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“You think,” said Eowyn, “that your
penis can get you out of any trouble.”
Legolas laughed, nuzzling her neck. He had pushed her onto the
bed the moment they had entered their chamber and, arms wrapped
around her waist, was wrestling with her, completely ignoring
her attempts to argue.
“Legolas! I am angry with you.”
He bit her.
“Ow! Stop it!”
He devoured her mouth.
“Mmmm, mmmm… Nnnnn!”
He lifted his head. “What are you saying, melmenya?”
“Aaagh!” yelled Eowyn, with frustration. “Will
you—will you—ah—will… will… oh…”
But he had finally got her where he wanted her. And he was right—his
penis could get him out of any trouble. At least, with her.
…
Eowyn struggled against his rhythm—whether because of her
earlier anger or the emotional exhaustion that had replaced it,
she could not find release. She shifted her hips, trying to reach
that elusive place…
“Stop, melmenya,” gasped Legolas, catching her face
in his hands—“Stop, Eowyn nín!” He kissed
her fiercely, holding her still until she surrendered to him.
Then he lifted himself up on his hands and, smiling down at her,
began to thrust with firm, hard strokes, grinding his hips each
time he filled her—
“Oh yes! There! There, Lassui! There—oh—yes, THERE!”
She twisted suddenly, her words sliding from nonsense into one
long, heartrending wail.
Her elf collapsed on top of her, his head coming to rest on her
shoulder.
And Eowyn held him, happily, in arms still flickering with pleasure.
…
“I tried to reach you,” she said, stroking his silken
hair; “I tried to find you with my thoughts. But it did not
work.”
“I think it takes powerful emotions to form that bond, melmenya—”
“There were powerful emotions,” said Eowyn.
“Anger and fear. Suppose something had happened to you, Lassui?
Suppose you…” But she could not say it. Instead she
pulled him closer. “I would never have seen you again. All
I would have had of you was your silly note. And I would have
had to endure eternity without you…”
Legolas raised his head. “That is a fear you must learn
to live with now that you are immortal, melmenya,” he said,
softly.
“I know.”
“Immortality is not the simple blessing most mortals seem
to imagine it.”
Eowyn reached up and tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear.
“It will be, Lassui. It will be, provided you never leave
me,” she said.
…
“You survived, then?” said Gimli.
Legolas grinned.
“Aww!” Gimli threw up his hands. “I do not want
to hear anything about that!”
“Where is Faramir, elvellon?”
“In the garden making plans with Ribhadda and Oliel.”
“And Hentmirë?”
“Spinning through the house like a whirlwind, dragging young
Keret behind her.”
Legolas walked over to a tall, ornately painted dresser and,
taking a key from around his neck, opened one of its small cupboards
and removed a brown glass bottle.
“Is that it?” asked Gimli.
“Yes.” Legolas held the bottle up to the light. “Just
one more spoonful, I think.”
“What was she like before?”
“Slower,” said Legolas. “But, otherwise, much
the same.”
“How long will the effect last?”
“I have no idea, elvellon.”
“Let us hope it lasts a long while…”
…
“Gwirith is not going to the Palace with you,” said
Oliel, firmly.
“How many times do I have to tell you that she is safe?”
asked Ribhadda.
“Faramir—you are with me on this—”
“She has a Letter of Pardon—”
“Will you stop talking about me as if I were not here!”
cried Gwirith, suddenly. “I am going to the Palace.
No—hear me out, Oliel,” she continued, holding up a
slender hand. “I have spent the best part of four years fending
for myself—or looking after Keret. I have learnt to take
control of my own life. If I did not go with you—if I were
not there to plead my own case—how could I live with it afterwards?
Whatever the outcome—life or death—I must be there to
hear it decided.”
Faramir acknowledged her argument with a courteous bow of the
head. “It is agreed, then,” he said.
“You are going to have your hands full with her,” said
Ribhadda, quietly, to Oliel. And he tried to hide his envy with
one of his rare smiles.
…
An hour later
“Move it a little more to the left,” said Hentmirë.
Legolas and Gimli did as instructed. “I do not think your
customers will notice the position of the tables, gwendithen,”
said the elf.
“But we must give them enough space to move around and look
at things properly,” said Hentmirë. “Where are
the cloths—Keret, what are you doing?”
The boy was rummaging through one of the boxes of knickknacks.
“How much do you want for this?” he asked, holding up
a tiny bronze figure of a dancing god.
“You do not have any money,” said Gimli.
“No,” said Keret, “not yet. But if you let me
take it to Old Yarih, I can probably get more than you thought,
and we can split the extra, half-and-half.”
“Why would you need money, now?” asked Legolas.
“People always need money,” said Keret, polishing the
statuette with his shirt sleeve, “in case something happens…”
He set the little figure on one of the tables, admiring his handiwork,
then he picked up the cloth Hentmirë had asked for, and began
unfolding it.
Hentmirë glanced at Legolas. “What could happen, Keret?”
she asked, softly.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He spread the cloth over a table.
“Your mother has a Letter of Pardon,” said Hentmirë.
“You are not going to lose her again.”
“He might not want me,” said Keret, smoothing out the
creases.
“Of course he wants you,” said Hentmirë.
“If he doesn’t, can I live in the Forest with you?”
“Oh! Come here!” Hentmirë hugged him. “Your
mother and your father both want you, and you are going to be
sailing on the sea with them. But you can come and stay with me—and
with Legolas and Eowyn and Gimli—whenever you like—provided
your mother agrees.”
“That’s my second wish,” mumbled Keret, from the
confines of her bosom.
“What is your third wish?” asked Legolas, smiling.
“I’m going to save that until I really need it.”
“Very wise,” said Gimli.
“Well,” said Hentmirë, “now that is settled,
shall we set up our stalls?”
…
Expecting to have to talk his way into the Hatja’s presence,
Faramir was pleasantly surprised to find that the Palace Guards
had standing orders to admit him. With Haldir, Ribhadda, Oliel
and Gwirith following, he was escorted to the main Reception Hall,
where he was greeted by a slightly flustered secretary.
“His Excellency has exactly ten minutes, your Highness,”
said the man with a nervous bow. “Had you come on any other
day…” He spread his hands, helplessly. “But today
he receives the Kurian ambassador…”
Faramir returned his bow, politely. “Ten minutes will be
sufficient,” he said.
The secretary led them to the Hatja’s private apartments
and opened the double doors. The Hatja, his head wrapped in towels,
was being shaved by the Palace barber. Waving the servant aside,
the secretary bent over his master and whispered in his ear.
“Prince Faramir…” said the Hatja, without moving.
“Please take a seat. Who are your companions?”
This was no time for tact. “Witnesses,” said Faramir.
The barber had already resumed his work, but he paused to allow
the Hatja to speak. “Witnesses to what?”
“Your son’s murder,” said Faramir.
The Hatja threw up his hands—and the barber stepped back
with a cry of dismay: he had nicked the Excellent chin. “Leave
us,” said the Hatja to the terrified man, “wait outside—no,
no, you are pardoned,” he added, when the man attempted to
throw himself to the ground in contrition.
Dabbing his face with a towel, the ruler turned to Faramir. “What
do you know of my son’s murder?”
“I can give you the name of his killer,” said Faramir.
“And, this afternoon, if all goes well, I will capture him
and deliver him to you.”
“If all goes well?”
“We are here because we need the assistance of some of your
Guards,” said Faramir. “Good, reliable men…”
“What does that mean?”
“Not Captain Ramess or anyone loyal to him,” said Ribhadda.
“Who are you?” asked the Hatja.
“One of your citizens,” replied Ribhadda.
“You are from the North.”
“Yes—but I have been paying your taxes for more than
ten years now,” said Ribhadda.
The Hatja studied him shrewdly. “Very well.” He turned
to Faramir. “What do you want in return for this murderer?”
“We can discuss that later,” said Faramir.
“Tell me now.”
“Since you insist—a marriage,” said Faramir, “between
your second son and his former betrothed, the daughter of Lord
Abdosir of Rihat.”
“Impossible!”
Faramir was taken aback. “Are you saying you do not want
to know who killed your son?”
The Hatja did not reply.
“And to whom else would you marry your second son? The King
of Kuri has no daughter, Umbar is still ruled by pirates, the
King of Gondor is only recently married… To whom would you
marry him but Lady Bint-Anath? The alliance would give you joint
control of the Silk Road to Rihat and beyond. And…”
“And?”
“And, if the marriage takes place, I am willing to enter
into a trading agreement.”
“You! What do you have to trade?” asked the Hatja.
“Timber,” said Faramir. “Tall, straight oaks for
ship-building, cedars for house-building, walnuts and birches
for cabinet making…”
“And what would you want in return—I will not export
bullion.”
“Perfumes and spices,” said Faramir, “cordials
and candied fruits. Such luxuries are as rare in my country as
timber is in yours—”
The Hatja held up his hand. “My secretary will draft an
agreement,” he said. “Now, tell me everything you know
of my son’s murder, starting with the name of the man who
killed him.”
…
Wolfram watched the fat little woman, elf-boy and the dwarf slowly
turning the courtyard garden into a souk. He glanced to his right.
Another beggar had taken up residence on his patch of wasteland,
not ten yards away. Planning to live off the little woman’s
charity, he thought.
It was annoying, but it did not matter. Two hours, thought Wolfram.
Two hours and I will be inside the house, claiming my prize. He
would pleasure My Lady in her own bedchamber, then leave Carhilivren,
follow the Silk Road, and try his chances in the East.
Unless… He smiled, wolfishly. Unless, that is,
My Lady decides to come with me.
Either way, he would not be sitting outside the house much longer.
…
The Circus was already busy, with crowds of spectators arriving
early to watch the drivers exercise their horses in the arena.
Faramir, Haldir and Ribhadda entered through one of the arched
gates and climbed up to the first tier of seats. Oliel and Gwirith
remained outside in Hentmirë’s carriage.
The meeting with Abdi was set for half past two. Huy, already
in position, was sitting at the bottom of the first tier, next
to the Hatja’s own private box, surrounded by ten members
of the Hatja’s personal bodyguard, all convincingly disguised
as ordinary spectators.
Faramir and his companions climbed higher up the tier.
“Abdi has chosen the place well,” said Faramir, glancing
around the stadium. “There are three staircases close by
and, if he cannot reach those, he can easily drop to the track
and disappear through one of those hatches.”
Ribhadda shook his head, “One of us could do that, perhaps,
but not Abdi—Abdi’s breathless after raising a glass
of spirits to his lips. In fact, I’m beginning to doubt that
he’ll come here in person. He’d be too conspicuous…”
Ribhadda’s eyes narrowed. “Unless… See the man
in the yellow headdress?” He pointed to fat man waddling
up the nearest staircase.
“Is that Abdi?”
“He is the right size,” cofirmed Haldir, “but
I cannot see his face.”
“And he is going in the wrong direction…”
They looked down at Huy. The villain had already risen to his
feet and was pushing his way past the bodyguards. The Hatja’s
men, clearly confused by the change of plan, all remained in their
places—until two of them, sitting on the ends of the benches,
finally decided to take the initiative and follow their charge.
“Come on,” said Ribhadda.
They forced their way down the tier.
The man in the bright yellow headdress had found a seat on the
far side of the staircase. The two bodyguards were watching him
from a distance. “Where is Huy?” asked Haldir.
“Oh gods,” muttered Ribhadda, “that’s not
Abdi.”
“Down the stairs!” cried Faramir, summoning the bodyguards
with an angry wave of his hand.
…
“I need to find a rest room,” said Gwirith.
…
The gates to the pink house had been open for a quarter of an
hour but, as yet, only a handful of customers had arrived. Wolfram
watched them walking slowly round the tables, picking things up
and putting them down, the men staring at the dwarf and the women
fluttering their eyelashes at elf-boy.
My Lady was nowhere to be seen. She must be staying indoors,
thought Wolfram. Perfect!
He was still waiting for more people to gather—Safety in numbers—when his new neighbour, the other beggar,
suddenly stood up and began striding—striding—towards
the house. Watching him, open mouthed, Wolfram caught a glimpse
of something glinting beneath his ragged robes as he moved.
A knife! What’s he going to do with a pricking great knife…?
Gods’ turds! My Lady!
Wolfram leapt to his feet and, despite the cramp in his limbs,
sprinted after the stranger.
…
Battling against the tide of people, Faramir and Haldir followed
Ribhadda down the steps and out into the open space surrounding
the Circus. Here, the crowds were thinner, but they looked in
vain for any sign of Huy.
“He hasn’t had time to get far,” Ribhadda reasoned.
“He must have gone into one of the shops.”
“Where do we start?” asked Faramir.
“With the closest.” Ribhadda set off towards a small
pipe weed shop. Faramir turned to Haldir. “Take the bodyguards
and search the rest,” he said. “Tell them to arrest
Huy and anyone they find with him.” He followed Ribhadda.
The pipe weed shop was closed, but the next store, a much larger
establishment selling perfumed oils, was not—and there they
found Huy, standing just inside the doorway, staring at something
in the room beyond.
Silently, Faramir drew his sword and Ribhadda pulled out his
knife, and the two men advanced. Sensing their presence, Huy turned
and raised his hands in surrender. Ribhadda grabbed his arm and
pulled him out of the shop—
And Faramir entered, just in time to see Gwirith cut Abdi’s
throat from ear to ear.
…
It had taken Wolfram several minutes to push his way through
the small crowd of bargain hunters blocking the gate. But, once
inside the courtyard, he had slipped easily past elf-boy—who
was showing two simpering women how to draw a bow—and past
the dwarf—who was haggling loudly over the price of a meat
cleaver—and entered the house.
There was no sign of the man with the knife.
If that bastard touches My Lady… Which way?
The place was vast, but Wolfram’s instincts had never failed
him in the past.
Up.
He threw off his headdress and his enveloping robes, and approached
the stairs.
…
Eowyn picked up her scimitar and examined its curved blade. It
had served her well on the prison island. But it would be silly
to keep it, she thought. I shall not need it in Eryn Carantaur.
I will take it downstairs.
She wrapped it in its silken cover, tucked it—carefully—under
her arm and, closing the bedchamber door behind her, made her
way to the top of the stairs. As she placed her hand on the rail,
she heard a voice say, “You are coming with me.”
Eowyn turned, startled. But there was no one in sight.
“Stand up—that’s it,” said the voice.
One of the chamber doors was open. Cyllien’s door…
“Take my arm—keep smiling.” The voice did not
belong to Haldir.
Eowyn crept along the landing.
“Now—remember—if anyone asks, Ribhadda sent me
and I’m taking you to The Silk Road. Make any other sound
and I’ll cut that pretty face in two…”
Cyllien sobbed.
“Don’t start that!”
Calmly, Eowyn pulled the silken cover from her scimitar and let
it fall to the ground. Then, grasping the sword in both hands,
she took up position beside the door, her feet spread, her back
to the wall, her blade ready.
…
Wolfram reached the top of the stairs—and froze. My Lady
was lying in wait beside one of the chamber doors—
For the stranger?
What a woman!
Sensing his presence, My Lady turned and—as though his being
there was the most natural thing in the world—lifted a finger
to her lips in a silent Shhhh.
What a woman! Wolfram felt a thrill of excitement. What a pair
we make!
He had no weapon. He had no idea who the stranger was or what
he was doing. But he tip-toed along the corridor and stood at
My Lady’s side.
…
“It’s over,” said Gwirith, staring at Abdi’s
lifeless body. “At last… I am free…” She began
to sway.
Faramir dropped his sword. “Give me the knife,” he
said, gently catching her hands. “Ribhadda!” He put
an arm around her waist.
The other man pushed Huy into the shop. “What—? Oh
gods, Riya!”
“Take her,” said Faramir. He dropped to his knees beside
Abdi’s massive corpse and closed the staring eyes.
“You surely took him by surprise…” said Ribhadda
to Gwirith. “Where’s Oliel? Riya?” He shook her
gently. “Where’s your husband?”
“Waiting in the carriage…” Her voice sounded distant.
Faramir rose to his feet. “Take her to Oliel. I will find
the Hatja’s bodyguards.” He picked up his sword and
turned to Huy. “You, come with me.”
“Abdi outwitted us,” said Ribhadda, gently guiding
the woman outside. “But—once again—he underestimated
you, Riya.”
…
Eowyn tightened her grip on the scimitar. How Wolfram came to
be standing beside her she did not know, but she had no time to
worry now. The door was opening.
She took a deep breath.
Out stumbled Cyllien, head bowed, oblivious to her surroundings.
Out came the stranger, chest to Cyllien’s back, his left
hand grasping the elleth’s elbow, his right hand inside his
robes—presumably holding a knife.
Eowyn pressed her blade to the back of his neck. “Let her
go!”
Taken by surprise, the villain did as he was told. But, without
the support of his hand, Cyllien’s legs gave way. She fell
back against the man’s chest; he fell against Eowyn; Wolfram
lunged forward to pull Eowyn out of the way; and somehow, in the
confusion, the stranger ripped Eowyn from Wolfram’s arms
and got his knife to her throat.
…
“Melmenya!” Legolas’ hand flew to his neck. He
gasped. “I am sorry,” he said to his startled customer,
“I must… I… Gimli will take care of you!”
Clumsily pushing his way through the crowd, he rushed into the
house.
…
“What are you doing, you prick!” said Wolfram.
“It’s all turned to shit. You’ll never get the
elf woman out of here now. Give My Lady to me and take off before
her elf-boy catches you.”
He took a cautious step closer.
“The door at the top of the stairs is your best chance.”
Wolfram pointed to Hentmirë’s chamber: he had not wasted
the many hours he had spent staring at the house. “Go out
onto the balcony. It’s only a couple of feet to the next
villa—and next door’s gates have no spikes.” He
took another slow step. “Go on. Give My Lady to me…”
He held out his hands.
The stranger was almost convinced—Wolfram could see his
knife hand relaxing. And My Lady knew it, too, because her expression
had suddenly taken on a new determination. That’s right,
thought Wolfram, get yourself ready… “Give her to me,”
he repeated, firmly.
Slowly, the man pushed Eowyn forward—
“MELMENYA!” Legolas came flying up the stairs—the
man pulled Eowyn back, digging the point of his knife into her
flesh.
“NO!” cried Wolfram. His left hand flew out, catching
the knife and holding it firm—though the blade was cutting
through to the bone—whilst his right hand ripped Eowyn from
the man’s arms and threw her towards Legolas. He turned back
to the stranger with a triumphant smile.
And the man pulled the blade from Wolfram’s fingers and
plunged it into his chest.
…
Guiding her through the crowd, Ribhadda escorted the now exhausted
Gwirith back to Hentmirë’s carriage.
“What has happened?” asked Oliel, climbing down to
help her up into her seat. “You were gone so long I was about
to come and find you and—Gods!” He turned to Ribhadda.
“Why is she covered in blood?”
“Abdi’s dead,” said Ribhadda, simply.
“And Gwirith saw it happen?”
Ribhadda sighed. “She—”
“I killed him, Oliel,” said Gwirith. Her voice was
still distant, but strong—full of cold determination. “I
saw him send his substitute into the arena, and I knew everyone
would be fooled, so I followed him—”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why did you tell
me you needed a rest room?”
Gwirith smiled, sadly. “It was something that I had
to do, Oliel. With my own hands.” With great effort, she
lifted her hands and laid them on top of his. “He was waiting
in the oil shop,” she continued. “I knew that Huy would
be coming soon—I knew I didn’t have much time. I told
Abdi what I was going to do to him and I told him why. He didn’t
believe me. I took out my knife—”
“You were carrying a knife?”
“I always carry a knife, Oliel. How do you think I survived
in Rihat? I took out my knife and said, ‘Look at me. Look
at this ruined face! I want this face to be the last thing you
ever see!’ And then I cut his throat…”
…
Strange it doesn’t hurt… thought Wolfram. But all he
could feel was My Lady’s little hands, pressing down on his
chest.
He stared up at her through the mist.
Around her lovely head, the stars were shining. She’s
not a woman after all, he thought. She’s a go…
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