Usual disclaimers and thanks: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

cjsl8ne: Alas, no Black Gate for Barbarella! But at this point, helping Frodo succeed is the most important thing that anyone—including Aragorn!—can do. Especially since Barbarella actually knows that if the Ring is destroyed, it will win the War.

midorimouse7: As Barbarella might put it, 'Why do these things keep happening to me?' She's going to get to do her part—although she won't wind up taking over the Ring Quest.

Chapter 25 Opening Gambit

When Narbeleth peeked in on us, my stomach had been rumbling for over an hour.

"Could you watch Éowyn for awhile?" I begged. It was well past the hour for second breakfast, and I hadn't even had my first! "I want to check out the break room and see if it's got any food for the helpers."

"I have just come from a meeting there and I fear that none is left," she said, dashing my hopes. Searching her apron pockets, she added, "but I still have one bean-paste bun. You can have that if you like."

Yes, I liked. This latest Gondorian delicacy wasn't as tasty as a Chinese dim sum bun, but it was bigger, and at the time that mattered more to me. "What was the meeting about?"

"We talked about many things that still must be done. You should have been there, Barbarella. You always have something to say. Our greatest problem is that most women in the city cannot offer their time to help the wounded—they must expend every hour trying to find food for their families," Narbeleth said bitterly. "The White City has been under siege for months and the outlying towns have sent us nothing."

I had a quick flashback to the groaning board that Denethor had been pigging out from. "I bet there's still food in the Steward's larder. Someone should ask Prince Faramir for the keys to the pantry."

Narbeleth gave me a wintry smile. "What a good idea. Why don't you do that, Barbarella?"

Someday, somehow, I will learn to keep my big mouth shut.

Well, there's no time like the present. Before I had time to chicken out on the project, I said, "You're right, I will," and headed out the door. Narbeleth seemed surprised that I actually had the guts to do it.

I figured that I'd drop by to say hi to Merry, then scope out Prince Faramir's mood before I asked him for a favor. When I got to Prince Faramir's suite, I found that the door was open and that he and Merry were at a side table playing some sort of pit-and-pebble game.

Someone had put Merry into a striped tan robe that was way too big for him and, being a hobbit, he was barefoot. Prince Faramir was wearing a crisp blue linen tunic and black trousers, and his boots were polished to a spit-shine. He was probably trying for the 'fit and ready for duty, sir!' look—and he did seem a lot fitter than he'd been the previous day.

Unlike most White City residents, Faramir looks more Irish than Mediterranean, with curly auburn hair, a fair complexion, and a snub nose. When he glanced up at me, I saw that his sharp eyes were intelligent and analytic. He reminded me of some of the smarter postdocs that I've known.

"Please come in, Barbarella," he said courteously. "Merry and I would like to hear about what you saw when you and Princess Éowyn sneaked out of the Houses of Healing and went to the Courtyard of the Gate."

Faramir's words were wry but it didn't sound like he was criticizing us for our actions. On a scale of 1 to 10, I gave his mood a 5.

There was an extra chair next to the table, and Merry's Minas Tirith outfit, now clean and mended, was draped over its back. I scooped up his clothes so I could sit down, but when I shifted them to his bed I heard something jingling. There was a heavy lump in one of his pants pockets that felt like…

"Hey, Merry, are these Lord Húrin's keys?"

Merry craned his neck around to look. "Yes, they are. Could you take them back to him? Prince Faramir and I promised the healers that we wouldn't leave here until they gave us permission."

Could I take the keys? Lord Húrin's skeleton keys? You'd better believe I could! Silently crossing one item off my To Do List, I slipped the heavy key ring into my apron pocket and sat down in the empty chair.

Shoving the alabaster game board to one side, Faramir put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the heel of one hand. "Princess Éowyn was not injured, I hope, by her latest adventure? I have read old tales that say the Black Shadow can linger long."

"It tired her a little, but she's resting now," I said defensively. I'd been agonizing over that myself. "We walked her down slow and easy on Nifredil—you remember my horse Nifredil, Merry—she waved farewell to the Riders and came right back and went to bed."

"I wish I could have gone with you." Faramir shook his head regretfully, then switched to another topic. "Did you notice the size of the host that Lord Aragorn is leading out?"

"Ummm…." I had to stop and calculate. "How many men are there in a standard Gondorian infantry company?"

"When it is fully manned? Perhaps six hundred."

"I'd guess five thousand. That's counting maybe a thousand of our Riders and a couple of hundred Elves."

"I fear that five thousand is not…" Faramir's train of thought suddenly derailed as the rest of my words registered. "Elves? There were Elves marching to war from Minas Tirith? The Elves have not fought as our allies since the Battle of the Last Alliance."

"Oh, yes!" Merry nodded his own curly head. "It's the company of archers that Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien sent to Helm's Deep. One of those archers rode with us to Minas Tirith—"

I didn't want Faramir, that smart guy, to hear too much about Serindë. "Prince Faramir, I actually came here to request a favor of you."

Faramir shrugged helplessly. "What is it that you would have of me? There is little that I can offer you, for I am obliged to tarry here, a prisoner of the healers."

"Food supplies are running out all through the City," I answered. "I want your permission to distribute provisions from the Steward's stores."

"But that is my father's-" As Faramir stopped in mid-sentence, an exultant spark lit up his eyes. "I am glad that you ask this of me, Barbarella. No matter what my father would have chosen and no matter what the future may bring, that is my pantry now. I shall grant you authority to take every last seed and crumb to feed the people of Minas Tirith."

Pulling something that looked like a Palm Pilot from the placket of his tunic, Faramir pecked at it with a stylus, then pressed it with his ring. "Show this to the captain of the Tower Guard, and what may be more important, to Master Sakalthor, who rules my father's kitchen."

When he handed the metal object over to me, I realized that I was holding a little bronze tray filled with a soft wax. He'd written me a note of authorization and sealed it with his signet ring.

So that's what they used instead of Post-It notes!

I thanked Faramir, said goodbye to them both, then left the room. I'd get to that the first thing in the morning, I promised myself. I still had a lot to do—but at least I'd crossed off one item on my To Do list.

Next I went to the volunteers' break room to see if I could find Bergil. He wasn't there, but I discovered that someone had set up a big slateboard for messages. I wrote on the slateboard, "BOYS NEEDED FOR AN IMPORTANT PROJECT. MEET ME HERE AT BREAKFAST-TIME. BARBARELLA."

After that I swung by the pavilions and tried to convince our wounded men to eat the supper they were being served. It was Cream of Wheat, so it was a hard sell. I wound up eating a bowlful myself, and was hungry enough to appreciate it.

On the way back into the Houses of Healing, I ran into a spindly minstrel who was plucking his lute and singing a mournful, minor-key ditty to my patients. "Louder and funnier!" I snapped, and kept on going.

When I finally got back to Princess Éowyn she was wide awake, sitting up in bed, and poring through a fat leatherbound book that covered her whole lap. I collapsed into the chair by her bedside and sighed pitifully, "What a day I've had!"

She smiled at me and closed the book. "Tell me about it."

The next morning I found myself lying in bed and staring at the tiles on the ceiling. They had a black-and-silver leaf pattern, and not one leaf was alike.

Do you want to know something funny? It wasn't the Dark Lord Sauron that terrified me. What really scared me was the thought of getting caught red-handed by the Tower Guards of Minas Tirith—a city that was very quick with a funeral pyre.

What had I been thinking of when I agreed to steal one of Gondor's priceless artifacts and use it to help Serindë fight the Big Bad? It was crazy. It was dangerous. Why, why, why had I volunteered?

Because somebody had to do something.

Given the choice—and I had been given it—I would rather bet the farm on Serindë rather than on Tolkien. She was sneaky and arrogant but she was smart, and she believed there was at least a chance that we could make a difference.

Could I actually nerve myself up to do this? As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer.

You can do anything, sweetie.

While I was growing up my mother had told me that over and over. And Mom would never lie to me.

I threw off my covers, slipped into the clean chemise that some wonderful volunteer had left on my bedside table, and put on the silk riding dress that I'd hung up to air out the night before.

When I peeked in and saw that Éowyn was still asleep, I tiptoed away before I could wake her up.

I was Barbarella, Heir of Naomi—and I had a mission to complete.

Breakfast was being served in the break room—if you were willing to settle for unsweetened tea and more Cream of Wheat. I grimaced and wished that I'd thought to scrounge a few packets of sugar from Zubair. Now there was a merchant who needed to start a franchise after the War was over!

As I grimly finished my bowl of fodder, I saw Bergil and Elric shepherding a few other boys into the room and pointing at me. Elric was rumpled and scowling—but then I'd scowl too if I could understand less than half of what the people around me were saying.

Bergil, bless his heart, was young enough to feel energetic in the morning. And as I'd said to Beregond, he was sharp. "I saw your message, Barbarella, so I thought I'd try to gather some boys for your project. These are the only ones that I could find. Everybody else is down at the docks emptying the wharves."

All told, I counted six boys—and Elric was probably the oldest of the group. I'd hoped for more musclepower, but I'd take whatever I could get. "That's all right, we'll contrive somehow. Another thing, Bergil—you've lived in this city all your life. Do you have any idea where Lord Denethor kept his study? It must have been in the White Tower someplace, but where?"

Bergil's eyes were wide and puzzled. A question like this would be a tough nut to crack for a kid who had barely started school. "I am sorry, Barbarella, but I do not know. Perhaps we should ask a Tower Guard-?"

"That's okay," I said hastily. "Just ask around among your friends and we'll ask these kids too. Now tell me their names and I'll explain the project to everybody."

Bergil sketched out introductions, starting with the boy who'd taken my message to Zubair. "Findegil is a page at the Hall of Records." Next were two grey-eyed lads who looked like brothers. "Elostir and Eradan are the sons of Captain Engrin of the Second Company of the Citadel. He left today with the Combined Army. Ragnor works in the kitchen at the Old Guesthouse." Ragnor was a sturdy little boy but no more than eight.

Apparently child labor was considered okay in the White City. Luckily for me, because I was going to put these kids to work.

I said cheerfully, "Hi kids, I'm Barbarella. Elric and I rode here from Rohan with Princess Éowyn. Prince Faramir wants to give all the food supplies in the Steward's pantry to the people of Minas Tirith. We're going to help him do that by going to the White Tower and bringing all the food we can find to Bergil's Gramma so it can be properly distributed."

Why Narbeleth, you may ask? Who else did I know in that town who was up to the job?

Every one of the Gondorian boys was open-mouthed with awe. They were going to work on a project for Prince Faramir! Elostir or Eradan—I forget which—blurted out in shock, "Surely Prince Faramir, the son of our Steward, does not need the help of mere boys like us!"

Elric's curled lip needed no translation. He'd absorbed 'Barbarella rules' at the Battle of Helm's Deep. I said hastily, "In a time of war, we must all do what we can. And think of the tale you'll be able to tell to your father when he marches home."

It didn't take much of a pep talk to convince them, but it took us well over an hour to get started. Minas Tirith was still in chaos and nobody could tell us where to find equipment, so the kids and I had to scavenge all of our boxes, bags, and baskets.

I flashed my diplomatic medallion to get us past the tunnel guard and we transported all of these boxes, bags, and baskets up to the White Tower in little pushcarts. When we arrived at the main entrance I presented Faramir's tablet to the guard on duty, but he shook his head and ordered us to go around to the kitchen. The White Tower of Ecthelion has a servants' entrance—who knew?

After we lugged everything another couple of blocks around the perimeter of the White Tower, I wasn't able to find a guard to let us inside, so I kept banging at the kitchen door. It was eventually opened by an intimidating personage who wore a white cap and apron. This was Sakalthor, chief chef at the White Tower. He resembled Denethor in many ways, except that he was taller and thinner. Three dark-haired serving girls—also in white aprons—were peeking around him and giggling at us.

Sakalthor gave each of us a haughty stare. "Who—and what—are you?"

Call me a cynic, but I didn't really think that he would be willing to listen to a woman giving him orders. Wordlessly, I handed over Prince Faramir's tablet. Meanwhile, the three maids were twittering at us. They were White City girls through and through, and my red hair and foreign appearance must have looked alien to them. The snooty chef, however, would not allow himself to be confounded. As he said to us later, "I am from Pelargir. We've seen everything."

Sakalthor recognized the seal and acknowledged Prince Faramir's authority, so he had to obey Faramir's order—little though he must have wanted to let us rampage through his pantry.

The kitchen of the White Tower has four double ovens, a gigantic fireplace, rack after rack of fancy dinnerware made of glass or pewter or even gold, and a number of shelves of labeled earthenware jugs, including one whole shelf of jellies. What we were looking for was the main pantry, and it was down in the cellar at the bottom of a long, low-ceilinged flight of stairs.

I lit one of the kitchen tapers and went downstairs to find that even the Steward's cupboard was pretty bare. Denethor hadn't been as much of a greedhead as I'd thought. Most of the shelves were empty, but he did have a side of salted beef, six hams, and five flitches of smoked bacon. There were only two barrels of flour left but I found plenty of dried vegetables and four bags of turnips. I don't think anybody likes turnips but I'd take them anyway. This was heavy stuff—it would be hard to carry it upstairs.

Just as I was finishing my inventory, I heard a rusty creak and saw an expanding slice of sunlight on the far wall of the cellar. Sakalthor had opened the outside door to the cellar and all six boys were peering down at me from the ground level. There was even an outside ramp that led down to the pantry door—we wouldn't have to carry everything up the stairs in our arms.

While the kids were boxing everything up, I figured I'd try a little sortie into the Tower to see whether I could find out where Denethor's study was. But as soon as I stuck one foot into the corridor, a Tower Guard noticed my red hair and yellow dress and came over to greet me.

"May I help you, Barbarella?"

Infamous again! "I just wanted to look around a little."

"Wait here and I will summon a guard to show you the public areas. In this time of war, the Tower Guards have been ordered to allow no outsiders into the White Tower without escort."

Well, that was no help. Since I couldn't get further into the White Tower, I decided to walk a few steps outside the kitchen door and check out the greenhouse I'd spotted on the way in. The head chef had grudgingly divulged that the greenhouse supplied fresh fruits and vegetables to the Steward's table.

The structure was a lot like a greenhouse back home, except that its panes of glass were only four inches wide. It was about twenty feet by twelve and it was made from wooden slats. Wooden slats? What happened to the usual Gondorian stone? But this building, at least, was not locked and guarded, so I was able to walk right in.

As soon as I opened the door I smelled appleblossoms. A line of tiny trees had been planted where the slope of the roof was highest. Many of the fruit trees were in blossom—I had to stop and sniff—but there was an orange tree that had three oranges. On either side of the trees I saw flats of strawberries, rows of peavines, even hills of some sort of melon. Except for the strawberries nothing was ripe, so I didn't think it would be worthwhile to strip the place. I did pick the oranges, though—you never can tell.

After the greenhouse I went back to help with the food in the cellar—and grabbed a few other things on the spur of the moment that I thought I might need. In the end we had to ask Sakalthor for help—and containers—because you can't stick a ham or a side of beef into a basket.

Pushing the fully-loaded carts, it took us nearly an hour to wobble across the Courtyard of the Tree, down the tunnel to the sixth level, and into the kitchen of the Houses of Healing, but it was worth it to see Narbeleth's face when we made our triumphant entry. She was shocked right down to her socks!

Looking up from the latest cauldron of Cream of Wheat, she stammered, "I did not believe that you would dare to ask the Prince for his father's foodstores."

Heh! She didn't know me very well, did she?

As Bergil meticulously described the contents of every last sack to his Gramma, I went off to hunt up Ioreth. She was in the Houses of Healing's stillroom, a pharmacy-cum-spice shop. The Healers of Rohan aren't the only ones who like herbs.

When the silence-challenged healer saw me, she immediately started to talk. "Oh, it is Barbarella! You are the one who gave Lord Aragorn the athelas! I want to hear where you learned about it, for it is not an herb esteemed by most healers of Minas Tirith. But I remembered the old folk saying, 'Come athelas! Life to the dying in the King's hand lying' and so I said to our herbmaster. He thought me foolish at the time but now he knows—"

I finally managed to break into her flow of conversation, and said desperately, "Prince Faramir told me to go to the White Tower and bring out the Steward's foodstores for the people of Minas Tirith. Do you know very much about the White Tower? It's such a wonderful building!"

After that I just stood back and let her rip. But although Ioreth had a hundred stories, she couldn't tell me anything useful. She didn't even know where the Steward's study was. I was sure that Lord Denethor had kept the palantír in the White Tower—it's the only place that made sense. But where?

Eventually I gave up and returned to our wounded Riders. I have to admit that, herb for herb, the healers of Minas Tirith are superior to the healers in Rohan. The only empty beds that I found were the ones that had held men who'd been sent back to duty.