THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 8

Tom stood mute at the master’s promise of death. Suddenly his heart’s need to continue the search for Barard - forever, if necessary - was sharp and clear before him. He wondered how he could ever have listened to his head telling him to despair. And now... now it was too late. He bowed his head, felt the sting of tears. Forgive me, my love. I have failed you. He had no care for his own life’s end; his only thought was that Barard might still live, might still come to safety and grieve for him.

Bayos struck Tom across the face. His rings drew blood from Tom’s lip, and Tom staggered, almost losing his balance. He made no attempt to staunch the flow of blood, but looked up to hold the master’s eye, hoping that all the contempt he felt was clear to see. It gave him some satisfaction when Bayos broke eye contact to turn to his wife. The man’s rage looked sufficient to bring on an apoplexy. ‘Don’t just stand there, you stupid woman!’ he yelled. ‘Find someone to send for the Guard!’

The mistress drew herself up. ‘You forget yourself,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Do not speak to me like that. I wish to know why Tolmos was threatening you.’

‘Why? Why? For the Eye’s sake! It doesn’t matter why! One does not ask why a rabid dog foams at the mouth and bites all who come near!’

The mistress ignored her husband. She tilted Tom’s chin up and gazed sadly down at him. ‘Why, little bird?’

Tom saw his way clear to protecting Catos. ‘He was asking Catos to do things that - he should not. No man should force another to such favours. When it is a child...’ He trailed off, not wanting to be more explicit, but wanting her to understand.

‘Pah! He lies.’

‘Then tell me why he would wish to attack you.’

‘I told you! For no reason, but the madness in his brain.’

‘Where is Catos?’

‘Here, my lady.’ The mistress turned to the voice, giving Tom a view of the door. Not only Catos - the boy had found Faros. Catos cried out at the sight of Tom, bound, but Faros grabbed him before he could run into the room. The boy struggled in the man's arms. ‘Let me go! It’s all my fault! If I’d done as the master asked...’

Tom swore under his breath. Now Catos would hold himself responsible for his death. ‘Listen to me, Catos. This is not your fault.’

‘The fault will be decided in court - if your master wishes the death penalty,’ said the mistress. She turned to her husband, but Catos stared up at Faros in dismay.

‘The death... ?’ He tore himself free to prostrate himself before the master and kiss his feet. ‘Please! Oh, please, no. I’ll do whatever you ask, I promise. Anything!’

‘And what did he ask, Catos?’ The mistress’s voice was hard and cold, but she still looked at Bayos.

‘Nothing. I asked nothing!’

‘Catos?’

Catos clutched at one of the master’s ankles to stop him from stepping away, and sobbed out broken pleas for clemency. He did not appear to have heard.

‘Catos!’ The mistress spoke more sharply. ‘Whatever he asked you to do, he will not do so again. And Tolmos will not be executed - unless your master is lost to all shame.’ Tom swallowed and looked back and forth, mistress to master, and back to mistress.

‘Not... Pah! What are you talking about, woman?’

‘Once again, Bayos, I will ask you not to speak to me like that! If you wish Tolmos executed, you must take the request to the court, who will wish to question all the slaves, as well as the family. That is the law. Do you wish to hear what the slaves will say?’ She turned to Faros. ‘What will you say of Tolmos?’

‘That he has been hardworking and trustworthy, that he is kind to others, and that Catos is as a brother to him.’

‘And what will you say of the master, under oath?’

Faros closed his eyes and hung his head, his shoulders slumped. ‘That he has used me for his own pleasure.’

The mistress strode across the room, and the slap across the master’s face reverberated into the silence. ‘If you wish to go to court, then I hope you can find the price of my dowry. My brother has long urged that I divorce you, and he will not be satisfied until every last kuru is paid back.’

Bayos clutched his face. ‘Divorce? What talk is this? I should divorce you, for not bearing me a son!’

‘If that is your intention, my brother will still see every kuru repaid.’

‘Intention? No, no, I was just saying -’

‘Well, let me just say that I will answer the court truthfully as to your character and business dealings, your gambling and whoring. As long as you took your whoring to the brothel, and did not disturb my bed, I overlooked it, but I will not overlook your abusing our slaves in this way. You should be as a father to them!’

‘My dear, don’t get so excited, it is obvious they are in league together to cause trouble. It is this imp’s fault. You are right, it is probably best not to let them air their lies in public, but I will have this - this creature punished.’

The mistress looked down at Tom. ‘Did you try to kill him?’

‘Had I tried, he would be dead.’

‘You must be punished,’ she said. ‘Do you understand that?’

Tom nodded. ‘I am sorry, mistress.’ Sorry that such as Bayos was her husband.

‘When you have been punished, will you promise not to show violence against your family again?’

‘If Catos is safe, I promise.’ He started to tremble, as the realisation that he was reprieved took hold. Barard, oh, Barard.

‘Faros, can his word be trusted?’

‘Yes, mistress. He has proved that to me.’

‘Good. In future you are answerable to me, Tolmos, and will take my orders. Now, you must be flogged. I am sorry, but such action cannot go unpunished. Faros will take you.’

‘I insist on seeing him punished! I will take him!’

‘Very well. If you must show your base nature, do so, but you will return him here as soon as possible, and Faros will care for him.’

‘I will, too. I will, too,’ cried Catos as he launched himself at Tom.

Tom kept his balance with difficulty, and was nigh suffocated by the fierceness of the hug that enveloped him. ‘Mmmpff,’ he said. He was reeling, not only from the effects of Catos’s affection, but also from the sudden reversal of his fortunes, and the knowledge that both Faros and Catos were probably now safe from the predation of their master. Maybe it was a good omen, maybe his luck would change. And he knew now how long he would search for Barard; the promise of death had at last shown the path he was willing to follow.

‘Catos, let him go,’ said the mistress. ‘Faros, take him away. Ask the mother to boil some water, and check the medicine store.’

It was with some difficulty that Faros prised Catos off Tom, and Tom dearly wished he could have hugged his young friend back. The leather binding was cutting into his wrists, but that was likely to be a small hurt compared to what was to come. Bayos attached a rope to his collar and struck him between the shoulder blades. ‘Walk!’ Tom staggered again, just catching his balance.

The master waited until they were clear of the house before shortening the rope and striding out. Tom almost had to run to keep up, and even so, the collar pulled up tight under his chin, threatening to choke him. It was judged to a nicety: just short of making Tom fall so that he was dragged along, something that he could be relied upon to tell the mistress.

It had not occurred to Tom to wonder where his punishment would be carried out, but as they started climbing the hill, his apprehension gave way to excitement. The prison! He was almost sure that Barard was not there, but hope stirred faintly within.

By the time they reached the prison, Tom was gasping for breath. The racing of his heart seemed to falter and then race on at the sight of the familiar building. Bayos dragged him through the door, and as the rope slackened, Tom twisted his head to look around. The last time he’d been here, he had seen nothing but the guard. The entrance hall was intimidating in its height, a large whitewashed room with several doors leading from it. In a far corner stood a large desk, and behind it a man sat working through a pile of papers. To one side of him, a corridor led out of sight, while through an open door on the other side, Tom saw a group of guards taking their ease. He recognised many of them, had stood a drink for some, although none could be counted as a friend, and none made the comment that he longed to hear: By the Eye, another of them! Where do you find these imps! He was trembling now. Being thrashed in the heat of the moment was one thing, but his fear was mounting as he had time to think about it.

They fetched up by the desk, and it seemed that payment was required. ‘I will give you twice the amount if I may be the one to whip him,’ said Bayos, and the man seated before them looked at him coldly.

‘Bribes may be in fashion, but I do not take them,’ he said. ‘Punishment is one thing, revenge is quite another.’

‘But he tried to kill me!’

The man pushed the money back to Bayos. ‘Then he should not be here. That is a matter for the courts.’

‘Oh, have it your own way, but I will see it done.’

‘No, you will not. This is not a circus.’ The man snapped his fingers and beckoned a subordinate from the guards’ room, rejecting the first man who stood. ‘No, I want Dalmos. Take him to room three. Five lashes.’

Bayos thumped the table. ‘That is a child’s punishment!’

‘He is the size of a child.’

‘But he is not a child. He is dangerous!’

‘Would you like me to return your money?’

‘No, no.’ Bayos handed over the end of the rope. ‘But make each blow count, yes?’

The guard called Dalmos ignored Bayos. ‘Come this way,’ he said, and Tom followed him down a long corridor into a square room with one high window. He swallowed nervously. The man nodded to him. ‘You are the one who has been asking questions, aren’t you?’ he said.

Tom nodded and looked up at him. ‘Have you ever punished another like me? Seen another like me?’

‘No, never.’ He released Tom’s hands, taking some time to work the knot free on the leather binding. ‘Take off your shirt. You may like to know that your master will not be able to hear you from this room.’ He snapped manacles onto Tom’s wrists, but they were attached to rope, not chain. ‘Hold the rope. It will soon be over, yes? Now, then...’

The whip lashed across Tom’s back, white-hot pain snaking around his shoulders. He cried out and jerked under the blow, his hands convulsively tightening on the rope. The pain was just peaking as the next blow fell below the first. By the time the man had finished, the blows falling in quick succession, Tom’s whole back was on fire. When he was released, he fell to his knees, his mind numb to all else but the pain, and his body shivering at the shock of it. It was not as bad as being branded, not as bad as being kicked in the balls and having a rib broken, but he hurt. He started to curl over on himself, and hissed at the pull on his broken skin.

‘Up you get,’ said the man. ‘That was bravely done. Here, let’s annoy that prick of a jeweller.’ He eased Tom’s shirt on over his head, and then tied his hands in front of him. ‘He’s the sort of vindictive little bastard that would want your hands tied behind you again, and believe me, this will be more comfortable.’

It was also not as tight. ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, and the man laughed.

‘Well, there’s a thing! I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked before. I know that master of yours: he’s a bad gambler, and a bad loser, and likes to take it out on those as are weaker than him. Did you really try to kill him?’

‘I threatened him.’

‘Good for you, but I don’t advise doing it again. There are some here who enjoy their job too much, if you take my meaning, and you might not be so lucky next time.’ He kicked the rope Bayos had used into the shadows of the far corner, and winked at Tom. ‘The captain doesn’t allow bribery, but you can buy me a drink next time you’re in the tavern in Cartwright Street. I’ve seen you there. You probably won’t be allowed out for a while, but come when you can. I’ve heard that you tell good stories.’

Tom followed the guard back to Bayos. He found it was best if he kept his back rigid. His breathing had quickened and become more shallow with the pain, and each breath sounded loud in his ears. Bayos was angry about the rope, but the guard stood looking stupid. ‘I didn’t see no rope, sir,’ he said.

There was little Bayos could do about it. He pushed Tom towards the exit, his hand coming down hard against Tom’s back, and Tom choked back a cry of pain. He heard the stamp of a foot as someone saluted.

‘Permission to accompany them, sah! The slave is very dangerous, sah!’ It was the guard... his guard, and Tom’s heart lifted.

‘Good idea, Dalmos, but come straight back, understand? No little detours into places licensed to sell alcohol.’

The presence of the guard prevented any further cruelty on Bayos’s part, but the walk back down the hill seemed a weary long way to Tom. All he wanted was to get back to his bed, and let Faros care for him. They were just crossing the busy marketplace when there was a sudden cacophony of shouting and screaming behind them. Tom barely had time to react before he was thrown to the ground as a horse careered between himself and Bayos. He crashed back onto a pile of pots and pans, and landed on his shoulder. His back did not escape as he collapsed over, helpless to save himself with his hands tied. The vendor made no move to help Tom up, but stood alternately wringing his hands and shaking his fist after the runaway horse. His invectives added to the general clamour and disarray.

Tom rolled up as best he could, gasping in pain as metal pans and broken pottery dug into his back. He was shaking badly as he struggled onto his knees, and had to rest a moment before he tried to stand. Bayos was struggling in a great tangle of cloth, and the guard was on his hands and knees, blood trickling from a cut in his head.

Tom was about to do what he could to aid the guard, when more screaming made him look up. The horse had run into a blind corner, and was rearing and plunging madly. Men were waving their arms around and shouting, and a woman and child were trapped behind the horse. Tom could see them cowering, wide-eyed with fear, and they were in real danger of being crushed or kicked. He had never seen the result of a hoof driven into a man’s chest, but he had heard Mabdil on the subject. All pain forgotten, Tom ran across the market, hampered again by his hands’ being tied. He doubted any of the men knew the first thing about horses, and they were making a bad situation worse. The mare lashed out with a hind leg, striking a spark from the wall, and the woman screamed as she hugged the child close.

‘Get back,’ Tom shouted. ‘You’re frightening the horse. Get back.’ His voice made little impression over the uproar, but for a mercy the men seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Tom slowed as he neared, and wormed his way to the front. He wanted to spread his arms and indicate that the crowd should move away. He picked on the man nearest the front. ‘Get them back,’ he shouted at him. ‘Move them back, and for the Lady’s sake, make them shut the fuck up.’

Slowly he walked towards the mare. He held his bound hands up and put a finger to his lips, and then, as best he could, signalled as his da had always done when he wanted his large brood of grandchildren to keep the noise down. The woman seemed to understand. Her eyes were huge, the whites glittering brightly against her dark skin. She whispered to the girl she had pushed behind herself.

The mare was a lovely deep chestnut with just a blaze of white on her forehead. She was lathered in sweat, and her nostrils were widely dilated. She snorted and threw up her head at Tom’s approach, her eyes rolling to show the whites. ‘Whoa, my beauty,’ said Tom, slipping into Westron as being a less harsh-sounding language. ‘Whoa, now. It’s all right. Whoa, now.’ The mare snorted again, but there was the hint of a whinny in it now. She sidled around, but at least all four feet were on the ground. Tom didn’t walk straight towards her, but curved away a little, talking quietly all the time. He dropped the shoulder closest to her, turning away slightly, and she gave a small whinny and stepped towards him. ‘Goood girl,’ he murmured, moving slowly. ‘Goood girl.’ She took another step forward, and the woman and child slipped behind her. There was a cheer, which made the mare startle again, and a voice - curt and commanding - shouted, ‘Silence!’ Whoever he was, he was instantly obeyed, but Tom didn’t turn to look. All his mind was on staying quiet and relaxed, easing the mare’s fear. He turned away a little more and heard her shod feet striking the ground in a slow walk. ‘Here, my beauty,’ he murmured. ‘Goood girl.’ The mare blew hot air over his ear and nuzzled at his head, nibbling his hair. Very slowly, Tom reached for the trailing rope. The horse shied a little, but as Tom kept quietly talking she calmed, and he reached up to pat her shoulder - the highest he could reach as she towered over him.

There was a noise like a flock of starlings returning to roost, and he realised it was the murmuring of the crowd. He looked over the marketplace for the first time, and saw a young man standing a little in front of the throng with his hand raised for silence. Whoever he was, he had an air of command, and it seemed the crowd agreed with Tom on that. Now that the urgency was over, the woman and child safe, there was nothing to blunt the pain, and Tom started shaking again. He felt as though his knees might give way at any moment.

The young man walked slowly up. His black hair was plaited with gold thread, but he wore no other ornament. He was dressed in a fine, dark green tunic that opened at the front and was fastened with silver clasps, and his trousers were tucked into dark leather boots, unusual in Hafar where most men wore sandals. Above a straight nose, his brows met in a straight line. He was one of the men who had reminded Tom of Faros.

The man took the halter rope from Tom and smiled down at him. ‘Thank you. She is my brother’s favourite horse, and I would not have enjoyed telling him that I let her be harmed - nor that she had caused harm, for that matter. I have heard of those who charm horses, but never seen it; I did not expect to see it done by a small slave with his hands bound and blood on his back. I have seen you before. I was intrigued then, but now - a hundred times more so.’

Bayos came blustering forward at that moment, and the mare jerked on her leading rope again, her front hooves leaving the ground. ‘Stay there, fool,’ said the man curtly, and Bayos froze.

‘My lord, I am pleased that my slave has made himself useful to you. I will remove him so that your eyes need be troubled with him no more.’

‘He is your slave?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Bayos was almost grovelling.

‘You have also taken some hurt, I fear,’ said the lord to Bayos, and Tom noticed, with some satisfaction, that there was a large bruise over his master’s eye. ‘Please, I insist that you come to my brother’s house so that he can thank you for the diligence of your slave, and offer you some refreshment in apology for your injury.’ He beckoned over a well-dressed slave. ‘Find out who has taken hurt or had property damaged, so that we can pay them recompense. Make a list, but be sure that you see proof. Bring it to the palace when you’re done.’ He smiled down at Tom again. ‘Now, let us see if this flighty mistress will behave. Come, follow me.’ He called over two guards and sent them ahead to clear a path through the crowd, and set his own pace to that which Tom could manage, slowing as soon as Tom lagged behind. When it became clear that Tom was having difficulty even walking, the lord sent one of the guards to fetch a litter.

Bayos touched his arm. ‘My lord, do not trouble yourself on my account.’

‘Let me relieve your mind. It is for your slave.’

Tom gawped at him, and then hurriedly shut his mouth as he realised that Bayos was doing the same. The lord squatted down to talk to him. ‘I am afraid it will be uncomfortable for you. If you cannot manage to sit amongst the cushions, then lie on your front, but the journey will be short - just across the square - and then my physician will look at you.’

It was indeed uncomfortable, and the dip and sway of the litter made Tom feel queasy. He was glad that it was curtained, so at least he did not have the embarrassment of being stared at. He could hear Bayos telling the lord that his small slave was deceptively dangerous.

‘So am I,’ replied the lord, and after that there was little to be heard from Tom’s master, except his puffing to keep up with the fast pace of the litter bearers.

Tom was grateful for the lord’s thoughtfulness, but even more grateful when the litter was set down, and he was helped out. Bayos was bowing and scraping in his most obsequious manner, reserved for his richest clients, and Tom looked up to see another of the men from the alley. The brother, he guessed, the owner of the horse.

‘Yanos, you have found another waif and stray, I do believe.’

‘There was an accident, Sûlos,’ said Yanos, his hand still under Tom’s shoulder to help him stand. ‘Some careless haulier had not secured his load, and three barrels burst close to Flight. I’m afraid she ran amok in the marketplace. This slave charmed her; I have never seen anything like it. There was a woman and child in danger of being trampled, and he saved them.’ He lent close to his brother and spoke quietly, so that it was doubtful that anyone else but Tom would hear. ‘That buffoon is his master. I left the slave bound so you could see how he is treated. The blood was on his tunic before Flight escaped; I saw them pass me.’

Sûlos nodded, and turned to Bayos, all smiles. ‘Please, this way. My brother will see that your slave is taken care of. Come and take wine with me.’ The last thing Tom saw of Bayos was his fawning after Lord Sûlos.

‘What is your name?’ asked Yanos, untying Tom’s hands.

‘Tolmos, Lord.’

‘Then welcome to our household, Tolmos. I’ll take you to a guest room for now, until a room is prepared for you in the servants’ quarters.’ He turned to a man standing at a respectful distance. ‘Balios, fetch our physician to the Rose Room, please, and bring hot water and bandages.’

Tom was beginning to feel light-headed. ‘A room, my lord?’

‘You don’t think we’re going to let you go back with that maggot. What did you do to deserve the flogging?’

‘I... I threatened him with a knife. He wished to harm a child.’

‘Really? You know, I’m liking you more and more, Tolmos. Here, in here. Sûlos will make an offer your master can’t refuse. Steady. Let me help you off with your top, and then you can lie down.’ Yanos removed the tunic carefully, easing it away from Tom’s back before he started lifting it. Even so, Tom whimpered with pain as the cotton peeled away from his broken skin. It would probably not have been so bad had his fall not pressed the cloth into the wounds.

The room was beginning to darken, and when Balios arrived he lit candles. The physician followed soon after and made Tom drink a bitter tasting drink before allowing him to lie face down on the bed. He did nothing more than talk to Tom for several minutes, and Tom stopped listening as the drug took hold. His mouth was dry, and his limbs felt heavy, but nothing mattered. For the first time in months, he wasn’t tormented by thoughts of what Barard was suffering, and the pain in his back faded away to nothing. He dozed and woke, dozed and woke, and blinked as he realised that daylight was streaming in through the windows. He tried to move and groaned.

‘Good morning, Tolmos. Just lie there, and I’ll bring you some breakfast.’

Tom twisted his head to squint up; he remembered seeing this rather portly man before. ‘Balios?’ he mumbled.

‘Well remembered. Yes, I’m Balios. Don’t worry; your back should heal quite quickly. My lords will come and see you after breakfast.’ He brought Tom food which could be eaten with his fingers, and helped him to sit up.

‘Was I dreaming yesterday, Balios? I thought Lord Yanos said....’ It seemed too bizarre to even say it.

‘That you are a member of this household? Yes, you are, although he was wrong that Lord Sûlos would make an offer that Bayos bar-Mahdos could not refuse. The offer was generous, but he did refuse it, being a man whose greed rules his sense, and so you were gambled for, and cost my lord nothing. I hope you don’t feel insulted.’

Tom shook his head. He wasn’t at all sure what his change of circumstance would mean, but at the moment it seemed to bode well. He tried not to think how worried about him Faros and Catos must be. He struggled up as Sûlos and Yanos entered the room, but they waved him to stay where he was.

Sûlos fingered Tom’s necklace of feathers and bead, and laughed. ‘You did not tell me that our little bird was an eagle, Yanos,’ he said. ‘How are you this morning, Tolmos?’

Tom just stared at him for a moment in dismay. Eagle’s feathers? Oh, shit! He belatedly remembered to cast his eyes down, and found his voice. ‘I am well, thank you, my lord.’

‘Good. No, please do not look down; we don’t expect our servants to do so. I’ve come to thank you again for your intervention with my mare.’

Tom looked up; Sûlos was an older version of Yanos, but both of them were young men, and the resemblance to Faros was uncanny. He cleared his throat. ‘She is well named, my lord.’

Sûlos laughed again and sat at ease in a high-backed chair. ‘Well, there is that. I would like to reward you, and so I would know what you wish for.’

Tom didn’t hesitate. ‘A prisoner to be released, my lord, if it is in your power.’

‘I will not petition for the release of a guilty man, but I can review the case to see if there was a miscarriage of justice. What is his crime?’

‘He is accused of spying, my lord.’

‘Spying! I’m afraid that is a different matter. A spy would be held in the Citadel dungeon, and my powers as a justice of the peace do not extend there. I’m sorry; I cannot help you.’

Tom blinked back tears and bowed his head. It had been a vain hope, but the man spoke as though he knew of the Citadel dungeon.

‘Is there ought else I can do for you?’

Catos! Tom looked up again. ‘There is a boy who is a slave in my old household; the master was... not treating him well. Would you have a place for him here?’

Sûlos and Yanos exchanged glances, and it was Yanos who spoke. ‘We would need to know more of this boy, Tolmos. We take a risk with you...’

‘You were right about one thing,’ said Sûlos, and Yanos raised his eyebrows. ‘You said he would not ask for his own freedom. How did you know?’

‘He thinks of others before himself.’

Sûlos nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. So, before we enquire into this boy, let us know more of you, Tolmos. Is that your real name? How does a Halfling come to be enslaved in Hafar?’

Tom gaped. ‘You know of Halflings?’

‘I have heard that you are a remarkable race. The great wizard Incánus told my grandfather of the deeds of your people. I do not have my grandfather’s writings here, but I know them well.’

Tom sat in stunned silence. He knew much of the Red Book off by heart, not from reading it, but from hearing it read. Sûlos was looking at him with a slight frown of puzzlement, and Tom found his voice, although the words were in Westron. ‘“Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves, Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.”’

‘That is a quote about Incánus, yes? But I am afraid I am no scholar. I do not speak Westron.’

‘It is written in my people’s history of the Great War,’ said Tom. ‘I am no scholar, either, but my father read it aloud so often, and my half-sister, as well, that the words are written in my memory. In our history Incánus is called Gandalf.’

‘Yes. Yes! My grandfather wrote that he had many names. “Many are my names in many countries -”’ he stopped as Tom laughed.

‘I am sorry, my lord. That is what I just said. That is what is written in our Red Book. “In the South Incánus...”’

‘“In the North Gandalf.”’

Tom nodded, and Sûlos leant forward, his expression wistful. ‘I’ve always hoped that Incánus would come again, that I would meet him. Have you ever met him?’

‘No, my lord. He has left Middle-earth. He left with the Elves. My father saw him go, many years before I was born.’

‘Incánus told the tale of the unmaking of the Ring of Doom. What do you know of that?’

‘That is what our Red Book is. My father finished it, but it was mostly written by the Halfling, Frodo of the Ring.’

‘Your father saw Incánus go, your father finished the book. Who are you, Tolmos?’

‘I am Tolman, youngest son of Samwise Gardner.’

Both men sat up. ‘Samwise,’ cried Yanos. ‘You mean, Samwise as in Frodo and Samwise?’ Tom nodded, and Yanos was out of the door and gone. Sûlos looked after him with affectionate exasperation. Tom recognised it all too well. It was the sort of expression that the Took and Gardner families reserved for Barard and himself.

‘Forgive my brother,’ Sûlos said. ‘I can guess where he has gone. He won’t be long. Tell me, this spy you ask after, who is he?’

‘Do you know of the other Halflings who took part in the Great War?’

‘Mariardoc and Peereegrin.’

‘Meriadoc and Peregrin, my lord. It is the youngest son of Peregrin who is held as a spy.’

‘And is he?’

‘No, my lord. He was invited here to open trade negotiations with Minas Tirith.’

‘And you, what about you? Are you a spy?’

‘No, my lord. I came following my friend. I was set upon and taken prisoner, and made a slave.’

Yanos came bursting back in at that moment, followed by another man wearing trousers and a leather apron. A smith, it seemed. ‘Lean forward, good sir,’ he said, and Tom was so surprised to be called “good sir” that he did so without any thought as to why. The next moment he gagged slightly as the metal collar around his neck was pulled tight.

‘Patience, Tolman,’ said Yanos. ‘He will be as quick as he can.’ The movement of the collar and the sound of metal on metal told Tom what was happening. He was being cut free! He winced as the file caught his skin, and then the hateful ring fell loose. Carefully he prised it off and slipped from the bed. He knelt in front of Sûlos to bow before him. Ignoring the pain as the movement stretched his broken skin, he kissed the lord’s feet, then repeated the obeisance to Yanos.

‘I am your servant, my lords.’

‘You honour us, Tolman bar-Samwise. I have many questions, many questions, but first tell me of this boy you would have us free.’

‘I think you would wish him free, my lords. I think there are two who you would wish free from that household.’ It was a risk, but Gandalf would not have had dealings with a House that was not honourable, and there was the remarkable resemblance.

‘And why is that?’

‘Catos is a slave because his father supported the House of the Sun.’

‘And this concerns us because -?’

‘You are lords of the House of the Sun.’

There was silence in the room, and then Sûlos spoke. ‘We are of the House of the Morning Star.’

‘The star that gives way to the sun, once the sun is bright in the sky,’ said Tom.

Sûlos stared at him. ‘I give way to no man,’ he said quietly, but Yanos laughed, breaking the tension in the room.

‘We must hope that there are not those in Daros’s court who think like this Halfling, brother.’ His expression sobered. ‘Is this common talk, Tolman?’

‘I have heard rumour and speculation that you are of the House of the Sun.’

‘Then let me assure you. We are the House of the Morning Star.’

‘Of course, my lords. I stand corrected.’

‘The boy will be freed. What of the other?’

‘He is of the House of the Sun, my lords.’

‘What!’ Yanos jumped up, and Sûlos’s knuckles whitened as his hands tightened around the armrests of the chair. ‘You are sure of this, Tolman? There are few lines left extant of that House; I believed I knew them all.’

‘I see no reason why he would lie to me. He knows the prophecy of the House, and he said orcs came burning the homes of his forefathers - when the House of the Eye first arose. He looks like you.’

Sûlos stood. ‘I have a mind to buy some jewellery, brother. Will you come with me?’

‘Gladly. Tolman, can we do you the discourtesy of asking you to stay in your room?’ Tom nodded; he had no wish to do anything very much except lie down. He spent some time after he had been left alone wondering if these lords could gain him entry to the Citadel. Balios brought him lunch, and afterwards the physician came and drugged him to change his dressings and cleanse his wounds. He drifted in and out of sleep, and was only half aware of the pitch of Catos’s voice raised in excitement.

‘Is he all right? Truly?’

‘Yes, truly. My physician says he should get up and move around later. If you wish, you may sit with him until then. Balios will bring you refreshment. Faros, will you come with me?’

‘Catos,’ Tom mumbled as their fingers twined together.

‘Yes. It’s me. I’m here.’ There was a giggle, reassuring in its familiarity. ‘Faros says it’s true that imps are trouble, but I think you’re my lucky charm. You should have heard the uproar when the master came home without you...’

Tom slipped back and forth between sleep and wakefulness. ‘Do you ever stop talking?’ he mumbled as he woke to find Catos still chattered on.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.’

‘No, ’sgood. I like hearing you. I just... I think this medicine’s stronger than a hobbit needs.’ Already his vision was blurring out of focus again, and he felt as though he were floating. Had he not felt so safe it would have been an unpleasant experience, but he remembered Aragorn’s words. ‘Honourable men,’ he mumbled, and slipped back into dreams of flying. He wasn’t riding an eagle, he was an eagle, and the world spread out beneath him, cold and grey without Barard. Suddenly a line of red blazed out along the eastern horizon. The sun was rising on a new day.

He opened his eyes to painted roses climbing over the walls, and his thoughts turned to the Bag End rose garden. Did his family fear him dead already? The only news they would have in Gondor was that he had arrived in Umbar. Well, he had come close to death. He had tempted fate, and fate had spared him - spared him and freed him and given him a new source of information, maybe even a means to enter the Citadel.

Qismat.

A light cotton sheet covered Tom's back, and he pushed himself up beneath it, turning to sit. His back throbbed painfully, but it was bearable. He smiled as he saw Faros dozing in the high-backed chair. Catos was sprawled asleep in the man’s lap, one arm around his neck. The youngster was really far too tall for this, and his feet rested on the floor, but Tom was glad that the experience with Bayos had not withered the boy's affection for and trust of Faros.

Faros opened his eyes and smiled widely at Tom. He turned his head to kiss Catos on the forehead. ‘He’s awake, little one.’

Catos bounced up, with no discernible adjustment between sleeping and waking that Tom could see. ‘Oh, good. Is supper ready?’

‘Supper is waiting on news of Tolm’s being awake; so no, not yet. Do you want to run and tell them in the kitchens?’

Catos went rushing out, and Tom struggled to his feet. Clean clothes of the type worn by slaves were laid out at the foot of the bed, and his hand strayed to his neck. The leather thong with feathers and beads met his questing fingers, but no metal ring. It wasn’t a dream; the collar was gone. He pulled on the familiar trousers, and Faros helped him with the tunic.

‘You find trouble, like the sparks fly upwards,’ said Faros. ‘But I’m not sure that I can thank you enough for what you did for Catos. I thought we would lose you, my friend, and I blamed myself for not speaking out.’

Tom tugged at the tunic, straightening it, and studied Faros’s face. ‘But you did speak out.’

‘And yet it seems I could - should - have spoken out before.’ Faros sighed, then gave Tom a rueful smile. ‘Catos was beside himself when you didn’t come back, and I feared the worst.’

Catos came bouncing back into the room at that moment, and he grinned at Faros. ‘You were in tears. Supper’s in an hour, and my lord Yanos says it would be best if Tolm walked a little, but just in the palace and grounds. It’s huge. I never realised, did you? I mean, I know the old palace is a big building, but I never realised there was so much behind it. They have loads of horses stabled here, and hundreds of men -’

‘And that is something to keep quiet about, I would judge,’ said Faros.

‘I’m not that stupid,’ retorted Catos. ‘It’s just Tolm I’m telling. They wanted to know all about my grandfather. What did they want to talk to you about? You wouldn’t tell me when Tolm was asleep.’

’I didn’t want to disturb him. They took me to their archivist, and I had to tell him everything I remembered about my family, all the stories I’ve been told, anything and everything - Catos! come back! Tolm can’t go that fast!’ Faros sighed. ‘He’s been so excited since he found we were joining you, I’ve no idea how he sat quietly with you all afternoon.’

Tom laughed. ‘He didn’t. Every time I woke up he was talking.’

They followed Catos out of the Rose Room and into a corridor dimly lit by natural light. The walls were just bare red stone, with windows set in high arches. A few still had shutters closed to keep out the heat of day, but most were thrown open to catch the evening breezes that set in late in the day. Through them Tom saw a large garden within the palace, overlooked by windows on all sides. He looked up at Faros walking beside him. ‘How did they persuade the family to let you go?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked. I think... I think a lot of money changed hands. I hope they think I’m worth it. I asked what my duties are to be, and they told me there was time enough to worry about that later.’

Catos ran ahead to a corner and stood waiting for them, jigging from foot to foot. ‘Come and see,’ he called, but Tom had stopped by a side door, arched like the windows, that opened onto the garden. There was still plenty of light in the sky, but he stepped out into restful shade. He brushed his hands through a plant that reminded him of lavender; the smell was less mellow, sharper and greener to Tom’s way of thinking, but just as aromatic. Moths fluttered over the deep blue flowers, drawing Tom farther along the path, and the humming of bees was loud on the air. He suddenly realised this was a kitchen and herb garden. The bush by the door was old and woody, but most of the garden was new-planted, with tiny parcels of thyme between the paving stones promising to spread out across the path in a scented carpet. He closed his eyes, and the smell transported him back to the Downs in the distant Shire.

Barard halted his pony on the path that wound down the steep slope of the hill. Here the wind was cut off just as though it hadn’t blown their hair wildly, whipping it into their faces as they followed the bridleway along the ridge of the Downs. The sun had started to dip below its noonday height, and without the wind the day was warm. The bleating of sheep and the song of a lark were all part of the familiar landscape. ‘Let’s stop for lunch here,’ he said, turning in his saddle to look back at Tom.

Tom nodded and swung down from his pony onto the close-cropped grass. They carried their packs a little way from the path, letting their ponies graze at will, and settled down on the downland turf. Thyme grew wild here, grazed as close as the grass, and bees were moving from tiny flower to tiny flower. The smell of the herb, bruised by their feet, hung around them. They ate their food looking out over the weald towards the haze of the Tower Hills in the distance. It was the first time they had made the journey to Ellie’s on their own. Tom was feeling content and more than a little drowsy: the innkeeper in Michel Delving had taken it as read that they would want to share a room to keep down the cost.

Barard finished the meat pasty that the innkeeper’s wife had supplied and shifted to sit just below Tom on the slope. He leant back, his head resting against Tom’s shoulder, and Tom wrapped his arms around Barard’s chest and closed his eyes in the warmth of the afternoon sun. The scent of the thyme was heavy on the air. This was... this was happiness.

‘Tom?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Father is going to Minas Tirith soon, in a month or so.’

Tom’s eyes flew open. ‘Would he take us? Would you want to go?’

Barard tilted his head up to kiss Tom. ‘Yes, of course. As long as you want to go, love. I’m sure Father will take us if we ask.’

‘Tolm!’ Catos broke through his reverie. ‘You’re supposed to be walking, Lord Yanos said, not standing with your eyes closed, looking foolish. Please come and look.’

‘Let him be, Catos.’

Tom opened his eyes and looked up at Faros, trying to stop his tears from flowing, but his face must have portrayed how he was feeling; every good memory of Barard had him in tears, and as for bad memories - well, there weren’t any. Faros knelt on one knee and took him in his arms, and Tom felt him hesitate as he worked out the best way to avoid the whip wounds. Tom laid his head against Faros’s shoulder, grieving inside. Just that smell of thyme was all that was needed for Barard to be there with him. Faros didn’t say anything, or make any move to let Tom go, and his silent understanding was a comfort all in itself.

Not until Tom pulled free did Faros stand up. ‘Did you hear any news of your Barard, while you were in the prison?’ he asked gently.

‘No, but the lord Sûlos tells me that he is likely to be in the Citadel dungeon.’
Faros sighed, avoiding eye contact with Tom.

‘You think that means he’s dead.’ A flat statement.

‘I fear that means, short of the overthrow of Daros, we won’t ever know.’

Catos cleared his throat. ‘I wish you’d come and look.’

Faros and Tom ignored him, and Tom’s anger flared up. ‘So, it’s no different, is it?’ he shouted. ‘We didn’t know where he is and whether he’s alive, and we still don’t know.’

‘Pleeease, will you just come and look?’

Tom shrugged. He glared at Faros, and stalked back through the garden. He had allowed himself to believe that somehow things would be different; a small seed of hope had burgeoned, only to wither in the dust. Anger blunted the pain, but he managed to stop himself from turning that anger on Catos. He would see what the boy wanted to show him so badly, and even feign an interest.

They followed Catos around a corner and through an archway into a wide open space. Like the garden, it was surrounded on all sides by the high walls of the palace, and opening directly onto it were barracks, stables, kitchens, and workshops. Tom could see forges for farrier and swordsmith, along with a saddler, carpenter and bowyer. Across the square, a tall archway framed great wooden gates, heavily barred. Tom stood amazed, no pretence of interest necessary. Catos had not, as he had thought, exaggerated the number of men; this was a small army. Did Daros know? And were they here for defence? Or to bring war to Hafar? Tom’s mind was racing as they wandered around the periphery. Just what was Sûlos planning? He watched the bowyer working on a flat bow, ideal for using from a horse - or in confined areas. The archers of Gondor preferred longbows, but Legolas always used a recurved flatbow with deadly accuracy.

There was a cough behind them, making them all jump guiltily, not sure if they were allowed there. It was Balios. He bowed as they turned. ‘Lord Sûlos begs me tell you that supper is almost ready. If you would be so good as to follow me.’ He led them across the square, but not to some soldiers’ or servants’ mess; he stopped at one of the forges.

The blacksmith nodded to Tom. ‘I have your collar finished,’ he said with a smile, and reached for the hated object. It had been altered to be fastened with a light chain. Tom’s heart sank. He had misunderstood.

‘Never mind that now,’ said Balios. ‘He has been asked not to leave the palace, so it will not be needed yet. There are two more collars to remove, if you please.’
‘That is a task that always pleases me,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Let me get my file. When are they needed for? Is there a hurry? I can work on them after supper.’

‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ said Balios as the smith got to work.

‘So, we don’t have to wear them in the palace?’ asked Tom hopefully.

‘No, indeed!’ Balios looked rather shocked. ‘Only when you go outside.’
As the rings were removed from first Catos, and then Faros, they each rubbed a hand around their necks, but otherwise their reactions were quite different. Catos jumped up and down, whooping, but Faros just looked stunned. Tom remembered his own feeling of disbelief. How much stranger it must be for these two who had been born to wear them.

Balios smiled at them. ‘Good. Good. Now this way, if you please. We will have new clothes for you as soon as possible, but no one will think the worse of you for now.’ Puzzled, they followed him back through the palace. There were glimpses of other squares, mostly laid to gardens, with the music of water sometimes loud to hear. The impression Tom got was of a palace built around six open spaces, like the six dots on a gaming dice, but it was hard to be sure as they followed Balios along corridors and around corners. He knew from the frontage on the market square that the palace was built on three stories, and the dining room that Balios bowed them into was on the first floor. The room was dominated by a large table of some dark, polished wood laid with silver, fine linens, and many candles. The setting was rich, although many of the men who stood waiting there were simply dressed. Faros and Catos stood hesitating on the threshold.

‘Please, come and join us,’ said Sûlos stepping forward. He held out a hand. ‘Faros, will you sit by my side?’

Faros slipped to his knees and made his obeisance. ‘You are my master,’ he said simply as he stood. ‘If you command it, I will do so, but it is more fitting that I wait on you.’

‘Then I do command it, but in future I hope you will sit by me out of choice. Catos, sit by my brother. Tolman, please, take a seat next to Catos.’ Balios moved forward smoothly, carrying cushions from somewhere for Tom, and only when they were seated with Sûlos and Yanos, did the rest of the company sit. It seemed they were honoured guests.

Yanos was asking Catos questions, and Tom turned to the man at his other side. He recognised the hook nose. ‘I have seen you before,’ he said.

‘In an unspeakably filthy alley,’ answered the man, with a smile. ‘My name is Tarlos. I am cousin to Sûlos and Yanos, and you are Tolman the Halfling. What were you doing there?’

‘Learning all the ways of the city.’

‘Yes, that is always useful,’ said Tarlos gravely.

‘And you? What were you doing?’

‘A matter of justice. Even the poorest deserve justice, don’t you think?’

Tom nodded. He kept half an ear on Catos, who was chattering away to Yanos with tales of the south, but Tarlos was more interested in what Tom could tell him of the Shire. The man was an attentive listener, nudging the conversation with well placed questions, and Tom found himself talking almost as much as Catos. The food was excellent, and Tom had no problem about being served by others, but he could see that Faros was not at ease. Catos just seemed to take everything as it came, enjoying the moment, but Faros was probably as doubtful as Tom regarding his role in the household, and he was clearly awed by sitting next to so great a lord as Sûlos.

None of those serving wore a collar, although most were dressed in the traditional garb of slaves. Tarlos thanked the man serving them, and beckoned him to lean closer. ‘I have been told that Halflings have prodigious appetites,’ he said. ‘See that our small guest’s plate is kept well filled.’

‘My lord,’ said Tom. ‘What am I here? A slave, a servant, a guest? I am confused.’

‘An honoured guest, Tolman bar-Samwise.’

‘And yet I am still to have a collar?’

‘The collar is an illusion.’

‘Forgive me, but it looked real enough to me.’

‘Not an illusion to you. An illusion for the outside world. You came in a slave; you should be seen to go out a slave. Otherwise there is danger.’

‘For who?’

‘For us all.’

‘How many slaves are there here?’

‘None.’

‘None! What about Balios, for instance?’

‘He is a trusted servant of the House. He has always been a freeman; others who are not as fortunate have bought their freedom.’

‘With what?’

‘With the wages they are paid.’

‘I heard that Lord Sûlos brought all his... servants with him.’
‘Yes. We must trust those around us.’

‘But now you have three of us here who you know little about?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, and there does come a point when one must bestow trust and hope that it is justified. How is it in your Shi-er, do you have slaves?’

The talked turned back to hobbit customs until the servants cleared the table, set out fruit and nuts and small sweets, and brought coffee. They bowed to Sûlos and departed. The only servant to remain was Balios, and he closed the doors and came to stand behind Sûlos.

‘My lords,’ said Sûlos. ‘Introductions should in courtesy have come first, but I think, at the present time, it is wise to restrict knowledge to those here present.’ There was a murmur and shifting of those seated around the table, and Sûlos allowed it to die into silence before he continued. He laid a hand on Faros’s shoulder and smiled. ‘First, allow me to introduce Lord Faros, of the House of the Sun. Indeed, all the evidence shows that he is descended in direct line from Julos, by the youngest son, Julios. If, as he believes, his father is dead, then, my lords, he is the Sun.’ A buzz of murmured conversation rose around the table. Faros just stared at Sûlos in shocked silence.

Catos giggled. ‘He called him a lord,’ he whispered to Tom. Tom shushed him, but there was no real need, because the next introduction left Catos as speechless as Faros.

‘And this is Lord Catos, of the House of the White Tree, and - I believe most of you are familiar with my grandfather’s writings - this is the Halfling, Tolman bar-Samwise, without whose great bravery we would most likely still be under the yoke of Mordor.’

Catos found his voice. Even the shock of finding himself introduced as a lord did not curb that for long, it seemed, although it wavered from uncharacteristically deep and back to his boyish pitch. ‘You mean, Tolm is someone famous?’

‘No,’ said Tom quietly. ‘My father is famous, there is a difference.’

‘There is indeed,’ said Sûlos, addressing not Tom, but Catos. ‘Each generation must show its own worth. All the evidence shows that you have the title of your house, but you must gain the respect of those who would serve you.’

Catos subsided back into silence, and a man at the far end of the table spoke. ‘And may we know the rights of these claims, the greater as well as the lesser, my lord?’

Sûlos inclined his head. ‘Of course, but before we turn to those matters, and hear the day’s reports, I will say that I am satisfied as to the claims.’ He turned to Faros. ‘Our Houses were ever as brothers. Will you make alliance with me?’

Faros pushed back his chair to kneel on one knee before Sûlos. ‘I cannot speak for the House of the Sun, but you have my allegiance, lord, for what it is worth.’

‘I do not ask for you allegiance yet, Faros. I ask for your alliance.’

‘Then you have it. Your brother is my brother, your cause is my cause, your enemy is my enemy.’

There was a sigh of satisfaction from those seated around the table, and Tom felt he had missed some wider significance. ‘At least he knows the ways of the House, or has he been schooled in it?’ said the man next to Tarlos, but it was said privately. Tom looked at Tarlos, interested to hear his reply.

‘I can assure you that Lord Faros has had no prompting in this.’

‘Then someone has taught him well.’

Faros stood, and Balios handed him a small knife. The handle was polished bone, and the blade shone brightly in the candle light. Faros didn’t hesitate; he took the knife and nicked his palm, then passed the knife to Sûlos, who did the same. They pressed palm to palm. ‘Your brother is my brother, your cause is my cause, your enemy is my enemy,’ said Sûlos. ‘Let those who would doubt you, remember it.’
‘Can I do that?’ asked Catos, jumping up.

Yanos put a hand on the boy’s arm. ‘Peace! You are not of age, but your guardian can do it for you.’

Catos’s face fell. ‘Who is my guardian?’

‘That must be decided,’ said Sûlos. He looked around the table. ‘We have more than the ten lords required by law. Whom would you choose, Catos?’

‘I get to choose?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I did not mean to mislead you. You may express a preference, and this council will bear that in mind.’

‘I’d choose Faros, then. If... if he doesn’t mind.’

‘If I am allowed to be your guardian, I would be honoured.’

Sûlos nodded. ‘Then I would like to propose Lord Faros as guardian to the House of the White Tree.’

‘And I second that,’ said Tarlos quickly, beating several others in doing so.

‘Does any here raise voice against this? No? Then let the record show the names of all lords present. Now, before we go further, Catos, do you understand you are bound by the alliances of your guardian?’ Catos nodded; he looked nervous. ‘Good. Then understand you are bound to keep silent on all matters discussed here. For your safety and that of your guardian, when you leave this building, you will do so as Catos, my slave. You must not mention to any outside this room who you are, nor who Faros is.’

‘I won’t say a word, I swear by the Light.’

‘Tolman?’

‘By the light of Elbereth, I will speak to no other of what I hear.’

‘Then let us hear the reports, and first let me ask the Archivist to speak.’

A small, elderly man shuffled a pile of papers and stood in fussy self-importance. ‘I have questioned both Lord Faros and Lord Catos closely, my lords,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘It is difficult when a House has been sold into slavery. The slaves can only pass on spoken records, and sons are often separated from their families by the time they are eight or ten years of age, but even the lesser branches have taken pains to pass what they could from generation to generation. The lord Catos was the more straightforward, since we are only looking back three generations, and I for one remember his grandfather, and mourn to hear of his father’s untimely death. However, my lord Faros has given us enough of his family history for me to be sure that he is descended in unbroken line over five generations from Julios, youngest son of our last true King, Julos. As you know, Julios perished, but his young son, born posthumously, was sent to a place of safety. Sadly, it proved quite otherwise, but in the raids and capture that followed, the boy’s identity was not revealed, and so he survived. Lord Faros therefore shares a common heritage with Lords Sûlos, Yanos and Tarlos, since all four have descended from King Julos, but of course, I hardly need to say that there is no question over the right of Sûlos to claim the kingship.’ He sat down looking very satisfied with himself.

Tom would have liked to have seen it all laid out in a family tree since the archivist was starting from a position of assuming his audience knew something of the matter. He smiled at the man’s enthusiasm for his subject - he would have made a good hobbit - but Tom didn’t at all understand how Faros could be the head of the House of the Sun and yet not be considered a rival to Sûlos.

‘Thank you, Archivist,’ said Sûlos. ‘Tarlos, what have you learnt today?’

Tom’s table companion stood. ‘I have learnt many things today, cousin, including the fact that Halflings make excellent dining companions.’ He smiled down at Tom before turning his attention back to Sûlos. ‘I believe you are right to accept his claim to be the son of Samwise. Now, as to other business, I have still not been able to find out where Daros has stationed his third army, and three scouts have failed to return. They can give little information to our enemies, but they are southerners, and that alone will point the finger at us. Daros is not pleased at your popularity, Sûlos, and I would advise another gift to remind him that your assassination will halt the flow of your wealth into the city. He is not blind to the fact that even with the help of Sauron’s agents, his forefathers were unable to get past our mountain fortresses to overrun our lands, and I have heard that he is behind hand with paying his army.’

‘So, I should fund his army,’ said Sûlos, his mouth twitching with amusement.

‘No. Not at all, although we should have funds ready to pay them if they transfer allegiance to us. One more thing. In the city there is a growing rumour of the prophecy of bar-Ard; it is not my doing, and it seems to be most current amongst the slaves. I am not sure, at this time, if it is a good or bad thing. On the one hand it may put Daros further on his guard, but on the other, it may make the populace more willing to move with us, especially if we can find some way to work the prophecy to our advantage.’ Tarlos sat down, and report followed report, mostly relating to troop movements and provisions. Catos was not pleased when the Steward of the Palace stood up and announced arrangements for lessons in reading and writing, although he was mollified when he found there would also be horsemanship and sword practice.

‘Lord Faros is well versed in the arts of the pen, but I would humbly suggest that he joins his ward in all other lessons,’ said the Steward.

‘But I do not wish to fight,’ said Faros, and there was sudden silence around the table that was broken by Sûlos.

‘A man does not need to wield a sword to be a leader; it is only necessary that he should inspire others to do so. However, a sword may be used in defence, and then a life may hang on skills patiently learnt. We will talk more of this later, Faros; I hope you, Lord Catos and Tolman will join me in my private rooms for a nightcap. Is there any other news to report? Good, then I wish you goodnight, my lords.’ He stood, taking Faros by the arm, and Yanos and Tarlos fell in behind with Catos and Tolman. The room to which they retired was like a cave of riches from one of Catos’s stories. It was full of dark wood and rich wall hangings in deep colours. The floor was covered in a thick, soft carpet patterned in shades of red, and couches were provided for guests to recline on. Balios brought drinks for them, and Tom sat cross-legged on his couch, sipping red wine. He was feeling tired, and his wounds were aching.

There was some general talk, and then Sûlos turned to his cousin. ‘Come, Tarlos, I know that look. What else have you found out today?’

Tarlos shifted on his couch and looked at Tom. ‘I have learnt much about Halflings, including the fact that it is not uncommon for them to bond for life in the way of the Royal Swans who pine and die when their mate is lost. I have further learnt that Tolman is so bonded to the one he seeks.’

Tom looked at the man in horror. ‘But,’ he started to protest, ‘I never said -’

‘Peace, Tolman,’ said Sûlos. ‘I think Tarlos charms knowledge from the air. Is it true that the one you seek is your life-love?’ Tom nodded, as mute suddenly as the swans to which he had been compared.

Tarlos took a sip of his wine. ‘I have also learnt that for some reason Tolman avoids his name, even when I ask outright, and furthermore, he is not named in the dungeon where he is held, but known only as the Imp.’

Tom jerked round so suddenly to stare at Tarlos that he nearly fell off the couch. ‘You have found him? He... he is alive?’

‘Yes, he is alive, but I am afraid he does not fare well. He is kept apart, alone - never good for the mind - and he eats little.’

‘You have seen him?’ Tom’s voice was barely audible to himself, but Tarlos shook his head.

‘I have spoken to one who has seen him.’

‘Today?’

‘Yes. Sûlos asked me to find some news for you.’

Tom bowed his head; he was trembling violently, and his wine slopped in the glass. All his defences tumbled into dust, and there was only raw feeling as joy that Barard was alive mixed with horror. Alone! An arm supported him, and the glass was taken from his unresisting fingers. He does not fare well!

He was lifted, and knew it was Faros by the quiet voice talking to him, even though the world was black around him. Barard!

‘Do you know his name, Faros?’

‘Yes, but if Tolm chooses not to tell...’

Tom clutched blindly at Faros. So you’re saying, short of the overthrow of the High King, we won’t ever know? ‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘His name is bar-Ard.’