Author’s Note:  Huge thanks to Cairistiona for her help as beta!

The click of marching feet on cobblestones startles me out of my reverie.  Our escort has come at last, in the form of a dozen Gondorian soldiers.  Though they are far from fluent, these men have clearly been chosen for their grasp of the Haradric language.  They move among us, their faces impassive as they divided us into groups based on region of origin.  It seems the first audience will be granted to the people of Near Harad.

How fortunate for us. 

As much as I’ve waited and prepared for this moment, I feel my heart begin to pound as the time for our audience draws near.  My nerves dance, and my mouth is dry—a strange feeling in this lush and humid land.

I follow the soldiers’ garbled instructions silently, clutching my purse tight, but keeping my hands carefully away from the hilt of my sword.  Under their direction, we trudge through the streets of Minas Tirith in a ragged procession.  Age has not yet dimmed my sight, but I know not whether that is a blessing or a curse.  I keep my face turned low towards the pavement, but I cannot keep my gaze from wandering.  Over the long hours, I have become accustomed to unfriendly faces.  My gaze is drawn instead to the great marvels of the city—the tall columns and sweeping arches of intricately worked stone, the bright mail and gleaming helms of the soldiers, the occasional gardens and flower beds with their riots of red, blue, and more green than seems possible.

Such are the wonders of the world beyond Harad—wonders a foolish young boy would have killed to see.

Wonders that thousands of our youth have killed to see.

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“Come, good masters, have a look.  As you can see, the fleece is particularly strong this year.”

The buck in my arms bleated his displeasure with the proceedings, nearly drowning out my father’s voice.  I gripped the goat’s horns more firmly, holding him still so that the fleece merchants could run their appraising fingers through his coat.  Privately, though, I shared the buck’s discomfort.  This final inspection, when our buyers evaluated the animals one last time and set their prices, was always a tense time.  In a harsh year like this, when we could expect few profits and many expenses, it was even more critical.  I hated the obsequious tone of voice my father adopted when addressing these merchants.  Still, I understood that our very survival might depend on his ability to convince them of the quality of our dubious wares.

Today, they did not seem convinced.  “Strong?  A bit coarse, maybe.”  The elder of the two withdrew his hand and wiped it, not at all discretely, on the side of his rich robes.  His name, I thought, was Ghassan.

“And sparse,” his fellow agreed.  That was Nadir, or maybe Namir.  No matter if I couldn’t remember their names; Father had made it clear I was not to speak to these men directly.  Nadir-or-Namir lacked his companion’s pointed goatee, but was dressed much the same in flowing robes and turban dyed in rich colors.  “’Tis understandable, given this year’s weather . . . but unfortunate.”

And the sad reality was that they were right.  In good years, the thick fleece shaved from our goats could be spun into a fine thread, softer and stronger than wool and much prized by upscale fabric merchants.  In a year such as this, though, when it was all we could do to keep the animals from starving to death, the fleece was rough and weak—suited only for rough-spun garments like the ones Father and I wore.

My father’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.  “It’s true, this drought has been harsh on many a herd.  Fortunately for your contractors, this herd is of superior breeding and especially resistant to privation.  You can let that one go, Hakim, so long as the good masters have finished their inspection?”

They nodded, so I released the buck with a sigh of relief.  He butted my hip in retaliation before racing back to the flock.  As my father and the merchants began to circle the fold, I drifted after them, half-listening as Father continued to try to sell the merits of our animals to men who seemed less impressed by the moment.

“We’ll be ready to shear a week after the last doe kids.  We’ve three still holding out on us.  Kidding has been very successful this season—we’ve scarcely lost any of the young despite the difficult conditions.  We will be in an excellent position for next year’s contracts.”

“Be that as it may,” Ghassan said mildly, “The kids will not benefit you for this year’s returns.”

Whatever answer my father might have given died on his lips as we rounded a corner.  One of the does lay on her side, trembling.  She’d obviously just kidded.  Dakheel and Kalima knelt by her side, the man holding a wet, slimy newborn kid while the girl wiped its nostrils clean with a rag.  Dakheel’s hands were filthy up to the wrists; he’d obviously had to pull the kid himself.

For a moment, no one spoke except the doe, who bleated as she struggled to her feet.  Father had been very clear that I should not so much as mention Dakheel’s existence to the merchants; they were well known for trying to take control of every “asset” a farmer had.  A healthy Gondorian captive was a windfall for them.

“Dakheel,” my father said at last, “I thought I ordered you to stay in your quarters?”  I glanced at him in surprise.  The Westron words were harsh, holding none of the deference he showed to Dakheel since Kali’s recovery.  It was as if . . . as if he was a slave already.

Handing the kid to Kalima, Dakheel stood slowly and wiped his hands on a rag.  I could see him drawing in on himself, even as his sharp eyes took in our companions.  “Malik,” he said, bowing low.  I fought to keep surprise off my face.  This subservient gesture was far from his usual attitude of polite respect.  He’s playing along, I realized.  “I beg your understanding.  I was summoned by the young mistress.”  He indicated Kali, who tugged self-consciously at her headscarf.  “She realized the doe was in distress and asked for my aid.  It was nearly a breech delivery, but the kid seems strong enough.”  Confirming his words, the newborn let out a loud squawk and its mother stepped close to nuzzle it.

Father’s face was expressionless.  “Very well, Dakheel.  Leave us.”

With another bow, the foreigner stepped away and headed back towards the barn.  Watching his departing back, I realized he was walking strangely—almost dragging one leg behind him.  Had he been injured?  Or was this another layer of the servile act he was putting on for the merchants?

“So,” Nadir mused, “You’ve taken on a servant, I see.”

Father forced a laugh.  “Not much of one.  Just a wounded Tark who doesn’t know a plow from a pillow, but he has his uses.  Hakim, don’t you have chores to attend to?”  I nodded, grateful for the dismissal.  Muttering a few mindless pleasantries for the merchants, I turned and trotted towards the barn.

Once I cleared the ridge, it took me only a moment to spot Dakheel once more.  He had abandoned his affected limp and was now bounding towards the barnyard where the merchants’ camels stood tethered.  When he glanced over his shoulder and saw me, he paused.  He shot me a warning look and lifted a single finger to his lips.  Quiet.  I froze, my face clouding in confusion.

Reaching the camels, he stepped close and began rummaging through their saddlebags, quickly and efficiently.  My eyes widened.  I looked behind me.  Father and the merchants were still milling through the herd, talking business.  The ridge currently hid the barnyard from sight, but if they returned and found the foreigner tampering with the merchants’ belongings, Dakheel would be lucky to escape with his skin intact.  I tried to catch his eye and shake my head, but he merely moved more quickly, flipping through ledgers, checking the contents of pouches, running his fingers along the seams of the saddles feeling for gods knew what.

I glanced around me and spotted a loose fencepost near the top of the ridge.  Crossing to it, I knelt and made a great show of fiddling with the wires, trying to tighten it.  All the while, though, I kept one eye on the men wandering through the fold and one on the man working furtively in the barnyard.  When Dakheel finished with the first camel, he carefully tucked all the merchant’s belongings back into the saddle bags and turned his attention to the next beast.

Behind me, Father and the merchants were returning.  I tried to catch Dakheel’s eye to warn him, but he was intent on his task.  Now, they were near enough that I could make out what they were saying.

“ . . . terribly sorry, good master, but we simply cannot offer more for wares in that condition.  In a better year, perhaps, but the market simply isn’t there for fleece.”

“With the price you’ve named, I’ll scarce be able to cover my own expenses.  How am I to feed my animals?  How am I to produce any fleece next year?”

“Could you not levy a loan against the worth of your land?”

“Done.  Last year and the year before that when my buyers swore the market would be back by this year.  I’ve nothing left to mortgage.”

“No need to be so hostile with us, friend.  The vagaries of the fleece market are hardly our doing.”

“I wonder though, good Master Azzam, if there is some other way you might like to recoup capital?”

“What are you asking, Master Nadir?”

“Well, my sister’s husband runs a thriving trade in labor for the Dark Lord’s lands.  He can get you a very fair price for a Tark with a few years left in him—even a cripple like your fellow.”  Nadir’s voice was calculated to sound casual.

My father paused for long moments.  Through gritted teeth, he replied, “I will consider your generous offer, but we’d sooner not part with him just yet.  The Tark’s been a great help around the farm.”

The trio was drawing near.  I tried one more time to catch Dakheel’s eye, but failed.  Ghassan cleared his throat.  “Well, if you won’t part with the Tark, perhaps you could lend us your son for a time?  Oh, do not glare at me so, good master.  I merely meant that my uncle works to recruit likely young men for the Lord’s Grand Army.  Your Hakim could serve his homeland, win great honor, and earn a steady purse.”

Dakheel was only halfway through the last saddlebag, and the merchants had nearly reached me.  Father was scowling.  “We are honored by your interest, but Hakim is too young for the army.  He is—“

“I’m seventeen.”

I couldn’t remember deciding to speak, but the words burst out of me as the men drew close.  Hesitantly, I stood and ducked my head.  “I’m sorry, Father, for speaking out of turn.  But, I would like to hear about service in the Grand Army.”

Father would have my head, but my gambit seemed to be working.  All three men stopped, and the traders eyed me speculatively.  Then, Ghassan grinned broadly and stepped forward to clasp my arm.  “Of course, young man, of course.  Seventeen is a perfectly respectable age to enter the Lord’s service.”

I tried to edge around him without the man noticing, drawing him so that his back was to the ridge and the barnyard beyond.  “I could earn a salary by enlisting?”

“Indeed, my friend.  A small one, to start with.  Perhaps one gold bar a month.”

Despite his anger with me, Father was taken aback.  That sort of salary was not “small” by our reckoning.

“Of course, that’s only for new recruits,” Nadir injected smoothly, “And a bright young lad like yourself could quickly become a raid leader or even an officer.”

“That’s so,” Ghassan agreed, his eyes taking on an eager cast, “But, the true benefit comes in spoils.  I tell you true, young friend, march on one sustained campaign through Gondor or Rohan, and your portion of the profits will be enough to turn this farm around.  Gold, gems, animals, servants . . . you’ve not enough labor to maintain these lands?  You could bring home ten Tarks the equal of your Dakheel to tend your crops and herds.”

Somehow, I very much doubted that, but I held my tongue.

“And of course, wealth is only a portion of the rewards,” Nadir added.  “We’ve long sent little more than raiding parties to harass our enemies’ borders, but those days will not last forever.  And when the Dark Lord marshals his armies, he will honor those who’ve volunteered their service far above those he must conscript.”

I swallowed hard.  Father’s glare was drilling holes into me from behind the merchants’ backs.  “I’ll have to think about it and discuss it with my parents,” I mumbled.

The men looked a bit irritated at my sudden loss of enthusiasm, but they covered it well.  Ghassan clapped my shoulder genially.  “Yes, you do that, young man.  They’ll see.  There is no greater glory to be had, after all.  But, now we must away.  You think well on our offers, Master Hakim, Master Azzam.”  And with identical oily smiles, Ghassan and Nadir strode over the ridge and back towards the barn.  I braced myself, but there was no sudden cry of outrage.  I followed, trying to affect nonchalance. 

The barnyard was empty save for two camels lipping listlessly at the water trough.

I breathed a sigh, but my relief was short-lived.  As the men walked away, I heard Ghassan speak in a stage whisper—his words meant to carry while masquerading as private conversation.  “Perhaps we should send word to my good friend the inspector,” he told Nadir, “Someone ought to investigate that Tark’s origins.”

“Indeed, my friend,” Nadir responded in kind, “Though it would be such a shame if the upstanding Master Azzam were found to be supporting the black market slave trade.”

“It would, but our great Lord regulates such matters for a reason.  Think of the welfare of the Tarks involved.”

“Not to mention the taxes Master Azzam owes to Mordor if he bought that one illegally.”

“Yes, if he means to keep this Dakheel, I fear we must investigate further.  ‘Tis our civic duty, after all.”

Father and I exchanged a stricken look.

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I fidgeted through dinner.  My parents did not seem to notice.  In the hours since the merchants had left, Mother and Father had locked themselves in the kitchen, discussing and debating in low, urgent voices.  Now, they ate in silence without meeting one another’s gaze, their faces tight with identical expressions of worry.  Kali tried to fill the unnatural stillness with more than her usual amount of prattle, but saw limited success.  Even she seemed on edge.  Her tone was tense and almost desperate even as she chattered away about how our dog had learned a new trick and how she wanted to name the newborn kid “Sunflower.”

After what felt like an age, our plates were clean and I was given leave to depart.  I snatched up Dakheel’s plate and all but raced to the barn.  Bursting into his quarters, I found the foreigner apparently at ease.  He sat atop a barrel, needle in hand, mending a tear in his much-abused tunic.

I thrust the plate at him.  “What was that about?”

He arched an eyebrow as he set the mending aside.  “A good evening to you as well, Hakim.”

I flushed, but set my jaw.  “I’m serious.  What were you doing with the merchants’ camels?”  I lowered my voice, though there was no one there to overhear, “Did you steal from them?”

I thought I saw indignation flash through his eyes at the accusation, but he covered it quickly.  “I did not.”  His voice was mild, as if the question had been utterly trivial.  He ripped a piece of bread in half and offered me part of it.

I nibbled at the bread, not at all hungry for once.  “Truly?  Because if they find out they’ve been robbed, it will go badly for all of us.  They’d cancel Father’s contracts for certain, and if they find out it was you . . .”

“Peace, my friend.  I took nothing from them and left nothing behind.  They should never be the wiser.”

“Then, why?  Surely you realize what a risk that was to take?”

“I do.  And I thank you for not alerting them to my actions.”  I bit my lip, but kept silent.  No need to tell him about the strained conversation I’d had with the men as they nearly caught him in the act.  “I needed only to search their bags,” Dakheel continued, “To know . . . whether they were what they appeared.”

I frowned.  “What do you mean?  They’re fleece traders.  We’ve sold to men like them for years.”  Dakheel hesitated.  “I helped you,” I pointed out, “The least you can do is tell me what’s going on.”

He sighed.  “Very well, Hakim, though I fear you’ll not like what I have to say.”  He spooned up a bite of stew, but his face was distant.  “The . . . my Enemy makes use of many spies.  Some he sends even among those who profess loyalty to him, for his paranoia runs deep.  His servants can be identified, at times, by the tools they carry.  Lock picks and ciphers, parchment, ink and sealing wax for their reports, hidden compartments where they stow their orders.  When I met Ghassan and Nadir, their . . . interest in me seemed out of place.  I had to know whether they were merely traders or something more sinister.”

I swallowed.  I was not entirely sure that I believed what he said about spies—why should a great Lord like Sauron care about the loyalty of a few humble goat herders?—but it was clear that Dakheel believed it.  “But, if they were, why would spies be interested in you?”

Dakheel paused.  He searched my face for long moments.  At last, he said quietly “Because such Men are trained to recognize those in whom the blood of Númenor runs true.”

My eyes widened.  I dropped a crust of bread and had to stoop to scoop it up before the mice could get to it.  I’d heard of the lost island of Númenor—both from Dakheel’s tales of Elendil and from the legends my own people told of the ancient Lords of Umbar.  They had been a proud and fearsome race, the legends said, but had diminished over the centuries as the Númenoreans of Umbar warred with those of Gondor.  The Lords of Umbar were all but extinct, and the Corsairs who now called themselves nobility bore little resemblance to them.  Their enemies had fared little better, and though some now whispered that the Men of Gondor had some Númenorean blood, the Gondorians seemed common enough to our eyes.

“That was a race of lords,” I said quietly.

Dakheel put his plate aside and shrugged back into his mended tunic.  He smiled dryly.  “And do I seem lordly to you?”

But, I thought of that strange light I had seen at times in his eyes.  I did not respond.  After a moment, he sighed.  “’Race of lords’ is a lovely concept for a tale,” he said at last, “But in practice it is somewhat less glorious.  There have always been ordinary men, even among the Númenoreans.  I bear some resemblance to a race of Men that Sauron once feared and I walk far from my own lands.  For him, that is reason enough for suspicion.  And his suspicion leads quickly to wrath.”  He fell silent for a moment.  I felt rather foolish.  Romantic tales of lost lords made fine stories for children, but I was far too old to be taken in by them.

“No matter,” Dakheel said at last.  “I have no wish to draw Sauron’s eye upon myself, but I found nothing to indicate those men serve the Dark Lord.  So long as they saw only a crippled Tark, they may inquire no further.”

“But if they knew you were Númenorean, they’d take you to the Dark Lord.”

“Yes.”

“Because they’d have suspicions.”

“Unfounded suspicions.”  His voice was mild.

“And you’re not going to tell me what those suspicions are.”

He sighed.  “Hakim, I’ve told you before that I did not come to Harad on a mission of espionage.  If I told you my true purpose, it would only endanger you.  I’ve said too much already.”  His voice held the ring of finality that meant he would say no more.

Silence stretched between us for a moment.  I looked at my feet.  “I don’t think they suspected . . . anything,” I said at last, “They had other reasons to be curious about you.”

Dakheel smiled grimly.  “Yes,” he said in an off-hand sort of way, “I suppose they merely wished to buy me.”

My head spun a little at the strangeness of the conversation.  Just a moment ago, we’d been discussing his connection to ancient royalty.  Now, it seemed, the talk had shifted to the possibility of his pending enslavement.  “It won’t come to that.”  I tried to sound confident.

“These men hold your father’s contracts.  They have power over him?”

“Not that much,” I insisted stubbornly.

“We’ll see,” he said stonily, “You should get back to the house, Hakim.  It is growing late.”

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I returned to the house to find only Kalima, working on her spinning in uncharacteristic silence.  When she saw me, she jerked her head towards the closed door of Father’s study.  “They’re fighting again.”

Sure enough, muffled voices were emanating from behind the door.  I crept close until I could make out what they said.

“What would you have me do?”  That was my father’s voice, clipped and strained.

“I would have you remember your duty.”

“If we don’t hand him over, Ghassan will send his crony the Inspector to accuse us of violating the Dark Lord’s laws.  Then Dakheel won’t be the only one leaving in chains.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“It’s not about right and wrong, it’s about the wealth Ghassan stands to gain.  He has us at his mercy; we’ll never be able to make our contracts.  I might have been able to plead poverty . . . but he saw Dakheel.  He’s dead set on making a profit, and now he knows how he can.”

“He thought he saw a slave.  He was mistaken.”

“So, what, I should just explain that to him?  Explain to Ghassan, cousin of the vizier, that he’s actually a friendly Tark?  No, no, I’m sure he has a perfectly good reason for wandering the Haradwaith.  And we cannot ask what that reason is, apparently, because my wife wants to adopt him!”

“Do not mock me, Azzam!  I’m not the one turning my back on millennia of custom.  If you do what he asks . . .”

“I will be cursed in the sight of all your archaic gods, I know.  The same gods who stood by while the Great Eye wrapped us all in bondage.  They will surely strike me down with all their wrath if I harm one hair on the Gondorian’s head.”

I was taken aback by the bitterness underlying the sarcasm in Father’s voice.  Perhaps Mother was as well; she fell silent.

After a moment, Father spoke more quietly, his voice almost pained.  “There was a time when you bid me do the wise thing, Asima.  It wasn’t I who first wished to lay aside tradition and mercy where Dakheel was concerned.”

“That was before.”  She matched Father’s soft tone.  “He saved Kalima’s life, Azzam.”

Then came a long pause followed by a sigh.  “Yes.  Yes he did.  But, what did he save it for?  So that Kalima can be thrown out into the streets?  So that she can see her brother go off to war and die?  Is that what he saved it for?”

Mother did not respond.

A/N:  Thanks for reading!  Reviews and concrit are very much appreciated.