The King's Players RPG

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon got up early the next day. He usually did when they were so near to a performance as they were now, since he was usually to nervous to sleep much. And the Valar knew that he had reasons enough to be nervous now. Usually he would have been able to tell himself that things were bound to go smoothly in the end since they were all talented enough to avoid making fools of themselves. Now, however, he thought that if things went on as they had begun, they would be lucky if they did not get thrown out of the city even before they had a chance to perform the play.

The trouble that kept coming to them was actually the main reason why Harrenon had decided to follow Coldan’s instructions and keep an eye on Sador for a while. He himself did not really think that the new arrival was up to anything harmful, but he knew he would better have proof of that before he imparted his opinion to Coldan.

Frankly, Harrenon was slightly exasperated with the latter’s behaviour during the past few days. He had his own explanations for it, which had almost been confirmed the night before when Coldan had mumbled to him some nonsense about how he should never fall in love with a woman. Of course, there was also the fact that Coldan had asked him to keep an eye not only on Sador, but on Asta also. Yet Harrenon had no intention of doing that. He cared too much for his hide to risk annoying Asta.

Harrenon headed for the common room. Sador was not there yet. Good. That meant he had some time to eat before he started his new mission. Harrenon shook his head when the thought entered his mind. If I’m not careful, I’ll be turning into Branor soon, he told himself. The entire idea was absurd, he knew that. He also knew spying had never been a talent of his. He was bound draw attention to himself. And what was he going to do if anyone noticed his behaviour and challenged him about him? Of course, he could always plead curiosity, everyone knew he was not lacking in it, but would he be believed this time? The entire situation was absurd, but it was too late for him to turn back now.

“One day, Harry,” Harrenon told himself. “You’ll land into hot water. And then – maybe then – you’ll hopefully learn that it is fine to simply say no sometimes.”

[Anguirel]

Sador of Burlach had two awakenings this day. At dawn, hurriedly dressed, he limped a bleary way some steps to a prearranged corner, a couple of small, pale letters in his hand, where he encountered a Guard Captain on a roan horse.

The young man eyed the older soldier curiously for a long moment. This captain again; a free agent, an unpredictable one; he did not know his name, only that he had passed a mysterious dispatch to Aldarion. Still, he was, for the moment, the only tool at hand.

"These," Sador spat out curtly, "this to my father, that to the elder of my sisters. And now, I'm going straight back to bed."

***

Cirdacil - already at his desk - received and read the letter without any surprise, nodding automatically at several points, the very model of an industrious old gentleman in the process of confirming his worldview. Then he set the message down and took up the quill and account book again.

Lady Aerwen read her communication an hour or two later, on her way into the Tower's great library, where she delighted to spend her days in profound reading; the old and superannuated Guard who served as porter, a mild and owlish man who was particularly fond of this sweet, plain, ageing maid, passed it to her. She left the seal unbroken until well within the library. Finding her usual seat, she took down a History of the Isen Campaigns. Only now did she lay the letter between the tome's pages, and read it quickly as if swallowing an unpleasant errand. But there was unwonted, if suppressed, excitement in her eyes, too.

***

Sador might have got back to bed, but not to sleep; the arrangements here were hardly luxuriant, anyway. And he was as harried by as much worry by any of the players, albeit of another sort. Were not things going rather too conveniently? Today was all-important; everything was to be won; and he could not help experiencing some forboding about it. Besides, soon he would face her again (and rest assured, he was not here thinking of his sister, nor of any among the company). He had passed an uncertain night, and it was not to be redeemed even by the sweet afterslumber of a lazy morning...

[Formendacil]

Coldan had agreed to join Amdír, and the older man thought that he noticed an element of relief in his agreement, as though he were glad to get away from the others. Perhaps it meant nothing, but Amdír noticed that Coldan was alone until he came up and asked him to join.

As they rode out of the city and around the great wall, Amdír remembered that Coldan had asked for advice the day before about how to win Asta's love. At the time he had been glad that Rollan had answered, but he wondered now if something had gone awry. He was not sure, however, if he should ask Coldan about it, or if he should let the poor man enjoy the chance to forget about whatever was troubling him.

He decided on the latter--though if the opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction of Coldan's troubles arose, he planned to do so.

"They tell me, Coldan, that Dorwinion is a hilly land beside a great sea. Is it much like Gondor, then? You've travelled to Dol Amroth and through Emyn Arnen. Do the shores of Belegaer remind you of the shores of Rhûn?"

[Anguirel]

It was a more unkempt looking Sador of Burlach than the previous day's who now stumbled jerkily into the inn's central meeting place; already his decision to pack papers, not a change of costume, was beginning to tell, in creases and rumples amidst fine silk and satin; neither had he bothered to provide himself with a comb, and his long white-gold hair was in a disorder of errant strands. It seemed like a kind of fellow-feeling in him that made him take in and approach young Harrenon first, who had something of the same scattiness about his appearance.

"Morning, good sir. I do not think we have yet met? I am known as Sador; would you like to take breakfast with me? I already owe your company much," he said with a wryly laughing expression, "for last night your playwright purchased my drink and provided my entertainment, too...

"What do they call you, who are you to play, and would you rather eat bacon or eggs or both?"

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor tucked into her third plate of food and relished the opportunity to swing her legs back and forth from the chair. It was a habit she'd had to break herself of when she'd entered the Queen's service, even though Pippin had assured her that he continued to "get away with it" when he was South.

She was rather pleased with herself--here she was, on her own Mad Adventure Bent, and all for a perfectly decent cause, too! Of course, she had her own interests, too... Drat, the Court must have been rubbing off on her!

The lass who had given her breakfast--Thiliel, her name was, and she seemed pleasant enough--had been only too happy, once she learned who Elanor was, to let her know that, yes, the King's Players were at the inn, within the courtyard, and that she would let the mistress of the troupe know that Elanor wished to speak with her when she brought her her breakfast. That seemed a little odd to Elanor, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it, so she let it lie.

For now, though, Elanor was in no hurry, so she continued to eat her breakfast, and watch the other people who were eating, idly trying to guess what sort of people they were from their appearances and their mannerisms.

[Nerwen]

Worn out by the hard work and turmoil of the day before, Asta had risen somewhat later than usual, to find that Coldan had already left with Amdír, and that Aldarion was nowhere to be seen. She was not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Perhaps both.

The Common Room was still quite crowded; so much so, in fact, that Asta was unable to attract the attention of the flighty little maid, and had to resign herself to waiting.

She caught sight of Lord Sador's fair head. The young nobleman was, for some reason, chatting away to Harrenon, of all people. Asta could not imagine why; Harry was such a dull youth, with never a word to say for himself, that she could barely remember he existed much of the time.

As for Sador himself, she felt she had misjudged him. He really had been quite charming to her the previous evening. Although– here Asta frowned, and narrowed her pale eyes– he had managed to evade all her attempts to find out anything more about his plans, his connection with Aldarion, or Aldarion's with the unnamed lady of Dol Amroth, with the same ease with which Asta could manipulate a tool.

She still had the mysterious note under her pillow. Perhaps she should show it to someone? But who? Brinn? Rollan?

While she pondered, her gaze lighted on a very pretty girl-child sitting near by. Strange that such a little thing should be left to breakfast by herself– but then no doubt whoever had charge of her had not gone far. Certainly no child alone could have accounted for so many empty dishes.

The little girl looked up, meeting her eyes with unchild-like coolness, one golden brow delicately arched in enquiry. Goodness, thought Asta, but these city children were bold! That is, if the little girl was from the city. There was something in the cast of her features that seemed vaguely foreign– not just to Minas Anor, but to anywhere else Asta had been on her travels. She had, Asta decided, almost the face of an adult in miniature.

"Good morning, dear," said Asta brightly. She had not really had all that much to do with the little ones, but she knew this was how one was supposed to talk to them. "Where are your Mummy and Daddy?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan had agreed to Amdír's invitation gratefully enough, relieved to disentangle himself for a while from the quagmire of stress and hurt feelings back at the inn; hopefully, that would help him to see things with fresh eyes on his return and maybe make some amends for the upheaval he had caused.

Only when they had passed the gates did he remember that he had been supposed to see Brinn the night before, but if she had sent for him, he had soundly slept through the summons, having fallen asleep immediately after going to bed (or rather, after luckily hitting the bed in the right moment when it happened to wheel his way). There was a small chance - well, about the chance of daisies growing in Mordor, if he knew her - that she had forgotten about it as well, but if she had not, he was in no particular hurry to face her.

His head still aching with a vengeance, he wasn't feeling very talkative, but after a while, when they were out of the city and turned south, following the gradual westward curve of the great wall, the carpenter broke the silence.

"They tell me, Coldan, that Dorwinion is a hilly land beside a great sea. Is it much like Gondor, then? You've travelled to Dol Amroth and through Emyn Arnen. Do the shores of Belegaer remind you of the shores of Rhûn?"

Blinking against the morning sun that was just climbing over the tops of Ephel Dúath, Coldan let his eyes drift over the green fields, gardens and pastures that gently rolled down towards the Great River.

"Yes - and no", he mused. "Our sea is landbound on all sides, so ze tides are veaker zan zose of ze Belegaer, zough it can still get stormy enough when the strong east vinds blow unbroken across ze plains of Rhûn. But the land is much alike, in parts at least. My family hails from Dol Bychin on ze vest coast, between ze River Celduin and ze southern mountains; it's warm and mild zere, although ve're farther north, much like your Ithilien and Belfalas viz zeir olive groves and vineyards, and zere are neat, busy ports at Nerevar and Burias - pretty towns, if nothing near as splendid as Dol Amroth and Pelargir. Ze veather is cooler up north around Celduin's mouth, vere my uncle Gwithold lives, but ze soil is dark and fat zere, and corn grows on it in abundance, and sugar-beets, even sweet galenas or pipeweed, as they call it up in Dale; ve hev learned to smoke it from zem, and grow it for trade as vell as for our own use."

He smiled at Amdír. "I hope I'm not boring you, but to tell ze truth, it gladdens my heart to speak of my home country; it vas good of you to ask me about it."

The smile vanished, overshadowed by a frown. "It's not ze land zat feels foreign to me here, it's ze people. I feel at home among ze Dale folk - zey're of a kind much alike to my own countrymen. But you Gondorians, I don't know vat's wrong viz you. 'High Men' you style yourselves and look down upon us whom you call 'Middle Men' as if heving an Elven Queen and a zree zousand year old city somehow made you better zan ze rest of ze vorld."

He blushed, suddenly remembering whom he was talking to. "Beg your pardon, Amdír, I meant no offence - I've met good, decent men among your people, men like you or Harry or zat officer at ze armoury yesterday. But most of zem seem to me more like your former boss, Lord Cirdacil - haughty and selfish; or glib and cunning like zat son of his who has moved in viz us, pursuing the Valar may know vich hidden plans. Even our own Aldarion seems to care little about anyzing other zan his art and his personal fame." He silently cursed himself for going down this particular lane of thought.

"But it's rude of me to complain to you about your compatriots. Let's speak of somezing else. Vy don't you tell me a bit about zat Lord Hallas whose estate ve're heading for?"

[Anguirel]

After the day's first industrious session at the Exchequer - roughly from dawn to the time when lesser worker rose in the first place - it was the custom of its Lord Warden to pause, and travel a little while out of the Citadel to find brisk and temperate refreshment at the house of his elder son, Ecsichil, heir of Burlach.

It was a more comfortable place, truth be told, than the traditional outposts of the ancient aristocracy of Anarion's kingdom, up on the Citadel above the rows of more mercantile grandeur. Perhaps, Cirdacil thought wryly, his eldest child's house spoke to his own frankly commercial blood. But now, by one of the quirks of economic irony that were the one element of financiery that still threw him occasionally, the wider, lower, mansions of the Sixth Circle were finding more favour with the younger nobility, like Ecsichil and his wife. Here they could be ostentatious and showy; could work, live and above all entertain beyond the reach of the gerontocracy's eye, or even the duties of Court. Nevertheless, Cirdacil always got a hearty welcome at his son's house in the morning, and he was almost always too busy to interrupt the Sixth Circle's rhythm by night.

He rode on one of the staider Treasury transportations now, an old white mule that not only knew its place, but was rather proud of it; and up here, so far from any precinct that lacked privilege, let alone savoured of danger, he took with him only a single Guardsman, and him not always.

He was very fortunate that he had chosen so to do today, though. For, hardly had the pair of them left the Citadel half a mile behind them, when Cirdacil coughed phantasmagorically, shuddering so violently from his saddle that had it not been for his Guard's firm and timely grasp, he would have impacted hard upon the cobbles.

"Are you not well, my lord?" this mere soldier (albeit of the Tower) now gasped out, against all protocol.

Cirdacil did not answer. He did not seem to be aware of the danger he had been preserved from, of the Guard's sudden and pressing touch, a grip which quite possibly would even have caused pain to a man of smaller will-power than the old Lord Warden.

"Do you see that man?"

"I'm sorry, my lord?"

"The very young fellow."

The Guard of the Citadel was puzzled. No one especially juvenile was near them; two bearded and middle-aged fellows in rich clothing were having a patently boring colloquy outside one of their houses; well, that woman in a higher window could be youngish, but his lordship hardly meant her...there was a sailor who looked more dead tired than any age especially...

...and there could be no doubt about it, it was at the sailor that Cirdacil was now staring, rather wildly, as he began, even, to gesticulate in a species of high over-excitement.

"Stars above, those eyes! His eyes...soldier, bring...that sailor...over here...I want a look at him...oh...tell him it's about the new ship money surcharges or something, and who I am. Tell him who I am, for certain; Cirdacil of Pelargir."

The Guard hesitated to fulfil his instruction, as the old man had obviously lost it at last; the crowning indignity that he seemed to have forgotten his very identity as Lord of Burlach, had just yelled out his old commoner's name...soon he would be telling the whole city about his career in the flax markets, or something...still, Lord Cirdacil was known to have a temper on him, to look after his own but to be a bad one to cross, so after a shortish pause the soldier did ride over to the sailor after all, hoping the Lord Warden wouldn't fall off his mule while his command was carried out...

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor's face broke into a wide smile when the lady with the sandy hair stopped by and asked her the question--and in a different dialect at that! Was she from the countryside? Or even beyond? "They're in the Guest-House in the Sixth Circle just outside the Citadel. Well, Mum certainly is; Dad might be out in the gardens at the Houses of Healing right now. He can't stand not having anything to do."

She let the woman muddle in confusion only a moment. "Oh, but where are my manners?" She reached across the table and clasped her hand for a moment, relishing the fact that here she could indulge in Shire customs that often perplexed outlanders. "Elanor Gamgee, at your service. Who might you be?"

[Formendacil]

"But it's rude of me to complain to you about your compatriots. Let's speak of somezing else. Vy don't you tell me a bit about zat Lord Hallas whose estate ve're heading for?"

Amdír thought about it for a moment.

"Lord Hallas is the sort of lord who you would not have seen in Minas Anor before the time of Elessar. Do not mistake me, he is a good man, but he is not a serious minded lord. He has a thousand interests, and as many friends. That is how he became the Master of Revels, when no other lord in the court wanted the task, and that is how he lost it, once he made it successful. He is an easy master to please, because he has wealth and does not fear to lose it--but he will not be impoverished any time soon, for he has good men as his stewards, and he inherited vast properties in Ithilien that are only these past few years being reclaimed.

"I do not know why there is a special sort of pride that seems to affect many Gondorians. Perhaps it is a just pride in the fight we made against Sauron that has become twisted, so that we no longer recognise that there were others who fought him as well.

"But perhaps it is more than that... perhaps it is the pride of Númenor haunting us yet--but I think it is not Gondor's purity that makes for this arrogance, but the fact that the blood of Númenor has become mixed. The way I see it, if only Númenóreans had settled in Gondor, they might have recognised their allies as fair partners without fearing that they would usurp them--but that is not how our tale was written. Instead, the Men of Gondor today are equal parts Númenórean and Men who never left--Men who might have been akin, they say, to the Edain of the House of Haleth in ancient times, Men related to the Dead of Dunharrow and the Dunlendings, and the peoples of shadowy Minihiriath. The Númenóreans did not recognise them as kin, in the same way they recognised the Northmen of Dale and Rhovannion as kin, and so although they formed one realm, they did not form a realm of trust.

"Instead, the Númenóreans feared the local Men, who outnumbered them--they feared that they would not be true if Sauron returned, and when Sauron returned at least some of the Men--those we call the Dead of Dunharrorw--proved them right. In their turn, the local Men feared the Dúnedain who had come over the Sea--feared them because they were tall, and bright, and long-lived; because they built great cities and fortresses and knew much. They loved them--and they feared them.

"And that, I think is how, although the Dúnedain never outnumbered the rest, that all of Gondor came to think of itself as pure-blooded Númenórean. The Men who were did not trust those who were not, and those who were not wanted to be so, and in both cases only those who whose blood could be trusted--those who were family fostered a distrust of those who were different. That is why, when we first met the Northmen, and were ourselves strong, we distrusted them--we distrusted them so much that we rebelled against a great king who shared their blood. That is also why, when we were weak, and needed their aid, we found a way to call them kin--those of the House of Hador that never crossed the mountains we said---and so we gave them Calenardhon."

Amdír paused, and looked at Coldan directly. "I apologise for going on so," he said. "I have wondered at such things before, however, and it seems to me that we Gondorians put down those who are different in order to assert how 'Gondorian' we are--how Númenórean we think we are. You mention Cirdacil, and he is a good example. His name is High Elvish, and his title is great, but the Elvish of Minas Tirith is not his mother-tongue, for he hails from Pelargir, where they speak the Common Speech, and his birth is as low as yours or mine. Who knows what blood is in his ancestry? Perhaps he has the blood of Corsairs, as you have the blood of Wainriders.

"I think Dorwinion has the better way of responding to such ancestry--to ignore it. What does it matter if an enemy soldier fathered one of your ancestors? Lúthien the Fair was the ancestor of Ar-Pharazôn as well as Tar-Míriel after all, but her goodness did not lighten his darkness.

Amdír paused again.

"I should apologise again--I do not know how much of the history that is commonly told to our children in Gondor is told in Dorwinion. Though you were our east-march once, you have more kinship with Dale than with Gondor, and much has passed since our lands were sundered. If I am speaking too much of our admittedly overwhelming history, which truly does drench everything in Gondor with its taste, perhaps we should speak of something else. Did you find that Rollan gave you the advice you sought yesterday?"