After her night in the Hammer Hall, which at the very least did her no harm, Manadhlaer had been whisked around the Vale to a dizzying variety of safe-houses. This bright, bright morning, Manadhlaer had taken her breakfast in the Hall of the Order of the Fountain. Where Hammer Hall had smelled like a soldier's armpit directly after a battle, despite the most heroic efforts of Lieutenant Ancalassë, Fountain currently smelled like -- well, soap, and lots of it. Laundry starch, a bit -- you could use the bed-sheets for shields, like the large ones the Fountain members took up when they wielded javelin and spear. At least, Manadhlaer reminded herself, Telpenaro, not merely a brave warrior but an expert chef, had wielded some tender new asparagus spears onto her plate this morning, and for this gentle mercy, she was grateful.
Oddly, she found less gratitude for the extreme cleanliness of the place. No sooner had she set her plate down than Nandutiriel of the Fountain had snatched it away and polished it again to a mirror finish so dazzling that you could possibly use it to start fires, or signal somebody on a far mountain... like the one under which Tindir was presumably, even now, dining with its king. Granted, he was safer there, and if any place had a greater variety of food and larger plates of it than the near vicinity of Telpenaro, it was assuredly a Dwarf-hall. She was not convinced the food was better there, but a career soldier could choke down horse-crackers if need be, and certainly Tindir had dined on roast beast of whatever variety often enough.
And certainly, no place on this side of the Sea could be cleaner than this hall. "I do not actually want to perform surgery on a mortal in the garderobe," she had complained to the overly industrious Nandutiriel, resplendent in shiny, shiny silver. "I merely want to use it for its intended purpose, as everybody else does" -- forgetting for the moment her late brother's distressing personal habits -- "and then not think about it."
Nandutiriel had only turned to her a face of surpassing innocence and determination and replied, "Captain Himwen ordered that I should not let even a speck of dust settle anywhere in the Hall without attacking it as I would the enemy. I must obey my Captain."
Even Thanlossen, overhearing Nandutiriel say so, had looked concerned at this obsessive brightness that reminded Manadhlaer painfully of how dilated her pupils had been under the influence of the drugged wine. But was she, herself, not obeying the orders of Himwen? For since the incident in the Hall of Fire, Himwen had demanded that Manadhlaer not stir a toe -- half a toe -- outside the confines of whatever linen closet, bird-tower, goose coop, friend's home, or grand hall she was hidden in that day, without the direct presence of either herself or Captain Sáranassë of the Arrow -- possibly a pair of lower-ranked spearmen or bowmen if she absolutely must show her face out of doors, but preferably with one or both of the Captains present. (There were four young Hammer soldiers in the Vale, well-intended certainly, but all had been trained, since their acceptance into the black, by Earcalië. Himwen had therefore rather unfairly dismissed them as likely to destroy not only a lurking enemy, but any useful evidence, and possibly a chunk of landscape as well.)
Gardening, Manadhlaer had learned, was simply not as relaxing when two armed guards were standing next to one as one did it. Granted, she had placed it on her list of things that must be done, for even her prized Gondorian rose-bushes fell under the category of medicinal herbs. But it was not as satisfying as it had been, especially having been told it was likely an herb -- native to Enedwaith and Dunland, and, Nenrildë the horse-expert confirmed, often used to sedate horses that required surgery -- that had laid her so low.
Rather than Earcalië, for she herself had sent the girl out of the Hall to check whether anyone lurked in the bushes, she had relied on the steady, calming Tuilerië of the Arrow to piece together what had actually happened. Surprisingly little of what Manadhlaer had managed to remember was a drug-induced dream. Curulinn, the healer with rough temper but smooth hands, had indeed been by her side, as had Elloen. The few details she knew for certain -- the single glass of wine, the emptying of her stomach (which, Tuilerie assured her, had actually been deemed all to the good, for it got out any drugged wine remaining in there) -- checked out against the memories of all who had been present. The parts which Manadhlaer had not remembered, or not been present for, were just as nauseating to her fëa as the herb had proven to her stomach. Among other slight problems, there had been attackers with knives. Not just one, but two.
Not, of course, that anybody had sighted them clearly enough to describe them beyond being mortal, a male and a female. The choking smoke they had created stung all eyes equally, even the sharp ones owned by Tuilerië.
"Forget eye-colour, then," Manadhlaer had asked the Arrow. "If you had but a single word or phrase to describe the mortal girl, what would it be?"
Tuilerië shrugged helplessly. "She was not unusually tall or short for her kind, Lady. She was neither very fat nor very thin, nor yet muscle-bound. No great beauty was she, yet none could fairly call her ugly. If I were forced to sum her up in a word, I am afraid it would have to be -- average."
And of course it had developed that Tuilerië's faithful dog Nolandur -- there had been more than two hundred of his name before him, and the most appropriate puppy to succeed him would bear the name yet again -- had no idea what the girl and the man even smelled like, for he had been lounging on the grass outside the Last Homely House, getting his ears fondled by Pethelen.
No matter. The description of the daggers both mortals bore was the same -- long, slender, flat blades, just such as would have fitted the numerous wounds of Lothilind... or Daegond. There being a pair of them would have explained how they seemed to know so much about goings-on in the Vale, and how they had managed to overwhelm such an untrusting soul as her brother, who made a habit of never showing his back to anyone. No doubt their mistake in slaying Lothilind had enraged them, and led directly to all that mess. But why make Golvagor's sister Narumirë their cat's-paw in such a low manner?
Well, Manadhlaer would not find out here. The Way of the Javelin, Part 8 had been brought by Thanlossen, for he thought correctly that she would want some way to pass the time. It was a singularly unenlightening tome, however, and she wondered idly whether Parts 1-7 and any following volumes were just as dull as this one.
The real bright spot, if there was one, about her present effective captivity in Fountain Hall was that she kept finding frogs. Not real ones, but cunning little velvet ones, or silk, or other artworks made of scraps of luxurious fabric and embroidered and beaded until they, as much as a javelin, might make effective missiles for throwing. Except Manadhlaer, recognizing the work of Himwen herself when she saw it, could not bear to fling them about. Especially after she had found one on her pillow, and her little dog had... well, slain one. There would probably be pearl beads in any deposits he managed to make on the lawn.
That, indeed, was the one thing Manadhlaer hoped Himwen would not notice. Ever.
