[maikafanawen]

Devon led his other friends through the chaotic streets of Umbar towards the Montrés townhouse. Bodies were packed tightly into the street protesting, or arguing loudly. Urchins and pickpockets (common in the wealthier parts of town) darted in and out stuffing their loot into pouches hidden beneath their filthy patched tunics. A beggar man dove out from the darkness of one ally to attempt to tackle Devon, grabbing one of his legs in midstride. The brown haired young man whipped out his sword and pointed it at the man's chin. The ambassador's son's eyes were wide, not with panic, but with disbelief. An outright attack in the middle of the day?

"Move back old man," he shouted moving his sword. Mumbling a string of curses on both the man, his sword, and his friends the beggar retreated into the darkness of his ally. Devon sheathed his sword and gave Calnan and Callath a shocked look. "In broad daylight," he commented—more to himself than them. The three turned and moved on, weaving in and out of the angry mob towards the seamstress's shop.

At one point in the road they saw the Gondor-Umbarian guard ushering people into a line in front of collapsible tables set up in the middle of the street. Behind each one sat a scribe with a stack of linen squares, and a jar of blood red paint on each desk. In the hands of each one rested a brush. Devon darted by quickly but got a glimpse of the large red "C" painted on each one. Directly behind the scribes were chairs where people from the line were being told to sit as a harried looking tailor hurriedly sewed the patch on the clothing of each person. As he examined the faces of the people in procession, he noticed a good many of them as exceptionally wealthy people, but all of them had the dark skin and near-black hair of the pirate race. His expression must have betrayed his perplexity when he looked back at Calnan and Callath but both shook their heads vacantly, equally confused.

Ahead a man stood on a raised, hastily constructed platform reading out from a scroll of parchment that had the ambassador's stamp and ribbon hanging from the top handle. The three stopped to listen as the new laws were read. When the crier finished, protestations were shouted loudly above the crowd even though this was the fourth or fifth reading in this area. Devon immediately shot an almost accusing look at Calnan.

"You seemed to have left out something in your relay of what happened in that meeting!" he whispered tensely. Callath looked at him too, equally inquisitive.

"They most likely decided on those at the Security Council meeting," he explained. "Attachés aren't ever included there. It's strictly local government." Devon relaxed visibly but still didn't quite understand. The Security Council would have been held instantaneously for the scribes to be here and made so much progress all ready judging by the healthy number of people in badges all ready. But since time was all ready not among their list of allies, Devon decided to let the matter drop and continue on to Adeline's house.

The sign of the seamstress's shop jutted out over the street from its iron post and hung over the faded blue door that led into the Montrés's sewing shop on the first floor and fine living quarters on the second and third. Devon reached it and knocked loudly. Callath tried to peer through an opening in the curtains drawn on the other side of the street window. He shook his head. The student banged again and shook at the locked handle. The shutters creaked open from the second story window and Adeline's pale, pretty face peered down.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Hold on a moment and I'll be down to let you in." The shutters closed and the three men stood outside the door, looking again at the mob. One disgruntled man brushed by Callath with such force he knocked him over and caused him to step in a puddle of waste. The stable-hand shook the grime from his boot only to be shoved back in again.

"Here now," the flaxen haired boy said, stepping from the puddle for the second time. The man turned and faced him challengingly. He had thick black hair and a scarred, tanned face. Thick eyebrows were pressed over his grey eyes that were burning with anger and his mouth was pulled back into a sneer. At his sides, great fists clenched ready and eager to fly. Callath took all this in very quickly and held up his palms in amity. "My fault," he stammered quickly. "I've got a clumsy step it would seem." The man's eyebrows rose a bit but his fists didn't slacken. He did turn though and continued on his unfortunate path down the street.

"You're as wise as you look, you know that Callath?" Devon said amusingly. The lock on the Montrés's door clicked and Adeline pulled it open beckoning them inside quickly.