FIC: "Shadows of a Nameless Fear," Chpt. 4, PG-15
And ... "Shadows of a Nameless Fear," Chapter Four - On the Streets of the City
Chapter Four - On the Streets of the City
Oh, that was better. Crisp, cool sheets and warm blankets and a soft pillow under his head. Much better than a throbbing head and aching neck and burning eyes and sweaty, sticky clothes. Last night was a blur of pain and confusing events, but he knew he had been sick. Frodo yawned and stretched luxuriously, ignoring the light from his small window as it warmed his eyelids, disinclined to wake up.
Odd dreams he’d been having. Holding a handful of stars, and Gandalf ordering him about (nothing new about that), and little Pippin-lad crying. A wonder that he’d got any rest, with such dreams tromping like Oliphaunts through his sleeping mind.
He heard a faint rustle and frowned in puzzlement. Slowly his eyes opened. Sam was sitting-no, sleeping, with his feet up on the end of Frodo’s bed, slumped down in a chair. He was still fully dressed and looked uncomfortable.
“Good morning,” said a soft, well-loved voice. “Feeling better?”
Oh, dear. It must have been bad for Gandalf to stay the night. “Hullo,” he said hesitantly to the large form quietly smoking its pipe in the morning sun.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam was awake and peering at him blearily. He quickly swung his feet off the bed and poured his master a cup of water, sliding an arm under Frodo’s shoulders to lift him to drink.
“I’m all right, Sam,” Frodo told him reassuringly, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the fact. What had happened last night? The banquet-yes-his and Sam’s entirely unfair trick on Aragorn… “Um. How is the King today?”
“Do not worry, Frodo,” Gandalf chuckled. “Rangers, of necessity, have developed strong stomachs. It would take more than one Haradian sea slug to sicken Aragorn.”
“How ‘bout three?” Sam whispered to Frodo as he eased him back down onto the bed and pulled up the covers.
“We are more concerned about you, my friend. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Frodo admitted after a moment’s evaluation. “And very stiff.”
“Well,” Gandalf said grandly, “I have the remedy for that. After you have eaten your breakfasts, Merry and Pippin are going to escort you on a tour of Minas Tirith.” He smiled at the hobbit’s delighted expression.
“So I’m to be allowed out?” Frodo asked gleefully . “With Sam? And Merry and Pip?”
“As if this poor city hasn’t suffered enough damage,” Gandalf growled. “Prince Faramir will escort you all and act as guide. He has been instructed not to put up with any begging, pouting, trickery, or threats.”
“Are Legolas and Gimli to come?” Frodo asked hopefully.
“Legolas and Gimli would no doubt appreciate a little break, but each has duties. Gimli is needed to assess the damage a great stone made as it fell last night. It smashed into a lower level of the city, causing much damage but fortunately hurt no one.” The wizard gazed keenly at Frodo, who nodded in some confusion. Repairs were being made all over the city and he understood that Gimli’s expertise was needed. “Legolas is supervising the moving of several trees from the parks to safeguard them during repair.”
Though disappointed his friends would not be coming, Frodo was overjoyed with the promised freedom. He was a little apprehensive about Faramir accompanying them as he did not know the Steward of Gordor-now-royal Prince well. Pippin practically worshipped him, though. Well, for a chance to get out and see Minas Tirith, he would tolerate a nurse-maid.
* * *
“But is he strong enough?” Aragorn worried, shifting uncomfortably on his throne. As magnificent as the Royal Seat was, it was not very uncomfortable. And all those steps up to it limited the number of people he could speak with at once, as well as sheltering their conversations from those below. Perhaps, he thought upon reflection, it had been designed so.
“You cannot keep him cooped up in the palace,” Gandalf admonished him. “And you cannot go back on your word. I have already told him he may explore the city.”
The King gave him a look. “There are other dangers out there than over-doing,” he said grimly. “Parts of the city are not safe; either due to damaged buildings or worse. As that merlon on the guard walk showed.”
“We shall be sure to advise Frodo not to enter any buildings that look like they might be about to collapse. As for the other dangers-”
“That is why you are sending Prince Faramir, is it not?” Elrond approached, footfalls making no sound on the gleaming marble. Legolas walked at his side, his usually graceful posture somewhat rigid.
“Yes,” Aragorn sighed. “Faramir will keep them safe. How is Frodo, Elrond?”
“Recovering. These hobbits mend quickly, as we have seen before. A day spent outside will be good for him, as long as young Frodo does not tire himself too much.”
“And Legolas?”
“Unharmed,” the Elf-lord replied. “A hobbit-kick can break bones or rupture organs. But Legolas is a young Elf, and Frodo did not truly mean him harm. It was a good kick, however.”
“I have never been attacked by a hobbit before,” Legolas mused, rubbing his stomach carefully. “I shall have to treat those large, hairy feet with more respect.”
“Wait until you have been attacked by several of them,” the King responded gloomily. “Who are genuinely trying to hurt you. Frodo was just trying to get away.”
“You have not told him he kicked me, have you?”
“No. He does not remember, and it would avail us nothing to tell him. He would be mortified by his actions last night.”
“I hope Faramir is prepared for this,” Gandalf muttered under his breath.
* * *
“This is one of our marketplaces,” Faramir said with a nod to a man who had bowed to him. Frodo looked about appreciatively. The walk down from the palace had not been long, but he was happy to slow for a few moments. “As the city is built on seven levels, most of our homes and shops line the central road,” the man continued. “This area is renown for its bakeries and-“
“Master Peregrin! Master Peregrin!” the hails seemed to come from all quarters. Frodo tensed but Pippin was grinning from ear to ear. Leaving the others, he sauntered up to a group of merchants lining the street and began to greet each by name, bowing and saluting.
“Watch this,” Merry murmured in Frodo’s ear, laughing. Sam rolled his eyes. The Big Folk were pressing treats and sweets and little tidbits upon Pippin, much to the young hobbit’s appreciation. “The missus sends this, sir. She’s proud of her ginger biscuits and would like your opinion.” And “Here, son. Try these apples. Best of my tree, they are.” And “My husband and I were hoping you’d come by today, Master Pippin. We saved these sticky buns just for you.”
As Frodo watched in disbelief, Pippin was piled with so many sweets and treats he could scarcely walk. He accepted each little gift with heartfelt thanks, and beamed back at the circle of charmed, happy faces shining at him. Frodo turned to Merry for an explanation. Merry grimaced, but his eyes were glowing with pride. “He’s their Periannath,” Merry said. “It means ‘Prince of the Halflings.’ Or something like that.” At Frodo’s raised eyebrows, he grinned. “And before you jump down Pippin’s throat, he never called himself that. They did. Doesn’t he look it, though?”
Frodo had to admit that Pippin did indeed look it. His uniform was astonishingly unwrinkled and clean, and the White Tree embroidered on the surcoat gleamed in the sun. His sword and scabbard shone with care and his eyes sparkled just as brightly as he graciously thanked each person.
“Aye, he’ll make a fine Thain someday,” Sam murmured, his face just as proud as Merry’s.
“Pippin often volunteers to drive one of the carts when the Guards go on their gathering-rounds,” Faramir added with a laugh. “This is one of the convoy’s stops. I now see why he is so eager to help.”
“Good day to you, Master Meriadoc!” said one of the shopkeepers, pressing a handkerchief of scones upon Merry. “Who are-” A young girl stood up on her tiptoes and whispered in the man’s ear.
“Oh,” he said. “Forgive us, lord. We haven’t seen you before. You honour us with your presence, sir.” He bowed deeply, and beside him, the girl curtsied.
“The Ring-bearer, the Ring-bearer,” the whispers began. Frodo could feel them staring at him, staring at his hand, staring at his face. His head began to pound. It seemed that all their eyes were suddenly upon him. The awe and gratitude in their gazes made his knees weaken and his heart falter. The cool spring sun seemed suddenly unbearably hot. They were bowing to him, all of them. Spots swam before his eyes.
“It’s the sun,” Merry was explaining to the anxious people, “he’s not used to it. The King’s been keeping him close while he recovered. Too close, if you ask me.”
A hand descended on his shoulder, and Faramir was speaking to the crowd. They parted before him respectfully and Frodo was propelled gently forward. Sam was saying something, but Frodo could not quite make out the words. He was hustled into the shade and through a doorway and seated at a trestle table, his legs dangling. An inn or tavern?
The news that the Ring-bearer was in the city spread like wildfire. People lined up at the windows to stare at Frodo, though none were impolite enough to force themselves upon him. A large, beefy man hurried forward and closed the shutters, muttering, “Let the lord have some peace, friends. You can all thank him another time.” His face burning, Frodo stared straight ahead. When the last of the shutters were closed, he slumped forward and buried his head in his hands, trembling.
The man turned to them and bowed so low the fringe of hair remaining on his head flopped forward. “Please sirs, sit. Have a drink and rest a bit. I’m Mikah, milord. It’d be my honour if you’d have a drink here, milord.” Five ales appeared magically, Frodo’s in a finely decorated stein that was no doubt the pride of the pub.
“That is quite enough for today, Master Frodo,” Faramir told the hobbit firmly. “I will not risk being turned into a toad if I bring you back exhausted. Mithrandir made himself very clear on that subject.” He looked at the hobbit anxiously.
Frodo nodded slowly, struggling to hide his weariness. “Give me a few minutes and let me finish my ale, and I will be ready to walk back.”
“I think it best if I carry you back.” Frodo stiffened, and Sam winced. Sitting on either side of Faramir, Merry and Pippin tried to unobtrusively inch away from the soon-to-be unfortunate Man.
“Prince Faramir,” Frodo began evenly, “if you think- “
“Get him a sedan chair,” Merry interrupted, obviously wishing to avoid what promised to be a battle to the death. Sam frowned uncomprehendingly. “It’s a chair that’s carried on poles by four bearers. The lords and ladies use them on the streets all the time.”
Faramir had caught on by now. He nodded quickly. “Excellent idea, Merry.” Turning back to Frodo, he said, “Please understand, Ring-bearer, that my people are excited to see you and express their gratitude at last. They do not mean to intrude upon you; they simply wish to thank you. But such situations can turn so easily into chaos. It would be safer for the people if you were conducted back to the palace in a sedan chair. Will that be acceptable?”
Because he was staring suspiciously at Faramir, Frodo did not see Merry close his eyes in relief at Faramir’s expert diplomacy. “All right. One with curtains, through. Sam and I can both fit in one of your chairs. And none of those trumpets or shouting ‘Make way!’ or any of that nonsense.”
“Of course,” Faramir answered courteously. “Pippin, would you be good enough to run to the Palace and summon a chair?”
“Errr…” Pippin blushed. “I wasn’t paying attention to how we got here, Faramir. I mean, I just drive the cart and follow all the other carts. To go back, you would … um … turn right at the rat-catchers?”
“Right. I mean, right, you turn left. Then left at the leather shop. Cut through the alley, a right at the bakery, another right at the … Pippin, are you getting this?”
“Perhaps I should go,” Merry interjected, seeing his cousin’s eyes glazing. “Pip isn’t good with directions. Why don’t you draw me a map?”
Paper, quill, and an inkpot were hastily procured from their host, and the Prince and the four hobbits leaned over it as Faramir began to draw. “But that street’s blocked by rubble,” Sam said, pointing a finger at Faramir’s sketch.
Faramir crossed the line out. “That’s right. Thank you, Master Samwise. Well, if you go this way-not so far as I drew it, of course-“The hobbits looked at the map worriedly. Faramir held it up and shook his head. “I drew it and I can’t even read it. I’d best go myself.” He looked at the hobbits. “Will you wait for me here? Right here? And not leave until I return?”
“Of course,” Frodo replied, puzzled at the Man’s persistence. Merry met Faramir’s eyes and nodded, Pippin with him. Sam looked at them, frowning as Faramir left, aware of words in the air that were not being said.
Closing the shutters lent the room a darkened, comforting air and muted the buzz of the still-present crowd outside. Their host had lit a fire in the hearth, and the smells of luncheon were beginning to creep tantalizingly from the kitchen. Bundles of herbs and grains hung from the low, half-timbered ceiling, and the room was untidily cluttered with mugs and barrels and bits of debris. Pippin delved into his pockets and began divesting himself of an astonishing array (and amount) of foodstuffs; sticky buns, sugared biscuits, crumpets, small cakes, slices of pie wrapped in stiff paper, apples, pears, and little bags of sweet berries. Merry contributed his handkerchief of scones. This kept the hobbits happily occupied until the innkeep laid steaming platters of luncheon before them.
“No sirs, I won’t take a penny. This is my honour. Wait till my competition hears the Ring-bearers ate at my table! My business will triple!”
“Thank you,” Frodo told him. “This is most kind of you. But you cannot close your common room just to serve us. Please … open your doors.”
Mikah smiled, his relief evident. “That’s good of you, sir. I’ll not deny I would miss losing the midday custom. With your permission, then…” With a wink he was gone, stopping only to refill their ales. The room slowly began to fill with people, but the hobbits were not accosted. Mikah stood by the door, limiting the number of people he allowed in, and seating them all well away from his special diners.
With the table spread with food, the place looked almost hobbity. Pippin gazed about them, his sharp features relaxing in pleasure. “Do you remember the last time we all had a quiet drink together? Just the four of us? I think it was at The Prancing Pony in Bree. The night we met Aragorn.”
“And he told us to call him Strider,” Sam recalled. “Disreputable-looking sort. All mud and worn clothes, looking like something my Gaffer would send ‘round to the back door.”
“Mum wouldn’t have allowed him in the house,” Merry agreed.
“Your Mum wouldn’t allow me in the house,” Pippin pointed out around a mouthful of roast chicken.
“Shows her good taste, doesn’t it?” Merry shot back. “I have to admit, though, we got good use of the outdoor bath Mum had built after The Pigsty Incident.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Pippin protested. “I was minding my own business…”
The hobbits continued to relax as talk swelled around them, never noticing the three diners near the fire who did not indulge in casual conversation. The three men were consuming their food sullenly, flicking glances at the hobbits. Even the ever-observant Sam did not notice; the hobbits had accepted being objects of discussion amongst almost every table and had decided to ignore the attention.
The men wore swords, which was not unusual with the lingering trouble in the city. Knives were stuck in sheaths at their belts, and the largest of the men bore a length of rope wound under his tunic, coiled around his body. It was this one who kept the closest surveillance on the hobbits, watching them while his dirty hands stroked the hilt of his knife.
“That one,” he muttered over his platter. The other two men leaned closer. “The pale one with dark hair.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Look at his hand. There can be no mistake.”
One of the other men licked his lips. “Where and when?”
“Now, if we can manage it. This is our first opportunity; he has not been out of the Houses of Healing and the palace often before. And the Prince has left them, though I do not doubt he will return as soon as he can. If not today, who knows how long we might have to wait?” He looked around his small circle and the other two nodded slowly.
“Today, then. Now. As soon as we can catch the Ring-bearer alone.”
* TBC *
Chapter Four - On the Streets of the City
Oh, that was better. Crisp, cool sheets and warm blankets and a soft pillow under his head. Much better than a throbbing head and aching neck and burning eyes and sweaty, sticky clothes. Last night was a blur of pain and confusing events, but he knew he had been sick. Frodo yawned and stretched luxuriously, ignoring the light from his small window as it warmed his eyelids, disinclined to wake up.
Odd dreams he’d been having. Holding a handful of stars, and Gandalf ordering him about (nothing new about that), and little Pippin-lad crying. A wonder that he’d got any rest, with such dreams tromping like Oliphaunts through his sleeping mind.
He heard a faint rustle and frowned in puzzlement. Slowly his eyes opened. Sam was sitting-no, sleeping, with his feet up on the end of Frodo’s bed, slumped down in a chair. He was still fully dressed and looked uncomfortable.
“Good morning,” said a soft, well-loved voice. “Feeling better?”
Oh, dear. It must have been bad for Gandalf to stay the night. “Hullo,” he said hesitantly to the large form quietly smoking its pipe in the morning sun.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam was awake and peering at him blearily. He quickly swung his feet off the bed and poured his master a cup of water, sliding an arm under Frodo’s shoulders to lift him to drink.
“I’m all right, Sam,” Frodo told him reassuringly, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the fact. What had happened last night? The banquet-yes-his and Sam’s entirely unfair trick on Aragorn… “Um. How is the King today?”
“Do not worry, Frodo,” Gandalf chuckled. “Rangers, of necessity, have developed strong stomachs. It would take more than one Haradian sea slug to sicken Aragorn.”
“How ‘bout three?” Sam whispered to Frodo as he eased him back down onto the bed and pulled up the covers.
“We are more concerned about you, my friend. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Frodo admitted after a moment’s evaluation. “And very stiff.”
“Well,” Gandalf said grandly, “I have the remedy for that. After you have eaten your breakfasts, Merry and Pippin are going to escort you on a tour of Minas Tirith.” He smiled at the hobbit’s delighted expression.
“So I’m to be allowed out?” Frodo asked gleefully . “With Sam? And Merry and Pip?”
“As if this poor city hasn’t suffered enough damage,” Gandalf growled. “Prince Faramir will escort you all and act as guide. He has been instructed not to put up with any begging, pouting, trickery, or threats.”
“Are Legolas and Gimli to come?” Frodo asked hopefully.
“Legolas and Gimli would no doubt appreciate a little break, but each has duties. Gimli is needed to assess the damage a great stone made as it fell last night. It smashed into a lower level of the city, causing much damage but fortunately hurt no one.” The wizard gazed keenly at Frodo, who nodded in some confusion. Repairs were being made all over the city and he understood that Gimli’s expertise was needed. “Legolas is supervising the moving of several trees from the parks to safeguard them during repair.”
Though disappointed his friends would not be coming, Frodo was overjoyed with the promised freedom. He was a little apprehensive about Faramir accompanying them as he did not know the Steward of Gordor-now-royal Prince well. Pippin practically worshipped him, though. Well, for a chance to get out and see Minas Tirith, he would tolerate a nurse-maid.
* * *
“But is he strong enough?” Aragorn worried, shifting uncomfortably on his throne. As magnificent as the Royal Seat was, it was not very uncomfortable. And all those steps up to it limited the number of people he could speak with at once, as well as sheltering their conversations from those below. Perhaps, he thought upon reflection, it had been designed so.
“You cannot keep him cooped up in the palace,” Gandalf admonished him. “And you cannot go back on your word. I have already told him he may explore the city.”
The King gave him a look. “There are other dangers out there than over-doing,” he said grimly. “Parts of the city are not safe; either due to damaged buildings or worse. As that merlon on the guard walk showed.”
“We shall be sure to advise Frodo not to enter any buildings that look like they might be about to collapse. As for the other dangers-”
“That is why you are sending Prince Faramir, is it not?” Elrond approached, footfalls making no sound on the gleaming marble. Legolas walked at his side, his usually graceful posture somewhat rigid.
“Yes,” Aragorn sighed. “Faramir will keep them safe. How is Frodo, Elrond?”
“Recovering. These hobbits mend quickly, as we have seen before. A day spent outside will be good for him, as long as young Frodo does not tire himself too much.”
“And Legolas?”
“Unharmed,” the Elf-lord replied. “A hobbit-kick can break bones or rupture organs. But Legolas is a young Elf, and Frodo did not truly mean him harm. It was a good kick, however.”
“I have never been attacked by a hobbit before,” Legolas mused, rubbing his stomach carefully. “I shall have to treat those large, hairy feet with more respect.”
“Wait until you have been attacked by several of them,” the King responded gloomily. “Who are genuinely trying to hurt you. Frodo was just trying to get away.”
“You have not told him he kicked me, have you?”
“No. He does not remember, and it would avail us nothing to tell him. He would be mortified by his actions last night.”
“I hope Faramir is prepared for this,” Gandalf muttered under his breath.
* * *
“This is one of our marketplaces,” Faramir said with a nod to a man who had bowed to him. Frodo looked about appreciatively. The walk down from the palace had not been long, but he was happy to slow for a few moments. “As the city is built on seven levels, most of our homes and shops line the central road,” the man continued. “This area is renown for its bakeries and-“
“Master Peregrin! Master Peregrin!” the hails seemed to come from all quarters. Frodo tensed but Pippin was grinning from ear to ear. Leaving the others, he sauntered up to a group of merchants lining the street and began to greet each by name, bowing and saluting.
“Watch this,” Merry murmured in Frodo’s ear, laughing. Sam rolled his eyes. The Big Folk were pressing treats and sweets and little tidbits upon Pippin, much to the young hobbit’s appreciation. “The missus sends this, sir. She’s proud of her ginger biscuits and would like your opinion.” And “Here, son. Try these apples. Best of my tree, they are.” And “My husband and I were hoping you’d come by today, Master Pippin. We saved these sticky buns just for you.”
As Frodo watched in disbelief, Pippin was piled with so many sweets and treats he could scarcely walk. He accepted each little gift with heartfelt thanks, and beamed back at the circle of charmed, happy faces shining at him. Frodo turned to Merry for an explanation. Merry grimaced, but his eyes were glowing with pride. “He’s their Periannath,” Merry said. “It means ‘Prince of the Halflings.’ Or something like that.” At Frodo’s raised eyebrows, he grinned. “And before you jump down Pippin’s throat, he never called himself that. They did. Doesn’t he look it, though?”
Frodo had to admit that Pippin did indeed look it. His uniform was astonishingly unwrinkled and clean, and the White Tree embroidered on the surcoat gleamed in the sun. His sword and scabbard shone with care and his eyes sparkled just as brightly as he graciously thanked each person.
“Aye, he’ll make a fine Thain someday,” Sam murmured, his face just as proud as Merry’s.
“Pippin often volunteers to drive one of the carts when the Guards go on their gathering-rounds,” Faramir added with a laugh. “This is one of the convoy’s stops. I now see why he is so eager to help.”
“Good day to you, Master Meriadoc!” said one of the shopkeepers, pressing a handkerchief of scones upon Merry. “Who are-” A young girl stood up on her tiptoes and whispered in the man’s ear.
“Oh,” he said. “Forgive us, lord. We haven’t seen you before. You honour us with your presence, sir.” He bowed deeply, and beside him, the girl curtsied.
“The Ring-bearer, the Ring-bearer,” the whispers began. Frodo could feel them staring at him, staring at his hand, staring at his face. His head began to pound. It seemed that all their eyes were suddenly upon him. The awe and gratitude in their gazes made his knees weaken and his heart falter. The cool spring sun seemed suddenly unbearably hot. They were bowing to him, all of them. Spots swam before his eyes.
“It’s the sun,” Merry was explaining to the anxious people, “he’s not used to it. The King’s been keeping him close while he recovered. Too close, if you ask me.”
A hand descended on his shoulder, and Faramir was speaking to the crowd. They parted before him respectfully and Frodo was propelled gently forward. Sam was saying something, but Frodo could not quite make out the words. He was hustled into the shade and through a doorway and seated at a trestle table, his legs dangling. An inn or tavern?
The news that the Ring-bearer was in the city spread like wildfire. People lined up at the windows to stare at Frodo, though none were impolite enough to force themselves upon him. A large, beefy man hurried forward and closed the shutters, muttering, “Let the lord have some peace, friends. You can all thank him another time.” His face burning, Frodo stared straight ahead. When the last of the shutters were closed, he slumped forward and buried his head in his hands, trembling.
The man turned to them and bowed so low the fringe of hair remaining on his head flopped forward. “Please sirs, sit. Have a drink and rest a bit. I’m Mikah, milord. It’d be my honour if you’d have a drink here, milord.” Five ales appeared magically, Frodo’s in a finely decorated stein that was no doubt the pride of the pub.
“That is quite enough for today, Master Frodo,” Faramir told the hobbit firmly. “I will not risk being turned into a toad if I bring you back exhausted. Mithrandir made himself very clear on that subject.” He looked at the hobbit anxiously.
Frodo nodded slowly, struggling to hide his weariness. “Give me a few minutes and let me finish my ale, and I will be ready to walk back.”
“I think it best if I carry you back.” Frodo stiffened, and Sam winced. Sitting on either side of Faramir, Merry and Pippin tried to unobtrusively inch away from the soon-to-be unfortunate Man.
“Prince Faramir,” Frodo began evenly, “if you think- “
“Get him a sedan chair,” Merry interrupted, obviously wishing to avoid what promised to be a battle to the death. Sam frowned uncomprehendingly. “It’s a chair that’s carried on poles by four bearers. The lords and ladies use them on the streets all the time.”
Faramir had caught on by now. He nodded quickly. “Excellent idea, Merry.” Turning back to Frodo, he said, “Please understand, Ring-bearer, that my people are excited to see you and express their gratitude at last. They do not mean to intrude upon you; they simply wish to thank you. But such situations can turn so easily into chaos. It would be safer for the people if you were conducted back to the palace in a sedan chair. Will that be acceptable?”
Because he was staring suspiciously at Faramir, Frodo did not see Merry close his eyes in relief at Faramir’s expert diplomacy. “All right. One with curtains, through. Sam and I can both fit in one of your chairs. And none of those trumpets or shouting ‘Make way!’ or any of that nonsense.”
“Of course,” Faramir answered courteously. “Pippin, would you be good enough to run to the Palace and summon a chair?”
“Errr…” Pippin blushed. “I wasn’t paying attention to how we got here, Faramir. I mean, I just drive the cart and follow all the other carts. To go back, you would … um … turn right at the rat-catchers?”
“Right. I mean, right, you turn left. Then left at the leather shop. Cut through the alley, a right at the bakery, another right at the … Pippin, are you getting this?”
“Perhaps I should go,” Merry interjected, seeing his cousin’s eyes glazing. “Pip isn’t good with directions. Why don’t you draw me a map?”
Paper, quill, and an inkpot were hastily procured from their host, and the Prince and the four hobbits leaned over it as Faramir began to draw. “But that street’s blocked by rubble,” Sam said, pointing a finger at Faramir’s sketch.
Faramir crossed the line out. “That’s right. Thank you, Master Samwise. Well, if you go this way-not so far as I drew it, of course-“The hobbits looked at the map worriedly. Faramir held it up and shook his head. “I drew it and I can’t even read it. I’d best go myself.” He looked at the hobbits. “Will you wait for me here? Right here? And not leave until I return?”
“Of course,” Frodo replied, puzzled at the Man’s persistence. Merry met Faramir’s eyes and nodded, Pippin with him. Sam looked at them, frowning as Faramir left, aware of words in the air that were not being said.
Closing the shutters lent the room a darkened, comforting air and muted the buzz of the still-present crowd outside. Their host had lit a fire in the hearth, and the smells of luncheon were beginning to creep tantalizingly from the kitchen. Bundles of herbs and grains hung from the low, half-timbered ceiling, and the room was untidily cluttered with mugs and barrels and bits of debris. Pippin delved into his pockets and began divesting himself of an astonishing array (and amount) of foodstuffs; sticky buns, sugared biscuits, crumpets, small cakes, slices of pie wrapped in stiff paper, apples, pears, and little bags of sweet berries. Merry contributed his handkerchief of scones. This kept the hobbits happily occupied until the innkeep laid steaming platters of luncheon before them.
“No sirs, I won’t take a penny. This is my honour. Wait till my competition hears the Ring-bearers ate at my table! My business will triple!”
“Thank you,” Frodo told him. “This is most kind of you. But you cannot close your common room just to serve us. Please … open your doors.”
Mikah smiled, his relief evident. “That’s good of you, sir. I’ll not deny I would miss losing the midday custom. With your permission, then…” With a wink he was gone, stopping only to refill their ales. The room slowly began to fill with people, but the hobbits were not accosted. Mikah stood by the door, limiting the number of people he allowed in, and seating them all well away from his special diners.
With the table spread with food, the place looked almost hobbity. Pippin gazed about them, his sharp features relaxing in pleasure. “Do you remember the last time we all had a quiet drink together? Just the four of us? I think it was at The Prancing Pony in Bree. The night we met Aragorn.”
“And he told us to call him Strider,” Sam recalled. “Disreputable-looking sort. All mud and worn clothes, looking like something my Gaffer would send ‘round to the back door.”
“Mum wouldn’t have allowed him in the house,” Merry agreed.
“Your Mum wouldn’t allow me in the house,” Pippin pointed out around a mouthful of roast chicken.
“Shows her good taste, doesn’t it?” Merry shot back. “I have to admit, though, we got good use of the outdoor bath Mum had built after The Pigsty Incident.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Pippin protested. “I was minding my own business…”
The hobbits continued to relax as talk swelled around them, never noticing the three diners near the fire who did not indulge in casual conversation. The three men were consuming their food sullenly, flicking glances at the hobbits. Even the ever-observant Sam did not notice; the hobbits had accepted being objects of discussion amongst almost every table and had decided to ignore the attention.
The men wore swords, which was not unusual with the lingering trouble in the city. Knives were stuck in sheaths at their belts, and the largest of the men bore a length of rope wound under his tunic, coiled around his body. It was this one who kept the closest surveillance on the hobbits, watching them while his dirty hands stroked the hilt of his knife.
“That one,” he muttered over his platter. The other two men leaned closer. “The pale one with dark hair.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Look at his hand. There can be no mistake.”
One of the other men licked his lips. “Where and when?”
“Now, if we can manage it. This is our first opportunity; he has not been out of the Houses of Healing and the palace often before. And the Prince has left them, though I do not doubt he will return as soon as he can. If not today, who knows how long we might have to wait?” He looked around his small circle and the other two nodded slowly.
“Today, then. Now. As soon as we can catch the Ring-bearer alone.”
* TBC *