Chapter Eight: Unpleasantness in Armenelos

I was sitting beneath Nimloth reading a Council scroll when the screaming started. Loud and varied, it was clearly emanating from the throats of both men and women. I looked up from my reading, narrowing my eyes as I concentrated on the sudden noise. Yes, the screaming definitely came from within the Palace, most likely from one of the upper levels. I rolled up the scroll and got to my feet. That something was up was now all-too obvious. Soldiers and slaves alike came running through the Palace Gardens towards the side doorway that connected the outer courtyard with the interior. As the fellows swept past, I called out to them. It was in vain: not one of the men stopped or even acknowledged me. As the last of them disappeared through the doorway, I drew my sword, and swiftly followed. Had Inziladûn been murdered? Had a slave revolt started? I needed to find out.

Inside, in one of the foyers, I found a gathering of chamber maids. Each of the serving girls were in tears, blubbering away as though they had been rejected by their lovers. Three of them were clustered around a large bronze sculpture from the time of Tar-Aldarion. All three either had their heads in their hands, or were sobbing on shoulders. A fourth was sprawled on the floor in front of me, bellowing like a wounded boar, as tears rolled down her cheeks. This one may have been pretty or plain, but with her face so contorted by grief it was impossible to tell. I kicked her.

"What is happening?" I asked urgently.

"The blood!" howled the maid. "The blood!" She crawled into a ball and resumed crying.

There was no further use in questioning her, so I let her be, and followed the screams. Yes, I thought, definitely the upper levels. Indeed, they seemed to be coming from the royal bed chamber. Had something befallen old Inziladûn or his wife? Climbing the stairs, I had just gained the landing when I spotted my uncle, red faced and shouting at a group of terrified slaves. He looked as though he were about to strike them with his stick.

"Uncle!" I called out, sheathing my sword, "what is all this commotion?"

He turned. There was fire in his eyes. And tears, many tears. "My wife, you imbecile," he shouted, "my wife. These foolish cretins murdered my wife. They have killed both her and my new child!" Inziladûn belted a slave, who went down clutching his head.

Queen Gimilbêth, murdered? My jaw dropped. "How?" I said.

"They made her ill. It was murder, I tell you, murder!"

"My King," said another slave, "many women die in childbirth. It is the way of Eru." Inziladûn struck him too, and that sent the others running.

"I'll have all your heads for this!" my uncle shouted after them. He shook his cane.

"You have my deepest sympathy," I said quietly, when only myself and the King remained. "To lose both wife and child at once…"

To be honest, even I don't know whether I was being sincere. I was too shocked to think clearly.

"I don't want your mealy-mouthed platitudes!" spat Inziladûn. "They murdered her. It wasn't childbirth. She wasn't due for another three months. She became ill. The physicians gave her herbs. Said she needed to rest. Then the bleeding started. Then…" Inziladûn began to weep. The most powerful man in the world stood in tears before me, defeated.

"Does Míriel know?" I said. It felt undeniably peculiar to use Zimraphel's Elvish name, but calling her anything else would have caused the King to erupt again.

"Míriel isn't here. She's gone into the city for the day."

"I will see that word is sent to her at once," I said. I knew enough palace gossip to make a reasonably shrewd guess where Zimraphel had gone.

"Yes, go do something useful for a change," snapped Inziladûn. "Go and fetch her. But leave me here. I need to think. Yes, my dear Pharazôn, I need to think. Vengeance is needed for this, and blood must flow."

The King was often making grandiose threats, but somehow I felt that this time was different. A cold shiver went up my spine.

"Yes, uncle," I said, bowing and hurrying away. At the top of the stairs I glanced over my shoulder. Inziladûn was going back into the bed chamber, closing the door behind him. I took a deep breath and ran to the barracks to find the Captain of the Royal Guards.

Captain Nâmalzôr had a dark beard that even my father would have approved of. An old campaigner who had seen his fair share of battles, but savvy enough to survive the political twists and turns of both Ar-Gimilzôr and Ar-Inziladûn, the man was steady and reliable, if perhaps a bit dutiful for my tastes. I had got to know him well during earlier campaigns in Middle-earth. He was reading some reports when I found him.

"Yes, Lord Pharazôn?" he said.

I told him of the chaos that was erupting within the Palace, and of the Queen's death. Nâmalzôr's eyes widened. He whistled. "The King seeks blood, you say?"

"The King always seeks blood," I said. "This time, however, I suspect he is going to find what he seeks. And incidentally I need to borrow some of your guardsmen."

"For what purpose? There is no looting within the Palace is there?" He began to rise to his feet.

"No, but I need to fetch the Princess. The King says that she has ventured into the city for the day."

Nâmalzôr grimaced. He too knew the gossip. "So she's gone to visit that pathetic young fop again, has she?"

"More than likely," I said. "A shame that the King's Heir finds herself so infatuated with a man who knows nothing of warfare."

"Aye," said Nâmalzôr, nodding approval. "Too many young nobles are too damn soft these days. A campaign or two in Middle-earth would soon sort them out."

I could only smile at that. "Indeed," I said.

Sure enough, Zimraphel was where I knew I would find her. It was a luxurious townhouse in Armenelos' inner city: too grand for a merchant but not grand enough to compare to even a provincial palace. A thousand petty nobles had houses such as this, each one hoping that the minor prestige associated with hosting dinner parties would bring them to the attention of the Royal Court. I knew the type, and found them pathetic, though I rarely said it to their faces, and indeed often pretended to befriend them. Ambitious petty nobles have their uses, and are cheaper to buy off than great lords. Besides, some of them have attractive wives, sisters, and daughters.

I entered the room with Nâmalzôr's men to find my cousin lolling on cushions, popping grapes into her mouth. Her foppish young friend sat beside her, holding a goblet. His blue doublet was stained, and he reeked of mediocre wine. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

"Pharazôn," the fop said, slurring my name. "A pleasure to see you. Have some wine."

"No thank you," I said. A small monkey crawled around the floor munching dates. "I have come to collect my cousin."

The man giggled. "So you fancy her too, eh? Let me tell you…"

I hit him. Perhaps it was annoyance, perhaps jealousy, but either way, I hit him. It was also immensely satisfying. The fop went sprawling. Nâmalzôr's guardsmen looked on with thinly disguised approval but Zimraphel popped another grape into her mouth as though nothing had happened.

"Damn you," cursed the fop, blood dripping from his nose. "I'll…"

I ignored him. "Sorry to disrupt your afternoon, Zimraphel," I said, "but the King wants you back at the Palace immediately."

"Really?" she said. "And since when has Pharazôn son of Gimilkhâd been my father's messenger?"

She had me there. "Today it is important. Come."

"Very well, Pharazôn," she said in a bored tone. "Since you insist, though only the Valar know what is so important." She got to her feet, decidedly more sober than her companion. I decided that I would wait until returning to the Palace before telling her the news. For all Zimraphel's inner steel, telling anyone of the sudden death of their mother has the potential to end badly, and it could only get worse in a place such as this.

The fop was sobbing. "Come back, Princess," he whimpered. Then from somewhere he pulled out a knife, and waved it around. "Damn you, come back!"

The wine had made him clumsy and slow to react. I knocked the knife from his hand, and kicked him in the stomach. Zimraphel raised an eyebrow. "Feeling especially violent today, Pharazôn?" she said. One of the guardsmen sniggered.

"Whatever did you see in that fool?" I said, as we left the house. "Or were you just pitying the poor wretch?"

"He amused me," said Zimraphel. "Besides, the grapes were good, and I got him to name the monkey 'Pharazôn.'"