[Anguirel]

Sangalazin strolled from the foredeck where his dear, dear cousin was beginning to pontificate to Captain Chatazrakin on one of his favourite themes-the treatment of galley-slaves. The younger Lord smiled as he heard the familiar, brash sentences lash his back as he retreated. Making an example...really, cousin Azaryan had no grace, no nobility, nothing of Numenor about him at all, Sangalazin thought with a wide grin. The chance that this brutal ape, with a mind that scratched jarred tunes with the versatility of a rock, that this leaden Lord would ever ascend Gondor's throne...

No. Azaryan was not a King, but a Kingmaker. Sangalazin would use his cousin's falchion, the respect of his cousin among the Corsairs, to win Minas Anor. Any Castamirion who seriously sought Gondor needed the ships; and the ships would not obey Sangalazin, the perfumed stranger with the slimy tongue. He knew this too well. They would not obey him until the game was his.

Sangalazin had gone below into his own quarters; a part of the ship which rendered all else common and brackish, furnished at the Lord's expense. Where solid beech formed floors outside, Sangalazin trod on rosewood. Around him wall-paintings, frescoes after the style of Numenor, flowed like some divine stream, convincing, captivating, slightly chilling. One cycle was devoted to the gifts of the Sea, ever a friend to Castamir's line. The Gods of the Ocean stood arrayed in all their might; Ussun the Terrible, Master of the Sea, and Vineth, his beauteous consort, bearing their names first in the tongue of Umbar, then in Haradric, and then in Sindarin, tongue of the Faithful-

~Osse and Uinen~

Sangalazin was a scholar in all of these languages and more. He had learnt Quenya to an elegant standard from an ancient, diminutive tutor as a boy; he had studied the Silvan accent Sindarin acquired in the fabled forests to the North; he had paid a fortune to a trader to obtain a parchment with three words of Khuzdul; he could speak like a native in Westron, Southron, Easterling...

For Sangalazin realised that if the Castamirioni were to prevail, it was crucial that they be identified with the Faithful in the minds of the people, not the servants of Ar-Pharazon the Golden. They must stress their heritage as the truest, purest line of descent from the Lords of Andunie. Their cause was legitimate, just. But they had more than battles on land and sea to win. Eldacar and his progeny had increasingly propagandised them as foreigners, traitors, swarthy men who worshipped foreign demons, Corsairs who rode black ships and spared none. But they were the heirs of Elendil. And Sangalazin would show that, when he ruled his vast, humane, benevolent and civilised Empire.

The Lord raised one of his long, slender, aureate-skinned hands and caressed the hilt of the longsword he carried. It was emblematic of everything he hoped to achieve. Its style of Gondor, the blade straight and true, double edged for slashing, sharp-pointed for a lunge that such a lovely weapon would never, if its owner could help it, perform. Its scabbard wound in gold and silver, telling the story of lovers from Umbar. So it would be; and the culture in the south mated with the martial tradition of the north would be Sangalazin's gift to Gondor. The Twilight Men would be accepted as vassals, servants, and they would be treated with kindness, content with their proper station. Learning would flourish. Civil war would be at an end; the sensible Black Numenorean custom of putting cadets of the King's family to sleep on a new King's accession would instantly be instituted.

Glowing once more with confidence, Sangalazin's eyes travelled along the painting, leaving the Sea Gods, and landed on a figure that had always puzzled him, at the piece's rim. It was exceptionally well done; Sangalazin suspected that the master artisan must have employed a more brilliant apprentice for this section. It showed the sea ending below a great white cliff, upon which stood a cloaked man...or perhaps an Elf...Sangalazin had often been inclined to think so. His grey eyes stared out across the water, peerless in mourning. The depth of his sorrow made the majesty of Osse and Uinen look tawdry. But it was interesting to Sangalazin for another reason. It reminded him sharply of his father, Sangahyando...and so of himself...and so of...

Captain Chatazrakin. Yes, Sangalazin could deny it no longer, having seen the Captain at close quarters so recently. His father's...mistake...the insult to his beloved mother...had lived. And had grown into the Captain Sangalazin had just left; the only one of lousy sea-captains he had encountered ever to have impressed him. "Rakin" had quality, courage, wit on his own level, he sometimes felt. And such loathing and contempt within that proud spirit...Azaryan was quite another matter, a pompous megalomaniac, but Rakin...Rakin was what a great part of Sangalazin wished he could be. His blood could be a hidden weapon, whipped out from his overcoat like an envenomed thorn, to challenge Sangalazin with one day.

No, he must be...neutralised or conciliated. Sangalazin rang for Andlang, the commander of his black-armoured bodyguard. When the blonde giant stood before him, Sangalazin laid out his commands.

"You were prompt, Andlang, excellent. I know I can rely on you. First, bring me the Easterling musician, and leave us alone. Then send word to the Captain that...when he has a free moment, I should like to play a game of chess with him."