Chapter Nine

27th February
Henneth Annûn

As Tiroc made his way towards the horse auction, he reflected how, during the past few weeks, he had enjoyed more success with his campaign to champion orcs than he had initially thought possible.

The people of Henneth Annûn were, as he had told Darien, interested most in putting the past behind them. They had become accustomed to the idea of orcs and assorted eccentricities through the reports about the doings at The Burping Troll. The presence of a cadre of Ithilien Rangers and the knowledge that many of the Fair Folk also chose to make The Burping Troll their home had gone a long way to soothing any worries they might have had about the more exotic residents. It had become quite the fad among the more adventuresome to travel north to spend an evening gaping open mouthed at the Warg snoring away on the hearth and the smoldering figure of the Balrog serving drinks behind the bar.

So it was a pity that Tiroc's youngest son, whom he hardly recognised any more, held such opposing views. The farmer knew Cullen was easily led, and he suspected that many of the words the lad spoke recently originated from Margul's mouth - the man who seemed have bought his loyalty. What was it Cullen last said on the matter?

'While we may use orcs for particular tasks, it was not acceptable to treat them in any way as human'

Such a phrase could not have been born in Cullen's mind. Tiroc had heard Sira express very similar opinions in very similar words; she was another who had fallen under the influence of the interloper, and there were yet others. The village was becoming divided; many on the side of Tiroc, even more who did not want to express any opinion, and a vociferous minority who were vehemently opposed to accepting orcs as 'people'.

xxx

Cullen was breathless. After delivering Sira to Margul, he had sprinted back to the main road, which was clogged with traffic. His intention was to see if the specialist vintner shop had managed to acquire a new supply of pipe-weed. Though rare and quite expensive, the youth had a fancy to try it out. He had a vision of himself holding an elegant, smouldering pipe, his mouth issuing perfectly formed smoke-rings. However, before he reached the store, he spied Sevilodorf's cart in the distance. Thus he had sprinted again to let his master know the Rohirrim was arriving. In response, Margul dispatched Sira back to her duties at The Whistling Dog; the barmaid practically speechless with rage that Sevilodorf seemed once again to be considered more important than her.

Once Sira had departed, Margul asked Cullen for a detailed description of the cart and its occupants. He then directed Cullen to station himself on the main street near the apothecary's shop in the event the Rohirrim chose to go there first. Margul said he would position himself at the corner of the lane serving as Henneth Annûn's main thoroughfare and the narrower winding path to the location being used for the horse auction.

Cullen had yet again rushed to obey his master's instructions. Now, from his vantage point, he watched Sevilodorf drive past and he saw the hobbit abandon the wagon. He smiled to see the small lass's headlong flight through the throng of seeming giants. Then he noticed Margul following; somewhere inside him a shadow fell, the first shade of misgiving. Throwing off the uncomfortable thought, Cullen decided that his instructions were no longer valid. Sevilodorf had moved on. He drew a fresh breath and followed quickly after Margul.

The youth saw his master pause at the corner of the large field where a bright green and white striped awning sheltered the auctioneer presiding over the temporary pen housing an assorted herd; horses of all colors and types gleamed from careful grooming, from sturdy little ponies suitable for farm work to heavy draft animals to tall, leggy saddle horses whose necks arched proudly beneath silken manes. Several boys were employed in handling the animals, which would momentarily include leading them through their paces beneath the keen eyes of the spectators crowding the fences and stands. Special steeds would be exhibited by dexterous horsemanship employing only a halter and rope for reins and as sale time drew near, prospective buyers eyed them closely for faults or hidden flaws.

Of the hobbit, Cullen at first saw no sign. Then he caught sight of a mop of dancing curls near the hastily constructed stands already more than half-filled with the residents of Henneth Annûn. The hobbit was speaking eagerly to a boy wearing familiar bright yellow stockings, a vivid blue coat and a sickly green cap - Jasimir, of course.

Cullen looked again for Margul. The man was walking towards the hobbit … then, for no discernable reason, he altered his course, heading for the other end of the seating. If his master intended to sit and enjoy the auction, Cullen decided he would do likewise. The youth wandered off into the crowd.

xxx

Margul climbed up to take a seat beside Rathard the knifesmith. Stroking the hilt of his narrow dagger in an absentminded manner, Margul nodded toward the fence line where a lean man with ashy blonde hair was escorting Jasimir, the hobbit lass and the trader woman to seats under the auctioneer's awning.

"That is a rather odd assortment to rate superior seating." Margul's smile invited Rathard to join him in his amusement.

"A trifle," Rathard replied pleasantly, after following Margul's gaze. "But simply a matter of who you know. The lady is a member of the Rohirrim family owning the yard, and the halfling is a friend of hers. As for Jasimir," Rathard grinned. "Why, the boy's always in the best place to be."

"Is he now?" He is certainly noticeable."

"Aye." The knifesmith chuckled. "No one else would be caught wearing such an array of colors. But he's a very clever lad."

"Cleverness at that age can get boys into all sorts of bother with their incessant curiosity."

Rathard grinned his agreement then embarked on a series of long-winded tales concerning the antics Jasimir had been involved in over the past few years. Margul nodded or gave an encouraging gesture whenever the man seemed about to wind down. Meanwhile, all around them the business of the horse sale continued.

xxx

At noon, the auctioneer called a two-hour break for lunch. Margul smiled at the sight of Jasimir racing away on his long legs in a vain attempt to beat the crowds back to the soon-to-be-overwhelmed common room of The Whistling Dog. Excusing himself from Rathard's invitation to join him for the noon meal, he made his way as quickly as possible back to his rooms on the southern side of town.

Cullen opened the door when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

"Ah, I guessed rightly." Cullen winked at the man and pointed to the covered tray sitting on the small table with the room's only chair before it. "I brought it up a few minutes ago, so it's certain to still be warm. Sira said to tell you she baked the bread herself."

Margul made no reply to this patently impossible claim and settled into the chair. Indicating that Cullen should pull up the low stool and join him, he removed the napkin from the tray and dipped a spoon into the thick stew.

The youth took up the second bowl and ate hungrily. Whoever had baked the bread, it was good. After briefly mentioning that Cullen might be required to make another journey soon, Margul fell silent, both of them attending only to the food.

"Will you be needing me this afternoon?" Cullen finally asked, wiping the last of the crumbs from the table.

"No, I believe I will go back to the horse auction. There are several fine animals on display there. Though not all are from Rohan."

Cullen nodded sagely. "They'd be sure to get the best, though, wouldn't they? I mean, they trade all over the kingdom."

"How is it that Sevilodorf the trader is connected with them?" Margul said idly toying with the knife that Cullen had used to slice the small round of cheese.

Frowning, Cullen answered, "I'm not exactly certain. She was here alone before they came in. Would you like me to ask Jasimir? He'd probably know. He's been doing some special jobs for her. Besides I asked him to tell me whenever she came to town."

Aligning the knife precisely with the edge of the tray, Margul enquired quietly, "You asked Jasimir to tell you this?"

The utter lack of expression in his employer's cold voice disconcerted Cullen, and he stammered, "Uh, well, yes, she does stay at The Whistling Dog whenever she's in Henneth Annûn, and I only thought…"

"You thought."

"Well…uh… yes… it only…"

"Cullen," Margul's voice was icy. "I don't pay you to think. I believed I had made it clear that you were to follow my instructions, nothing more, nothing less."

"But I thought …"

"Be silent," Margul hissed, driving the knife's tip into the tabletop.

Cullen cringed and felt the stew turn to lead in his belly.

Margul spoke slowly, as if to a dullard. "Jasimir thinks. If I had wanted an assistant who thinks, I would have chosen him. Jasimir is naught but questions. You ask him to tell you when the trader woman comes to town. He thinks 'why?' Then he goes to the trader woman and asks 'why is someone asking about you?' Cullen, you have disappointed me."

The man's eyes flashed like steel. His words belied the message his voice carried.

Cullen stared at the pale hand resting ominously on the handle of the upright knife. Margul was his only chance of becoming rich enough to move to Minas Tirith. Pieces of half-digested meat rose into his throat and, for a moment, he dare not speak. Then he gathered his wits.

Setting aside the threat confronting him, and his earlier misgivings, the youth abased himself. "I'm sorry, Margul. I will never again do anything without asking you first. I was only trying to help, but I see that was a mistake. Please give me another chance."

Margul remained still for a terrible moment. Then he lifted his hand from the knife and held out his palm. "Serve me as I ask, and I will reward you. Why do you imagine I am interested in the auction? I have the finest mount I could ask for. Cullen, I was looking for a suitable horse for my right-hand man, for you!"

The relief that swept through the youth would have been shameful at any other time, but here and now it felt like someone had lifted a heavy boot off his chest. The silver-green eyes gazed at him with only benign intent, and the next emotion Cullen knew was that of a miscreant child who had been forgiven a particularly stupid mistake.

"For me?" he said, and winced inwardly at the squeak in his voice. But a horse of his own … a horse fine enough to pass through a Rohirrim-owned sale yard … "I don't know what to say! That - that -."

"Is only fitting." Margul's lips curved in a small smile. He braced his hands on the table and rose to his feet. "Now take back the tray, I have business to attend to. But do not forget."

With that he turned, swung his cloak about his shoulders and in seconds was out the door and gone. Cullen sat in the silence trying to sort out the tangle of his thoughts, and to shrug away the lingering sense of unease that nibbled the back of his mind. Think about the horse, he told himself. For the first time in his life he would have a proper mount, not some placid, plodding farm animal, and Margul would be his benefactor. All the man had really asked was that Cullen keep his business private. That was not so unreasonable, was it?

Thus pacified, he stacked the bowls and began running names through his mind; what would be suitable for a gentleman's steed?

xxx

Deerham

The circuit judge arrived in Deerham at noon with a pair of escorts, one a soldier, the other a smallish, wiry man with black hair and swarthy skin. Darien watched from his room window, his view shaded by the overhanging thatch. The soldier peeled off to ride to the guard station. The other two guided their horses towards the tavern. The judge was recognisable only by his staff of office but the dusky rider Darien knew well. A feeling of warmth lit his mood. He tidied his papers and made his way downstairs to meet his comrade, Horus.

Pausing in the hallway, Darien waited while the innkeeper greeted the new arrivals. It was apparent that Dunstan had met the judge before, but he seemed somewhat at a loss with the very foreign-looking stranger.

Stepping out into the room, Darien called, "Horus. Well met."

Horus smiled broadly, his teeth astonishingly white in his dark face. Though he spoke Westron as well as any man, the odd lilt of Far Harad lent music to his greeting.

"Darien! I was told you would still be here."

They did not shake hands or pat each other on the back; both men were too reserved for such displays. But anyone who knew them well enough would have recognised the relief and pleasure they both felt at their reunion. Horus eyed Darien's bruises, which were now fading to a bilious green. Then he introduced the judge as Lord Goldur, explaining briefly that they had met at Emyn Arnen and, as they were heading for the same place, decided to travel together.

The portly Goldur remarked jovially, "I thought he would be company on the road and tell me stories of far-flung places. But all he did was ask questions and leave me to do the talking." His eyes twinkled as he wagged a finger and added, "Ah well, it will be different this afternoon; that is when I get to ask questions."

Turning to the innkeeper, the judge explained, "We'll have the hearing in the tavern as usual, Dunstan. In the meantime, I'd appreciate a bite to eat and something to wash down the dust. And I'll need a room for the night. It will be too late to travel back after we're done with the interviews and paperwork."

Within a matter of minutes, the judge, Darien and Horus were seated in the 'cosy corner' attacking platters of bread, ham, cheese and pickles, pausing only to drink from tankards of sweet cider. As their appetites abated, the conversation picked up. Goldur asked nothing about the case he was here to preside over, which Darien noted as proof of the man's professionalism. Instead, the judge remarked that he had heard that Darien was gathering evidence about orcs.

"I know of a situation that might interest to you," Goldur said. "Up in the hills near the mouth of the Tumladen there are men mining coal. They sent an appeal for help against a band of orcs that kept attacking them. The soldiers who went to assist found a very unusual set up. There was indeed a bunch of very unpleasant orcs that had to be dealt with, but there were also three orcs working with the miners, and they had fought against their own kind during the attacks."

"That certainly would interest me," Darien stated with some verve. "Do you know the exact location?"

"I know enough for you to find them. Bring me a map this evening, and I'll show you." The judge drained his tankard. "Now I better get to work."

xxx

Henneth Annûn

Odors of horse and food warred for dominance as Margul rejoined the sale-yard crowd. Several local entrepreneurs had wheeled out carts of eatables for sale to those who did not leave to find proper dining, and at least one clever fellow was braising meat over a small iron firepot. The stands nearby were again beginning to fill as prospective buyers returned to their places, for the sale would resume within the half hour. As people milled amiably about, Margul moved unobtrusively among them.

Erin the hobbit had enjoyed a most splendid lunch. If there was one thing the Rohirrim could be credited on, it was setting a good board. Alfgard and his household had not disappointed when they received Sev and Erin as welcome guests. But then again, such tall and strapping folk simply had to eat a lot, or they would all wisp away to nothing. Nonetheless, the lure of warm, fresh-baked sticky buns was just the thing to fill in the corners of a hobbit's ample stomach, and so she munched contentedly while waiting for Sev to finish dickering over something-or-other in the local tinsmith's shop.

Horse sales attracted an interesting variety of folks; that was a certainty. Tall folks and small folks, large folks and skinny folks, some who looked like they would be fine as a Rohirrim in the saddle and others who looked as if they would be hard-pressed to haul themselves aboard a wagon. Some bore the weathered faces of farmers, their wise eyes shuttered against glib sales talk as they keenly surveyed the animals being presented. Others clearly were well-to-do, seeking either fancy saddle horses or fine teams for their carriages. And then there was the whip-thin dandy suddenly standing before her, staring at her with a rather peculiar smile.

Erin frowned as she sucked frosting from her fingers. "Hello," she said.

"You're a halfling!" the man exclaimed.

He was handsome as a peacock amidst the sale crowd, what with his wine-colored velvet, fur-lined cape and supple leather boots, although his thin stature suggested he did not keep company with proper cooks. Fine gloves encased his slender hands; not a man who lent himself to real work, then.

"Yes, I am," she replied, and gave a sudden cheeky grin. "And you're skinny."

The man gave a depreciating chuckle as he stepped closer. "So my mother said. Forgive my boldness, my dear, but I have never seen a halfling before. You are a very long way from the North. Are you here on holiday?"

"Oh no, I live here now." Frowning in concentration she pulled a piece off the sticky bun and ate it. "Well, not here, but up the road a ways at The Inn of The Burping Troll. You know, if you came there we could feed you up properly. Nobody knows how to fill a hungry belly like good hobbit cooks."

"That sounds enticing. You say cooks. Are you not the only one?"

"Oh, no. Meri and Camellia live there, too, and Milo, who is Camellia's beau, but he works in the stables and helps around the place." Erin gave a dimpled grin. "We don't let him in the kitchen too much."

Again the man chuckled gently, giving Erin the sense that he never truly laughed out loud, or for that matter did anything in the way of exuberance. Even his posture was poised and contained, his eyes shifting often to the stir of humanity around them. And such strange eyes they were, a pale hue that she took to be green, but somehow the color seemed to change in the light.

"Men do not really belong in a kitchen," he allowed with a small smile. "I would hope you are not alone here, however. So many big horses and big people - you must take care, my dear."

"Oh, I am careful. My friend, Sevi, is just in a shop over there, and anyhow I have my own horse at home. I'm not scared of big horses any more."

"Ah. Have you many friends here? I would think you might miss your home in the Shire."

"Oh, I have lots of friends. There are Rangers and elves and other Big Folk, and all of Alfgard's family - they are putting on this sale - are very nice. Anyhow, as long as I have Meri and Camellia, I don't get too homesick."

"That is well, my dear. A pretty lass should have lots of friends." Cocking his head the man assumed a dubious look. "Elves, you say. That is most unusual. From all I have heard, the Fair Folk keep to themselves. How does a halfling meet elves?"

"They live here!" Erin munched another bite of sweet bread. "Silly, don't you know that Legolas brought some of his folk down to Ithilien from Mirkwood?"

Something seemed to cool in the man's demeanor, although the indulgent little smile remained in place. "I am not from around here, my dear."

"Obviously." She popped the last bit of sticky bun into her mouth. "Well, there are lots of elves; you just don't see them much. They mostly stay out in the forests and such, but they come into The Burping Troll when they want real food, and sometimes they come into Henneth Annûn."

"You don't say?" He lifted his head to scan the crowd. "Are any here with you today? I dare say I have seen as little of elves as I have halflings."

"No, Sevi just asked me to come along." Erin frowned as she licked the last frosting from her fingers, for despite his questions, this composed, careful man did not really seem the sort to crave views of exotic people. "We're nearly out of cheese and wholly out of buttermilk, you see, so before we go we must stop by the dairyman's."

"Then you travel the road alone, just the two of you? My dear, that would seem perilous for two unattended ladies."

The hobbit lass opened her mouth to protest that a warg escort hardly fell under the heading of unattended, but then shut it. There was no reason for anyone to know Warg waited for them just outside town, and certainly not a stranger.

"We are careful," she replied. "And we can take care of ourselves."

"I'm sure you can, my dear."

Now that thin smile was beginning to rankle. And if he said "my dear" just one more time….

"Perhaps I will find time to visit your Burping Troll," the man said. "Certainly I would not wish to miss out on a good meal. Will you and your friend be in town long? Perhaps we may journey together." His smile deepened but oddly never quite touched his eyes. "I know I would not wish to try that road all alone. They say there are many dangers yet lingering in the wild."

If ever a fabrication was spoken, that was it, for Erin could not imagine this man having the least fear of going anywhere he pleased, or at least not so that he would wish the company of two women. Why he would mention it she could not imagine, and she found herself wondering if his fancy clothes and superior demeanor indicated one of those chaps who simply had to lord over someone, even if it was just two fellow travelers for a day. Suddenly she wished Sev would hurry up and come back outside.

"I'm afraid I don't know how long we'll be, sir," she replied primly. "But there are often men or dwarves from the road crews or even King's messengers traveling, and you might find companions among them."

"Of course." The man's mouth smiled but his silver-green eyes suddenly seemed flat as pewter.

Then a jangling crash turned every head for yards around; there on the cobbled street lay a bewildered-looking young man, sprawled all akimbo amidst a tumble of spilled sticky buns and two tin trays.

"You blithering fool, Kerwin!" shouted the owner of the handcart. "How could you not see me? You walked right into me!"

When Erin looked back, the strange dandy man was nowhere to be seen.

xxx

Deerham

The hearing into Oswyn's murder and Tobias' death was a sombre affair as befitted the circumstances. Many people sat in silent audience to events. Captain Gethrod provided most of the evidence, though Tilmith, Avis and Darien were called to give their accounts. The judge examined the haul of stolen valuables, the 'lucky' coin, and the orc blade. He briefly noted the report from The Burping Troll. The facts were overwhelming.

Lord Goldur announced his verdict. "I find that Tobias was guilty of murdering and robbing Farmer Oswyn. He was further guilty of the attempted murders of his wife, Avis, and of Lord Darien of Silverbrook. Captain Gethrod, in the course of his assigned duties, lawfully killed Tobias to prevent the attempted murders from taking place. If there is anyone who has reason or evidence to contradict these findings, let them speak out now."

The judge paused for several moments, allowing the silence of the onlookers to confirm his conclusions. He peered around the room before speaking again. "The stolen valuables belong to Oswyn's niece, as his nearest living relative, the orc blade will be retained by the realm. I declare this hearing closed."

xxx

TBC ...