[Arvedui III]

It was amazing how items men can create, made with care and infused with heart, that were now cast aside, transforming them into simple junk.

And junk it was, rank, sickening, gritty junk at that, that Telson was now reclining against, trying valiantly to fight a nausea welling up in the pit of his stomach. As ever, noisy, frenzied crowds milled in the streets about him and the pile of debris he sat on, a courtesy to a corsair family from local Gondorian loyalists. More than any rubble or corsair, the fact that men had destroyed a home in the name of Gondor disgusted him. So now with all his might Telson tried to descry through the crowd the four people he wanted to speak with most acutely.

For all their wonderful planning, Telson had not told Thrann the younger and his friends where to find him, nor had they disclosed their whereabouts to him.

Still unable to comprehend his short-sightedness on the matter of his four young allies, Telson was vainly attempting to devise the best way to find them. Another foray into the embassy would not be wise, as he was a marked man there, he knew that one of them, Callath maybe, worked in a stable, but there were tens of stables in Umbar, (He had counted them) and the highborn girl must live somewhere, but then, if he knew where he wouldn't be thinking about it on a smoking pile of wreckage.

Quite suddenly, a yelp like a frightened dog caught Telson's attention, jerking his head almost violently to face the busy street, his hand straying instinctively to the hilt of his sword. The sight his eyes met couldn't help but provoke a smile. Running toward him and waving in an ungainly manner was the stablehand, Callath, who looked as though he had just finished a good night's work at a bar. However, the sight of him wasn't nearly as amusing as the sound of him. For, he seemed to be suffering under the delusion that Telson had twelve or so different names or else was constantly getting it wrong. "Mr. Telenion" He called, then blushed and murmured loud enough for Telson to hear, " No, that's no it, uh, Mr. Enson! Wait, no. Sorry, uh," As Callath drew eye level him he heaved a sigh and looked up imploringly at him. "Sir, sir I'm so sorry. It's your horse, sir."

What horse?

As Telson tried to ponder this new mystery or wether the boy was just drunk, Callath's face morphed into the picture of humble apology, save for his eyes, which burned with an intensity he had never seen there before, as though they were desperately trying to convey his mind into Telson's own. He smiled inwardly, for the boy was as good an actor as one could wish. As excruciatingly difficult as it was to not burst out in laughter, he gave Callath his best frown and said in an annoyed-yet-imperious voice, "What is it, dullard boy?" Winking as he did so. "You had best come with me, sir." The stablehand answered gravely, and beaconed him into the throng.

Once they were safely engulfed in the crowd and noise, Telson broke into a smile and whispered, "Well done. I enjoyed the performance, but why is it necessary that we speak in code?" "Tails." Callath muttered vaguely, and Telson glanced nervously backwards."Then we should get out of sight, now." He hissed pointedly. "Stables, sir. Not too far to go." Callath voiced loud enough for those around them to hear. "They're far enough. Come with me boy, I detest surprises." Telson yelled back, and prodded Callath in the back until both of them were behind a shed and well out of sight. "Now," Telson said quietly, "What has occurred that would make someone tail you? And on who's orders?"

Callath sighed and began to say in a quick whisper, "Telson, last night, we were coming home from the inn for the night, and got into a carriage and they knocked us out. We woke up at Doran's." "Jytharo Doran?" Telson felt the need to clarify this, simply because if Doran had held them at any one time, then Callath had no right to be alive and talking with him now. "Yes, the same. Anyway, he, he made a deal with us. He wants to meet us on the sea to fight for Umbar. If he wins, Umbar's his. He told us to get a captains and crews and catapults and as many ships as we can or we forfeit Umbar to him. If we win, he and all those who think like him will leave. But I don't see how that's going to happen. And Telson, he released Devon and Calnan and I, but he kept Adeline. She's gone." He concluded in a forlorn, kind of shocked whisper.

The first thought after hearing all this was that either Doran was mad or had the most skewered sense of humor ever to be possessed by man, which was an affront because Telson thought that honor had always belonged to him. Why would he give them, no, us a chance, albeit it holds the same chance of me becoming the queen of Mordor? Because he thinks to play us cruelly before he strikes to kill? No. Because he needs someone, anyone to fight? No. Is this a corsair version of honor? Maybe.

"Well," Telson sighed, standing up. "That is news, but not unexpected in it's nature. And now we have a plan from which to work against, so perhaps it's better this way." "Right," Callath said derisively. "It's perfect. We put to sea, if, and only if we can find the means to do that, and then we face Doran's well armed fleet, while he has hold of Adeline. Splendid."

"Were the odds any better on land?" Telson said and smiled.

Callath shrugged and smiled back, then said loudly, "Come then sir, to the stables and I'm dreadfully sorry about this, sir."

" Lead on, my lad." Telson replied, and followed him back into the street, his mind groping to form a approach to this whole bothersome business of quelling rebellion.