Radon opened the door of The White Gull tavern on the corner of Southbank Way and Mariner’s Row in the Southbank Quarter. He lingered a moment upon the threshold, holding the door as his gaze passed over the tables, the bar and the common room beyond. The walls were decorated with weathered ship‑boards, coiled ropes, faded river‑charts and carved gull‑motifs. Stout women in tight‑laced tunics were laughing and capering with broad‑bellied men in river‑stained garbs and cloaks faded by salt and sun. It was all very cosy, Radon thought.
”It’s cold”, said a small woman by a big dockside drum with carved gull motifs. Radon smiled apologetically, closed the door behind him and stepped inside the tavern.
Radon was a traveling merchant from Lamedon, though he had not seen his home in years. He lived mostly on the road between Anfalas and Pelargir and made his life in the shifting margins of trade and tide. He was of middling height, a quiet, unassuming man, steady in his habits and practical in his thinking, a dependable presence whose reserved nature made him more useful than engaging. His eyes were cobalt blue, and his firm chin line spoke of determination and discipline. He had set his course toward darkness more than a decade ago, when he first began his dealings with the Corsairs.
Radon ordered a cup of clear, strong wine at the heavy wooden bar. Upon receiving his wine he said something to the tavern-keep and gave her a silver penny. She began to count out the change, but Radon shook his head. She rewarded him with a smile.
The man who had been waiting Radon in the tavern stood up at the corner table and joined Radon at the bar. Lumon had feared this visit. He was a stocky man, his skin a shade darker than was common in Gondor, though not so much as to draw remark. His bristly hair grew in tufts from his round skull. Minluzîr was the name his mother had given him, yet for many years now he had been known as Lumon.
”Greetings!” Lumon said.
He sat on the stool next to Radon and smiled tentatively. Radon did not even glance at him. Instead he took a sip of his wine. Some color returned to his face.
”What a biting wind!” he said. ”It’s the same in Anfalas.”
”You will get used to it.”
”I doubt it. I haven’t gotten used to it in a lifetime.”
Lumon beckoned to the barkeep and ordered a mug of ale. She filled a tankard and set it down in front of him.
”So!” Radon said. ”She has returned home.”
Lumon raised his mug in greeting and sipped his ale. ”That’s right. Tilyh is back. A widow of the river‑ward took her in. The only problem is that the scholarly woman from Minas Tirith, Radawen, shares the room with her.”
”Which means they all came together.” Radon still did not look at the other man. His face was bent low over his cup. His voice was sharp and cool. ”Which means Delioron is here too, hiding somewhere in the city. You have lived a cosy life in Pelargir for far too long, Lumon! You have become soft and lazy. Had you managed to get a better hold of that old woman to begin with, we would have found that Delioron much earlier. Now we must reassure Fangnir. And get Tilyh back to our side.”
”How can we convince her to…?”
”Tilyh must get her son back”, Radon interrupted. ”She must be convinced to… serve our cause willingly.”
”Serve our cause? How?”
”She will convince the other… impressed ones, that we keep our word”, Radon said, wondering how Lumon could not understand something so obvious. ”Like Muldal was supposed to do.”
Lumon sighed, picked up his tankard and tasted his ale. He was tired, a little scared even. Lumon worked as a master scribe in a copying-house, and he was well-connected with Pelargir’s merchants, officials and clients. His life in Pelargir had proved comfortable and unremarkable. Now, being seven and fifty years of age, he had hoped to serve Umbar for the rest of his years here in Pelargir, in his safe, dull post as a scribe in a copying‑house. Never had he imagined that he might fall into such trouble merely for seeking to question an old woman about the whereabouts of her nephew. And now he was held to account for matters that had come to pass after the affair.
”A man of The Withered Tree was sent to question the old woman concerning Delioron”, Radon continued. ”He never came out of that house. It is near enough an impenetrable stronghold. The old woman is guarded by someone Delioron set there before he fled Pelargir. I deem it was this man who cut down that Withered Tree fellow. And now the Corsair steward of the old lady has returned as well…”
”Pharazbalak”, Lumon said.
”Right. Those I deal with care for two things only: the death of Delioron, and the safety of the ring of spies. And to keep that ring intact will require… a measure of cooperation from Tilyh.”
”And how can we achieve that now?”
”A ship has sailed from Umbar”, Radon said, smiling crookedly. ”A Corsair galley named Aglarbalak. Have you ever heard of Aglarbalak and her Captain Tarîkmagân before?”
Lumon frowned. ”The name does ring a bell, and not in a good way.”
”He is an interesting character”, Radon said. ”He stands less than five feet in height, yet what he lacks in stature he more than makes up with vicious, wanton cruelty and sheer wickedness. This is the first time our southern friends have trusted him with a venture of this sort. You see, Tarîkmagân is not without his… difficulties.”
Lumon waited.
”He is a drunkard, for one”, Radon said. ”And he is unhinged. Even his crew are scared of him. They believe he is a fell spirit in mortal guise. His nose is broken and flat. According to a rumor it was flattened with a shaft of a pickaxe. The same story tells that the man who delivered the blow was forced to swallow the pickaxe afterward – Tarîkmagân struck it down his throat with a sledge hammer…”
”Why all this talk about some Corsair sea-captain?”
”Don’t you still get it, Lumon?”
Lumon was tired. He frowned and squinted his eyes, trying to think. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide.
”Si’nol, the boy”, he said in a booming voice.
Radon smiled.
”That’s right, friend Lumon”, he said. ”Si’nol embarked aboard Aglarbalak. And now he draws near to the shores of Gondor, in the gentle care of Captain Tarîkmagân…”
