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Old 01-17-2004, 12:31 AM   #58
Ealasaide
Shadow of Tyrn Gorthad
 
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Sting

As Airefalas followed Mithadan and the guard, Seft, down the stairs to the courtyard where the reception was to be held, he found himself thinking about faith, the stalwart belief in something that bears an utter lack of proof. As a sailor from the tender age of nine, when his father had first sent him to sea to make of man of him, Airefalas had an abundance of faith. All sailors did: faith that their vessel could bear the stresses put upon her by the open sea, that fair winds would follow foul, and faith that the stars that led them out of port would remain in their tracks to guide the seafarers home again at journey‘s end. What he had not expected when he signed on for this particular journey was how much his faith would be tested. In addition to the usual demands on his faith, he now found himself faced with several he had not foreseen: the faith that Lord Falasmir would treat them honorably; the faith that Mithadan had a plan should Lord Falasmir prove false; and the faith that he, Airefalas, would live through the evening.

He let his gaze fall on the tall figure of Mithadan ahead of him. He found it disconcerting the way Mithadan played his hand so close to the vest, telling Airefalas only what he needed to know to function in a given moment but not much else. A lifelong chess player, Airefalas liked to plan for contingencies in advance, to think things out several moves ahead, and to have a secondary plan of action in mind should the first not work out. He was more than capable of thinking on his feet and making the split second decisions that were sometimes necessary for survival, but he had always been of the mind that a little preparation could go a long way in a pinch. While it was clear to him that Mithadan did have some kind of plan in mind should things go awry, his captain had intimated to Airefalas very little in terms of what that plan might be. He didn't know whether it was because Mithadan had not yet decided whether he could fully trust his new first mate, or whether it came simply as the result of a lifetime of self-reliance on the part of the captain. Either way, Airefalas felt slightly adrift and very much reliant on his sailor's supply of faith.

It didn't help matters, either, that Airefalas suspected Mithadan of having a secondary purpose there in Umbar, as well, one that had nothing to do caravans, traders, or even Lord Falasmir. He had no idea what it was, though it was obviously some personal matter. On a few rare occasions, he had tried subtly to draw Mithadan out on the subject, but had always been rebuffed; pleasantly and politely rebuffed, but rebuffed all the same. Finally, he gave it up, acknowledging to himself that to pry into Mithadan's personal affairs was none of his business, anyway. It was certainly beyond his duty and station as first mate. He wished he could approach Mithadan on a even footing, as captain to captain, but he knew it could never happen. The simple fact was that Airefalas was no longer a captain in his own right. He was a first mate and, he reminded himself, it would serve him well to remember that. Even so, questions gnawed at the back of his mind. He couldn't help but wonder how much this other matter was influencing Mithadan in his dealings with Umbar. Or if it had any bearing at all.

Sighing, Airefalas tried hard to put it all out of his mind. Faith. He felt the weight of Mithadan’s purse in his pocket and reminded himself of the confidence his captain had placed in him to deal with the traders. That was something he could do, and do very well. Taking the wine that was offered him as he entered the reception, Airefalas moved confidently amongst the assembly of traders, talking crops, growing seasons, and prices. Always prices. He enjoyed the endless dickering and negotiations immensely. He had a talent for it, which he supposed he had inherited from his father who had started his business with a single purseful of borrowed money and one rickety ship. By the time he had died, an old man, he had had in his possession a small fleet of ships. Of course, they all belonged to Avarlond now, Airefalas’ older brother, fourteen years his senior. As the second son, all Airefalas had gotten from his father, in the end, was his father’s good looks and a knack for making his way in the world. Airefalas breathed in the aroma of flowers as he bent over a sampling of delicate saffron threads that had been carried in from the lands far beyond the Great Desert.

“Saffron,” said the attending merchant, a small, birdlike fellow, dressed in robes the color of the spice he sold. “Vegetable gold. Look closely, sir. You will see only the red of the female stigmas, no yellow. ”

Airefalas nodded, bending forward to take a closer look. It was indeed saffron of the highest quality. It would be prized like gold in the nobler kitchens of Gondor. As he entered into negotiations with the little man for the purchase of his saffron, he saw Mithadan standing nearby, his hand in his pocket and a faraway look in his grey eyes seeming, for at least that instant, many miles away. Watching him, Airefalas felt suddenly confident that though things may not go as planned or even as hoped, he and Mithadan would not be dying that night.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:41 PM January 17, 2004: Message edited by: Ealasaide ]
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