THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: Teens, for attempted violence.

Author’s notes:

As you can see, this chapter follows the events of the previous one with a time interval of three months. Some facts are – and will be – mentioned more than once, as this story is to a good part about the town itself, and different inhabitants see the same events from different viewpoints.

To the personal backgrounds of Jutus, Belegorn, Odhrain and Lord Peredur see my other story, “The Last Yule in Halabor”, the chapters titled “The Newborn”, “The One-Armed Warden”, “The Head Scribe” and “The Lord’s Bailiff”.

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

CHAPTER 4 – FORESHADOWS

(In which Jutus, the Warehouse clerk, discovers a hideous crime, and Mistress Pharin has much grief.)

[The New Port of Halabor, on the 4^th day of Rethe⁽¹⁾, in the year 2998 of the Third Age]

The waterfront Warehouse of the New Port was a relic from old – and better – times. Of times, when the main trade routes had still crossed each other at Halabor, and when the great ships of foreign merchants from far-away, strange lands had still sailed up on the Great River to bring their wares to the annual fairs of the town.

Still, even in these late times, it was a sight to behold. The huge ground floor, built of stone in local fashion, was divided into three parts by plank walls that not quite reached the low ceiling. On the riverside were the wares waiting to be loaded onto the ships that would then bring them down the River to Minas Tirith: dried and smoked fish, casks of ale and beer, large earthenware pots with honey or jam or dried fruits, massive coils of rope, barrels of wine or fine liquor, round pieces of spicy cheese, twined bundles of finely prepared skins or woollen cloth, and so on. Halabor had much more to offer than just Rustam’s beautiful rugs and the stunning needlework the embroiderers made.

On the townside, the wares recently brought in were stored, until they could be delivered to their respective destinations by cart or by pack mules: the finest silk from Khand or Khambaluk, most of which would be transported farther up North, to the royal court of Edoras; assorted spices from Pelargir or even Umbar, acquired by the tireless Iathlan, the younger spice-merchant; large glass bottles with more sorts of oil than one could imagine, thank to the efforts of Thaneau, the young and adventurous oil merchant; and much more. As the merchants of Halabor were covering he needs of the garrison on Cair Andros as well, there were lots of items connected to soldiering and warfare as well. The local ironsmiths and saddlers could not cover everything alone.

In the middle of the ground floor was a wide corridor, where the workers could hurry up and down, and on each end of the hall stood a small writing desk, with a clerk behind each, noting dutifully each item that was carried in or out. As the doors on both length-sides were cut in the middle of the walls, so that the floor could be easily accessed from both the docks and the Cart Road, this was where the clerks would be least disturbed.

A slim, surprisingly dark-skinned boy of about eight or nine summers, with thick, curly jet-black hair framing his fine face, continually swept the wooden planks under everyone’s feet, trying to keep the steady build-up of dusk and dirt on an acceptable level. He wore a nicely made linen shirt with a pretty leather belt, breeches and surprisingly fine shoes for a young apprentice, and had almond-shaped, very dark eyes that revealed his foreign origins.

Standing next to the dockside doors, which were wide enough for a four-wheeled cart to roll through, a tall man stood, watching over the work with sharp, sea-grey eyes: Odhrain, the head clerk of the Merchants’ Guild and thus the one who had daily command over the Warehouse. He was a tall man, like even the common-born Dúnedain happened to be, with a hawkish face and dark locks shorn just over his shoulders, with a neatly trimmed, short beard that only covered his chin. He gave very few orders, and rarely checked anything, just stood there, muscular arms folder across his broad chest, apparently expecting that everything would be carried out to his satisfaction. Those cold, wintry eyes seemed to see everything at once, and they turned to the sweeping boy with disgust every time and again.

Jutus, the receiving clerk, gripped his scribe’s board with both hands tightly enough for his fingernails to whiten. He deeply, devotedly loathed Odhrain, the bastard son of a respected nobleman from a nearby manor, who always seemed to think himself so much better than the people from the Old Folk, and never failed to show it. In fact, Odhrain carried himself like some exiled nobleman; as if honest work would have been beneath his dignity. He even clad himself like some rich burgher, wearing a  long-sleeved, black velvet tunic, lined with fur, and breeches and a sleeveless, belted tunic of fine wool, and even a mantle, fastened at the shoulder with a decorative silver clasp, On his feet were boots with high tops of soft leather. 'Twas ridiculous for a mere clerk to pretend to be more than he actually was, but for some reason Master Selevan, the head of the Guild, tolerated Odhrain’s antics.

Yet vanity and haughtiness were not the only reasons why Jutus loathed the head clerk so much. In truth, the main reason was the way Odhrain handled each one who might have to do something with Harad: with mistrust, disgust, almost hatred. And as Jutus was one of those people, life was not always easy for him in the Warehouse.

Many years ago, when Master Suanach, the old mercer, Selevan’s father, moved from Pelargir to Halabor with his beautiful wife, the gentle Lady Tahmeen of Bakshir, his entire household followed him: clerks, bathers, manservants, maidservants, needle-workers, and so on, Jutus’ family was just one of those, and like the others, he, too, had some Haradric blood in his veins. In Pelargir, things like that happened often, and no-one gave the children of mixed blood queer looks like here. Like Odhrain gave that poor Zhori.

Mayhap it was not such a good idea of Master Selevan to send the boy to the Warehouse and make him an apprentice clerk, thought Jutus, while his fingers moved with the quill almost on their own. At least not at such a young age. Not when he is not here to see how the boy is treated. People’s tongues are wiggling enough anyway.

Though again, what other choice would a boy with no father have? Zhori was almost nine already, he had to learn a craft to earn a living later. And being a warehouse clerk was not such bad work – unless, of course, one had Odhrain as the overseer. The boy was doing his best to please that cold and heartless man, but to no use, it seemed.

Jutus suppressed a sigh. Surely, the rumours that Zhori had been sired by Master Selevan himself did not help matters, even though they had no physical resemblance. Master Selevan was a Dúnadan from his father’s side and bore all the outer signs of the Men of Westernesse, save from his dark eyes and slightly coarse, wavy hair. Zhori, on the other hand, came after her mother – or so the women said. Of this, Jutus could say naught, as Hunalami, the bather’s sister, kept the old customs of Khambaluk and never left the house unveiled. All Jutus had ever seen of her was her high forehead, adorned with small golden coins on a fine chain, and two large, dark eyes like black jewels. Eyes like those of her son.

He suppressed another sigh and the urge to shake his head in exasperation. Zhori could already write neatly enough, not only with the letters used in Gondor, but also with Haradric ones, leading the quill from the right to the left, in Haradric fashion. And yet Odhrain still made him sweep the floor, a task suited for any witless farm boy. ‘Twas a waste, but the head clerk seemed to enjoy forcing the boy to do such lowly tasks. Well, Zhori has enough fire in him, thought Jutus, fire that will not be easily quenched.

To his great relief, the horns that reminded the town of the upcoming curfew were blown from the watchtower of Nurria’s Gate. Jutus noted the last few items carried in, then cleaned his quill carefully and gave his lists Odhrain for approval. On the other end of the main floor his colleague, Dufgal, did the same. The head clerk gave the list a cursory look, knowing that he would be hard-pressed to find any mistake, and nodded.

“Good. Take these lists to Mistress Eryn in the Town Hall. We shall close for today.”

Jutus scowled in anger. Presenting the lists to the Guild’s book-keeper would have been Odhrain’s duty, yet he always sent one of his subordinates there. And the choice fell on Jutus a lot more often than it fell on Dufgal, who, while not a Dúnadan either, was at least from the local people. But that was not a task Jutus could have refused to do.

His scowl changed into a devilish grin as a thought occurred to him, however.

“Come here, Zhori,” he said to the boy. “Have you ever been to the Town Hall?” The curly head shook ‘no’. “Well then, come with me. You can see the Hall, and afterwards, I shall take you home.”

Dufgal and the workers suppressed a guffaw of laughter as Odhrain’s face practically blackened with anger and hatred, but there  was naught the head clerk could do about the issue anymore. Jutus bid his co-workers good night and, taking Zhori’s small, warm hand into his big one, left the Warehouse.

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

They walked down the Cartroad to Nurria’s Gate, with Zhori jumping up and down in excitement. He could barely wait to see the Town Hall from the inside. This was the longer way, they had to cross half the town ‘til they reached the Marketplace, but it was still much safer than walking in the abandoned New Port, open to the water.

Amlath, one of the Wardens, was about to close the Gate for the night when they came upon him and he grinned in a friendly manner as he recognized the clerk.

“Master Jutus,” he said, “you are out late today. And is it not beyond the boy’s bedtime?”

“Sure it is,” Jutus shrugged, “But the slave driver who oversees our work cares little for that,”

“Discipline has raised the realms of Westernesse to greatness,” commented Amlath with a broad grin. He was a Dúnadan himself, hailed from Anórien, and had been forced to retire from the army of Gondor only a year earlier. But he loathed Odhrain just as much as about anyone else.

“You should come in now,” he added, becoming serious again. “There have been sightings of Hill-men recently; ‘tis not safe to tarry around in the dark.”

Justus knew that all too well, and he urged the boy to come in without further delay. Zhori watched with wide, curious eyes as the warden tossed the heavy oaken wings closed, wedged them and put on the iron bars to keep them safely shut.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked, seeing that the Warden was dragging one of his feet, instead of putting his weight upon it.

“My thigh broke on three places when my horse caught an Orc arrow and fell atop me,” explained Amlath. “The healers righted it, but it did not heal properly, so I cannot be a soldier any longer.”

“But how can you be a Warden, then?” asked the boy innocently.

Amlath patted his great bow, made of the wood of the yew tree. It was a longbow, like those used by the Ithilien Rangers.

“I am a bowman now, as you can see. I have no need to run around and chase the Orcs with a sword.”

The answer satisfied Zhori, and he followed Jutus, who was already hading to the Marketplace, when a call stopped them. “Wait for me!”

It was Belegorn, another one of the Wardens, also called Calmlost or One-handed, for he had lost his left arm below the elbow, after almost thirty years of soldiering. He came with Amlath to Halabor, following Henderch’s invitation.

“’Tis safer for you to have an armed escort,” he explained, “and besides, I am going your way in any case.”

“’Tis a sad thing that we had to learn to fear darkness within the walls of our own town,” said Jutus sadly. Belegorn nodded.

“True, but the Shadow is growing with each passing year, and both ports are open to the water. ‘Tis better to be careful than to be regretful.”

Jutus had to agree with that, and so they crossed the Main Street, greeting the people who were hurrying towards their homes left and right. Then they turned in to the Street of the Gardens, one of the four short streets that led to the Marketplace. Most of the shops were closed already, only in the Drunken Boat and in the Town Hall were the lights still on. Mistress Pharin was serving the last meals before curfew, and apparently, Mistress Eryn – her daughter, by the way – was burning the midnight oil, too.

“I would love to have a mug of bear before going home,” murmured Belegorn, licking his lips instinctively, “but I do not want to make Lothhael and the children wait from me with supper too long.” He had married a local widow with two small, orphaned children, shortly after coming to town.

Jutus nodded in understanding. “I just hand these lists over to Mistress Eryn, and then we can all go home.”

Right before the main entrance of the Town Hall, they ran into Wella, Lord Orchald’s tax collector: a short, wiry and balding man, who, albeit he belonged to the Old Folk, behaved and clad himself like some nobleman. Jutus could still suffer him better than he did Odhrain. At least Wella truly came from a wealthy and respected family, and did not press people too hard when doing his work.

“Master Wella, “ greeted him Belegorn, “working late again, it seems.”

“Nay, I am done for today,” repeated the tax collector. “Just finished registering the incomes of my most recent tour. ‘Tis not promising, I tell you, not promising at all. Those poor farmers can barely bring in enough to feed their families – fortunately, our Lord collects the tenth of the annual harvest, not a certain sum of coin or a certain amount of goods. I know not how else they would be able to pay.”

“Lord Orchald is generous,” Belegorn nodded. “A true father of his subjects. Not many lords would hold back the way he does.”

Jutus quietly agreed. Not many lords would have allowed Master Suanach to settle in their town with his half-Haradric household, either. Sure, he collected fairly high taxes from the merchants, and even more so during the fairs, but he also kept the trade routes to Rohan open and trade between the great havens of Gondor and the Riddermark alive. Halabor might have lost much of its former importance, but it was still the key to Rohan. The Merchants’ Guild had very high opinion of their liege.

Which reminded the scribe of his immediate duty.

“Is Mistress Eryn still in?” he asked the tax collector. Wella shrugged.

“She is about to close, too. Just wanted to collect the fee from that carpenter’s journeyman who wants to work for Vuron.”

“Strange,” said Belegorn with a frown. “I have recently spoken to Vuron about repairing some of our furniture. He did not mention taking in a journeyman. In fact, he was complaining about not having any help, as he cannot pay a helping hand right now.”

Wella shrugged again. “Mayhap ‘tis a recent development. They will have to start building the new booths for the Spring Fair. He might be planning to pay the man off afterwards.”

Belegorn just shook his head, clearly not satisfied, but Jutus was getting impatient. He needed to get rid of the lists, and then take Zhori home, ere he could return to his own family. Preferably before the curfew.

“I am certain that Mistress Eryn can tell when we ask her,” she said. “Let us go to her ere she closes the office.”

The others agreed with that, and so Wella took his leave from them, while they entered the large, mostly darkened building. Mistress Eryn had her office in the small chamber next to the main hall, in which both the Merchants’ Guild and the crafts guilds had their meetings. It was hard to find, hidden behind the main hall, unless one knew where to look for the entrance. That was so for a reason. For not only were the books of the Guild kept  there, but also the lawful measures for length and weight, which every craftsman, every merchant had to respect. This was also the chamber where the money of the Guild was kept. Not much, but enough to cover any immediate expenses.

When Jutus entered the small room, he found Mistress Erin hunched over her writing desk. That was naught new or disturbing. The long hours she spent bent over parchment had made her hunchbacked for quite some time, and as she was not a young person anymore, she happened to fall asleep over her work sometimes. Still, the Guild kept her, for she was better with numbers than anyone else, and had a neat handwriting, with bold, carefully penned letters.

“Mistress Eryn,” Jutus stepped closer, holding the lists before him. “Mistress Eryn, I have brought you today’s records from the warehouse. If you were so good as file them…?”

He got no answer, which was strange. Could she be so deeply asleep that she had not heard him? Sure, she was deaf on one ear, but the other one was still keen. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.

His heart in his throat, Jutus stepped even closer, touching her arm lightly. It gave in, and the hand still holding the quill rolled off the desk and hung on the side of her unmoving body in a strangely unnatural angle. Jutus felt his own heartbeat quickening in fear, and he reached out tentatively, touching the head of the old woman that was resting on the desk. He felt something wet under the iron-grey hair, and as he pulled his hand back, it was covered with some thick, dark fluid.

The smell of blood nearly made him retch.

“Zhori,” he said in a strangely high-pitched voice that revealed his panic, “Keep out! You must not enter this room, understood?”

The boy meekly agreed, for the obvious fear in a grown man’s voce had frightened him badly. Belegorn came in, gave the scene a cursory glance, then turned away grimly.

“Lad, we need your help,” he said. “Do you know Master Henderch, the Chief Warden?” The boy nodded. “Run to the Drunken Boat then, and tell him that he must come here at once. Tell him that Belegorn One-hand sent you. And that he must bring our leech with him. Tell him exactly that and nothing else, understood?”

Zhori ran off, barely catching the Warden’s last order, “And stay there with Mistress Pharin ‘til we come for you!”

Re-entering the room, Belegorn found the scribe pale and shaking, but otherwise all right. Not half bad from a clerk who has never wielded anything sharper than a quill, he thought. He stepped up to the desk and looked for a pulse on the woman’s neck. He could find none, but she was still warm, so she might be still alive. Unconscious, for sure, but mayhap not dead yet.

“Is she alive?” asked Jutus, fighting the urge to get violently sick. “Should we not send for a healer?”

Belegorn shook his head. “The midwife and he herb-woman cannot do here much. I hope Henderch will have Cathbad with him; the old man used to be a barber-surgeon for more years than I could count. He would be of more use.”

“You believe there is help still?” asked Jutus doubtfully. Belegorn shrugged.

“That I cannot tell. We must wait.”

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

They did not have to wait too much. A short time later, Henderch came in running, followed by the Wardens’ leech, a stocky elderly man with a short beard and thinning hair. The leech examined Mistress Eryn carefully – and then shook his head in regret.

“Here I can do naught else,” he said. “She is gone.”

“That is dire news for Mistress Pharin,” said Belegorn. “The two of them have had no other family since Angharad left for Lossarnach. We should send word to her tomorrow. Mistress Pharin will need her granddaughter, even though she would never admit.”

Henderch nodded. “I shall see to it, first thing in the morrow. But now we should search the place, ere people come in and trample down all the clues. Master Jutus, you know this office better than anyone from us. Can you tell me if something is missing?”

Jutus looked around carefully and found everything in its usual order. Mistress Eryn was – had been – a woman with a strong sense of order, each item had its customary place in the small office, so that she would not need to look for them.

Then something caught his eye. The small cabinet in the furthest corner, half-hidden behind a stool with a tall back. Or, to be more accurate, the door of the small cabinet. It stood ajar. Justus had never seen it open before. In fact, it had always been locked, with an iron bar and a big padlock, for this was where the strongbox of the Merchants’ Guild was kept, together with that of the Craftsmen’s Guild’s. Now both strongboxes were gone.

“The cabinet,” he said to Henderch. “The cabinet with the strongboxes. It is open – and empty.”

The Wardens exchanged agreeing looks. Sad as it was, the case seemed clear enough.

“Robbery,” judged Henderch. “Someone came in with an excuse that would make Mistress Eryn open the cabinet…”

“Wella spoke about a carpenter’s journeyman who wanted to pay his fee,” said Belegorn slowly. “Yet I know of no help having been hired by Vuron… or by his son.”

“That might have been a lie,” said Jutus, peeking over to dead woman’s shoulder, despite his queasy feeling; he recognized the income book of the Craftsmen’s Guild, even though it was soiled with blood. “Mistress Eryn was obviously about to make an entry in the book when she was attacked.”

“No resistance,” remarked Henderch. “She must have been caught unaware. Perchance, the murderer did not even want to kill her – just to get to the coins. How much might have been in those strongboxes?”

“Not a fat bounty, in any case,” replied Jutus, being the one who knew most about the customs of the Town Hall. “Both Guilds keep their wealth on better protected places. These boxes could not have more money in them than the usual fees paid by foreign merchants and journeymen. The boxes are emptied on Meresdei⁽²⁾, as a rule. As we have Sterrendei⁽³⁾ now, they must have been nearly empty.”

“So she was murdered for nigh to nothing,” Henderch shook his head in sorrow. “Unless she had valuables on her own person that might have caught the murderer’s eye.”

“She usually carried a small purse on her belt,” said Jutus. “A new one, made by little Mistress Crewyn. A gift from her mother for last Yule, I believe. Her golden necklace is missing. ‘Twas a thin, simple thing, barely worth the weight of gold used to make it, which was not much. Her earrings are still here. The murderer must have been in a great hurry.”

“He might have heard us talking to Wella under the window,” added Belegorn grimly. Then he looked at his captain. “What are we going to do now?”

“Send word to both gates that no-one must leave ‘til the morrow,” said Henderch. “I have little hope that our murderer would try the gates when he could easier steal a boat and leave on the water, but one can never know. Cathbad, bring our cart and take the body to the Infirmary, where she can be bared up properly. Send someone to search this place for the weapon, mayhap we can find it. And we need to warn all the innkeepers to look for that purse. Mistress Crewyn can surely describe it well enough, she makes unique designs.”

“What about you?” asked Belegorn. Henderch sighed.

“I shall go to Mistress Pharin and tell her that her daughter is dead.”

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

Mistress Pharin took the grievous news with remarkable calm. She blanched a little and closed her eyes for a moment, she even needed to sit down and have a cup of wine, but after she had taken a sip of it, her eyes were dry and dark.

“This had to happen one day,” she said in a tight, collected voice. “I often warned her not to stay alone in the Town Hall so late, but she never listened to me. Not when she married that worthless husband of hers who left her after three years, not later, not now. Where have you brought her?”

“To the Infirmary,” replied Henderch. “There she will be taken care of. Old Mistress Crodergh does have the necessities – and is used to such work.”

Mistress Pharin, her face still pale and her eyes still dry, nodded approvingly.

“Good. That is good. I shall go over in the morrow, bring her burial clothes, and send word to Vuron… about the coffin,” her strong voice trembled for the moment, but she brought it under control again. “I fear that we cannot wait for Angharad with the funeral. The weather is much too warm for that already.”

“You should send for her anyhow,” said Henderch mildly. “She has the right to know; and you might need her support.”

To his great surprise, Mistress Pharin did not even try to argue with him, which showed more than anything how truly shaken she was. Losing one’s child is always a hard thing, but losing them when one had spent a lifetime together and grown old with them was even harder. Mistress Pharin had a son, too, four years older than her now dead daughter, but that son had moved to Lossarnach with his family (and good riddance, Mistress Pharin usually added, for she truly could not stand her daughter-in-law) and never again cared for his mother, save from a few short visits.

“Do you have a place where you can spend the night?” asked Henderch. “I do not think that you should stay in the house alone.”

He knew that Mistress Pharin had two sisters and a brother in Halabor still, any of which would gladly take her in for a while. But the old woman shook her head defiantly.

“No need to disturb anyone with such sad news in the middle of the night,” she said. “I shall not be alone; my girls live in the house, too. And I need to be left alone for a while, ere people overrun the house, just to tell me how terribly sorry they are. Mostly those who never cared for Eryn and would never shed a tear for her. Humour me in this, Master Warden. My loss will become a spectacle soon enough.”

Henderch understood her reasoning. Some people liked to make their grief a public event, with loud laments and waterfalls of tears, others preferred to grieve in private. Mistress Pharin obviously was the latter sort – and he respected that.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall be gone now; there will be much to do, soon. But never hesitate to tell me if there is anything I could do for you.”

“There is,” she said grimly. “Find the bastard who has done this. I want him hung.”

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

The rumours that Mistress Eryn had been murdered in the Town Hall, and the strongboxes of both Guilds stole, spread like wildfire in town during the night. Despite the curfew, people somehow had found a way to tell their friends and neighbours, and a great deal of guesswork had already been done when, in the next morrow, Henderch began to investigate in earnest.

Crimes like murder and robbery belonged under the jurisdiction of Lord Orchald himself, and by the third hour⁽⁴⁾ Peredur son of Narmacil, the Lord’s bailiff – and head of a noble family himself – rode in from Emerië Manor, his fortified home outside the town walls, to lead the investigation. He was a tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed man in his prime, with the hawkish face of Númenórean nobles, a keen mind and renown of his hard dealing with culprits of all sorts.

The matter of the carpenter’s journeyman came up again, and Wella, the tax-collector was called to the Town Hall (where Peredur had his office) to tell more about this mysterious person. He described the journeyman as a slim lad of about twenty-five summers, with dirty brown hair that barely covered his ears, and soiled working clothes.

As an inquiry at both gates and among the regular patrons of the Drunken Boat brought no new insights – no-one seemed to have seen a man like that – Lord Peredur decided to pay the carpenter a visit, asking Henderch to accompany him. The simple townsfolk was uncomfortable when facing such noble lords and more likely to open their mouths in the presence of their own.

Vuron, the carpenter, had his house and workshop in the Old Port, next to those of the barrel-maker and the boat-makers, which made sense, as all of them worked with wood. He ran his business with the help of his sons, twenty-two and fifteen years old, while his daughter was married to the barrel-maker’s brother and had three children on her own already.

The carpenter himself, a large, comely man with a neatly trimmed beard and small, observant brown eyes, had heard of the tragic events already, of course. Readily did he call his entire family together, from his elderly mother-in-law to his younger son, so that they could be questioned.

“But,” he said, aiming his words at Henderch, “as I already said Belegorn the other day, we have not had any hired help for quite some time. And I cannot remember having seen a man looking like the one you have described.”

“Aye, you have,” Thei, his firstborn, who was a younger version of him, interrupted. “Or at least you would have, had you taken a closer look when Godric’s people ferried over the timber from the New Port two days ago.”

“You saw a man with such looks?” asked Henderch. The young man made an apologetic shrug.

“The problem is, I saw more than one. The wood-sellers usually hire their ferrymen in the New Port, and you know what sort of people dwell there… save from the wood-workers themselves.”

Henderch nodded. Ever since it had lost its one-time importance, the New Port became the last refuge of unlucky people who had no better choice. Homeless and penniless folk lurked in the long-abandoned, half-ruined houses of the boatmakers who had either moved back to the Old Port or left town entirely.

Most of them were decent people with a great deal of bad luck, but some of them were dangerous. Either predators by nature, who preyed on the weak, or too desperate to care for the possible consequences of their deeds. And despair could drive people to horrible deeds. Everyone who ever worked in law enforcement knew that.

“We can search the New Port,” offered Henderch, “but the people will tell us nothing. They stuck together – or are too afraid to speak, even if they know aught.”

“Still, we must do it,” said Peredur. “The wood-seller would have no reason to deny us an honest answer. As for the rest, at least we shall smoke out some of the rats again. We have not done so for some time, and it shows.”

And thus a group of Wardens was sent to the New Port to search all the abandoned houses and question the people who lived in them. As Henderch had foretold, though, they did not get any useful answers, but they did take into custody four young men, no less, all between twenty and thirty, all sporting a head of dirty brown hair and wearing soiled rags on their thin bodies.

Wella, the tax-collector was called in again, to see if he would recognize any of them. But he had only seen the supposed murderer for a moment or two, and even that only in a dim light, and thus he could not tell whether it had been one of these. Therefore the suspects were released, after a thorough search of their ragged clothes. No coins, nor Mistress Eryn’s purse or her necklace was found by any of them.

That caused great dismay among the townspeople, for Mistress Eryn had been well liked in Halabor, and some hotheads started talking about burning down the empty houses in the New Port, ‘so that the harbour rats would have no hole to hide in’. Understandably enough, the wood-sellers found that a very bad idea and protested by Lord Peredur, who now had the hotheads taken into custody, so that they could cool their heads in a cell for a day or two.

Mistress Eryn was buried in the small cemetery beyond the Infirmary’s crop fields – a serene place, surrounded by a circle of thick, tall bushes, where no moulds, just simple, heart-shaped headstones marked who had been laid to final rest below them. Dochou, the stone-mason, carved her name on the withered headstone, right under that of her long dead father’s, as it was custom in their family. The candle of the dead burned before the headstone for the three following days and nights, and people came and prayed to Nurria, Lady of the fields and pastures, to give her a peaceful rest in the earth, of which all life came.

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

After that, the novelty of the events wore off, and people went after their own business. Even Mistress Pharin reopened the Drunken Boat again. Life went on, and she could not afford to lose her patrons to one of the other taverns. Even less so right now that this remained her only income.

It seemed as if everyone had forgotten the poor woman who had served the Guilds for more than thrice ten years. But looks can be deceiving, and that was certainly true in this particular case. In fact, the Merchants’ Guild was greatly worried about the sad event – and not just out of pity for their unfortunate book-keeper.

“If the foreign merchants hear that we cannot provide the safety of our own scribe in the Town hall, they will think twice ere they make business with us again,” old Master Suanach, a hawk-faced, olive-skinned man of nigh seventy years said grimly. “The murderer must be found swiftly and hung publicly, to show that law is indeed enforced in this town. Otherwise, we might as well pack our bags and move elsewhere.”

“The Wardens should turn the rat holes in the New Port inside out and question everyone by swordpoint,” growled Madron, the fishmonger.

“Like you question everyone you hire to work on your barges?” his brother-in-law and strongest opponent, Nechtan, asked with a mirthless grin.

The others snorted. Everyone knew that Madron would hire even Orcs, when it meant he could pay them less than decent people would demand.

“The Wardens’ duty is to guard the gates and ramparts by day and patrol the streets by night, not to do the work of the bailiff and his sergeants,” pointed out Muathlan, the old spice merchant.

Although he left the bulk of actual work, like travelling and running the shop, to his only son, he still kept his seat in the ruling body of the Guild (just like Suanach) and was welcome to do so. For not only had he great experience and excellent contacts to foreign merchants in the big cities as Minas Tirith or Linhir, he also hailed from one of the old local families, and people accepted him more readily than Suanach, who still counted as a newcomer and a stranger.

“’Tis up to us to protect our possessions… and our lives,” he continued. “Especially in the New Port. An attack on the Warehouse could cause most of us great losses.”

“True enough,” nodded Godric, the wood-seller; a fire in the New Port would most certainly ruin him. “What do you suggest?”

“I believe Lord Orchald has already shown us what to do,” replied Muathlan thoughtfully. “We must hire watchmen for the Warehouse and the Town Hall, just as he has hired the Wardens. Armed watchmen, with dogs, so that thieves and robbers would be either frightened away or caught.”

“That would cost us,” warned Myghal, the hay merchant. Godric nodded.

“I know. But losing our wares would cost us a great deal more.”

“I shall not throw out my coin for such thing!” protested Madron. “My lads can protect themselves and my wares!”

“And who will protect the rest of us from your lads?” asked the wood-seller dryly.

The others guffawed in a somewhat undignified manner. Few people in the entire town were so generally disliked as the fishmonger. Madron’s face became beet red with anger, but ere he could retort, Master Suanach raised a dark, elegant hand and silenced him.

“Let us not argue about old grudges, my friends. It might be that things are different in the Old Port, but for most of us, I believe, Master Muathlan’s idea seems to be a good one. We all could suffer considerable losses due to arson and robbery and theft. So let us protect our wares the best we can. I am willing to pay for those watchmen, when it means that we can keep our reputation in the eyes of our business partners.”

The others, with the exception of Madron, agreed, and thus the decision was made that they would, indeed, look for able-bodied watchmen, for both the Warehouse and the Town Hall. The hay merchant, who had the best contacts to the garrison on Cair Andros, was appointed the task to find some veterans who were about to leave service and offer them employment by the Guild.

“We still have one thing that needs to be decided,” said Master Suanach. “We need someone to take over poor Mistress Eryn’s duties.”

“We should bring over one of the Warehouse clerks,” said Tuachtal, the oil merchant. “Both Jutus and Dufgal have the necessary skills and are experience enough to take over the book-keeping.”

“Mayhap,” said Master Suanach doubtfully. “But we cannot afford to leave the Warehouse without them. What about Odhrain, though? He is good with numbers, he speaks four languages and can write with runes, with Elven letters and with Haradric symbols as well. And he still has some years of his contract to work off for us.”

“Besides, he has no family and no friends,” added the spice merchant with a shrug. “He can just as well put his time to good use and work in two places. ‘Tis not so as if he could refuse.”

“We should pay him more, though,” said the oil merchant thoughtfully. “If we give him half of what Mistress Eryn got, above his own due, we can spare coin and still appear generous.”

The suggestion was accepted by all, and thus the lead clerk’s fate was sealed for the next couple of years. Anyone who had a contract with the Merchants’ Guild could count on staying in lifelong dependence. They were not bad people, on the contrary, but first and foremost, they protected their own interests.

In the meantime, Lord Peredur’s sergeants and Henderch’s Wardens were searching the New Port tirelessly, questioning denizens and the people who worked on visiting ships, but found no clue. Then they moved to the Old Port and did the same, but found nothing, either.

Thus the case was finally declared unsolved, but the Wardens and tavern-owners and the Castle Guard kept in mind what – or whom – they were supposed to look for. The people of Halabor had an excellent memory and were not going to give up the hunt for the murderer. Even if it might take longer to catch him than expected.

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

End notes:

(1) March.

(2) Thursday. As Friday (Highdei) was the last day of the week, according to the calendar of Bree, which I use for the Old Folk, it corresponds our Saturday, actually.

(3) Saturday; corresponding our Monday.

(4) 9 p.m.