Disclaimer: The usual, insert here. Middle Earth mine, is not.

          A/N: Hope this chapter isn't too boring, there's more talk than action. Originally this chapter was hugely long, but I had to split it into two chapters to make it easier to read online. Think the pacing is smoothing out somewhat...

Caught In the Net

Perfect silence ensued. Trotter felt numbly as if he were standing in the centre of a storm – a storm that was holding its breath, waiting like everyone else for Falathor's next sentence before it could come crashing down to sweep everything away in its fury. The crowd around him seemed petrified, caught in the intensity of the moment.

          This moment, like few others he experienced, remained frozen in his memory until the end of his life, perfectly preserved as a moth in amber. Even many years later he could see it clear as a rain-washed sky: the tall, stark beams of the platform, cold and disillusioned in the morning winter sun, Anna's wide eyes, opaque, stricken, the crowd that had been so boisterous now silent as a new-born kitten, Beleg quivering with hope and suspense at his side, and above it all Falathor, a calm champion of the gods, tall and straight beside the stake, his shadow sharp enough to cut. A motionless moment, startled fawn-like out of the noise and confusion that had surrounded it.

          The First Lord stood up, and the stillness shattered abruptly. A great murmur rose up from the crowd, almost a roar. The guards around the platform snapped out of their shock, obviously embarrassed at having been caught at unawares. One, bearing a brooch shaped like a golden hammer, barked a few short words, and several of his comrades leaped up onto the structure, grabbing Falathor roughly by the shoulders. Beyond a slight tightening of his lips, the Man gave no sign that he was aware of them.

"Shall we roast this one as well?" the guard with the brooch asked the First Lord with a respectful duck of his head.

The First Lord stepped serenely onto the platform, long slow strides taking him to Falathor's side. The young sun seemed shy of touching him, glancing demurely off his deep green coat and trousers and avoiding the lichens of ghostly lace at his cuffs and neckline. His cloak, darker green yet, stirred heavily as he came to a halt, a sluggish shadow unwilling to move. The First Lord was a tall man, but disturbingly fleshless. His skin was too pale, his hair an iron grey. Trotter shivered; the Lord reminded him of an ancient, starving tree, grim, gnarled, black-hearted. He said nothing, merely gazing at Falathor with eyes so pale a grey they seemed nearly colourless. Falathor looked back resolutely. Trotter felt he would have given much to know what thoughts flew in his friend's head at that moment.

"Shadows," Trotter heard Beleg mutter nearly inaudibly, "some intrigue of Men is at work here."

"Release him," the First Lord said, soft voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.. The guards, looking almost comically surprised, let go of their red-haired quarry reluctantly. The mob's whispering grew yet louder at this sudden turn in events.

"What's this?" someone said at Trotter's side, "not calling off the entertainment, are they?"

Trotter shot a careful glance towards the speaker. He was a Man, not particularly tall, but burly and muscled like a blacksmith, dressed in stained and ragged wool garments. Still, there was something diseased-looking about him: his skin seemed oddly yellow, and a strange smell wafted from him. A horse-faced woman, perhaps his wife, hung from his arm, her elbows sticking out of her brown frock like daggers.

          "You can never tell, with these nobles!" the woman said, "though I daresay the First Lord likes his executions as much as the rest of us! Still," she continued, her voice sinking to a conspirational whisper that Trotter could barely make out, "I've heard some tell about this young man. Lord Falathor they call him, and they says he's a merchant from the North – rich and clever both, which is more than I can say for you! There's been funny whispers since that old Telpedur died. There's some as says he was in with the wrong folk, if you know what I mean, always receiving letters and things from the North. It's no good fooling with those Northerners, like I always say. They do nothing but fight among themselves, with their Kings and their armies! That's why it's better having Lords – they're so busy trying to get the upper hand over each other they don't bother us sensible folk and don't go starting no wars! But where was I?"

          "Stop chattering, unless you have something useful to say!" the man growled, shifting his feet impatiently "do you know something about this young fellow or not?"

          "Patience, you old wart! I was just getting to that... yes, there's rumours he was down here in the spring at that time on some business or other, probably wantin' weapons or soldiers or some such foolishness. But it was Telpedur as he was dealing with, I'm thinking, and this old nose isn't wrong very often!"

          "I'll pertest against that, I will! You're always jabbering some nonsense. Let me tell you, I heard as it's all different... that Telpedur was a-planning to put an end to the First Lord, so's he could be the First himself. And who's to say this Northerner hadn't a hand in it? Telpedur was always a bit too fond of the North Lands. Had strange friends, they say – groups of strangers all in black coming to his house at odd times of night."

          "Why, that's a load of cow-thistle if I ever know it!" the woman retorted, offended that her information was under question, "And what would you know of a Lord's house? I should box your ears right here...!"

          The gossip died abruptly as the pair redirected their attention at the First Lord, who was whispering something urgently into Falathor's ear. The First's face had turned yet paler with anger, making him look even more like a mouldy ghost in his elegant green suit. Whatever the man was saying, however, Falathor shook his head decidedly.

          "Valar take your blasted discretion!" he said fiercely, his voice ringing across the square, "this has gone far enough! Too many evil deeds have been committed on Telpedur's behalf! This woman is not a murderer. Telpedur was dead before ever her hand raised against him, and you know it as well as I!"

          Trotter's eyes flew to Anna's face, but she looked as uncomprehending as he felt.

          "I wish I had an idea about what's going on!" Beleg grumbled, unsuccessfully trying to hide his agitation behind moodiness, "leave it to the Manling to get in a situation like this!" Despite his harsh words, however, the Elfit's face was deathly pale, his eyes huge and blue, full of painful fear he would never admit to. Trotter only shook his head. His feelings were more mixed than an evening crowd at the Prancing Pony.

          The First Lord, moreover, was not about to allow his secrets to be revealed in a public spectacle. He jerked his head impatiently, mouth a hard shard of cruelty as he glared at Falathor. A sharp gesture and a few words sent the guards fanning out into the crowd, efficiently pushing back the curious onlookers. They were none too gentle, and the Tharbadrim grumbled as they milled toward the streets leading out of the square. Trotter found himself crushed between tall bodies, being carried farther and farther away from the platform.

He felt Beleg stagger at his side and grabbed the Elfit's arm instinctively. Vulture-like, the row of guards swooped down on them, herding the front rows too quickly for the onlookers further back to get out of the way. Bodies piled up, and before Trotter knew it he found himself separated from his friend. He wriggled between the people around him, fearing suffocation and hoping that movement might force some space around him. He craned his neck, trying to see, but Beleg had disappeared. Twisting back toward the platform, he caught a glimpse of Falathor, hard-faced, speaking inaudibly to the First Lord. Then threadbare clothing and yellow skin blocked his view. He spared a glance upwards to see the Man who had been gossiping with his wife earlier. His face was as sickly-looking as the rest of him.

Close to despairing, Trotter tried to fight his way back through the crowd. Had Falathor seem them? Did he know they were here? Not likely. Yet it was crucial that they speak together. Falathor had to be told what Trotter knew – that Anna was indeed responsible for the death of Telpedur, before he got both of them killed. And if the Man did not see him now, they might never find each other again, not in a city like Tharbad.

Squaring his shoulders, Trotter rammed sideways into the yellow-skinned Man, catching a hip joint with his elbow. The Man yelped and twisted away, cursing.

"Sorry!" Trotter murmured as he slipped through the momentary gap, only to find himself facing an immensely fat merchant who did not seem to so much as notice him. A few merciless shoves and mild twinges of guilt later, the merchant hurriedly heaved his bulk out of the way, and Trotter burst out of the crowd into open space.

He found himself staring at a tarnished belt buckle. With a sinking heart, his gaze travelled up a grey-and-yellow uniform to meet the cynical eyes of a stubble-cheeked guard. The corners of the guard's mouth turned noticeably down and he looked distinctly out of sorts, none of which boded well.

"Move along now, boy!" the Man droned, poking at Trotter vaguely with an unrefined cudgel, "the First Lord commands! Move on!"

"In a minute," Trotter promised without really paying attention. He stood on his tiptoes, desperately trying to lean around the guard and catch Falathor's eye. This merely succeeded in affording him a view of the neighbouring guard's slightly less tarnished belt buckle. 

"No exceptions!" the first guard remonstrated blandly, pushing him roughly back along with the other spectators.

"I make my own exceptions," Trotter replied, to his own surprise. A look of almost laughable shock crossed the guard's face for but a moment – a moment Trotter did not waste.

Twisting as only a determined Hobbit can, he ducked under the guard's grasping arm and dashed into the cleared space before the platform. His feet kicked up dust as he skidded on the unwashed cobblestones to avoid barrelling into the wooden structure. It was too tall for him to jump onto like Falathor had; perhaps for the first time in his life, Trotter wished fleetingly that he had not been endowed with the smallness of a Hobbit.

"Falathor!" he called clearly, grabbing the bleeding wood and about to hoist himself up as best he could. The pair of conferring heads, red and grey, fire and smoke, turned towards him with one mind.

Banked flames of recognition flared in Falathor's eyes. Before Trotter could speak again, however, a hand grabbed the back of his cloak and he felt himself jerked back off his feet. The world disappeared as his face (and, unfortunately, nose) was pressed against the no longer lethargic guard's perspiring armpit. He writhed reflexively, gagging and spluttering, sure that at any moment he would either suffocate or be thrown to dash his brains out on the pavement. Contrary to his fears, his captor's wiry arms merely clamped around him mercilessly and dragged him back.

"Stop twisting, you little urchin!" he heard the guard snap irritably. The sound was muffled through layers of flesh and cloth.

A moment later he was thrown unceremoniously back into the herd of dismissed onlookers. He landed heavily in the cold dust and had to hop quickly to avoid being stepped on by the fat man he had pushed aside earlier. He rolled to the side, fetching up against a pair of legs. The woman they belonged to shrieked and began raining furious accusations down on him. He was still stammering and trying to apologize when a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him to his feet. Whirling around with a garbled retort on his tongue, he found himself crushed up uncomfortably against Beleg.

"Come on," the Elfit groaned, jerking his head toward the street, which was surprising close.

They allowed themselves to be carried with the crowd out of the square. Some patience and several quick glanced backwards revealed guards blocking off the four or five streets leading to the East Court and shooing away lingerers, of which there were more than a few. Cheated of their spectacle, the citizens of Tharbad muttered and shot dark looks and occasional refuse at the guards, as if these unfortunates were to blame for their disappointment. Trotter and Beleg slipped away down the street; for himself, Trotter decided, he had quite enough of the guards of Tharbad.

Rumours and speculations flew and twittered around them, but Trotter, his mind churning like a broken waterwheel, could not bring himself to pay attention to them. The crowd began to disperse as those people not occupied with harassing the guards returned to their daily business, turning off into other streets, shops, or houses. For a while Trotter and Beleg followed a forgettably ordinary-looking Man until the object of their pursuit turned off into an alley with a rather unpleasant smell. Glancing around hastily, Trotter pulled Beleg into the doorway of a neighbouring shop. 

It was a bakery, he realized instantly, recognizing the comfortable smell of bread baking. The door, shut tightly, was in a slight alcove, with windows to either side. A sign hung above, painted with the faded words 'Hot Bun Bakery and Pastry Oven' and accompanied by an uncertain drawing of what appeared to be a bun dancing with sugar braid, but might easily have been taken for a potato and a brown carrot. The sign also informed Trotter that the Hot Bun Bakery was located on Sandy Bean Street, though offering no enlightenment as to what exactly a sandy bean was.

Across from him, Beleg slumped slightly against the wall of the alcove. The Elfit's hand crept as of its own will to his shoulder, and his chest heaved under his white shirt. To his dismay, Trotter saw that blood spotted the cloth under his friend's fingers. It must have soaked through the bandage beneath. Before he could speak, however, Beleg cut into the silence.

"Did you know of this?"

Trotter studied his companion guardedly. Beleg's face was as white as his shirt, but his eyes were huge and feverish, staring unblinkingly into the Hobbit's own. A furious, almost frightening energy seemed to be chained behind the glassy, opaque surface. Not for the first time, Trotter wondered just how Beleg had managed to wander through Tharbad all night without collapsing. His friend looked all too close to collapse now, though he would doubtless flare up well enough if Trotter made any mention of his weakness. Still, he felt it beyond him to agitate the Elfit more than necessary, and telling the entire truth would doubtless do exactly that. To tell Beleg of what Tirwen had said to him, of his conversation with Anna in the gaol...

For the first time in his life, Trotter wanted desperately to lie.

He wondered if Tharbad, City of Traders, Thieves, Murderers, and General Undesirables was having an effect on him. It was an uncomfortable thought. He pushed both it and the desire to lie away and decided to feign ignorance instead.

"Of what in particular?" he asked.

Beleg made a vague gesture, his blood-flecked hand sweeping the air unconsciously. "Of... Falathor and Anna and this murder. When I awoke and went to search for you I knew nothing of this. All I remember is the Warg's teeth and then... blackness. I suspected you had brought us to Tharbad, to some ally I did not know. And when I found you I had no chance to ask. We have not had time to speak. You must explain to me..." 

"Later," Trotter promised, shaking his head sharply. Beleg watched him suspiciously, obviously surprised at his unwillingness to speak. To avoid the Elfit's piercing eyes, he peeked out of the doorway and into the street, sweeping his gaze over the buildings and people. Only a few of the latter remained, puttering disconsolately about their morning business. He could not see the street corner or the East Court; they must have come some way into the warren of roads. Across from the bakery, a moustachioed cobbler was sitting astride a bench, hammering at a boot. As if feeling Trotter's eyes, the Man looked up, directly at him. Trotter turned away hastily, which unfortunately caught him once again in Beleg's unwavering stare.

"Why will you not speak?" the Elfit asked.

Trotter cast about vainly for a way to avoid the question. If he changed the subject Beleg would know beyond a doubt that he was hiding something. If he answered... if he lied...

Luckily, he was saved from his predicament by help from an unexpected quarter. Before he could say anything at all, the bakery door burst open, nearly crushing him against the wall. A corpulent figure loomed in the doorway – the baker woman, nearly as round as a hot bun herself.

"Oh, no you don't!" the woman screeched shrilly, wiping a fluory rolling pin on a no-longer-white apron. The woman's face wrinkled in a scowl like a hairless dog's as she tapped the rolling pin threateningly against her impressive thigh. "I won't have beggars on my doorstep!" she asserted with a queenly sniff, "off with you!"

"We are not beggars," Beleg said frostily, drawing himself up to his sadly unimpressive height.

The baker woman spared him a searching glance, but what she saw did not soften her mood in the slightest. "Whatever yeh are, I don't want you! This is a respectable business here, and I don't need no dirty brats hangin' around! Shoo!"

 The familiar stubborn look came to Beleg's eyes, prompting Trotter to grab his friend's arm and pull him away, murmuring apologies at the incensed baker. The woman's remonstrations followed them into the street, attracting a curious glance from the cobbler and nearly sending Beleg staggering back to defend his honour. Luckily, the Elfit was too weak to prevent Trotter from dragging him firmly away.

"'Shoo'-ing us!" Beleg growled, "Beggars! Brats! The gall of that cow!"

Trotter's reply died on his lips, for in that moment he caught sight of Falathor. He tugged meaningfully at Beleg's sleeve, and his companion fell silent.

The young Man walked at an unhurried pace down the street, nodding occasionally at another passer-by but speaking to no one. He had pulled up his hood, and his cloak hung over his shoulder, covering the sword Trotter knew hung at his side. He did not break stride as he passed them, merely strolling on without so much as a flicker of an eyelash. Trotter was about to call out to him, but the pressure of Beleg's hand on his arm stopped him. Falathor's eyes swept over the two of them, rested for a moment upon the cobbler hammering at his boot heel, then continued on. He dug his hands into his pockets and, head sunken broodingly onto his chest, meandered on down the street.

Trotter looked at Beleg and, at the other's nod, they began to follow.

This proved no great difficulty, even though the streets began to fill steadily the further they got from the East Court. Falathor had apparently picked a straight course down to the river. Traffic increased and the buildings around them grew steadily shabbier as they moved into the poorer quarters. The cobblestone pavement quickly threw off all semblance of orderliness; stones stuck unevenly out of the ground, scored with deep ruts, until they eventually gave way to plain dirt. At least it was only dirt and dust – Trotter could imagine the mud here after a spring flood all too well. Even so, the dust ruled. It coated drab houses and shops that seemed to lean in tipsily on either side. It clung heavily to the people, turning clothing, hair, skin, everything to an unappetizing brownish-grey. Refuse of unimaginable variety littered the ground, transformed to dirty miniature mountain ranges by the dust.

They passed some street musicians, perched on some dust-covered boxes and playing a common tune while some onlookers sang along lustily. Trotter forbore to listen, keeping his eyes fixed on the brown-wrapped figure trudging on doggedly before him. He repressed a desire to run to Falathor's side and... he didn't know what. Embrace him? Shout at him? Question him?

Definitely the last. Questions bubbled in him like water in an overflowing cauldron. Falathor had been to Tharbad before, that much was clear. He remembered something of the sort from the Last Council. But when, and why? How did the Dúnedan's past intertwine with Anna's? Could Falathor prove Anna's innocence? Trotter could not quell his scepticism. She was not innocent. It could not be proven. It would be folly to hope... she had admitted her guilt, and he knew she had not been lying then, however much she might have in the past. He tasted bitterness – it was this that stung, the fact that she had lied to him, had been lying all along. Everything she had said, everything that they had was mere illusion. He, like a child, had believed all.

Still, he was far from wishing her dead.  

And what of this Telpedur? How did Falathor know him – how did he know the First Lord? What went on between Arthedain and Cardolan, in the dark of the night and behind closed doors? He did not know, and yet he began to suspect. Obviously Falathor had business of his own in Tharbad. Or was it King Arvedui's business? Did the King know more than he had admitted at the Last Council? And why had he not thought of that before?

Suddenly, everything seemed infinitely more complicated than it had yesterday.

In front of them, Falathor turned right into a narrow alley between a nearly collapsed wreck of a house and a dubious general store. He disappeared instantly in the putrid shadows that hid there, cowering from the sun beneath tight walls. Trotter and Beleg quickened their steps, fearing to lose sight of their guide; but when they stepped into the dimness, he was waiting for them.

"Well met!" he cried, throwing back his hood with a grin that split his tired face, "I had hoped you would be beyond Tharbad by now, but I must say, I am glad to find you alive and whole!"

"Not as whole as one would like," Beleg said dryly, leaning against the general store's wall. His face was calm and he had lost none of his habitual grace, but Trotter could tell he was tired. Bruise-coloured shadows underlined his eyes, and beneath his cloak the bloody spot had grown.

Falathor's grin faltered and he nodded grimly. "I see that you are injured. I will not ask for the tale; we have no time for that now. But I am no less glad that you are alive, at the least."

"It was not myself I was referring to," Beleg said, dismissing the subject of his wound easily, "we are not whole: one of our number is missing. And yet it seems you may be able to help us, and Anna."

Falathor glanced around as if involuntarily and, scowling, drew them further from the street. They took refuge behind a large bin of discarded eggshells, mouldy bread, other rotten remains. A cat, startled by their appearance, slipped from among the refuse, hissed at them, and disappeared into the further depths of the alley.

"Speak softly!" Falathor admonished in a low voice, "and let none hear. You are dabbling in dangerous waters, and the depths are blacker than you know. Blacker even than I know," he added with a grimace, "though I at least may guess."

"I am glad to see you too," Trotter said wryly, "despite your dark words. Where have you been, Falathor, what have you found here? How fare the King and Thorondil? We have heard nothing... it worried me, I must admit. The going has been slow, for sure – it seems the Wi... I mean, our enemy knows too much of our plans. Everywhere we find danger and opposition, even here... I am brimming with questions! How do you know the First Lord? The people speak of you in the streets as one who has been here before often. What do you know of this business? And," he swallowed a lump in his throat, "what of Anna? Can you prevent the execution?" He fell silent, not trusting himself to continue.

          "There will be no execution!" Falathor said sharply, "I will not allow it. I'm afraid I have rather a lot of explaining to do." He sighed, fatigue all too obvious in the lines of his face. "Why am I here? You know that already – I was sent to find Lomin's child, as you surely remember."

          "Ah, yes, I do," Trotter said, "and have you succeeded?"

          Falathor looked hard at him. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. But do not attempt to hide your awareness from me! Surely the facts could not have escaped you. I know you know of what I speak."

          "I, however, do not," Beleg interrupted, glancing in obvious displeasure from one to the other, "and I dislike being kept in the dark. You're speaking in riddles as far as I'm concerned, and I have no wish to play games now."

          "Then let me enlighten you, as briefly as I may,," Falathor said, silencing Trotter, who had been about to speak, with a gesture, "I set out to find Lomin's child, as you know. I had lost the trail in Tharbad before – yes, Trotter, I have had business in this city and with its Lords, of which I may speak later. Hither I returned to renew my search. My efforts were fruitless until today – all I knew of the child was that it had been banished for murder, and that Lomin had desired to keep his affair with the mother clandestine. Never did I guess the reason for that secrecy could be that the woman was a Halfling! Only last night did the truth become clear to me – that the child had been before me all along, and my searching useless."

          Beleg studied the Man intently. His expression was unreadable, and when he spoke his voice was flat. "You are implying that Lomin is Anna's father."

          "I suspect – nay, I may say I now it, as does Trotter."

          Beleg's eyes flew to Trotter, who squirmed under the icy gaze.

          "Yes, I knew!" he admitted finally, "or rather, I guessed as much, when Mathwes took her from the battlefield. He named her murderess, and I remembered, Falathor, your words at the Last Council. But Beleg, you were unconscious and I had no time to speak with you later, or I would have told you all!"

          To his surprise, Beleg seemed little concerned with the tardiness of the information. "It is not that which worries me," he said, looking uncommonly thoughtful, "but rather your own assertions. You 'guess' and 'suspect' much, yes, and say you know. But where is the proof? This could all be perfect coincidence. Don't jump to conclusions, I say, or you might have a time coming back."

          "There is no 'proof,' as such," Falathor admitted, "but this cannot be coincidence. The timing is exact, every fact fits. What are the chances of two orphans being banished in the same spring? It is impossible, or at least far too unlikely to be true. There is only one, and she is Anna Applethorn."

          Beleg stared at him, expressionless. "Does she know?"

          "I don't believe so." Trotter shook his head.

          "Then do not tell her! It makes no difference. She does not need to know. It is kinder to remain silent, once we have her back."

          A ghost of a smile crept back to Falathor's face. "It seems you have changed much, Master Elfit," he remarked, "I think you would not have spoken so in Fornost."

          "It matters little how one speaks," Beleg replied with faultless dignity, "but how one acts. We have a task at hand, let me remind you both: we must save Anna."

          "The murder is the question now," Trotter agreed, "it seems you know the truth of it, Falathor. What happened here last spring? And what have you to do with it?"

          "Much that I will not disclose now," Falathor replied, forestalling Trotter's protest with a wave of his hand, "but I will say this much: Anna is not at fault. I will do what I can to save her. Later I will tell you more..." A cloud of thoughtfulness passed over his face. "... or perhaps show you. The First Lord is holding a banquet at his manor house tonight, where we two have agreed to meet. He was unhappy with my interference – but he fears that I may let slip the truth to the town, where rumours may destroy him. The execution, for now, has been called off. But if I cannot convince him tonight that I am in the right, it may mean death for more than one of us. Anna, you may wish to know, has been taken to the manor as well, at my request – still as a prisoner, or hostage, more like. Come with me tonight, if you wish!"

          "I do, for one," Trotter said, "I want to get to the bottom of this."

          "Very well." Falathor nodded. "I will obtain some suitable clothing for you... and I have yet other errands to run. Do you know the Gilded Wasp Inn? No? No matter – ask for it and anyone will direct you there. On the Inn's right stands and small café called the Honeydrop. Meet me there at six o' clock this evening!"

          Trotter nodded silently, forbearing to ask what a 'café' was.

          "And speak to no one of what was said here," Falathor added, "there is little love between Cardolan and Arthedain these days. These matters span dangerous waters, as I said before. But there is no more time; someone may be watching us, and growing suspicious at such a long discourse. I will tell you more tonight. Now I will leave you; do not follow until five minutes or so have passed. We should not be seen together. And do not forget our meeting!"

          He had already turned to leave when Beleg suddenly called him back.

          "Falathor!"

          "What is it?" the man asked when Beleg did not continue.

          Beleg looked unsure, his composure slipping slightly to reveal confusion. "You... you were not, by any chance, in the house of a healer last night? On the other side of the river?"

          Falathor shook his head. "I am not acquainted with any healers here."

          "That is odd." Beleg blinked, troubled. "I dreamt last night, of two voices whispering. I do not remember the words, but one of the speakers sounded familiar. I thought the voice was yours."

          "This is odd indeed," Falathor said slowly, "It cannot have been me you heard. I do not know what it means. But... be careful! Be very careful." And with one last, uneasy glance, he was gone.

          "Well," Trotter remarked, watching the Man's cloak disappear in the crowd on the street, "we are hardly wiser than before, for all this talk."

          "Speak for yourself!" Beleg muttered, slumping heavily against the alley wall, "I know not what to make of all this, Trotter. Are you sure I'm not dreaming?"

          "I know you are not, but perhaps I am..."

          Beleg laughed shortly. "Perhaps we all are! But if so, I am tired of dreaming about this filthy alley! Let us go somewhere with a more pleasant smell, preferably not home to a brood of stray cats."

          "You are not well," Trotter said, looking at his friend critically, "you should have stayed at the healer's house."

          "Don't say that," Beleg said with a long-suffering groan, "it's typical." Brushing the dirt off his hands, he started shakily out into the street.

          "What do you mean, typical?" Trotter asked, following, not sure if he should be offended or not.

          "I mean, what hero doesn't say that? I know many tales, my friend, and a good half of them are full of sentimental remonstrations exactly like what you just said. It's always the same – the courageous warrior, despite many injuries, drags himself to yet another battle, where he is immediately scolded for his presumption. Scolded! Isn't it troublesome enough being a hero without having to endure humiliation as well?"

          "And you think us heroes?" Trotter asked dryly, hopping over a rut as big as a small canyon. They continued downhill towards the riverbank, where they would eventually come upon the bridge. The streets were crowded now, and not all the company was savoury. They walked close together, speaking quietly and hurrying as much as they could. Trotter found himself casting wary glances around and repressed an urge to reach for his sword hilt every time someone seemed to be watching them.

          Beleg shrugged lightly in reply. Sweat was beading on his face, and he looked weaker, less alert. Trotter made no comment. It would only offend the Elfit anyway.

          "I am no hero," Beleg murmured, "heroes fight for something. I am bound to nothing, and there is nothing I would fight for beyond myself and those closest to me. I have no ideal, no purpose or goal, no one to whom my deeds would be of value. Who would call me hero? I am a wanderer, an anonymity. But you... this noble quest was, after all, your idea! You lead us, and the King called you Calacolindo. You battle for Arnor – for your home, for the safety of others, and so forth. It's quite gallant, anyone will tell you. Besides, the story world is full of plain farmer boys who performed great tasks and became heroes – or even kings! Perhaps if we succeed King Arvedui will give you his daughter's hand, eh?"

          "You're very amusing, to be sure." Trotter rolled his eyes and slipped out of the path of a wheelbarrow filled with sad-looking cabbages. "But you forget one thing. I am not a farmer. My father was a Guardsman, a soldier."

          "Even better!" Trotter could hear the grin in Beleg's voice, though the Elfit's face remained smooth. "There are endless tales about solders. Have you not heard the charming story of the mithril soldier?"

          "Yes... the one about the Elf princeling's toy, who falls in love with a dancing doll. It's a bit senseless, if you ask me. Why would anyone make a toy soldier – of mithril, no less! – with only one leg?"

          "Perhaps the other broke off," Beleg suggested with a laugh, "or perhaps the maker had a purpose in not completing his creation."

          "Whatever the reason, I still do not see your point."

          "My point? I am merely talking, friend! An Elfit speaks what is in his mind. But I think, perhaps, you are an bit like the one-legged soldier. He was not what one would expect in a hero, was he?"

          "Ah, so you mean I look unheroic... there's no need to snicker! But I never claimed to be a hero, Beleg, no more than the mithril soldier did. So perhaps we do have something in common. Though actually, I think you're a good deal more like him than I!"

          Beleg shot him a thoughtful and somewhat foggy look. To Trotter's shock, the Elfit's face was pained, pale as a corpse, his eyes unclear. "You might be right. Maybe I am missing a leg somewhere." A weak grin tugged at his lips. "But I am a wanderer, not a fighter, and certainly not made of mithril."

          "Good thing, too. You would never be safe from the Dwarves, and we have enough trouble on this journey as it is."

          "Too much trouble," Beleg agreed softly, suddenly serious, "and this not the least of it. Now we will be held up, I daresay, and all on the Manling's account! I wish she were here now. I have quite a lot to say to her, little of it to her liking, I suspect. It's almost ridiculous! Whom did she offend that they chose to accuse her of murder? And such a high-placed victim! Though how anyone could believe that Anna..." he trailed off at the look on Trotter's face and gazed at the Hobbit suspiciously. "You do not believe it, do you? Falathor said himself that she is not at fault. It is all a fraud, a mistake of some sort – grievous, no doubt, but we will find the solution."

          "I wish it were that simple. But I am in doubt, as I have never been before. You know, Beleg, that Anna ever had an ill reputation in my hometown. I paid no attention to her then, neither friendly nor otherwise. Only when that night threw us together did I take notice of her, and realize that she was not what gossip made her out to be. Or so I believed, at the time. I grew to love her as a friend, and put all my faith in her. And yet now I doubt. No, don't look at me so! Your thoughts are familiar to me, friend, and I know that for all your harsh words your heart is pure and pitying, susceptible to kindness and emotion. And for all your experience, I deem you blind in this matter. You judge with a friendly heart, and I would that I could do so! But I went to her last night, Beleg, and she told me of her own will that she is guilty. Not unrepentant, no! It was not her express desire to kill Telpedur, and doubtless she regrets it – nonetheless, she claims responsibility for a murder, and what can I think?"

          "You believe? Madness! It is some trick... they frightened her into speaking so, or threatened her. You said yourself, Trotter, that Anna is too gentle a spirit to harm anyone. You were right then; trust your own words now! And Falathor defends her."

          "I did say that... and he does defend her. I would continue to deny it had she not admitted to the deed herself. Yet it seems that for all my faith, or my pride, foolishness, or ignorance, as the case may be, I am not infallible. Nor is Falathor. What I said then may be as false as what he says now. Beleg! Had you heard her voice, seen her like I did, you would understand! There is a tale behind this, a dark tale I fear to learn... somewhere the strings are being pulled, and we have all been caught in the net!"

          It was obvious from the Elfit's face that he was not convinced. Grim-mouthed, his drew his hood over his head, veiling his expression, and did not reply for some moments. Inexplicably, Trotter felt guilty. He was sure… of what? Was he? Or was he trying to sabotage his friend's loyalty? Conflicting emotions and thoughts half-formed warred in his breast. Truth seemed a laughable concept, clarity unattainable. And there did not seem to be an easy way out. He could almost feel the clinging strands of the net drawing tight around him…

          Trotter was so lost in his musings that he did not realize that had reached the river until Beleg spoke.

          "This water is a flowing bog," the Elfit muttered sourly.

          The statement was only slightly exaggerated. As they headed toward the wooden bridge arcing lopsidedly over the Greyflood, Trotter's eyes were drawn to the sluggish currents. It was impossible to tell the depth of the water; the opaque brown surface betrayed no hints. Anything could be down there, in the mud, as mysterious and ominous as the city itself. Secrets. Bodies… drowned, murdered, silenced, lying on the silt-covered ground. Shivering, Trotter pushed away his morbid thoughts.

           He only grew gloomier as they crossed the rickety bridge, making their way through a fitful stream of people and carts. The citizens gossiped and shouted loudly over his head. Hoarse voices and raucous laughter thundered an uneven symphony. Many of the Tharbadrim Trotter saw had the same yellowish skin and odd smell as the Man he had overheard at the East Court. He wondered if there was a plague in town. It could not have been a very deadly one, as the infected people were wandering around freely on the streets. On the other hand, he had begun to suspect that in Tharbad, anything was acceptable. He suppressed an urge to cringe away from the bodies around him and walked on casually.

          They made their way to the far bank and Trotter led the way up the cobblestone street toward Ianna's house. He went slowly of necessity, for Beleg had begun to lag behind more and more. Despite his brooding thoughts, a twinge of worry made its way into Trotter's mind. The Elfit's face remained concealed beneath his hood, but his hands were pale as a ghost's, and he clutched almost reflexively at his shoulder. Normally graceful, he began to stumble. His tense shoulders dared Trotter to speak. The Hobbit was sure his friend would not take any comments about his weakness well. But they were slowing down, and Trotter felt the need to hurry.

          Finally, concern or perhaps annoyance won out, and Trotter stopped.

          "Let me help you," he offered.

          As expected, Beleg glared. "Help yourself," he growled, clenching his hands as if to prove he still retained some strength, "is the healer's house near? Why must the woman set up her practice as far from civilization as possible?" He did not accept Trotter's offer of a hand, instead striding ahead as if to show that he could not only walk but lead the way himself.

          Trotter could not help sighing as he watched his friend totter away. "Stubborn," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

          Later he would wonder if that unsuspecting shake of the head saved his life. Of one thing he was certain: the unexpected movement surprised his attacker, and the club struck a glancing blow instead of one that might have been fatal.

          A sudden ringing filled his head, which seemed to expand and balloon out oddly. At the same time, the sky darkened and spun around him, and suddenly he was staring at the dusty cobblestones instead of the heavens. The air in his lungs had fled rebelliously. The colours around him were already fading to black when something rough and musty was thrown over his head.

          *******

          A muffled thud made Beleg stop gratefully in his tracks. If he wouldn't say it aloud, he couldn't help but admit to himself than a few more steps would have sent him keeling humiliatingly into the dust. Trying to look casual, he supported himself against the wall of the nearest house and turned slowly, struggling to keep his head from floating off his neck.

          "Well, what…"

          Not being partial to conversing with himself, he trailed off. He was alone. Blinking, wondering if the sun and the pain had made him hallucinate, he melted back against the wall behind him and cast uncertain glances up and down the street.

          No one.

          He wondered if he should call. The nervous, squirming feeling in his stomach told him not to. Had Trotter taken a different turn somewhere? Was the Hobbit playing a joke on him? But there were no other streets or alleys in the immediate area, and Trotter had always been the serious one, or at least the responsible one. And then there had been that thud. Beleg began to edge along the wall cautiously, until he came level to the place where Trotter had been standing. He cocked his head, squinting at the dust on the ground.

          He wished in passing that he could see and think clearly. It was hard to tell, but… that could be a mark, there in the dust. There was a spot where the cobblestones had been rubbed nearly clean. He could make out no other tracks.

          Attacked. That had to be the answer, he felt with a thud of certainty. There was no reason for Trotter to leave, nowhere for him to have gone… but then, why was Beleg himself still here? And where had the attackers gone? He had already noted the lack of other streets in the immediately vicinity. Into one of the houses? He had heard no door open and close. The buildings on the street seemed to be homes of moderate means. He could knock, but that might lead him into the arms of the attacker, or attackers. If they had even fled into a house. What about the roof? He wondered if he should climb to the rooftops and look for signs of a trail, but…

          Another wave of dizziness swept over him, accompanied by seething anger. He was tired of being hunted, followed, attacked; he wanted to grab his bow and shoot down their pursuers, face them in open combat, give them what they had been asking for. None of that, of course, was possible. Beleg leaned against the wall behind him, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. To his annoyance, his hands were trembling. He was in no shape to do anything, he knew. Trotter was gone; Anna was gone; he himself was hurt. In that moment, he seriously doubted that King Arvedui would ever get the help he needed from Gondor.

          With a jump of hope, he realized that one option remained: Falathor. If Falathor knew as much as he promised, he might be able to present some hope. It was, Beleg was forced to admit to himself, the best chance, irritating as he found his present inaction.

          Still casting furtive glances up and down the street and gritting his teeth in frustration, Beleg began to creep slowly up the street, back to the healer's house.