Chapter Fourteen: The Summer of Discontent
It was a slow and painful process putting our lives back together. But we had help, at least, and it is only in adversity that one truly finds out who one's friends are. Amandil, ever the decent fellow, overruled his wife's objections and offered my mother accommodation in Andunië. My mother promptly accepted, which was a great relief to me: the further away the increasingly frail old woman was from the fraught politics of the capital, the better. As for myself, the wealth I had brought back from my adventures in Middle-earth served me in good stead. I found myself a comfortable house in inner Armenelos, and hired workmen to get started on rebuilding the ruin.
From the upstairs window of my new townhouse, I could sit in comfort and sip wine while looking out over the main thoroughfare of the city. It was barely more than a stone's throw away from Inziladûn's Palace, and in my more reflective moods I spent many hours gazing at those high walls and massive pillars, and thinking treasonous and vengeful thoughts about the King who sat within. A King whose life and power were ebbing away ever more swiftly as the years went on.
There was something in the air of Armenelos in those days, a restlessness and excitement that none had ever seen before. Wild-eyed street orators foretold the impending doom of Númenor, their hysteria fed by drought and crop-failure. Inziladûn was blamed for everything, of course. High food prices led to riots in the city-beyond-the-walls. My uncle responded with more guards – the city watch was trebled within months – and ever more curfews. This cost money, and from my contacts in the royal treasury, I learned that Inziladûn was not happy. He would have been even less happy had he known that some of the leading trouble-makers were receiving hefty contributions from me. Not that he was ever going to find out. I pride myself on being able to cover my tracks.
Meanwhile, the issue of Gil-galad's scroll lurked at the back of mind. I had not forgotten it, of course, but there were difficulties. The first was that with Inziladûn so politically vulnerable, it was sorely tempting to actually try to overthrow the old monster outright, achieving my revenge in one foul swoop. But that would be risky: failure would mean my own death, while with the King this old, I could simply wait, and then throw my lot in with Zimraphel. In any case, the other difficulty was actually getting to the secretive monarch. He had not been seen in public since the funeral, and was never available to see even the highest nobles. Even Zimraphel was puzzled by his comings and goings, and said as much when she visited me for dinner one evening.
"He jumps at shadows," she said, "and spends much of his time in the kitchen watching the cooks, lest they secretly poison him."
I could only shake my head at that. Matters, I thought, were coming to a head. How much longer could this go on?
One fateful morning, I was sitting in my upstairs room reading the latest letter from my mother in Andunië. Old Lord Numendil was still alive, it seemed, and notwithstanding the alcoholism and awkward politics, had proved to be one of the best friends my mother had ever had. Elendil was warming to her too, apparently. I was still smiling to myself when I was startled by a knock on the door.
"Enter," I said. It was one of the household slaves.
"My Lord," he said, "Captain Nâmalzôr of the Palace Guards is here to see you."
"Send him in," I said, rolling up my mother's letter and placing it to one side.
Nâmalzôr entered briskly, and gave me a salute. The Captain looked much the same as ever.
"My Lord Pharazôn, the King needs you at the Palace urgently."
I raised an eyebrow. Inziladûn wanted to see me? He surely could not be wanting to kill me: the honourable Nâmalzôr would have given me sufficient warning to get out the city. Besides, if my uncle even attempted to kill me, the Armenelos mob would hang him from Nimloth's highest branch.
"What is this about, Nâmalzôr?"
"He says he needs your advice."
"Tell him that his dress sense is very wrong," I said lightly, getting to my feet. I sighed. "Very well, I shall come. I am, after all, his loyal servant." Which was an even bigger jape, but Nâmalzôr let it slide. I decided to take Gil-galad's scroll with me. I might never get a better chance.
I followed the Captain back to the Palace. Outwardly I betrayed no nervousness: why should I when I was Pharazôn the popular, beloved by the common people and all but the most extreme Faithful? Politically, I was as untouchable as Zimraphel herself. There, however, remained a lingering doubt: I was not dealing with a rational man here. Inziladûn was endlessly paranoid. Who knew what he was capable of?
I soon received a rather morbid illustration of just what my uncle was capable of. A gallows had been installed by the Palace Gate. There was a corpse hanging from the rope, and as we passed by I briefly looked up at the dead face. Notwithstanding the flies and blue pallor, the victim was clearly identifiable. It was the pathetic young foppish nobleman that Zimraphel had once found amusing. No-one would shed a tear over the fellow, least of all the Princess, but to hang a nobleman, rather than behead him, was, well, wrong. I suddenly found myself wondering what had ever become of Pharazôn the monkey.
"The King awaits you in his chambers," said Nâmalzôr.
"Thank you, Captain," I said. "I know the way." Nâmalzôr nodded politely.
My uncle was sitting over a table when I found him, having dinner. As I entered, he was inspecting each spoonful of soup individually before eating. The soup, I suspected, was stone cold. Two armed guards stood against the wall, emotionless.
"Pharazôn," said Inziladûn. His hair was whiter, and he was a good deal thinner than when I had last seen him.
"Uncle," I said, bowing.
The King put down his spoon. "There are plots to kill me, Pharazôn. Everywhere around me, there are plots."
"As you say, uncle." If only the old monster knew…
"I can trust no-one. I have been betrayed times beyond count, even by own daughter."
"Yes, uncle." What had Zimraphel done now? Or was this just a reference to the endless betrothal fiasco?
"I am cursed, Pharazôn, cursed by the ingratitude of others. I have slaved for decades to return this nation to its ancient rectitude, but I have been undermined by the people whom I most sought to help. This is why I now need your aid."
"My aid?"
Inziladûn fixed me with a frown. "Yes, your aid. You're not deaf are you?"
"Why, my King…"
"Do not get any ideas about there being any warmth between us. I despise you, Pharazôn, and always will, but you are one of the few men in this Empire who has not yet betrayed me. I now make you an offer. Rid me of these plots, find them, and drag the culprits out from the shadows, and I shall make you my Heir."
It took a monumental effort to keep a straight face at that. The irony was truly delicious. But, I knew in an instant, this offer was not what it seemed. If I "tried" and failed, the King would use that as an excuse to destroy me. The only reason he had not done so already was because I was too popular and had never given him enough proof. If, on the other hand, I successfully cured my uncle's paranoia, he would discard me the moment he no longer needed me, and I would be associated with the worst of his crimes. He was a man drowning in quicksand, and was threatening to pull me in.
"I will do what I can," I said, buying time. "But first I need to show you something. Some time ago, I voyaged to Middle-earth…"
"Yes, your voyage to Lindon," interrupted Inziladûn, smirking. "How is Gil-galad anyway?"
Do not let yourself get too smug, uncle, I thought. "The Elf lord sends his regards. He also gave me this." I held out the scroll, still in its original seal.
Inziladûn took the precious document. "Yes," he said, inspecting it, "this appears to be Gil-galad's unbroken seal."
"It is the Noldorin King lending his voice to mine. He urges you to make war on Sauron of Mordor."
My uncle snorted. "Does he now? Let me see for myself." He broke open the seal and unrolled the scroll. He frowned, and turned the parchment over.
"There is no writing here," he said, puzzled.
"No writing?" I exclaimed. "There must be! Gil-galad gave the missive to me himself!"
"Yet the page is blank. See for yourself." The King handed the scroll back to me. Sure enough, both sides of the parchment were completely devoid of writing. I had been tricked. To have crossed back and forth across the Sea, only to find myself humiliated in front of my King by that pointy-eared liar…
"Well, Pharazôn," said Inziladûn, smiling. My distress had obviously served to cheer him up. "It seems that our audience is at an end. And that High-King Gil-galad thinks even less of you than I do. Perhaps I must look for someone else to rid me of these nefarious traitors. Farewell!"
"But uncle!"
"Be gone, Pharazôn. My dinner is getting cold." With that, Inziladûn picked up a spoon and resumed inspecting his long-cold soup.
Gritting my teeth, I bowed and left. As I was shutting the door behind me, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. It was Nâmalzôr.
"My Lord," he muttered, "I need to speak to you in private. Follow me."