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Old 01-21-2004, 04:48 PM   #71
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh
Spectre of Decay
 
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Sting

Mogru could not sleep. Over the past few nights he had been troubled by bad dreams that left no memory other than a vague sense of dread that would often keep him from rest until dawn; and now another of these had driven him back to wakefulness. It was as dark as pitch in his room and so still that he could hear the sounds of the house, which creaked as it settled itself. 'Even the house is sleeping,' he mused, and for a moment he was irrationally afraid that he would wake the ancient building, as though it were an old man who would berate him peevishly for disturbing his rest.

The house belonged to Mogru's father, who had built it when he first found wealth on the seas. Mogru had wondered how a man might find gold among the waves, for surely it would sink to the bottom. Certainly his brooch had done so when it fell into the river as he played, and his father had been angry at the loss. His father was often angry, and Mogru knew better than to trouble him when a ship was overdue or when he had been drinking with the other merchants. When he was old enough, he had been promised, he would sit and take wine with the men, for his father had said that this was how business was done. Mogru was not so certain that he would like business, for his father was often unhappy or angry when he had been talking of it; but he had been told that he would be a merchant when he was grown. He did not argue with his father when he said such things, although he hoped that business would not involve Nazam. His father was always angry when he had seen his fellow merchant; Mogru did not like him and he smiled like a snake.

Mogru tried again to sleep, but half-remembered images from his dream returned when he closed his eyes and it would not come. He was becoming thirsty now, and he took up the ewer that stood on the table by his bed. It was empty again: the servants often forgot this task and he was loth to trouble his father with it when he was so busy. At this time of year, several ships would be at sea at once, and he was often at the docks when he was not at the guild-hall in the town. When Mogru had last told him of the empty jug his father had been angry again and he had received a buffet for his pains.

Even so, Mogru's thirst was becoming insistent. Although the servants were asleep he knew where to find the well, and he was sure that he remembered how he had seen water drawn from it. Father often spoke of the foolishness of their servants, so he was sure that it could not be difficult to do this. His father was not awake to berate him for doing their work, and the bucket could not be heavy for the maidservants could lift it with ease. He had not felt its weight himself.

Moving as quietly as he could, Mogru left his room and made his way towards the main staircase. A little pale light entered from the lamps on the gate outside and he could see enough to make out where he stood. To reach the stairs, he knew that he must pass his father's room; and he must be careful not to wake the merchant: he would be sure to be beaten if he were to be caught 'sneaking about the place' at this hour. Each movement he made seemed weirdly loud, as though the house itself were trying to bring down punishment on him, and he saw now that the door of his father's room was ajar. If the merchant was awake he would have to be especially careful if he was to escape his wrath.

As he drew level with the door, Mogru suddenly caught a flash of movement within, as though some heavier shadow had moved within the darkness. Mogru froze, not knowing what he should do. If his father was not asleep then some trouble was keeping him so, and this could be dangerous. For a moment he thought of returning to his room, but he was as likely to be caught returning as he was leaving: if he was to be punished, he would like to have his drink as well.

As he stood shivering in the cold darkness, there came a movement from inside his father's room. Suddenly, silently the door swung open and a man walked through, taking as much care as had Mogru himself. The man seemed huge, but Mogru could tell that he was not as tall as his father; he was dressed all in black and wore his black headscarf across his face so that only his eyes showed. Mogru did not like those eyes: they were gentle, even kindly; but they were also vacant, suggesting that nothing lay behind them save the same darkness that was woven into the man's clothes. Frightened as he was of his father, Mogru knew that he must cry out: this man should not be here, and surely something was very wrong. He opened his mouth to shout.

The man's arm moved. At first Mogru thought that he was striking him, but the hand passed just in front of his face. He felt something brush across his neck and then strangely his chest began to feel warm and his throat filled with choking liquid. Suddenly he felt very tired, and although he knew it was ignoble to sleep on the floor he could not seem to resist the desire. His legs gave way and he fell to the ground in a pool of something wet. He felt ashamed that his bladder was out of his control, and surely his father would punish him for something so unmanly. The light from outside grew dimmer, and then suddenly it grew dark. Mogru slept.

***

Hazad left the house silently by the same window through which he had entered. Concerned that the boy's fall might have been heard, he moved swiftly, but his motions were careful and smooth. It was as important to escape cleanly as it was to approach unseen, for there would be no gold for dead men. The retainer whose task it had been to guard this entrance lay in the shadow of a wall, where he would be unseen until later in the day. By then, Hazad hoped to be back in his room near the road and inside a clean suit of clothes. He knew that he would see darker stains on the satin he wore when he stepped into the light. Drawing a cloth from within his shirt, he wiped his knife clean and returned it to its sheath. The boy had been inconvenient, but there was no danger of discovery now: if the worst happened he could escape in the confusion. Swiftly he moved into the shadow of some out-houses and began to make his way back to the inn. He must be in bed before the servant came to wake him.

Hours later, warm in bed and with his bloodied clothes consigned to the bottom of a saddlebag, Hazad thought again about his client. Nazam was an impatient and venal man, and there might be some trouble in claiming his fee. This gave him no great cause for concern, since he would choose when he accepted payment himself, a condition to which all his clients must agree. Still, it might be wise to change his place of residence, and to arrange the meeting somewhere far from it. The docks were usually a good place to hide, and he could leave the horse in a stable nearer the centre of town. It was unlikely that Nazam had any servants with the skill to follow a professional, so he could probably afford to accept one more contract before leaving Umbar. Driving such concerns from his mind, Hazad lay back in the pre-dawn light and fell into a dreamless sleep.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:05 AM January 26, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]
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