Civil Unrest

Tindomul counted the coins in his purse, then draped a cloak over his shoulders. As an afterthought, he buckled on his sword belt.

"Are you sure you want to go out tonight? I opened an anonymous letter today that made my skin crawl," Father said.

"But it wasn't a specific threat? It didn't say why they were mad or what they were going to do about it? Then I wouldn't take it seriously," Tindomul said .

"Even so, watch you back when you go out. Take an armed escort with you, or don't go out at all. The mood of the city turned ugly these past few days."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful." Tindomul thought of using the invisibility spell on himself, the one that had worked so well on the new ship until the cargo vessel ran into it. He decided against it. He didn't want to get run over.

But the invisibility spell could be reworked without too much trouble. With a few minutes' thought, he came up with a modified version of the spell to make himself not invisible, but certainly much less noticeable.

Tindomul spoke the words of his new spell, then said goodnight to Father, who didn't even look up.

The gates around the Palace were closed at sunset. Tindomul nodded to the foot soldiers on duty. Normally they would have opened the sally port to let him through, but they didn't seem to notice him. He pushed the small door open himself. The hinges screamed, but the guards didn't even look his way.

Tindomul was barely clear of the Palace gates when he saw graffiti painted on a public building, "Obey the Ban," it said. One building over, paint on the bricks proclaimed, "No one Is Above The Law." Father was right. There was an evil mood hanging over the city.

Nailing handbills to posts was a lawful practice, even if it was annoying, but painting on the walls of public buildings was an act of vandalism. Peaceful protest had crossed the line into civil unrest.

The tavern sign for the Legacy of Elros hung over a doorway. The glow of lamplight lit the building from within. It looked inviting, Tindomul wouldn't go in there anymore. The Faithful had made it their headquarters, and it would have been uncomfortable for anyone with his political beliefs.

The door opened and a fragment of song escaped, something about Black Númenorians and their fear of death. Tindomul bristled. He'd fought his first battle at sixteen when he'd boarded a smuggler's ship. Whatever else he was in life, he was no coward.

Two men left the tavern, each of them as tall as he was, but broader in the shoulder. He knew them slightly from University. They'd been drinking, and from their conversation, they were upset about the current political situation. If they decided to take it out on a member of the opposing faction, his royal blood wouldn't protect him, not from men who weren't in awe of his rank. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

The two men swerved to avoid running into him, but otherwise gave no sign they knew he was there. They didn't even lower their voices as they passed.

Shortly after, he came to a sign with a crown over a warship advertising the Númenorian Arms. Behind the glass, the room was filled with people. A thumping bass reached the street.

This was friendly territory. He pulled open the door and went inside. The noise from music, people talking, and the clatter of dishes hit like a rogue wave and the smell of yesterday's wine soaked into the floorboards made his eyes water.

A dozen of his friends, all of them Black Númenorians, packed around a battered table. He saw Sven, the one who'd given Tindomul the nickname Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Captain. He pulled up a stool and squeezed into a gap between Sven and Mikkel. They moved over to make room, but didn't return his greeting.

Sven had to raise his voice above the noise in the room. "My cousin got married yesterday and I only heard about it this afternoon." He sounded upset.

"Does he belong to the Faithful? Lots of families split over politics," said Mikkel.

The serving maid came over with a pitcher of wine and topped off their goblets.

"Lass? I need a goblet," Tindomul called to her retreating back. He tried again, but no luck.

"I was second-in-command on my last commission. I'd really like to be a captain on my next voyage," said Mikkel.

"I can arrange that for you," Tindomul said. It was a sweet offer, and he had the power to make it happen. He'd expected Mikkel to be all over him, but Mikkel didn't seem to have heard.

The serving maid came back with another pitcher of chilled wine and went around the table, filling goblets.

She turned to leave. Tindomul called, "Lass, can you bring me a goblet?" She never even looked at him.

###

The next morning, a demonstration closed down most of the city. The protesters carried signs, threw rotten fruit, and chanted insulting slogans at the soldiers called in to keep the peace. It was tense, but fell short of actual rioting. The crowd broke up before anyone was seriously hurt.

That evening, Tar-Ciryatan called an emergency meeting with his advisers. "Many of the people of Númenor want to defy the Ban. A small but vocal group, who call themselves the Faithful, oppose them. When they were writing letters and bringing petitions, it was manageable. Vandalism and demonstrations, that's civil disturbance and I won't have it."

###

The next day, Tindomul saw two soldiers stop a man dressed in the long robes, apparently one of the Faithful.

"You're carrying some papers. Hand them over," said one of the soldiers.

"You don't have the right to stop me, I've done nothing wrong," said the man.

"If you have nothing to hide, you wouldn't resist us. Let's see the papers you're carrying," said the soldier.

The man pulled out a scroll bound with string. The soldier unrolled it and studied what appeared to be a child's drawing. He folded it into quarters and handed it back.

"My child drew that. You've no cause to spoil it," said the man.

The street searches were in retaliation for the graffiti, vandalism, and violent protests. Tindomul didn't like seeing it happen, but he understood the necessity for it. He hoped it was enough to frighten the Faithful into backing down.

Further down the street, the doors of the courthouse stood open. Men in flowing robes crowded the front steps, trying to see in. Tindomul pushed between them and stood in the doorway of the courtroom. A hearing was in progress, and every seat was taken. Tindomul moved to the side of the room, beside a bailiff.

A man of middle years stood in the dock. His robes identified him as one of the Faithful. He looked like someone who'd never been in trouble with the law in his life. His manner seemed to say that this was all a misunderstanding, easily cleared up.

From behind a table on the dais, the judge spoke in grave tones.

"You're the owner of the Legacy of Elros? You're charged with running an establishment that disturbs the peace, in the form of excessive noise in the evenings, and an undue amount of foot traffic.

"It's a tavern, sir. That's what they're like. And mine is a sedate, well-behaved tavern, nothing like the Númenor Arms down the street."

"They're not on trial. You are," said the judge.

The judge found him guilty on all charges and levied an unusually large fine against the non-offense.

"One more thing. If I learn of are any unlawful meetings being held in your tavern, I won't just assess a fine next time, I'll place you under arrest."