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Ecthelion surveyed the men who had just entered the antechamber.  He had, of course, seen the new delegation when his father had received them formally in the Steward’s Chair, but a wise man did not rely on first impressions alone.

Their dress was rude, but no ruder than that of the Rohirrim, or indeed of some of the southernmost fiefs of Gondor, where men took olives and grapes as their riches rather than silk or gold.  And the man at the head of the delegation met his eye and did not flinch.

“My lord,” said he, bowing low, “my name is Branor, son of Harmon.  I represent King Bard of the Kingdom of Dale.”

“Well met, Branor, son of Harmon,” said Ecthelion.  “My name is Ecthelion, son of Turgon II, Steward of Gondor. I understand you have come here to negotiate trade between our realms.”

“If it is agreeable to you, my lord.  I believe you will find that both Dale and Gondor will find trade beneficial.”

“I hope to find the same,” said Ecthelion.  “Yet I fear that the proof of benefit lies upon you and your delegation.  After all, Dale was founded but lately, on the ashes of a dragon’s ruin and its former glory.  Gondor has survived, even prospered”—for there was no activity of the Shadow of late, enough so that even his son Denethor had misgivings—“without your presence.  Our climes are more temperate, and we can make wine and oils, and grow fruits that I deem your lands cannot bear.  We have much to offer you, but have you anything to offer us that we cannot already buy, or make ourselves?”

Branor smiled.  “My lord must have visited the archives, and the old agreements ere Dale was lost.  Our lands may not be as rich in fruit as yours, but Erebor has been restored.”

“And we are happy to trade with the Dwarves for wrought metal when a few of them journey so far south.”

“Not often enough, I deem.  And while our kingdom may have been lost to us for a time, our industry, and our crafts, never diminished.  If anything, you will find that now is a new time of bounty for Dale, not only in the mountain, but also in the hands and the minds of its people.”  He gestured to one of his attendants, who removed a black cloth from an object he had brought in.  Underneath was a marvelously wrought box, with a circle on its face and a single bar that pointed straight up.

“Long ago we made clock-towers to tell us what the hour was.  Now our craftsmen make them for the mantel.”

“A fascinating device,” said Ecthelion, “although we of Gondor have long favoured the sun, stars, and the hour glass to tell time.  The bells are rung out all over the city.  It is, however, a curiosity.”

“Perhaps, then, you—or your children—will find these more to your liking.”  Another attendant brought forth three more items: first, another box, which he told Ecthelion to open.

Two equal halves slid apart, and from the midst of the box sprung a white enameled tree in flower, large enough that if Ecthelion had not seen it with his own eyes, he should have thought it could not fit in a box so small.

Next, a silver swan, which had wheels cleverly hidden in its belly so that its neck stooped and its wings fluttered if you pushed it along the ground.

And finally, a brass horse and his rider, who tipped back and forth from hind to fore on a set of springs, perfectly balanced.

“My lord,” said Branor, “Dale can give Gondor the gift of dreams, of fancy gone free in youth, ere age and cares weigh down on them, the ability to imagine a better future—if, of course, you find that of benefit.”

Admittedly, not all in Gondor would find it so, but Ecthelion would have given his eye-teeth to play with such toys as a child.  Alas, Denethor was already too old to play with toys, but perhaps his children could play with such as these and dream of a day when the White Tree would bloom once more.

“Branor, son of Harmon,” said Ecthelion, “it would give me pleasure to begin negotiating terms.”





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