[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen’s post

Jythralo stood in the office of his seaside townhouse, staring absently at the message that lay open on the desk before him. His sea captain’s jacket was draped across the armrest of his settee and his ruffled shirt was un-tucked. The captain hadn’t been able to sleep and a half drunk glass of rum sat nearby. The moon’s beams shone into the room lit by a single candle, leaving shadows on the floor and cushions of the unkempt window seats. The almost inaudible sound of crashing waves drifted in and Jythralo’s nostalgic feeling of sea faring returned.

Abandoning his seat behind the desk he walked out the door onto the balcony overlooking the beach. It was dirty from storm debris that had been left unattended and the perceptible crunch of dead leaves could be heard from under his boots as he walked. A light breeze blew, rustling the diaphanous curtains that flitted out of their open windows, and brushed some of the rubble from the railed in balcony.

He began to hum...Drink of the finest rum around,
Drink it up until it’s gone.
Me bones are wake me Captain!
Aye would it were dawn!

Aloft I’d climb to see across
The sea below so perilous
Though sleep is scarce I shan’t fuss
Heyho me Captain! Privilege us!

Yo ho...yo ho...yo ho...

Jythralo sighed a breath of release and made his way back into his office, taking a hearty gulp of his rum, finishing off the beaker, he looked over the notice. He had read it over countless times that evening and was contemplating its immediate importance.

We bring to the attention of Captain Jythralo Doran of his trial tomorrow evening at the city court square issued by the representatives of Gondor and the ambassador himself, Maurice Thrann. His crime is close interaction with the corsair peoples of Umbar who have committed countless acts of piracy against the free peoples. He is accused of identity standing in such a delegation. At this trial he will be given the chance to deny his past of disobedience and pledge allegiance to the new kingdom of Gondor.

Cordially,

Maurice Thrann,
Ambassador of Gondor to Umbar

The corsair captain ran his fingers systematically through his hair as he thought of the appropriate course of action. He couldn’t run. He’d tried three times already and had always been caught up again soon. The only way, he decided, was to join them for the time being until the watch upon him was lifted. Only then could he continue with his plan of recovering his beloved Umbar to its rightful state. Folding up the letter he walked over and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his captain’s coat and wandered into his room.

His bed was unmade and the pillows were flat. He hadn’t had anything decent of his own since he’d been caught for the third time by Gondorian authorities two and a half years ago spending the last year and a half in jail. Now that he was back he wouldn’t dare send for his things aboard the Rapscallion, safely harbored leagues south of Umbar. He’d wait patiently this time.

*-- -*- --*

*Five years later*

Seventeen-year old Devon was coming home from a party one night when he first discovered his father’s delegate, Jythralo Doran’s true identity. The indigo sky was covered in lavender clouds, signaling the coming fall of rain. No stars were visible and the moon found an opening every so often in a cap between the thundering fog. As his booted feet walked quickly down the cobblestone road, Devon pulled his coat fixedly around his body to keep out the spiraling wind. He had refused a cap on his way out so his auburn hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that whipped incessantly against the wind.

He was a block or two yet from home when he heard the two figures approaching. Thinking them to be local footpads out for the hunt, Devon hid in an alleyway and waited for them to pass. As they drew closer, however, their voices began to be distinguishable over the wind and the boy identified the two as Captain Doran and one of his men.

“But Cap’n, Master Thrann is sure to catch ye should ye be doing yer dealings right thar under his very nose! The crew and I is very concerned Cap’n if I’m not too bold to say so.”

“No, Agdar, not bold at all,” answered the Captain. “But I’ll hold ye remember one thing.” The ambassador’s son had to strain in order to hear and decipher their hushed southern accents. “I’ll be the one to keep the politics under me control and ye’ll be the one ter keep your head in the care of me ship and let me deal with the politics. Savvy?” Agdar nodded timidly and the two continued to walk closer.

“Hows’a everythin’ comin’ then if I might ask,” whispered Jyrthralo’s companion. The captain shrugged.

“It’s just fine. I’ve got the ambassador put in me pocket, and no one suspects a thing. Umbar shall be restored to its proper glory under our administration yet again mate. The corsairs have ne’er been routed, and ne’er shall they! Not as long as I’m Captain!” They were close enough now to the boy hiding just in the shadowed street to see triumphant grins spread across each of their weather-hardened faces.

“ ‘Umbar shall be restored’ says you,” Agdar began nervously. “ ‘Not before we’re caught’ says I. Anxious I am, Cap’n.” The barrel Devon was standing behind took that moment to topple and roll into the path of their feet.

Picking up his feet, Devon ran down the alleyway as the two men pursued. “Get ‘im!” shouted Jythralo. Young Thrann ran down the next street and turned a sharp corner trying the first back door her came to. Locked. He ran on, keeping to the shadows. The thunder cracked as a cloud burst open and the rain came down in torrential sheets.

“Here now! Boy!” yelled Agdar. “Come back ‘ere!” Devon’s footing gave way on the slick rocks and he fell, hitting the street with his shoulder. He scrambled up again and continued to run, holding his right shoulder now with his arm and Agdar gaining on him. As Devon turned a second corner he caught the glint of steel of Agdar’s knife in the light from the window he had just passed.

Just then, Devon ran into a guard, who was out patrolling the streets, toppling him over. The boy got up and ran again while the guard scrambled to his feet just as Agdar came around the corner.

“Say now!” said the guard, grabbing Agdar’s collar. “What’s this? A brigand! What is the manner of this? Who is that boy?” The shouts of the guard were drowned out in the pouring rain as the boy ran towards the embassy.

The black iron gates to the estate were open on orders for the late return of the ambassador’s son from his party. They clanged shut as he ran through them and up the stairs to the large double doors of the house. Two imposing statues of grim looking historical figures were there to meet him towering ten meters above him.

Devon finally pushed poen the doors, and entered the foyer where he was met by Adolfe, his father’s servent. The man looked down his crooked nose and peered at him with his beady black eyes. His thin hair was, like always, plastered back on his head and tied with a small ebony ribbon.

“You are positively filthy Master Devon,” he drawled in oily tones. Adolfe hadn’t ever liked Maurice’s youngest son for his independence and apparent disregard for his father’s rules. Any chance the man got to discipline the boy was gratifying.

“Not now Adolofe,” said Devon earnestly. “I must see Father!” He ran past the servant who pursued.

“Your father’s engaged at the moment Master Devon! Wait!” Ignoring the shouts, Devon ran on until he got to his father’s study
.
“Father!” he shouted to the mahogany door. “Father quick please! It’s Devon!”

“Calm boy,” said Maurice as he opened the door to reveal a man in his mid-forties standing in the smart uniform of the Gondorian nobles. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he held a small beaker of sherry in his right hand. He was a no-nonsense man who had a great “sense” of devotion to his sons, even though it was very misguided. Maurice Thrann was very intent on etiquette and the political situation of his family and spent little time indulging in the frivolous luxuries of letting go and getting out with his boys. His view of devotion and paternity was focused completely on raising them to be successful and well-learned gentlemen.

“What is it? I’m sort of busy,” he said motioning to the men waiting within. “Can it wait?”

“No! It’s important father,” said Devon. “They can hear too,” he added as an afterthought.

“Son, why don’t you tell me once they leave. It shan’t be long.”

“But—!” The door to the study closed and Devon was left standing in front of it, a very put out Adolfe staring at him.

“Now come with me Master Devon and we’ll have ye cleaned up before your father’s delegates leave so you’re at least presentable.” The boy slumped his shoulders and followed the servant reluctantly allowing to be cleaned and changed into a soft and comfortable tunic with split sides and a pair of loose trousers to be ‘presented’, as Adolfe so bluntly put it, to his father.

“It’s too late for that sort of meeting,” protested Devon. “The men will be gone now, I’d like to hurry!”

“Your father insists your clean and not offensive to look at when he sees you,” said Adolfe cheerily, thoroughly enjoying making Devon uncomfortable. At fifteen after ten—as it was—Devon made his way back to the study and waited for the gentlemen to leave. At ten and thirty they finally did and Maurice permitted his youngest son into his small conservatory next to his study.

Maurice Thrann took a seat in a plush chair with fine embroidery and brass nail heads, propping his feet up on a matching foot rest. Devon, to make a point that he was terribly serious, took up the most uncomfortable chair across from his father and looked at him imperiously as he spoke.

“Father, as I was walking home from the social this evening I encountered Jythralo Doran and his man Agdar walking my way. Assuming they were footpads, as I could not see them just yet, I hid in an alleyway for them to pass since I was without my sword. As they drew nearer I could hear of what they were speaking. Agdar began talking nervously and asking Jythralo—”

“Captain Doran, if you please Devon.” The boy, beginning to get frustrated consented and continued what he had to stay.

“Agdar asked Captain Jythralo if he knew what he was doing and telling him that he should mind where and when he conducted his business so as not to let you, father, know what he is up to.” Expecting his father to lean forward in interest, Devon was quite disappointed to see his father take just a lingering sip of his sherry and mutter ‘go on’.

“Then, when asked of how his dealings were coming thereupon, Captain Jythralo said something of this sort, ‘It’s just fine. I’ve got the ambassador put in me pocket, and no one suspects a thing. Umbar shall be restored to its proper glory under our administration yet again mate. The corsairs have ne’er been routed, and ne’er shall they! Not as long as I’m Captain!’” Devon’s temper flared as his father began to laugh.

“There, there boy. I’m glad to see that you certainly enjoyed yourself at the social but I think that a good sleep and a cup of coffee in the morning should do you well to cleanse your mind of the wine they were serving.”

“You don’t believe me?! Father I’m not jesting! I swear it!!” Maurice chuckled and ushered his boy, now rigid with rage from the room.

“Go on Devon. Goodnight,” he said and walked his way to the room.

Furious, Devon took off down the corridor until he reached his own chambers, and stormed to the very back window where he looked out over the wall of the embassy to the sea. The waves came and crashed against beach as the gulls cried in the darkness, diving into the sea for their late suppers. He then walked to the window that faced the south towards the docks and looked down into the harbor. No ships were coming in this night and all were secured in place. The crew of The Silver Wyrm had been kept aboard for repairs after their encounter with the sea-storm and Devon could see them bustling around in their wet cloaks, kept awake by the spirits they hid in their shirt pocket flasks.

He untied the top of his tunic and pulled it off over his head replacing it with the billowy shirt he slept in. Then, after removing his boots and trousers, slipped under the covers, watching as the rain continued to fall. His mind swirled with the thoughts of Jythralo and the threat he imposed on his father’s joining up Umbar with the rest of the Gondorian kingdom. Even though there was much he’d have liked to think about, it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

In the morning he dressed quickly and skipped breakfast going out early to tell his friends of what he’d discovered. Hopefully they’d believe him...

*-- -*- --*

Merriment filled the inn on the westernmost corner of Styrn Square that evening as Jythralo passed by. The gaiety had only just begun to die down as he and Druks Agdar made their way towards the docks. Their words were hushed, but not so much as to keep them from reaching the ears of a boy hidden in the alleyway. The identity of their eavesdropper was unknown however as they continued to walk on.

“ ‘Umbar shall be restored’ says you,” Agdar was saying as the two men walked by the place where their listener hid. “ ‘Not before we’re caught’ says I. Anxious I am, Cap’n.” At that precise moment, the barrel had rolled into the street as the sound of feet slapping the ground ran in the opposite direction.

“Get him!” shouted Jythralo, giving Agdar a shove into the alleyway. The sailor pulled a short knife out of his boot and gave chase as the boy ran. The captain’s extensive knowledge of Umbar’s layout told Jythralo the probable course the runaway would take and he hurried in that direction. As he passed the guard house he rapped quickly on the door. “Authorities!” he bellowed. A smart looking man in his early forties opened the door.

“Why Captain Doran! What’s the trouble?” The rain had begun to fall.

“Footpads,” said Jythralo importantly. Immediately five guards shuffled out of the house and followed the captain as he led them to the place he expected his man to chase the fugitive. Not half a minute after they’d arrived a teenage boy came running around the corner and barreling into the first guard. He was knocked clean off his feet and it didn’t take any time for the boy to scramble up again and run on his way. Then Agdar came, trying to skirt the guard to get after the boy.

“Say now!” said the guard, grabbing Agdar’s collar. “What’s this? A brigand! What is the manner of this? Who is that boy?”

“Ah, Mr. Deffins, that’s my man Druks Agdar. That boy is a pickpocket,” lied Jythralo. “I sent Agdar after him for his legs are faster than mine.” The guards believed him on account of his authority in the city and went on their way back towards the guardhouse.

“Sorry Cap’n,” said Agdar, walking stiffly up beside his master. “I slipped along the way.” But Jythralo wasn’t listening to the man’s excuse beside him. His mind was reeling at what he was to do now that someone had overheard his conversation. “Did ye see him anyhow?” Oh yes, he had seen the boy very clearly.

“Yes, Agdar. I saw him alright. And we have ourselves a bit of a predicament,” he turned and began to walk quickly back to his townhouse, a very anxious Agdar on his heels.

“Who was it?” he whispered.

“It was Devon Thrann,” Jythralo answered stiffly. “The ambassador’s son.”