[Marileangorifurnimaluim]

**** Harad/Umbar ****

The rushlight picked out glimmering threads in Gramil's gaudy tunic as he dressed for the dreaded dinner. He had little time before its official start, but he needed more information. He could afford to be a little late.

Gramil had put the feelers out in the bazaar, and now the expected knock came at his door. He pulled a bottle of his friend's favorite and two glasses from under his dressing table, guessing which source it would be. He was not disappointed. Tarve, the owner of the 'Lion's Den' where Jarl was staying followed his knock without waiting for an invitation. He needed none.

The two men pounded eachother's backs and laughed over the sudden end to Gramil's 'retirement,' exchanging small news over their first glass. Tarve teased Gramil about not knowing the king was gone:
"Ah, everyone knew that secret."

Gramil shrugged good-naturedly, "Everyone but me. See how I was serious about retiring?"

"You?? Pah. You could never retire."

As the second glass was poured Gramil asked finally:

"So what brings you here today?" No need to make assumptions. Gramil was too old to be a fool.

"A song on the wind," Tarve snorted, "what else? You have only to name it."

Gramil turned the stem of his glass in his hand. "What can you tell me of Jarl of Dale?" He nodded, "Naturally the king's credit is generous." He knew his tacit offer would be refused, and Tarve brushed it aside.

"Of Jarl, from Jarl? Nothing. Experienced. Old campaigner. He makes you guess, and maybe guess wrong. But from his young apprentice, Garlin? Plenty."

"I thought the name was Garvin." Gramil marvelled, "Garlin? Young Tiger? How did a man of Dale receive a Harad name?"
('Garl' in the Harad tongue meant 'tiger,' while 'lin' was a diminutive, for 'young' or 'little.')

"No doubt a coincidence of sounds. I don't know what it means in his language. But interesting still I say. He is rightly called. Be careful of him with a weapon in his hand - if you have cause. With such claws he is as dangerous as his name! He is responsible for the deaths of one table and two lanterns, practicing this week alone.

"But Jarl, ah the boy is very proud of him, and he has told me much, and others more..."

*********

Gramil had much to ponder as his carriage trundled towards the dinner, delayed from time to time by the summer street crowds. Occasionally they had to get out and walk as a break in the cobbles made it impossible for a loaded carriage to pass.

As he feared, the contact with Jarl of Dale had been badly bungled. The King had not met with him once in two fortnights, leaving the man to cool his heels at The Lion's Den.

Jarl of Dale should have been given opportunity to assess the King in person, been given an official guide to pepper with questions, and a formal tour of the city. Of course Jarl would develop his own sources of information, but the fact he was getting his information from ol' Rav at The Typhoon... oh, he was truthful, but it was not a positive sign of the level of trust developed.

************

Black eyes bristled under even darker brows, with a madness borne of too little to do, and too much alcohol. The free-sword from Rhun growled at his companion, a man who knew his temper enough to back off and let it cool of its own. This Harad bazaar noise jangled his nerves. He looked about the tent for others less wise, and found himself surrounded by sniveling cowards who kept away from him. All but two. His bleary eyes discerned two young PUPS! The word fairly shouted in his mind. They were so green, their shiney swords still had the merchant's wax on their handles as they stood with their backs to him. Insolence! The spirits in his cup splashed on his tunic, and when he lifted it for another try - it was empty! He had looked at them. Now his cup was empty. He roared his fury and threw his cup at the guilty parties. He remembered to use his Harad name, but all other reason was gone from him.

"I am Iron Turtle! How dare you spill my drink!?!" It was hard to tell if his Haradric was usually this bad, or if the drink had slurred his speech nearly beyond recognition.

The taller of the two, with the pale skin, turned to speak, but the little dark one burst out laughing.

"Iron Frog? What kind of Harad name is that? Do you sink then?"

*********

Gramil settled a polite smile onto his face as he stepped into the dinner hall, completely unaware of Ethar's unwise comment deep in the heart of the Bazaar.

[ September 30, 2002: Message edited by: Marileangorifurnimaluim ]