On the Quack Run

Even if it had been permitted, it would have been rude to call dragons just for their own convenience, but they were footsore now, so they took a boat. This part of the canal, to the South of the fourth and fifth rung, was jokingly known as the Quack Run, because it was home to many ducks. The ducks of Kûz were of a peculiar kind, with plumage of green and rusty brown, and with a crest of wispy white feathers. The ones in Levare were sweet little creatures, lively and rather tame, and therefore the avenues on either side of the canal were a popular place for parents to take their young children.

The maple trees that lined the canal had turned into a range of fiery colours, and their feathery leaves were seen here and there drifting on the water. The rain had stopped, but had left the air cool and damp, like clammy fingers creeping into their collars and up their sleeves. Sâlian put up her hood and huddled against Jarin.

“I don’t see anyone feeding the ducks today,” said Jarin. In fact, the streets were largely deserted.

“Well, no,” replied the rower, a youngish man with an impressive moustache. “Not with all that talk of a bread shortage.”

“What’s this?” asked Pallando.

“Ah!” The rower shook his head sagely; he might have waggled his hands had they not been holding the oars. “Last couple of days there’s been talk all over Levare that we’re out of grain. Something about the Krâ having run out.”

“No, I think they’re just not selling it to us,” said Jarin. “There was a ship at Mil Nahara…” Then it occurred to her that she’d better not fuel the rumours.

“Feed them lettuce and peas. It’s better for them anyway,” said Pallando. It wasn’t quite clear whether he meant the ducks or the Kûzeen.

 “My mother feeds me pea soup all the time,” said the rower. “I’m not sure it’s done me much good.”

Ahead they could now see a green and white bridge coming up; it was the bridge that linked the third rung to the outer town. A man and a woman stood by the parapet in earnest conversation, but when they noticed the boat approaching, they scurried away in opposite directions.

“She looked familiar,” said Jarin. “I think I’ve seen her up at the palace.”

“And who was he?” said Sâlian. “He was no Kûzin.”

“He was no Krâ either,” replied Jarin.

“I have a feeling I know what he is.” Pallando kept his voice low, so it wouldn’t reach the rower. “I fear this was not just a meeting of secret lovers.”

Jarin looked puzzled. “A conspiracy?”

“Perhaps.”

“But what is there to conspire about?”

“Dear Sâlian,” said Pallando and patted her arm. “A straight mind like yours finds it hard to understand a crooked one. But even in Levare all things might not be as they should.”

Jarin tried to imagine the kind of crooked mind that would want to betray the Archseraph or the people of Kûz. Where had she seen that woman before? But she wasn’t even sure she had, and the woman had hurried off after such a fleeting glimpse that there really was no telling. She glanced at the sky, where fat blue clouds were floating towards the sunset. It looked like more rain, though perhaps this time it would fall on the fields of the Tree Women instead. Perhaps she and Wan would soon be sent out again. Not too soon, she hoped. And not to ferry Aluir, if she could at all avoid it.

They reached their jetty and paid the rower. By now, twilight was creeping among the trees. All three of them had their lodgings in the House of the Power of Air, and thither they hastened as it had started to drizzle again. This House lay across the greensward, next to the House of the Power of Light. It was built of pale grey sandstone and stood four storeys high with a colonnade across the front. Like all of the Houses, save for the Dome of Flowers, it served several purposes. Most of the tall ground floor was taken up by the Great Hall, where people could congregate to hear speeches or lectures, or come alone to contemplate. The upper floors were dedicated to those who studied the ways of the sky and the weather, and to the training and accommodation of the lungi. There was a landing space for dragons on the roof.

Dragons had been known in Kûz for many centuries; even before the people worked out how to call them from their realm, they had at times simply appeared to offer advice and aid unlooked-for. They were said to be servants of the Power of Air, on which topic they were reticent, but which Pallando quietly confirmed.

Pallando himself was in some way considered the leader of the lungi – whose number was usually about a dozen – though during his often prolonged absences it was one of the holy ones called Vilajin who dealt with their affairs and oversaw the training of the novices.

The Great Hall was lit by many tall windows and was painted – walls, floor and ceiling – with murals of birds and bats, dragons, butterflies, beetles, and myriad other flying creatures. In the centre, a spiral staircase of wrought iron led to the upper levels. This stair Pallando, Sâlian  and Jarin now ascended with weary steps and then went onwards to a large room, comfortably appointed with benches and cushions, where a couple of other lungi sat poring over a game of chess, so engrossed in their game that they didn’t even notice the Wanderer. A kettle hung over a jolly fire.

“So, tell us about your travels,” said Sâlian when they had settled themselves with mugs of cocoa, stretching out their drowsy limbs. “Is it all bad, or at least some good?”

“The best news is to find Levare thriving,” Pallando replied. “The exhibition was indeed splendid, and the Seraphine outdid herself with her poetry recital. Who knew there were so many different words for bird! As for my journey, I think the Archseraph should hear about it first. I will see him tomorrow morning – after a good sleep! But this much I can tell you: What I set out to do, I failed to achieve, though not for lack of trying.”

“You went to Khand, didn’t you? Is it very far?”

“Very far. Khand lies to the South of Mordor, and of Mordor, I believe, you have heard more these days than you cared to hear.”

“We have. But did you pass over the plains on your way back? Did you see the steppe tribes moving west?”

“Yes and yes. No more of this tonight, though! What of yourselves? How came you to see the Unquenchable Light, Jarin?”

So Jarin told of her journey to the Sacred Cave, of what had befallen in Mil Nahara, and of the palantír.

“I wish Alatar hadn’t looked in the stone,” said Pallando. “He says he hid his presence, but he cannot be sure he succeeded. He should have left well alone.”

“But then we wouldn’t know about the Krâ!”

“What did he see of the Krâ that an ordinary scout couldn’t see? The problem is that Kûz has been at peace with its neighbours for so long that you no longer know how to keep a wary eye on them.”

Jarin stared into the fire while she contemplated the truth of this. The Kûzeen were ill prepared for war, were indeed not prepared for it at all, because they had simply assumed it couldn’t happen to them. They had honed their skill of quelling evil in their hearts, and had forgotten that it could come from outside. Then she remembered something.

“There was another thing he saw in the stone. One of your kind, Alatar said. I’ve forgotten the name, but it started with an O.”

“Olórin? Fancy that. What did he see about him?”

“Oh, nothing very useful. He was fighting off evil creatures with lightning, or something like that.”

“Hm. Showy. But perhaps he didn’t have much choice.”

Sâlian stirred her cocoa, then drained the dregs. “You’re leaving me behind. Who is this Olomin?”

“Olórin.” Pallando picked at strands of his beard and sighed. “Yes. He is like Alatar and me. We came from the same place, long ago, and with the same mission, to thwart Sauron if we could. We are, you know, equal to him in a way. Olórin and the others thought the East was not worth their attention. All men would be evil there, under Sauron’s sway and beyond hope. They thought it better to strengthen the hands of the sea kings and the high elves. Alatar and I thought otherwise. Was it wise to dismiss as evil those you’d never met? To withhold help yet again from those who’d been left without help all along? To be frank, I wasn’t so enamoured with the high elves either. They think very highly of themselves and very little of all others. But Olórin said with them lay our best hope. We did not part in anger, but neither did we part in friendship. Let’s say we just parted. Alatar and I came out here and found that Sauron’s hand had barely touched the lands beyond the Sea of Calma. There were elves still living on the far shore who had been there since their awakening, and dwarves who knew little about the world beyond their mountain halls. We were astonished to meet the Tree Women, people of the Power of Life. And of course there were mortals, a primitive and ignorant folk, your ancestors. We thought it worth our while teaching them. They have well repaid our efforts.”

“What about the Krâ?” asked Jarin. “Didn’t you teach them, too?”

“We tried, but they were not as ready to listen as the Kûzeen. Keep in mind that back then they were pretty much all wandering the steppes, so if you met them one day, there was no telling whether you would see them again another. That some of them settled on the eastern shore happened not much more than two hundred years ago. I have gone among them from time to time, but I did not find many open ears – just like in Khand. It seems my destiny lies with Kûz, and Kûz alone.” He yawned and put his mug down. “But my immediate destiny lies in my bed. I bid you good night, my dears.” And he went out.

“That’s just like him,” said Jarin, “to leave us to do the dishes.”

-oOoOo-

Hamûjil had no thought yet of going to bed, nor had most of the court; it seemed still early to them. There had been a banquet to celebrate the opening of the exhibition, and then a music recital, and now elves and dwarves and courtiers milled about in one of the state rooms and enjoyed the merits of fine wine or strong coffee, depending on their tastes.

“Seraphine, I must congratulate you,” said one of the elven ladies. “We have not seen such magnificence in Levare since the days of Damûjil. And even he could not boast of a collection of bird figures such as yours. You were very kind to show them to us.”

If Majani suspected some mockery, she took it with good humour. “My birds are my pleasure,” she said. “Here, let me prevail upon you to try these grapefruit and rose oil truffles.”

“They look delectable! Say, who is the lady over there, the one talking to Warden Olan? She is not a Kûzin?”

“One of my ladies in waiting, Miriel. She hails from Gondor. Come, and I will introduce you.”

Elsewhere in the room, the two dwarves who had been interested in the new type of reed mats were in conversation with the leader of the Traders’ Guild, Mistress Tilar. Discussions about a first shipment were already under way. “Provided the artisans agree,” added Tilar. “They are of a different guild and I have no authority over them.”

“The ways of the Kûzeen seem strange to us,” said one dwarf. “Why would you –” But he went silent after receiving a kick on the ankle from his companion.

And from group to group, quiet and humble, went a man in simple Kûzar garb, listening to many, speaking to none. Some took him for a servant, others for a guest, but most didn’t notice him at all. Only the Archseraph watched him from the corner of his eyes, because one of the things his mother had taught him was to look someone in the eye and yet to note who moved around them.

Later that night when he and Majani were alone in their bedchamber, holding each other close between the silken sheets under the silk hangings with their heads on the silk pillows, silk upon silk upon silk, Hamûjil whispered, “He was there tonight.”

“Who was?”

“Sauron’s ambassador. I saw him. He was dressed as a Kûzin, but it was him.”

“Why did you not confront him?”

“And then what? The last time I did that, he refused to leave. You know how that went. I gambled, and I thought I had won, but I haven’t. So now we have a spy among us.”

“What will you do?”

“I do not know. What can I do? I have put the guards on alert. But I cannot seize him – he is an ambassador.”

“We must find a way to trap him,” said Majani. “I will think of something. And if I cannot think of something, I will ask Miriel. You know she beats you at chess; I am sure she can beat this wretched ambassador.”

Hamûjil caressed her cheek. “I would be very grateful, Beloved, if you and Miriel would deal with this. I have enough on my mind thinking about the Council meeting. And I have a headache from that awful wine.”

“It wasn’t awful, you just had too much of it.”

“Remind me to stick to coffee next time.”