Someone from Gondor has arrived.
Chapter 11: Cruel Harad
this page added by Lexin
One of the few people who could not be easily refused admittance even from the King's audience chamber, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Faramir closed his eyes again. Could this day get any worse?
Imrahil took in the scene with a comprehensive glance, and then said, "Greetings, Denethor. Your plan, though ingenious, is doomed to failure."
Faramir had opened his eyes in time to see Denethor's face: he looked as if he had been slapped. "Why?" he demanded.
"Gondor has an envoys in Harad. As the consort of the Crown Prince, my nephew would attend certain public events, events at which the envoy will also be present and upon which he will report."
"I could keep his presence secret..." Marek looked as if he would enjoy this.
Imrahil smiled, "Then he would not be a consort given in marriage, but a slave taken by force. King Aragorn would have to take steps to secure his safe return. No, if he goes, he goes with honour."
Faramir leaned on the balcony and looked out, his eyes seeing the lights of the city of Haradina but his mind seeing instead the sevenfold walls of Minas Tirith. He lifted his glass to his lips and sipped, aware that wine was becoming a dangerously close companion.
When he'd first come to Harad, Faramir had entertained hopes that he would at least have the minimal connection with home of a friendship with the Gondorian envoy. That small hope had proved bootless: any envoy Faramir liked was packed back to Gondor as fast as Marek could manufacture an excuse. In six years Marek had rid Harad of eight, the longest any of them lasted was a year and a half, and he had been a man Faramir detested.
At least he was alone. That was entirely normal; when Marek had said he had a wife and child, he had been telling the truth. What he had not mentioned was that he also had eleven concubines to fulfil his needs, two of which were male. Faramir smiled to himself; at least, as consort, he ranked alongside the wife, to whom he had never spoken, rather than the concubines, who dared not speak to him. He swirled dregs of the wine around in his glass; time he returned to his room to ready himself for bed: perhaps tonight he would dream of home.
Klaas, Marek's chief spy, executioner and Faramir's only real friend, handed him the censored letter with an apologetic shrug, and Faramir sighed. Imrahil's two pages had been reduced to thirteen words: Dear Faramir, We had a very good wheat harvest in Lebennin this year.
"Are you going to reply?" asked Klaas. They spoke the tongue of Gondor; the only time Faramir was able to speak it was with this man.
"No." Faramir handed it back. He did write, sometimes, but with nothing to respond to...he shied at the thought of confiding details of his life in Harad to Imrahil or to Aragorn, his only correspondents.
"Perhaps you would care for a coffee?"
Faramir shrugged, then said, "Very well."
Klaas waved a hand in the direction of one of the servants, who bowed and went out. "I would have liked you to have more," he said. "I'm sorry."
Faramir chose to misinterpret his words and said, "I expect they're too busy." He leaned back on the comfortable couch in Klaas's office.
Klaas smiled, "You always put the best interpretation on matters. I admire that."
"Don't tell Marek of your admiration," said Faramir.
"He knows." The servant arrived with the tall pot of coffee; Klaas poured out, and added the sugar usual in Harad to their cups. "You are an object of much envy, as Marek predicted you would be."
"You weren't there." Faramir took his coffee.
"But he tells the story often," Klaas sipped his drink, his expression one of bliss. "Besides, I can say things to him that others cannot."
Faramir gave in to his curiosity, "Why is that? I have long wondered."
"I am his brother. I thought you knew." Faramir looked at Klaas, now he could see the resemblance: the eyes were the same green and the nose and mouth very similar. Klaas went on, "My mother was a concubine of his father's, a woman from Lebennin taken in battle. Perhaps my mother's fate is why I sympathise with yours."
"Ah, yes," said Faramir. "I'm the 'Gondorian whore' - I do speak the language of the Haradrim well enough to understand what they call me in the market place."
"I have never called you that," said Klaas. "Nor would I."
Faramir looked away, "I'm sorry, that was rude of me."
"It is no matter."
Faramir looked up at the sound of someone at his door; it was past the time at which Marek would normally send for him to share his bed, but his heart sank. His body servant, a eunuch from Khand entered and bowed, "Prince Marek has asked that his Court assemble."
"At this time of night?"
"Yes, Lord Faramir," Kamar stepped forward. "It is a formal request."
'Formal request' in the Marek's household meant, 'order for which the penalty for disobedience is death by stoning' so Faramir said, "Very well."
Dressed in the elaborate robes of the consort to the Crown Prince, he entered the audience chamber behind Klaas and stood in his appointed position. Marek's wife and son stood opposite him and they bowed to each other. The concubines came in, the men behind Faramir and the women behind Marek's wife.
Until Marek arrived he could look where he chose; he noticed that some of those present appeared oddly eager and cursed his distant relationship with his body servant which meant he missed most of the palace gossip. Klaas denied that Kamar was one of his spies, but he was certainly working for someone.
The doors to the audience chamber ground back and Marek entered; at once Faramir saw that he too had that pleased and greedy expression which made Faramir's blood run cold. The chamber was utterly silent for a moment, and then another man entered, this one escorted by one of Marek's personal guard. Though he'd only seen him once before, Faramir recognised him as the Grand Vizier of Marek's father, King Celeph. He looked pale, but he approached Marek as if unaware of the guard, and bowed. "Harad has been hit by a tragedy," he said. "Your father, he who was father and guide to us all, is dead."
"I see," said Marek.
Faramir heard a scream from not far away; nobody in the Court could move without permission and Faramir's blood ran cold.
"Were you loyal to my father?" asked Marek.
"Of course, my Prince," replied the man, his pallor increasing still further.
"Then you cannot be completely loyal to me. Klaas, see to it."
Klaas bowed, and stepped forward. He pulled his scimitar from its sheath; fast as breath he swung it round in a graceful arc. The Vizier's head fell from his shoulders and hit the ground with a sickening noise.
"I am your King," Marek said, his voice quiet. The entire court, Faramir included, knelt as one. From outside the screams continued and Faramir realised that Harad was being cleansed of those who might threaten Marek's power.
Marek stepped forward and lifted Faramir's face. "I will lie with my consort tonight," he looked at one of the slaves, "see to it that he is prepared for this night of joy." Marek's wife looked at Faramir, hatred on her beautiful face.
Faramir woke in the night; he was alone in Marek's huge bed. He sat up, every bone ached: Marek distained to beat or torture his consort but after being bedded by him Faramir felt as if a horse had rolled on him. He had never before been left alone in this room, and he was puzzled, but then he heard voices from an open door. He got out of bed and slipped over, moving silently across the thick carpet.
He could see Marek, lying on a couch with his back to the door, and an unseen stranger said, "You have no reason to complain, Marek. Your father is dead. Your will has been done."
"It has, and you have my gratitude."
"Your gratitude is too small a thing; I want only that which you promised. To free my people from the tribute."
"I will reduce it..."
"No, Marek. You will free us."
"You are in no position to issue threats," said Marek.
The person moved into view, and Faramir was surprised: he was smaller than he would have expected, and clad in loose trousers and tunic of dark midnight blue. "Don't be too sure of that," said the stranger. "There is a good deal about you that you would not have known." Marek must have made a movement with his hand; Faramir saw only the motion of his shoulder. The stranger gave an unpleasant smile, "You would not have the consort you favoured tonight know that the reason he never hears from his brother is not, as he must believe, that the brother has forgotten him, but because the brother's letters are intercepted and burned."
Faramir gasped, and the stranger looked at him straight in the eye for a moment through the open door.
He continued, "Or that your wife find out that her beloved brother was not taken by the soldiers of Gondor as she believes, but murdered by your agent." He moved closer to Marek, "Or would you like to die at the hands of the silent ones the next time a candidate for the throne offers us sufficient advancement?"
What happens next?