Naraal had led Captain Greenfield to the side-street tavern with the fewest cockroaches. He knew the Prancing Pony would probably be better accommodation, but there was also the matter of discretion.
Not that Greenfield seemed in any way discreet.
The man had arrived in Bree garbed in some of the most expensive looking Trader clothing he had seen. It was almost as if he wanted everyone to know he was a descendant of Númenor, and of the King’s Men at that.
“Write ‘Black Númenorean' on a sign and hang it round your neck, why don’t you,” Naraal mumbled to himself.
“What was that?” The tall man was onto him in an instant.
I said, “Back home they had signs to hang telling folk where to rest their necks. In Bree it’s hit or miss.”
“It better not be a ‘miss’, for your sake,” came the sharp reply. “I want no stiff neck in the morning."
Naraal turned away and grinned to himself.
Oh, this Greenfield was a right one, he thought. Full of self importance. Full of arrogance. Likely a slaver of some considerable success. Naraal had known several men of his ilk back in Harad, but not many in the Breelands. Not even the leaders of the local brigand groups.
They stopped outside a rundown building, which appeared to have few clients. Some of the ground floor windows were broken, but a waft of reasonably cooked meat escaped through the panes.
“Here, Captain. I hope you get a good rest. The breakfast is good most days, and ask for Annalea to serve you. She will make sure you are looked after and see that you have…whatever it is that you want.” He already had the impression Greenfield had expensive tastes: such fanciness would not be indulged here, but again, he reminded himself, discretion is the byword for now, so it was just as well.
The Captain glared at him. “Do not presume to know me." And with that, Greenfield ducked to avoid the low lintel of the door and entered the dimly-lit establishment.
And Naraal sighed with relief.
He had gleaned a little information from the earlier discussion he wanted to pursue before he gave way to drink. The man with the bag of elf ears. Naraal knew who it would be. There was only one brigand who hated Elves and stood any chance of catching one or two. Jexon, the ‘large, stupid-looking man’ Greenfield had mentioned was likely in another Tavern, in a nearby alley. A haunt of thieves and brigands, the Watch did not disturb it often enough.
Naraal scratched his head as he walked. He wasn’t sure what to make of this latest venture he was caught up in. He had a message delivered him to expect an important visitor, and that he was to do all to aid him. He would not disobey or disappoint the ‘Masters.' Though he was naturally a very self-assured man himself, he knew enough about those he had long served, and had a healthy distrust of them as much as any. But he wanted power. He wanted commerce with all coastal regions that would earn a healthy profit, and allow him to work on his dream of owning his own fleet. He would work for anyone who would assist him in this goal.
The son of a Númenórean and a half-Haradrim/half-Númenórean, his worst dreams were of the taunts he had endured for his less than pure blood line. He was no noble, but neither was he a pauper. He had worked hard and employed his most cunning skills to get where he was. He only intended to go up in the world. He would think on that whenever Greenfield spoke to him as if he were a cur.
One place of ill-repute was much like another. The second inn was busier, and a small crowd were gathered around a corner table where Jexson was holding court. A couple had been foolish enough to buy him some ale.
“And when you get hold of them, the fight is over," he was saying. Then he demonstrated how he broke one of the elves' necks.
“Want a word with you, Jexson,” Naraal leaned casually against the wall. “Outside.”
Now Jexson was a very large man, but Naraal had bested him in several fights in the past that the two were almost friends. Almost. Naraal had none he actually trusted.
“Ten minutes,” the seated man replied. “I am just getting to the good part.”
The group around him muttered and protested against their entertainment being interrupted.
“That was the first one. A tall fellow, who didn’t see or hear what was coming at him. Didn't even have time to take up a knife.” Jexson grinned, then swallowed some more of his ale.
“The second and third ones were warriors, both. “
“Oye,” one of the crowd shouted. “You said before that one was a woman.”
“So I did, so I did,” Jexson recovered swiftly. “She was a warrior, almost seven feet tall, with long hair as white as snow. I jumped up on her horse behind her and threw her off.”
By that point Naraal knew his acquaintance was talking rubbish. He folded his arms across the chest.
“Don’t tell me, the third one was nine foot tall and armed with a huge two handed sword and a mace?”
A flush of colour spread across Jexson’s face. “All three were elves. All three were armed.”
“Two were elf women, and one was a child, is what I heard.”
“So? Their women can fight like their men.”
Some of the crowd were muttering with a different intonation. “Bah, he’s making it up.”
“I showed you the ears, didn’t I,” Jexson complained, reaching for his backpack. As he opened the top the foul stench sent the crowd away without further ado.
“Close that bag,” Naraal barked at once. “And get rid of it as soon as you can. No one is interested in elf ears apart from Elves. The patrols from Mithlond will have found the bodies by now, and there will be more patrols, and Elves searching for whoever did that. You may have brought them down on the business we have going in Yondershire even. The best way to stop that is for us to hand you over.”
Pushing his chair back, Jexson rose to his feet. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Of course I would. If it was good for business.”
“But there’s already those murdering Elf demons on the road in Yondershire. That’s not my fault.”
Naraal stretched out, and snapped his fingers at the barkeep. “Two more ales, and a couple of rare roast-beef sandwiches.”
He turned his attention back to Jexson. “Now you’re talking. I know something of what has been going on in Yondershire, about the three Elf assassins. But if you tell me all you know of them, you may just save yourself from being handed over. “
