[Belin]

I wrote this post, looked at it, and decided it needed to be earlier. I'm putting it here until we can figure out where it goes.

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“Was he seen?” asked Farucan, slipping unconsciously into the detached voice he used with customers whose requests were entirely absurd, in the very moment when, were he less disciplined, he would have been shrieking at them as they told him his mad great-uncle had done once, when he had been in power. Farucan had always been of the opinion that the man was no more mad than he was, simply more public. He had never bothered to apply these principles to Berúthiel’s madness, and did not at this moment; the servant was by far a greater concern.

His cousin smiled faintly. “How do I know? He was not captured, and he was not successful. You can hardly expect me to hear what they are saying of it at the palace.”

“I don’t see what good you’re doing me then,” snapped Farucan, dropping his professionalism for a moment and stalking over to the table. “If they blame a lazy merchant, that’s one thing, but if they know we want to kill the heir they’ll hunt us down. They’ll hunt me down. And if they saw that it was a man of Harad…” Farucan stopped suddenly, and shuddered, not wanting to give voice to the ugly possibilities that suddenly crowded his mind. There was no telling what Tarannon might do to find him among the many Haradrim in the city, or how much more bothersome the Gondorians would become, or what the king might do with him if he were forced to return to Umbar under such circumstances. He would have to flee into the wilderness, he was doomed, doomed…

“On the other hand, they did succeed in drowning somebody at the docks,” put in his cousin helpfully. Farucan stared at him.

“Who?”

The man shrugged. “Some lord. You told them to look for a ship from the south. Maybe you should have been more specific.”

Farucan waved this away. “The point is, you’re right. I need to hear what the palace thinks. Thank you for the news.” The other, correctly interpreting this as “goodbye,” took his leave in something less than the formal court style used in Umbar. Dense as he was, thought Farucan, even he seemed worried. This was serious. He walked purposefully through his store, trying to decide how many people he could find that he could both trust and spare. Counting the assistant to the caravanner who regularly brought him news and an exiled farmer he had often spoken with of late, perhaps four or five. It would have to do. With a sigh of annoyance he set out to find someone who could carry the message. Perhaps that irritable young clerk of his would do, though it might be something of an effort convincing the man that, at the moment, he was there to observe and not to act. The next step would have to be considerably more circumspect. Poison? Well, perhaps. Access to the kitchen would be a good idea whether or no.

For now, he stored the idea in a corner of his mind and hurried about his business. If he didn’t finish quickly, he would be late for his meeting with the cats, and he prided himself on punctuality. On the other hand, it was not a meeting he looked forward to.

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I'll put up a profile for one of the kitchen guys soon.

--Belin Ibaimendi