A/N: And here is the next bit, sooner than I had expected! It's always nice when that happens. :)

Kudos to FantasyFan for figuring out that Joram is the other character name straight from the Bible. There were actually two kings by this name, but they were both rather nasty people. Which is why it's such a suitable name for him, as you shall soon see...

Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing even as I drag this out! This story has developed *far* beyond my original plans and purposes, and I'm enjoying every minute of it, so I'm glad the readers are still interested too. ;)

Oh, and I *will* be altering my username slightly as soon as I am able. I think "Ancalime1" is rather lame. ;) It will likely be either Ancalime8301 or Ancalime_Holbytla, I haven't decided.

**Special thanks for inspiration regarding this and following chapters go out to Frodo Baggins of Bag End, who encouraged me to think even more deviously than I had been originally. **

_Chapter 12_

Joram sank to his cot with a sigh. He hated the laundry and all the people in it, but there he had to work day in and day out until that little cretin recovered. A slow grin spread across his sweaty face as his thoughts naturally proceeded to his burgeoning plan. If he had his way, the insufferable runt *wouldn't* recover. Even if that doomed him to the dank stone pit he currently labored in, it would be well worth it. For he would gain satisfaction in bringing down the miserable halfling, the worthless Esli and his disagreeable wife, *and* dealing a sore blow to the upstart King.

He waited patiently as the guards did their rounds and eventually departed for the night, leaving one lone soldier on duty at the far end of the dark hall. All the while he fingered the packet in his pocket, at one time key to large profits, and now instrumental to his plan for vengeance. When the light of the guards' torches faded away and the echoes of their steps faded to silence, he crossed his cell to the cool stone wall. The cell on the other side of the wall housed his compatriots, whom he needed to address.

Cautiously he knocked twice, then listened for their answering rap. Once he knew he had their attention, he tugged on a brick. A long-forgotten prisoner had managed to work one stone loose, opening a means of communication between the two cells now confining the only captives of the dungeon.

He peered into the small space, being greeted by a pair of eyes staring back at him. "Wha'?" the other asked, surly. Though they had a way to converse, he didn't see any need to engage in small talk with the person who got him brought here.

"I have a plan," Joram hissed.

"To git us out?"

"Naw. We git out soon enough."

The eyes scowled at him. "Wha' then?"

"Revenge," Joram answered, trying to impart as much meaning as possible into the single word.

The eyes widened, then retreated a bit and the sound of low conversation could be discerned through the small space. "Wha' you plannin'?" The second pair of eyes returned and demanded.

Joram cast an anxious look towards the door. "Can't explain everythin'. I jus' need you fellas to make extra work for the good folks we workin' wi'," he said scornfully.

"An' how we s'pose ta do that?"

"I don' know... tip over a coupla tubs. Drop a load on the floor. Jus' do *somethin'* so's I have to go up ta the runt's room ta get the linens meself."

The eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?" he asked, a little too loudly.

"Shh, ye're gettin' too loud. An' I won' explain, in case you fellas git too talkative."

The eyes, growing harder to see in the dimming light of dusk, still looked skeptical.

"Don' worry. Any blame'll go on tha' hussy." He was prevented from further explanation by the sound of approaching footsteps. Joram hurriedly replaced the stone and retreated back to his cot, sitting down just as the torch's light stopped outside his door.

"Hoy! Quiet in there, or it'll be no rations tomorra for the lot o' ye!" the soldier reprimanded, pounding on the cell doors with the butt of his sword. When no sound met his threat, he turned, satisfied, and marched back to his post.

Joram rose and peered out the small barred opening in the heavy wood, watching the guard's retreat. He returned to the stone, pulling it out just long enough to whisper, "Remember, you jus' need to be difficult. Should'na be hard fer you lugs."

~~~~

As it turned out, there was no need for the pair to do anything out of the ordinary. The supply of clean linens had finally been exhausted, catching up with the shortage of hands to clean them. Every serving lad and lass able to be spared was sent to labor over the steamy tubs in hopes of meeting the surplus demand.

Joram worked diligently over the pile assigned solely to him, and early in the afternoon reached the bottom. Finishing the last items, he carried them out to the main room and put them in one of the baskets, soon to be picked up and hauled outdoors, where long lengths of line sagged under the ponderous weight of wet bedsheets and towels. The drying lines threaded their way down the hill behind the Tower and the seventh circle, their loads of clean items gently waving in the cool breezes sweeping over the mountains.

Joram took a moment to survey the room, and indeed, every available pair of hands was busy at work. There would be no one spared to fetch the laundry he needed. Smirking in satisfaction, he turned to address his guard. Even the soldiers were busier than before, and he now had only one guard dogging his steps, rather than the pair as previously. As respectfully as possible, he explained that he had run out of items and would need to go up to fetch the pile undoubtedly waiting for him.

The soldier gave him a doubtful look, but upon peering into the small workspace set aside for the barkeep and seeing no laundry, he assented and guided his charge to the stairway. He gave a moment's thought to fetching it himself, but that would leave the prisoner unguarded, and he did not think the King would be pleased if that occurred. So he followed the disreputable man up the stairs to the main floor, noticing only disinterestedly that the barkeep was rather fidgety.

The stairs seemed to stretch up to the heavens in Joram's mind, eager as he was to put his plan into action. Finally they reached the proper hallway, only to find it empty, their steps sounding like a marching army coming down the barren corridor. The door was open, and Joram entered, cautiously at first, but then more confidently when a scan of the room revealed only the dark-haired halfling asleep in the bed and the other short halfling drowsing next to him.

His guard waited by the door as the barkeep crossed the room, passing the quiescent fire in the fireplace, to the piled linens next to the small table. Joram's eyes eagerly lit upon the small piles of herbs arranged upon the table, and he eased the small packet out of his shirt sleeve. He'd spent part of the interminable trudge up here arranging things just so, to make the drop off as quick and easy as possible. Secreting the contraband in his palm, he carefully placed his hand upon the edge of the table as he bent down, presumably to pick up his load. After dumping the contents, he rose, keeping the now-empty paper packet in his one hand as he scooped up the pile.

Turning to leave, he 'accidentally' brushed the linen across the table top, scattering the contents and mixing his deposit with the dried herbs already there. Some even fell on the floor, which he did not bother to pick up. They could clean up after him later.

As Joram victoriously left the room, he suppressed the urge to snicker. It was only a matter of time now...

Sam yawned and blinked his eyes open in time to see the barkeep lift the heap that Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had taken such perverse pleasure in adding to, finding everything even the slightest bit dirty, including a nightshirt or two of Frodo's that had somehow ended up under the bed. He frowned at the man's carelessness, messing up Strider's supplies like that, but soon dismissed it from his mind. If he had an armful like that, he'd probably come nigh on dropping it, too.

Not ten minutes later, Jael and her husband returned from their repast. Strider had insisted that Jael should leave the sickroom and spend some time with her husband to take advantage of the last few days of his leave. Sam smiled as the couple entered the room, animatedly discussing something or other. They both looked so happy, Jael especially; it had been good for her to come and help with Frodo, to take her mind off her recent loss. And Sam was glad to see her in high spirits, for the sadness of her features when she first arrived did not suit her well.

After a few moments, she bid farewell to her husband and dropped into the chair standing ready at the side of the bed. "Where are Merry and Pippin?" she asked, having left four hobbits in the room, chatting animatedly in hobbit fashion, and returning to find a very quiet pair.

"They left to see what Legolas and Gimli are up to."

"Or to bother them, more likely," Jael added with a knowing smile. They never failed at amusing her, even when she *should* be annoyed with them, like when they woke Frodo, as they did this morning by sliding ice cubes down his nightshirt.

She'd tried to stop them, figuring out before they began what they were up to, but the combined effect of both Merry's and Pippin's sweetest pleading look soon broke her resolve. Though she did make them promise they would help him dry off afterward so he wouldn't catch a chill. She should have realized they would do the drying by practically sitting on him! At least they were kinder about it than they threatened, not actually sitting *on* him, but very close to it. Frodo took it all in stride, having been their victim for years, and actually laughed with them. It warmed her heart to see him laugh, having thus far only seen him while dreadfully ill. But it continued to amaze her that he was about the same age as her parents would have been, were they still alive. He did not seem that old, though in unguarded moments, his eyes expressed the weariness and sorrow of having seen and experienced too much, even for his age. And sometimes she wondered if her eyes were as revealing as his, and what others saw if they were.

Jael came out of her reverie to find not just one but two pairs of eyes regarding her curiously. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" she asked, slightly bewildered by their amused expressions.

"Not really," Frodo said innocently. "I merely speculated that you hadn't entirely returned from your luncheon just yet."

She laughed. "Apparently not," she admitted sheepishly. "I was just thinking..."

"Whatever you were thinking about had you looking rather serious," the hobbit teased.

"And shouldn't you still be sleeping?" Jael lightly countered.

"I have to make sure Sam stays in line," he replied as Sam shot him a dirty look.

"Are you hungry or anything? Since you're awake and all," she asked, shaking her head in amusement. She was rather surprised by his recovery so far; none she had ever known would feel well enough to banter so only two days after the fever broke. But the King and the wizard had hinted that these hobbits possessed extraordinary recuperative powers, so she supposed this is what they had meant.

Frodo grimaced and finally said, "I suppose I could take some tea... with lots of honey, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind," she assured him as she rose. Seeing the herbs in disarray on the table, her steps faltered. "Sam? Why-?" she asked, motioning toward the mess.

"Oh, that man was in 'ere to fetch the linen and 'e had a bit of trouble handling the load," he informed her as he slid off the bed to help set things to rights.

"Joram?" she asked with a frown as she began to sort what she recognized back into their neat piles.

"Aye." He helped her where her knowledge faltered, though there were some more exotic leaves he didn't recognize, either. By the time the kettle boiled, they had the table more or less back in order, with everything grouped roughly by shape. Jael chose the mixture for the tea as Sam fetched the kettle; a bit of chamomile, some mint, and an athelas leaf or two.

There were a few leaves that had looked like athelas, and though neither of them was absolutely sure, they were grouped in that pile anyway. After pouring the water into the pot, she realized she might have included one of the questionable leaves, but she hadn't been paying attention. 'Ah, well,' she thought. What did it matter anyway? There was nothing there that would hurt him, of that she was certain.

Finally the tea was ready, and she included a good measure of honey, as he had requested. He accepted the cup without complaint, though he looked to be doing it reluctantly, and Jael assumed it had something to do with a certain gardener watching him closely.

Frodo sipped it slowly, not wanting to burn his tongue, but quickly enough to satisfy Sam, who was glowering at him, displeased that he wasn't eating anything, but too polite to say so. He thought at first the tea tasted more bitter than usual, but then he got a mouthful of the honey and assumed simply that it hadn't been mixed very well.

It wasn't until a little while later that he realized something was truly wrong...

TBC