[piosenniel]

Rog

His companion was in a fretful mood. Aiwendil's last words to Rog were spoken in an uneasy tone, almost, as if things were slipping away from him and he could not see his way through this problem. ‘If only . . .’ he had said in a wishful way. With a sigh, the old man had recollected himself a bit and suggested a solution, though left it for Rog to carry through on it.

Not that Rog minded doing this. He had been doing just such for his companion during the course of their acquaintance and travels. But lately it seemed Aiwendil had become less sure of himself. And now as they traveled further into areas unfamiliar to him Aiwendil seemed less skilled in meeting the unplanned for situations which arose. Rog wrote it off this time as the fretting of an old man. ‘Rest yourself,’ he said in a kindly manner. ‘I’ll speak with the captain.’ He stepped toward the door. ‘And tea. I’ll bring us both back a cup. The galley always has a kettle on the boil.’

The passage to the stern was easier this time. To his surprise and delight, his stomach did not betray him in this form. Faragaer was standing near the helm when Rog approached, and motioned him up to where he stood. ‘Keep her steady,’ he advised the helmsman as he invited Rog to take a seat in on the bench outside his cabin.

Faragaer was interested in how Rog knew they would not be entering the Haven of Umbar, since he could not recall discussing it with him. Rog shrugged it off saying he had heard it mentioned in passing by some sailors as he hung over the ship’s railing. ‘My companion wondered if there were some traders well known to you and trustworthy who will be at the cove you do intend to anchor in, and who might let us travel with them to the city.’

The captain wrinkled his brow, considering the merchants who were meeting him. ‘Yes, there is a small group of them, I think who will be heading back north to Umbar – the ones who are picking up the crates of quail. Good men, and fair. I’ll ask them to see you safely to your destination.’ Rog thanked the captain, asking just how many days of land travel he thought it would be from their landing place. ‘Two at the most – they travel quickly with horses and wagons,’ Faragaer replied. ‘And we should reach the cove later tonight.’

‘This is good,’ Rog thought to himself as he made his way back to their cabin with two steaming cups of tea laced with honey. ‘We can slip into the city unnoticed in the midst of the trading caravan, pick up a few supplies, and be on our way south.’ He pushed open the door to his cabin with his foot, calling out Aiwendil’s name . . .