Wherein our fish is played foul.
"Coming through!" you call, slipping out of the path of a man backing out of the crowd loitering by the bar and raising the empty tray over the heads of a company of dwarves as you duck beneath one of the oil lamps hanging from the beams of The Pony's common room. The dwarves glance up briefly from a game involving dice, figurines of dragons, engines of war, trolls, dwarves, and bands of orcs, and a painted cloth that they've rolled out on the table between them. Coins change hands swiftly with the rolling of the dice and they are back to it even before you've passed by.
Against the sound of thunder and rain pounding the cobblestone outside the open casements, there's a loud babble of voices, mostly male, and a drunken voice, also male, raised in an off-key rendition of something that's supposed to be slow and heart-tuggingly sad, but mostly is, just, well, sad. The place smells like a frat house during rush: way too many unwashed bodies pressed together, way too much tobacco and lamp smoke drifting in a cloud just overhead, and way too much spilled beer souring underfoot. The heavy air of a very damp night has a lot to work with here.
You take a detour to the pipe rack on the pillar next to the bar, selecting two of the long-stemmed clay pipes for rent and filling their bowls with tobacco from the drawer before you tuck them into your apron pocket.
You then squeeze between two men sitting on tall stools, their packs nestled between their feet, and, setting the tray on the high bar, hop up to lay over it to peer through the smoke for Barliman.
Ah, there he is, just past the door into the buttery behind the bar, wrestling a keg away from its mates and rolling it on its edge along the floor.
Well, hmm. Yeah. Best to just hang out and wait, then. He'll not thank you for interrupting him once he's decided what track he's taking. The man's brain is a perpetual loop of the Trolley Problem.
While you wait, someone in the corner starts cranking a hurdy gurdy and its droning drowns out the singing and a burst of music from the pipes and drums break out in some spritely something that's got the crowd around the musicians in the corner by the empty hearth tapping their feet. There's a cry and they clear out a space among the tables for a couple who clasps hands. There's a fair amount of hopping backward and forward across the cleared space and kicking their feet to the side as the watching crowd claps their hands in time, all while the musicians steadily increase the tempo of the music.
It's got to be uncomfortably warm back there in the buttery with no windows, what with all the body heat crowding the room. Barliman's already florid face practically glows with the effort of raising the keg to his shoulder. Once he's got it settled on the bar, he uses the bottom of his apron to scrub at his face before taking up the tap and rawhide mallet.
A loud crash of pottery against the floor turns heads throughout the room and Barliman looks up and raises his voice over the shouting and jostling from a knot of men on the opposite side of the bar. "Hi there! Stop with your nonsense. There'll be none of that. Should you break my crocks and bend my cups, you'll pay for them as well as your fare, and extra for my pains in finding somewhat to replace what you've broke."
It's a rowdy crowd tonight, mostly out of towners, with only a few of the locals dotted here and there, and very few Little Folk and even fewer women than there were earlier in the evening. Not a good sign. It's going to be a rough night.
Once Barliman's filled the pitcher he was after and set it on the bar, that's your cue.
"Hey! Mr. Butterbur!" you call and bang on the wood of the bar with your open hand to no avail. He's deep in conversation with the next customer lined up at his end of the bar and no doubt the shouting and clapping and pounding of dancing feet covers about everything outside a six inch radius of his ear.
A piercing whistle sounds beside you and you twist about to find the man at your left pulling his fingers from his lips. "Hiya! Barley!" he shouts and Barliman jerks about, frowning. Your companion points at you as you wave for his attention.
Barliman lifts his eyebrows to his hairline and looks at you expectantly in place of attempting to raise his voice over the noise.
"Four ales, please!" you yell, cupping your hands about your mouth, and then hold up four fingers. Barliman nods, his face clearing.
"So you must be Hala, then," says the man to your left. He's a pleasant-seeming older dude with brown and gray wiry hair and huge fucking sideburns brushed carefully away from a face that would make Abraham Lincoln cry.
"That I am. The one and only," you say and really hope his answering smile means something good. Wait! You squint at him and take a closer look. How does he know to call you-
"Bert's the name," he says, offering his hand and you shift about so you can take it. He leans in, keeping his voice low. "Said you go by Fish to those who know you here, that man of yours, Strider his name is, I mean. Met him on the Road outside The Forsaken Inn not two weeks ago," he says. "That there's Tim." He nods to the man on your other side, a big solid bald fellow with a well-kept, luxurious black beard nearly down to his waist who seems more interested in downing his pint in one long swallow than your conversation. "Did me and my friend here a good turn, he did, your Ranger. He said to keep it mum, but he talked favorably of you," Bert goes on, his eyes literally twinkling in the lamp light.
Well, damn. You hardly know anything about Estel other than what he shows you in Bree. So fucking weird to hear news of him outside of that.
Bert gives you a wink and a small private smile, as if he were telling you a joke only you two would get. "Must have been the most he said the whole of our acquaintance, and that the only thing he said that didn't sound like he had just spat out a mouthful of vinegar."
You snort and laugh. Yeah, you can just see that. Bert leans away and chuckles.
"Said to keep an eye out for you should we be in Bree and give you word he'll do what he can to return ere the winter," he goes on.
Well. Fuck. It's not even quite fall yet.
You're about to thank Bert when there's a roar behind you and one of the dwarves thrusts himself to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. With a shout and a sweep of his hands, he clears the table of board, figures, dice, trenchers, spoons, tankards that are, luckily, well-drained, and, even more luckily, the party's eating knives. He shouts something you can't quite make out and jabs his finger at the dwarf across the table who in turn leaps to his feet. And now the whole party is a jumble of dwarves on their feet, reaching over each other and the table and chairs and pulling the combatants, red-faced and spluttering curses, as far apart as they can in the crowded space.
Shit. You should probably do something about that - see if you can't charm them into cooling down with another pitcher for their table.
"Mr. Butterbur!" you lean back over the bar and yell, banging on the wood of the bar to get his attention, but before Barliman turns around, two very impertinent hands grab your ass, one hand per cheek, and give each a full on, knead the dough for an hour before covering it and letting it rise in a warm dark place in your kitchen, squeeze.
Without a thought, you leap off the bar and down comes the flat of your tray on the offending hands with a shockingly loud slap.
"Ow!" cries the offender, a short, wiry man with a leather cap, all afront and innocence. He clutches his hands to his chest, rubbing at his stinging knuckles and wrist bones. You walloped him good this time. "Troll's blood, Fish! What was that for?"
"Keep your hands to your fucking self, Harvey Tunnelson or next time I'll fucking break them for you!" you yell, poking him in the chest. Fucking rat-boy Harvey and his fucking fingers and his fucking friends standing behind him sniggering.
"I meant naught by it," he protests, smirking. He then throws his arms magnanimously wide like he's inviting you in. "Come now, Fish. Give us a kiss and all will be forgiven."
"Fuck you, Harvey," you say, "you and your sniveling little rat-faced friends."
His grin turns sly. "That could be arranged!" he says and one of his friends puckers up his lips and the other mimes casting a line into the water. "Come now, Fish, you're in want of coin and I've got enough should you wish to earn it."
Fucking fuckers think they're so fucking funny. Let's see them try it. One day you're going to forget you shouldn't assault Barliman's customers if you want to keep this job. Today just might be that day.
"I believe you are being told no, friends," comes Bert's voice from behind you. Seems he and his traveling companion have slid from their stools to stand at your elbows. They're a lot taller than you thought. Jesus! Black beard is built like a linebacker.
Well, fuck. You can handle little rat-bastard Harvey. He's fairly easy to manage if he thinks you're not a threat, but these two? White knight one and white knight two? Definitely on his shit-list now. Oh yeah, here we go, Harvey's puffed up his chest like he just pulled out his dick and a ruler and is feeling pretty good about his chances. His friend feels about his waist in a not so subtle move toward the knife tucked in his belt. God damn it.
"Listen," you say and step between the men, using your tray like a shield against rat-fucker #2.
"Hi, now! What's all this?" demands Barliman's voice behind you.
"Fish here owes me an apology," says Harvey, jerking his chin at you, to which Blackbeard Tim grunts.
"If Fish here owes you an apology, then I'm the High King returned," he says with a surprisingly light voice. "Where I come from we don't take kindly to men like you who make too free with their hands. Count yourself lucky should you walk away from this one, friend."
There's a lot of looming going on, with you caught in the middle. You hold off Blackbeard Tim and jostle Harvey back with a jab of the elbow of your other arm. Give you a little more room and you'd have a better chance of taking his knife-wielding friend down if the fucker tries to lunge around you.
"Harvey Tunnelson!" cries Barliman, jabbing his finger at the man and raising his voice. He's so angry that his hand is shaking and he's fairly spitting with his shouting. "You've been at it again, have you?" he yells. "Not enough for you that you scared off my best help last spring, but you've gone to attempting your tricks with the next, too? You leave my folk be, or I'll ban you outright for the rest of your days. And that goes for the rest of your like, too." He takes in the lot of them with a broad sweep of his fingers.
There's general protests and affront, but "Out! Out!" Barliman cries and points to the exit. "And take your friends with you. Don't make me send for Harry and his dogs."
Barliman slaps his palm on the wedge of the bar top that lifts away on a hinge. "In here with you!" he yells at you once Harvey and his friends slink away, turning back and making not so surreptitious threatening gestures to both you and Bert and Tim.
You shrug awkwardly at them. Boss calls. What can you do?
Bert gives you a crooked smile and you slap him on the meat of his shoulder in thanks as you pass.
Two fresh pints of ale appear before Bert and Tim, foam slopping over their sides, who waited until Harvey and his friends disappeared down the long hall to the road before turning their backs on them and resuming their seats.
You duck beneath the break in the bartop with your tray and meet Barliman at the kegs.
"You take Bob with you when you leave tonight, aye?" he says as he draws the ale you requested.
You nod. "Sure." You shrug. Not like Bob can do anything to protect you that you can't, but you suppose there is a certain credibility in having an audience who can back up your version of events if something should happen.
"Rough crowd tonight," you say and Barliman sighs. He's got two mugs by the handles in one fist and shifts the empty mug beneath the tap.
A great shout breaks out. Seems the dwarves have decided to settle their differences in the form of an arm-wrestling match that somehow also involves shots of whiskey at the same time.
He taps his fingers against the keg and shakes his head, troubled. "Aye, Fish, I don't suppose you expect that Ranger friend of yours, Strider, back soon, eh? I'm as like to have half my crocks broke and the place set afire as not, tonight. He'd come in a mite handy, for all his strange ways."
Well shit. Guess the cat's out of the bag on that one. If Barliman's picked up on the fact that Estel's been gone longer than usual, he's not the only one.
You shake your head. "Sorry."
"Ah, well, naught for it, then. He'll come and go as he pleases, as ever, with none of us the wiser," he says and plunks the mugs down on the tray and takes up another set. "Though I wouldn't wonder should he wish himself better thought of, he'd lend a hand now and again more regular like."
He wipes at his brow with his sleeve. "Bless me, but I'm unsure should I wish winter sooner on us to clear out the Road, but I don't know what good folk will think! Time was when I could welcome a guest from the Outside and not worry should they destroy my wares and chase good and regular folk from my door. Whatever the world is coming to I don't know, but 'twas not like this in my father's time. Don't know what things are coming to. I should have cast Harvey and his lot out for the rest of their natural life, last spring. Aye, what's done can't be undone. And I mean to put a word or two in the ears of your two gentlemen friends there. Master Tunnelson might weigh as much as a wet cat, but he's the temper and claws to match and that friend of his is quick with his knife. I'd not want to come upon him in the dark with naught around, no I would not."
Welp. One day Barliman is going to actually hire someone as a bouncer, but it certainly isn't today. Not that he'll listen to you if you suggest it.
"Do you want me to get word to Harry and have some of his men come hang out in the bar?" you ask instead as he slides the remaining mugs onto the tray.
"I suppose I should slow the sale of the stronger spirits if this keeps up, though they're as like to fight over that as aught else. No, no," he says and wipes at his hands with his apron. He shakes his finger at the crowd about the bar. "If this lot gives me any trouble I'll take my cudgel to them and break a head or two, that I will, or my name's not Barliman Butterbur. This is The Prancing Pony, not The Forsaken Inn! We're good folk, here. I'll have a word or two for them," he says with a grim look on his face as he wipes away the drops of ale on the bar with his rag.
"All right, boss." You shrug. "Your call, but let me know if you change your mind and I'll make the run." By this time, you've got the tray of mugs balanced on your palm.
"Ah!" He flaps his hand at you. "Get on with you now. And help Cook in the kitchen once you've got your rooms settled," he says to your back, and then raises his voice to follow you, "and should you see that slowcoach Nob send him back here from wherever he has got to and tell him to bring a broom!"
With that, you slip through the opening in the bar, letting the hinged top bang down behind you and turning for the kitchen door at the back of the room.
And there you are face to face with Bill Ferny, his short black pipe, and his fucking sneer.
God damn it! Of course he's hiding back here. Fucker probably placed himself there knowing you'd have to pass by. Perfect spot from which to view everything that just transpired, too. Heard and saw everything, if that smug look of his is anything to go by.
Fucker. One day you're going to wait until he passes out at the bar and pluck every single one of those dark hairs of his unibrow out one by one.
"Why hallo there, Fish," he says, lounging against the wall next to the door. "'Tis a pity Stick-at-naught's washed his hands of ye. 'Tis not right, leaving you on your own as ye are. I'd not abandoned you to fools like that Tunnelson and his kind." He sucks on his pipe, giving you a speculative look.
Fucker.
You back your way into the kitchen door. "Go suck on a toad, Ferny."
"That's Master Ferny to ye, now!" he calls after you as you let the door slap closed behind you.
Whatever.
"What you got for me?" you call as you spin the tray onto the end of the worktable and Cook glances over from where she's bent straining over the high hearth and reaching deep into the oven.
Oh shit.
You spring over the pile of coals and ash below her step stool and take the handle of the iron rake.
"Let me get that," you say and with a soft groan she straightens her back, relinquishing the rake to you without protest.
A wave of heat from the arch into the brick oven hits you when you reach in to rake out the ash and coals from deep within its depths. Poor Cook practically has to lay on her belly on the raised hearth to reach all the way to the back. The kitchen wasn't really built with a hobbit in mind.
"Oof," Cook says as she presses the heel of her hand on the edge of the brick hearth and eases herself down to the floor.
She stretches her back. "Och, Child, what I've got is a bad back and hips that ache," she says, shuffling over to the work table. She doesn't bother stepping up onto the riser built along the table but takes up the wooden peel by its handle, carefully balancing the heavy meat pies on its broad end. You shovel the ash and coals on the floor into the gap below the brick hearth, freeing up a path for her and she hikes herself up on the step stool. With a jerk, she expertly jostles the pies off the peel and onto the oven floor.
"These, too?" you ask before she has a chance to do more than grunt and find a cool spot on the hearth to push herself upright. You nod at the work table.
"Aye, those, too. There's a dear," she says and hands you the peel. "Och, I am so behind, what with that crowd coming in ere sundown. These should have been done and baked and ready to be served hours ago."
You know better than to try her trick with the peel, so once you've loaded its broad surface with the rest of the pies and rested it on the floor of the oven you pass the handle on to her.
With a twist and a jerk, she leaves the pies nicely arranged with the others.
"Would you be a dear, Fish, and fetch the-" she begins while fussing with the placement of the pies, poking at them with the peel, but you are already there, dripping water from the thick wooden door you plucked out its bucket.
"Oh!" she exclaims in surprise and then motions at the oven. "Well put it over the hole should you be so eager."
You offer your arm once done and the oven is closed up and snug, but she all but rolls her eyes at you, using the handle of the peel like a walking stick to support herself off the stool and onto the floor instead.
On the other end of the long hearth hangs a pot from one of the many and various swinging hooks built into the wall of the oven. There it keeps company with clay pots with round bellies sitting on racks over small fires and a griddle. Steam rich with sausage, spices, and wine seeps from under the lid of the biggest pot while a low fire burns on the brick hearth beneath its belly. Shit. You've not eaten since your early breakfast of an apple on your way to work and then the toast and wild strawberry jam and tea Cook laid out for you mid-morning.
Fuck. Enough of that. You swallow your drool and take up the hot poker you'd laid in the fire before you went into the common room for the ale.
"How many years you been doing this, Cook, do you think?" you ask when you return to the work table where Cook drops the lid back on her spice box and turns the key in its lock. You plunge the poker into one mug after the other and the contents froth and boil up rapidly, sending the scent of hot ale and pumpkin spices up your nose.
Cook snorts and pulls her mortar and pestle toward the edge of the table where she can reach it better. "Long enough my feet are so swole I can't fit none of my shoes," she says and takes up pounding on the green leaves within the mortar. "There's not a part of me that has not pains nor complaint when I attempt to make use of it. Not that Barliman will hear of it. The fool. He'll not get me help.
"He could come in this very door," she goes on and jabs a finger at the door into the common room, "and find me in a lump on the floor and unable to rise, and ask me should the sweet pottage and cream be ready for his guests to break their morning fast, that he would."
"A wonder you've kept that sweet temper of yours, then." You grin and, leaning the rest of you out of reach, give Cook a swift peck on the cheek on your way back to the hearth.
Cook grabs up a towel from the table and flaps it at you as you pass. You skip out of her reach, chuckling. She's stuck on the riser that runs along the length of the table and brings her to a height she can work on it comfortably.
"Now none of your foolery, Fish," she calls over her shoulder, returning to her work. "Pull the big pot off the fire once you've done with that and bring it here. I've got this to finish or else ye'll have naught to take those clucking hens in number ten for their meal."
"Are you kidding?" You lay the poker back on the fire and cast about for something to cover your hands. "They're awesome. They rarely complain even when we screw up, pretty much clean up after themselves, and they never send anything back. What's there not to love?"
"Aye, well, 'tis no surprise ye think so, Fish. You're sweet on them because it's always you they ask for."
You grin. As Estel would put it, there is somewhat of truth to that. You grab up a towel and haul the pot off its hook.
"Would not be so bad should they not stay up all hours making themselves hungry with their gossip," she says.
Well, yeah, they do like to "fill in the corners" off and on throughout their visit. "I think they're just happy to not have to cook their own food for once," you say and drop the pot on the pad Cook slides across the worktable for you.
Cook snorts. "Aye, there's the dream," she says in a soft, faraway voice.
"Yeah, right," you say as Cook spoons the green mash from the mortar into a cloth and pulls the corners together. You lift the lid to the pot of sausage stew for her. "You'd never put up with anybody else's cooking and you know it. It's you and your food they come to The Pony for, not me. There isn't a single person in Bree, Archet, Combe, or Staddle who would dare cook for you." You should know. You attempted it once. It went about as well as you would imagine.
Chili really isn't any good without, you know, chilis. To be fair, it had been your second choice.
"Mayhap one day, Fish," she says and pinches your cheek with her free hand once she's squeezed the green juice into the pot and watches as you stir it in, "I shall be so disgusted with the lot of them I shall even let you free in my kitchen to do all your heart desires."
"Only if you let me try making pizza this time," you say but a sour look flashes across her face. She looks like a cat that just got its paw wet and now doesn't know what in hell to do with it. A "mess of grease" and "poor use of dough" she called it when you had described it for her.
God damn brick oven being put to waste right over there.
Ah well. You'll wear her down eventually. In the meantime, you're feeling a little faint drinking in the steam from the stew you're spooning into its serving bowl. Damn it smells good. Spiced sausages, wine, and ginger in a golden sauce thickened with bread crumbs and egg.
By the time you've got that done, Cook has set your tray with two other lidded bowls, a wheel of cheese, crisp golden apples, ham sliced so thin you can practically read through it, loaves of bread, and a fat little bowl of butter.
"Okay, I think that's it, right?" you ask, but a sudden sound from Cook stops you.
"Now, now, hold up, there is one thing more ere you go," she commands and dunks whatever it is in her hand in the pot. "Come close, now, else it will end up all down your apron and ye'll not be fit to be seen." She holds up a sausage rolled in a thin slice of bread and dripping with the sauce over her cupped hand.
Oh god. Is she…
Fuck. You groan at the first bite she places in your mouth. The flavors hit your tongue and you think you're going to start crying right there and then. Fuck, it tastes even better than it smells.
"Can't have you looking as piteous as a starved pup when you lay out the food for our guests, now can we," she says, patting you on the shoulder and smiling at the fact that you've practically collapsed onto the worktable, leaning over your arms.
"I take back everything I've ever said about you being fussy about what comes out of your kitchen," you say around your food and take another bite, chewing slowly. You want to savor every single loving crumb.
"You take the back stairs up to the rooms." Her voice has grown sober and you glance up to find her looking at you earnestly. "Mark my words, now," she says, "you be careful with your flirting out there, Fish. I know it eases a man's purse strings, but I'd watch my words and not invite attention tonight."
You fiddle with the last bite of sausage a bit before you eat it, not liking the direction this is going at all. "Yeah?" you ask, "Why's that?"
Cook sighs, and takes in the kitchen about you, worrying with the ends of the strings of her apron tied about her middle. Not like anyone is lingering nearby and the roar from the other room could still cover what she says if someone is lounging by the doors or window, no matter how muffled the voices and music is by the sturdy oak of the door into the common room. She's clearly uncomfortable.
"Aye, well," she leans in close and, lowering her voice, says, "that Bill Ferny's got his friend with him tonight and they're feeling more than a little flush. Bought a whole jug of whiskey between them, or so Nob says."
To your relief, you think she's going to stop there. That's not any new news. Ferny is always worse when that new friend of his is with him. But she goes on, her eyes latched onto you, "He's been asking for you, Ferny has. Not that Nob told him aught but aye, ye are working tonight. That Ferny would learn on his own soon enough."
Well. Fuck. You wish you'd brought your hickory staff along with you tonight. First thing you'd made on your own here, carving and smoothing it down while you watched over Mistress Thistlewool. Thicker and longer than a walking stick, you'd wanted something that felt like it might do some damage.
"Now, don't you fret," she says and pats at your hand. "Once we thought him a nuisance and naught more, but aye, well," she halts, wiping at the tip of her nose with the back her wrist abruptly and then fussing at the pot, tapping at its top before she sniffs and then smooths down the front of her apron in quick succession. "Well, we don't rightly know what happened to Ruby last spring, but she left soon after he started asking around for her."
Holy shit. The legendary Ruby, known and beloved by all, and she'd not found a way to fend Ferny off.
Cook shakes her finger at you. "Now don't you go repeating what I said and starting rumors, Fish." She waves her hand in the general direction of the common room. "We've arranged it, Nob and Bob and I. He's to work the common room and you're to help me in here, aye? And Bob is to walk you home before close."
"All right all right," you say and attempt a smile. It might be a little off if that look of pained regret that flits across Cook's face is any indication.
"I'll save all my flirting for you, then." Your smile this time is a lot more genuine as this makes Cook laugh.
"You mean me and my fixings, no doubt!" she cries, smacking your hand. "Oh, aye, I'll put more aside for you for when you come back down."
You grin. That had not been at all what you had been intending, but you are so not going to protest. There's a reason Barliman pays Cook as well as he does. She'll retire very comfortably once she's finally decided she's had enough.
"Maybe you can teach me a thing or two while you are at it, yeah?" you say and wink at her as you pick up the tray. Damn, it's heavy.
"Oi! Off with your saucy self now and take that up the stairs," she cries. "I'll thank you not to serve my food cold."
And so off you go, up the back stairs and down the hall, flickering light and voices seeping about the doors as you pass. It's a full house tonight. You can hardly complain. It's exactly why you are there working.
There's a general cry of delight and clapping once you tap at the door and elbow your way into the parlor at number ten. It warms your heart and so by the time you reach the large, round table near the hearth you're grinning and in a much better mood. Round the table they sit, six hobbit matrons of the merchant class of Archet, Staddle, and Combe in their floofy linen caps and stays and brightly embroidered clothes, here for their monthly night out in the big city of Bree. They burst into action at your appearance, gathering up their playing cards, scraping pennies off the tablecloth, moving candles and cups about the table to make room for the serving dishes, draining the last of the ale or wine from their cups so you can take the empties downstairs for refills, and pulling out their spoons and knives from their belts and purses.
"Good evening, ladies," you say as you ease the tray onto the stand by the hearth. "Welcome to The Pony, where your belly's never lonely."
This is greeted with some laughter and smiles about the table.
"Now Lily, I see those fingers of yours," you hear behind you as you pull the towel off your shoulder.
"What?" comes the outraged cry in response.
"That's my penny, not yours! You've won enough of them already, I'll thank ye not to steal them, too."
"I would never!"
"Now, now," you say, lifting the basket of apples and tray of ham over their heads. "Sweeten your tongues, ladies, I have just the thing for them. Who's playing host tonight?"
With that, a hobbit with dark curling hair cascading from her cap raises her hand, a smug smile on her face; the aforementioned Lily, who apparently took them for all of their money at cards and won the honor. Onto the table goes the basket of apples, tray of ham, butter, bread and mugs of ale. You then set the serving dishes arrayed in front of Lily, with the pile of shallow bowls at her elbow.
"Ah, and what have you for us this evening, Fish?" asks Lily, surveying the table as if it were her kingdom. It pretty much is. She gets to determine who is served what and how much tonight. She looks like she can't wait to wield the power of her ladle.
"Very well, milady," you say, bowing to her and then to the table. You begin lifting lids, twisting them quickly upright to capture the water condensed against their surface. "Here we have a pot of greens of various provenance with garlic and sherry and here is a spiced sausage browned in its own grease, then simmered in wine and honey, flavored with ginger, pepper, and saffron, with a fine finish of sorrel juice." You lift the lid and the smell of wine and sausage wafts through the room to the sound of various overly exaggerated oo's and ah's and scattered applause around the table.
"Ah, but here, ladies," you say and, with your fingers on the lid of the final serving bowl, move in close and lower your voice. They quiet and lean over the table. "Here we have the pièce de résistance, culled from the forests of Chetwood by yours truly and prepared by The Prancing Pony's one and only head chef just for you," you say and then, standing, remove the lid with a flourish, "mushrooms sautéd with shallots, thyme, and garlic in a cream sauce served over grilled toast with a nice, sharp cheese shaved on top."
The silence is deafening, every face caught in delighted shock.
Lily's so overcome with the leverage you've just given her over her table-mates that she can do little more than pat at the ample bosom that overflows her stays.
"Oh, Fish," says Marigold at Lily's left elbow, clasping her hand about the base of her neck, "how you do spoil us!" If there were pearls there, she'd be clutching them.
They'd also be throwing elbows to get there first if it weren't for Lily's firm grasp on the serving ladle.
"Were it within my power I would do so, milady," you say, bowing to Marigold, "but I am afraid 'tis Cook who spoils you. I but give her the means to do it."
This is greeted with laughter and a few knowing looks here and there. Far be it from you to hold back on your flirting with the matriarchs of the far flung hobbit clans. You saw all those pennies on the table. Play it right and a few of them might become yours by the end of the night.
You know better than to get between hobbits and their food, and so, with a call for which drinks needing refreshing, a tucking of the clay pipes into their slots in the rack on the side table for their after-dinner enjoyment, and a promise to check on them in a little, you bow your way out of there. You slip through the hallways, keeping alert for any sound or shadow out of place and the tray ready to use as either a shield or a weapon depending on what you come upon as you round the corners. But there's nothing more to be heard than the sound of voices muffled by wooden doors and no shadows other than your own, and so you trip down the backstairs for your promised meal. It's not just the food waiting for you that speeds you there.
Fuck. Poor Ruby. They never talk about her. You'd always assumed she'd taken off and fled into some marriage someplace. Jesus. Disappeared? And nothing but rumor and innuendo to explain it? No wonder they've been more attentive than usual. Jesus. What kind of fucking place lets it's people disappear without raising hell… Well. Yeah. A place that's just like every other place if it's the right people involved.
You are so fucked.
It's with relief that you push through the door into the kitchen. Cook's waiting for you there and sets you to washing dishes, which you suppose is fair enough, what with the work it's going to take Nob to clean up the common room after close. And yes, Bob keeps you company on your way home, the flame from his oil lamp flickering about your feet as he tells you stories about the various small, everyday adventures his wife Poppy gets into. You make it through the evening and then to home without further incident, no one waiting for you behind The Pony at the staff's entrance, no one jogging up behind you on the Road.
For all of the noise and activity of the inn, it's a quiet night in Bree, what with the rain that failed to let up until near moonrise. You tuck your pennies away in the little purse in your hiding place between the window frame and the wall, and replace the daub that hides it from view. Well, you've made it home. One problem down. You really want to go to bed. You shouldn't though. Not tonight. Not yet.
You're not really all that surprised when you hear voices speaking low and footsteps scuffing through the gravel on the path outside your door.
The rumor of Estel's presence at your hearth had warned Ferny off from his late night visits. Fucker'd get some whiskey in him and he'd start thinking that a little detour on his way home from The Pony would be a wonderful way to end his evening. He'd make cracks behind your back where you could overhear him about wanting to "go fishing" and how long it's been, and how much he missed it, and there'd he'd be, sneaking around your front door.
This time, you're waiting for him.
You've completely had it. You're done. You've had enough of a reprieve from his visits that the thought of going back to them makes every bone in your body hurt. No more jerking awake at every little sound. No more freezing in place, eyes wide and ears straining, holding your breath to hear the better. No more skin crawling when he calls your name and urges you to come out.
Fucker.
You've tried ignoring him, going out there and staring him down, yelling at him, threatening him, and complaining to Harry at the gate and his men, all to no avail.
This time, it ends. You are not going through this again.
And so, once you get home, you sit on the edge of your bench with your staff across your knees, and wait. This time, you leave the door unlatched.
And then you hear it. Giggling, breathless and low and cut off suddenly.
"Shh!" and then the rustle of grass and the patter of a stone kicked from its place.
Fucker.
"Fish," comes a low voice right outside and moving about your house. "Fish, Fish, Fish, Fish," he calls and then stops on breathless laughter and something else you cannot make out.
There's silence for a little then someone trips over something and you hear the thud and a curse coming from the back of the hut.
God damn it. He's a bit bolder this time. He's not tried going through your gate and into your garden before, which may be why he's bumping into things in the dark. Either that or he's drunk. Either one, there's no way into the hut from there and after a while of bumbling about, you hear the creak of your gate and the rustle of feet through the grasses against the side of your house.
"Oh, Fish," you hear just outside the wall of your house. He's practically got his face pressed against the wattle and daub. "Here, Fishy, Fishy," and then giggling and the voices move. "Come, Fish, I know you're awake," you hear, closer now, coming down the side of the hut. "Come out. I've got food and drink. A merry time for all," comes his voice again, just behind your back.
Fucker. Your skin crawls but you keep still and breathe softly through your mouth. Not yet.
"Where are ye, Fish? Come out now. Are ye not lonely? We could cure that. Give you company," comes Ferny's voice and finger worm at the shutter over the window and you flatten yourself against the wall.
Then there's a tell-tale creak of withies straining against the shutter ties. The light's too dim in the shade on that side of the house to tell, but it's not like it's hard to figure out what he's doing. Wouldn't be the first time he's tried to take a peek through the crack between the shutter and the window frame. You probably should just slam your walking stick against the corner of the shutter there. If he injured his eye in the process, so much the better. You're all tensed up and ready to spring into action when the shutter creaks again and he's muttering and moving on. What for, you're not sure.
That's when you hear it; the patter of water against your door.
What the fuck?
And that's when the smell hits you.
Motherfucker!
In the next breath, you've launched yourself at the door and swung it wide to the sight of a man's form dark against the moonlit path, dick in hand, pissing on your doorstep, the stream of urine glinting in the light.
It's picture perfect what you do next. Hip and shoulders in alignment, you wind up and raise your staff in a batter's up, Babe Ruth pointing to the left outfield, Serena Williams winding up to serve a sonic boom as you take aim at every door closed when you drew near, every path taken across the Road to the other side as you walked down the street, every refusal to meet your eye when you stumbled about shivering and begging for work in the snow, every mocking whisper, every sneering look, every slimy insinuation Ferny's ever made, and all your helplessness to do a damn thing about any of it. Down whistles the staff in an arc that catches him right under the chin on the way up and down he goes in a blow that lifts him from his feet and lands him with a thud in the dirt.
"Och! What have ye done!"
You spin about to find Ferny behind you at the corner of your hut, standing there, looking for all like he'd just stepped from the shadows where he'd been waiting.
What?
What the fuck?
Wait.
You spin back around. Whose ass did you just hand to him?
Oh. Fuck! It's his friend. What's his name.
Whatever. Who gives a shit.
Ferny's up on you now and you take a stronger grip on your staff, raising it. "Get the fuck off my property, Bill Ferny!" you yell.
"You've done it now, Fish," he says as he goes to his friend and gives him a shake, and you couldn't care less what the fuck he thinks and who you've pissed off. Either he leaves or you're going to beat the crap out of him. You're not sure if you care which one it is.
"Yes I have! Now get your ass out of here and take him with you or you're next. Do you feel me?" you roar, bouncing on your toes and lifting your staff like it's a bat and he's a grapefruit pitched at you nice and slow.
There's a banging of a door down the Road and a voice yells, "Quit with your racket, Fish! Or I'll send Harry to quiet ye. It's the dead of night!"
"Get Harry if you want," you yell back. "In fact, yeah, go get Harry and bring him here. He'd be very interested in seeing this."
That, at least, seems to light a fire under Ferny, and he pulls his friend to his feet, a little dazed but moving about and answering questions. You genuinely hope his head hurts like a mother and every single little sound or glimmer of light is like a fork scraping along his brain.
Ferny hustles him away and off they go limping down the Road. A door bangs shut and the light from your neighbor's window gutters and then goes out. And that's that.
Still, it's not until you've sloshed water over your door and washed your face and readied yourself for bed that your heart finally stops pounding.
Your knees give out and down you go onto your bench. You sit there for some time, staring at the sliver of light from the moon peeping through the gap between shutter and window frame as it plays on the bundles of reeds and the limewash on the far wall.
Shit.
What have you done?