cry and things, but then this awful man asked me (in a really nasty tone of voice) if I wasn't your partner and hadn't I better run along home before I got accused of something too! So I told him off and said he ought to be ashamed for trying to bully a girl, and he went away, but I still couldn't get anyone to tell me anything. So I started home because I couldn't remember if I'd left the fire burning too hot and I didn't want the house to burn down, but then, while I was walking, I ran into Pador and he asked me what was wrong.
"And when I told him, he said that he knew you and was going to help, and that I should go home and wait there in case there was anything I could do. So that cheered me up to know that someone was looking after you, so off I went—and the fire was fine, by the way, the house is still there—and I just couldn't stay still for a minute, and every second I kept running to the window to see if anyone was coming with news. So when Nadial came to the door I just practically leapt on her and nearly drowned her with questions. She seemed so sympathetic and concerned, but now of course I feel like I ought to have known. When she said maybe your account book would help clear things up I went into your room to get it and I suppose that's when she put the things in the woodpile—"
"Wait a minute," Calla interrupted. "Nadial?" Shiriel looked at her, startled.
"Yes, Nadial, the seamstress. That is her name, isn't it?"
"Yes, but—but what about Chanda?"
"Chanda? No, darling, she had nothing to do with it, Nadial was the one who changed the receipt, and the one who took the extra money, and when the bookkeeper, or the clerk, or whatever he's called, made a fuss about the money, she's the one who gave them your name."
Calla's head spun. Nadial. Nadial had been going to put her in prison. The pleasant, effieciant Nadial who brought her lunch every day and praised her work. And to think that if Shiriel hadn't been there first thing this morning, she'd have pointed them at Chanda. Calla felt a pang of guilt. She shouldn't have been so quick to judge. Of course she'd thought of Chanda and not Nadial, she wanted Chanda to be guilty.
"Well," Pador's voice disrupted her thoughts. "After I sent Shiriel home I remembered that Bronad—Himdir's other assistant—had taken inventory just that morning. So I pegged it back to the storehouse and sorted through the books until I found the right one and slipped out again before Himdir got back. I saw him in the street on his way to the inn, so I knew I could go into the station.
"I'm sorry it took so long. It was hours before they'd let me see anyone who might listen. They took a good look at me, and I had a time explaining to them about my parents—I'll tell you some other time, long story short: my father was Gondorian and my mother from Near Harad—and convincing them that I wasn't an enemy or a spy. I expect you'd been locked up by then. I'm sorry." He reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Even after they let me speak to the captain, I was pressed to make him believe me. I'm afraid that being half-Haradrim isn't the best thing for my credibility. But whether he liked it or not (and he didn't), the books did all the talking in the end, and very early this morning, they brought Nadial in and asked me if this was the woman I'd overheard talking to Himdir. When I said she was, she sort of crumpled. And that was it. The whole thing started to come out. I excused myself and went out and grabbed a messenger to tell Shiriel you were about to be released and that I'd be waiting here. Himdir's been arrested, too." He stopped then, and returned his attention to the steaming black stuff he was drinking, watching Calla over the rim of his cup. Calla meditatively mopped up a bit of egg yolk with a crust of bread and looked up at him.
"Thank you," she said. "It seems inadequate after all you've taken on yourself, but really, thank you very much indeed." Pador shook his head.
"Not at all. It was nothing. There aren't many people who would have done what you did, you know, and I appreciate it very much. Helping you was the least I could do."
"I can still scarcely believe it. Nadial, of all people. She always seemd so, I don' know. Dependable, I suppose."
"Yes, well, I'd imagine she's been counting on that for a while. She must be a clever woman. Particularly if this is the first time she's had to cover up her actions. I mean, it was a good plan. If I hadn't chanced to choose that partiuclar spot to read my book, it would have worked. "
"I'm sorry about you losing your employer," Calla began, but Pador waved her concern away.
"I can't say I am, especially. I'd suspected he was a bit of a bastard, and I was right. And don't worry on my account. There's always a demand for someone who can trade in Harad. I'll pick my partner more carefully next time."
"Right," said Shiriel. "Well, now that everything's straightened out, Calla, why don't you have a nap here in your room while I go home and tidy things up a bit, and then, when things are back in order, I'll come and bring you home? You can't have slept very well, and there's not much else for me to do, since everything's ready for the day after tomorrow, and I'll feel much better to be doing something." Calla stifled a yawn and remembered that she hadn't slept for much, much too long. She got up from the table.
"Good idea. Pador, if you would, I'd be only too happy to have you come to dinner tonight."
"Oh! Yes, thank you, I'd love to." He looked surprised but quite pleased.
"Excellent. Six o'clock-ish?"
"Yes, yes, I'll see you later, then. Have a good rest."
"Thank you. And thank you again, for everything."
O
It was a pleasant evening. Calla, after her nap, had remembered that Legolas would probably be going to see her almost at that very moment. She'd sat down and wrote out an outline explaining the previous night's events and apologizing for once again missing him, sealed it up, and gone and found someone to deliver it for her.
Shiriel shooed her away from the fireplace with a wooden ladle and commandeered the kitchen, as Calla was (she claimed) obviously much too shaken still to be trusted around fires and boiling pots, and though Calla laughed at her and told her not to be silly, she was happy to sit and listen to her friend's wedding chatter. Things were just about ready when there was a knock at the door, and Calla opened it to a hooded figure. Pador, his face deep in the shadow of his hood, stepped in and took off his cloak. The girls' eyebrows rose in surprise. For the first time he wasn't wearing any make up, and he looked much better for it—healthier and more natural, and more like a young man.
And he turned out to be good company, too. He had traveled extensively in Harad and had a wealth of anecdotes to entertain them with. He showed them the streak of white in his hair that he'd got when he spent the whole night up a tree with a wild mumak raging about below him, and told them about the courts of the strange princes in Far Harad, and journeys on strange creatures made under a scorching sun. He inhaled his food, too, and when he saw Calla smiling, apologized for his atrocious manners. Calla laughed and told him not to mind. She hadn't had anyone in her house eat like that since her brother had died, and she had not realized how much she missed that peculiarly male attitude towards dinner. And after dinner Pador told jokes and flattered Shiriel about what a lovely bride she'd make until she turned pink, and stayed long enough to have a really pleasant chat and not long enough for them to wish he'd leave. And he asked permission to come again and Calla gladly gave it.
As Calla snuggled into bed that night with a smile, she reflected on the difference that twenty four hours could make, and how kind people could be found in the most unexpected places. Then she blew out her candle and went off to sleep.
O
As she climbed up the stairs to work the next morning with the pre-dawn light turning everything grey, she wondered when there would be someone to replace Nadial, and how she and Chanda were to proceed until then. Still, so far she'd needed little direction, so she had thought it best to get on with the work. She was feeling good. Not just because of the pleasant dinner last night, but becuase she was aware that she was doing well, getting right back to work even after going through an arrest and a night in prison. She opened the door and walked in.
And stopped short. Someone was sitting at her loom, and that someone was talking and laughing with Chanda. They looked up when Calla came in and fell silent. Calla looked at the strange woman and then at Chanda, who looked back with a snide and distant air.
"Who is this?" asked Calla. Her voice was low and there was a faint quaver in it. Chanda raised a cool eyebrow.
"Well it didn't seem very likely you'd be coming back, so I brought in a friend of mine to replace you."
Calla closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The comment was heartless enough, but there had been in her tone and in her face, something doubly offensive, something that looked like she knew she must be causing Calla pain and was rather amused by it. Calla looked at the stranger, who was eyeing her with a bored expression.
"Get out," Calla said in a strangled voice. "Just—just get out." Chanda and the girl looked at one another and rolled their eyes as if to say 'how tiresome' but the girl did stand up and gather her things together. Calla stood by the door, clenching her fists and shaking slightly.
"Oh, this was left for you," the girl said, thrusting a parcel toward Calla as she moved towards the door. Calla took whatever it was in her hands without really noticing. Chanda nodded goodbye to her friend and went back to work, ignoring Calla as though nothing had happened. Calla stared at her for a moment, opened her mouth to say something, closed it, and swept from the room. She walked briskly down the corridor until she judged she was out of Chanda's earshot and—at last—broke into furious tears. All the indignity and fear and injustice of the last day came rushing out of her in hot, body-shaking sobs. She pulled out her handkerchief and cried into it and wished and wished—and didn't care if it was mean-spirited—that that wretched hag Chanda had been the thief and that she were the one in jail now. Eventually she cried herself out, and blew her nose and dried her eyes. Only then did she remember the package under her arm.
It was wrapped in brown cloth and tied with string. She undid it curiously and the cloth fell away, revealing a beautifully bound set of books and a note. The note read:
Calla,
I was very sorry to hear of your ordeal, and am glad that you have been exonerated. I hope that you are not too much shaken by what has happened and offer as consolation, poor though I fear it is, these books. They are by my own favorite poet. I hope that you will enjoy them—though if you don't I have no doubt that I will enjoy arguing with you. Best wishes.
Yours,
Legolas
Calla hugged the books and burst into tears again.
A/N: In a rush, and no time to check for errors, though I will do tomorrow. I just wanted to get this up first, though. Meanwhile, sorry for any and all mistakes and thank you for bearing with me. Also, major thanks again to one and all for the reviews—I'm glad people are enjoying the story so much!
Pador was drinking coffee. He's a bit addicted to it and brings it with him when he's traveling in the north.
Edit: Okay, I've fixed one or two little things that were bugging me. I'm afraid that this chapter feels kind of rushed, since I've been writing it in a hurry at odd moments. Work is really piling up, and this past week has been frantic. Hope the tone of the chapter didn't suffer too much. As ever, please review! And thanks for reading.
Another edit: And I've changed a few more things! Just tweaking things here and there. Also, thought I should let people know that I'm just changing my email address, and I'll be taking this opportunity to change my username, too. So, yeah. That's all: same story, same author, different name.