[Belin]

Farucan’s eyes wandered listlessly over the inventory sheets, not really seeing them. He wondered whether he had been rash. Certainly it seemed unlikely, as he had never known himself to be so before, but he found himself thinking of the news he had not yet heard, and wondering whether anyone else would hear it. The death of the heir would cause a stir, he supposed, but the effects of the poison he’d chosen were much like those of a disease rather common in Harad, and would, he hoped, be attributed to some weakness of Earnil’s own. All lines of royalty became corrupt eventually, did they not? In any case, Farucan was no apothecary, and his limited means of research had yielded nothing better.

But death would always be a problem; it could never be hidden. Let the queen deal with it. Perhaps blame would fall on the demon. He certainly would have suspected it first, even had he not heard it speak. Didn’t explanations of things everyone already knew usually hint at something suspicious? Idly fingering the fine embroidery on his sleeves, Farucan tried to clear his mind. Only a fool would bear malice to a demon, he told himself, absently signing the figures he hadn’t checked. Be calm. Twelve for the eastern side of town, twenty for the merchant, three for that absurd wedding, five for the palace, “the human child must die…”

Farucan jerked his head up suddenly, taking no notice of the inkstain suddenly obliterating the rest of his records. “The human child?” he cried aloud, suddenly filled with disgust.

“Shh!”

Farucan leapt to his feet, wheeling around wildly at the noise. “Who… where…Mizbah?”

The slender youth in the doorway bowed hurriedly. “I’ve come from the kitchens,” he said, speaking the language of Harad. “You asked me to bring you news. I have news. Close the door.”

Farucan moved past him with greater than usual swiftness and fumbled with the doorknob until he managed to get it closed. “Did…did I kill him?” he asked, with some attempt at composure.

The youth’s impassive, dark gray eyes took in the office and the man with what Farucan interpreted as contempt. “You killed a dog,” he said. “Oh, and some rats, for which I suppose I ought to thank you. Any assumptions you have about the kitchens of a palace are probably wrong. I’ve prepared better meals in the caravan.”

Farucan sank back into his seat, tugging at his own hair in an attempt to clear his mind. “Wonderful,” he muttered, “I am the distinguished assassin of children and household pets. I can’t wait to tell the king.” He glanced at Mizbah, who stood quietly, waiting for more questions. “Poison misfired, eh?”

Mizbah nodded. “Yes. He fed his meal to the dog, and the dog died. They understand, I think.”

“You mean everyone knows.”

Another nod. “They’re no fools. Or not all of them are. You’ve been careless. People are suspicious around the heir.”

“Well, I could hardly kill him without killing him, could I? Someone was bound to notice. Only I was counting on the confusion. Do they know any more than that?”

Mizbah spread his fingers wide in a gesture of ignorance. “Who can say what they know? I am not precisely their intimate confidant. They know that there was poison in the food. They know it was meant for the heir, and one of the rumors already says Haradrim are responsible. The rest is speculation that nobody really believes, yet. Not yet. I assume you have a plan for this contingency?”

“Yes, I think so… did a cat die?”

“No, a dog. Do you need me to explain this again? Are you confused?”

“No. Mind your manners, sir; I’m not a fool myself.” Mizbah’s answering bow did nothing to dispell Farucan’s irritation with the man, but there was no time to play it off against him now. He mentally pronounced himself the winner and moved off, dizzy with adrenaline, to gather the few things that were important to him. Where was he going?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t return to Harad as a failure. Impossible, just as impossible as remaining in Osgiliath, and all the world besides was a hostile wilderness where he would have no place. Much as he hated the Gondorians, they were at the very least not barbarians. But he’d have no chance to redeem himself, there or here. His brilliant career as a useless blundering exile would last out his life... The fault of the demon, without whom he would not have been reduced to flight from the child he’d been unable to kill...He looked back into his office, where Mizbah was still standing. “I don’t suppose you need another caravaner?”

The man smiled politely. Farucan nodded. “Listen to this, then,” he said, pressing gold into the other’s hand. “I’d like your master to escort me to a village. And I’d like you to stay here.”