Henneth Annûn
The Inn of the Whistling Dog
Though there were some who muttered worriedly about the verdict, they were for the most part hushed by their neighbours, many of whom made a point of offering congratulations or bidding the friends and comrades of Nik good night. Among those offering his well wishes was Cameroth, flanked by his son, the exotically plumaged Jasimir.
"If you've a mind," Cameroth said, "Late though it's getting, I'd like to set a proper spread for you folks." The innkeeper's wry grin tilted to include Nik and Gubbitch. "The whole lot of you, I reckon."
Alfgard glanced wistfully at his companions' eager smiles, but replied with regret, "I suspect Linnet is about to come looking for me. The rest of you go on."
Knowing the cost of such an invitation from a man who witnessed the atrocities of the siege of Minas Tirith, Sev smiled warmly and replied for the group. "Thank you, Cameroth. We would be glad to sup at your table."
With a whoop, Jasimir raced ahead to warn the cook, while the rest continued at a more sedate pace.
When they arrived at The Whistling Dog, Cameroth ushered the late party in with a wide grin and a sweep of his hand.
"Got the place pretty much to yourselves tonight," he said. "Cook is already scorching pots and pans, so I'll set him to work burning in your honour."
The succulent aromas wafting from said kitchen, however, proved that the tardy supper for Nik, Sev and their friends would be nothing less than delicious.
Cameroth stood smiling while, for the first time ever, orcs crossed his threshold. Times had changed, and continued to do so, and those who did not change with the times would be left behind. Besides, if he tried very, very hard, he could imagine these misshapen friends of his friends as people rather than orcs. Having witnessed Nik's conduct at the hearing, the burden of loathing that Cameroth carried had eased a little. And on how many occasions had his son, Jasimir, said that the likes of Gubbitch were trustworthy and even wise? The hard fact was that Cameroth owed the life of Jasimir to Corbat and Lorgarth, and Sira's to Lugbac.
Gubbitch halted in the doorway to beam a multi-hued grin. "Tha's a reet nice pub, landlord."
For a second or two, Cameroth stared at the outstretched, gnarled hand of friendship, and then he shook it. "Thank you …Master Gubbitch, is it not?"
"Aye, that's me, Gubbitch."
A quick round of introductions followed for those who had not yet been properly introduced to Cameroth.
Moments later, Lord Goldur, with Willelmus trailing and Kerwin smiling nervously beside him, joined the impromptu party. The only person missing from the group was Osric, whom Darien paid his due wages and left to the devices of Captain Tarannon. Osric's first punitive duty, the captain solemnly told them, would be scraping the garrison stables of the entire year's worth of manure build-up.
However, here and now there would be only a good meal and the company of friends. Jasimir and a wide-eyed, but smiling, brunette named as Pansy waited on the guests, while the titian-haired Sira rested in a chair. Sira appeared positively a-beam with good spirits despite the tightly wrapped ankle resting upon a low stool before her. One could only imagine that her Ted's doting care had much to do with her unaccustomed cheer.
Darien, Horus and the six remaining Silverbrook men took their places at the long tables with Nik and Russ, Sev and Anardil, Halbarad, Celebsul and Erin. Even Lugbac sat gingerly over on the hearthstones beneath Gubbitch's stern eye. Willelmus cast many an askance look, but the big orc managed not to bend or dent the tin plate on which his meal was served, and only licked the plate once.
By way of contrast, Nik's table manners proved equal to any, aside from the fastidious chamberlain who hailed Jasimir to ask for a finger bowl. The lad dutifully obliged, but rolled his eyes in disbelief to Sira as he passed.
For Erin, the subject required a more overt response. "Goodness, Master Willelmus. You are washing away the delicious goose fat. If you get a cold this winter, you will know why."
After they indulged in a between-courses sweetmeat, the hobbit's look of horror as Willelmus reached to the bowl to cleanse sugary cream from his fingertips proved sufficient to make him withdraw his hand quickly. With a resigned shrug, he delicately sucked the sweetness from his index finger and thumb then arched his brows for permission to rinse his hand.
Erin smiled regally. "I do think finger bowls are a lovely idea once all the traces of food are gone." And so saying, she stretched across the table to dabble her little fingers in the water.
Lugbac watched all this with interest. Finally he looked up at Gubbitch and opened his mouth to ask a question.
"No!" said his chieftain, firmly. "Stick to thy own manners, and stay put."
So it was that friends and comrades feasted without care and drew the very best comfort from each other's company. Evan and Neal conspired to keep the table laughing with their youthful antics, and Nik's piping voice rang out as merrily as any. Russ meanwhile indulged in the gastronomic bliss of a perfect salmon steak, so huge it threatened to slide off his plate.
When the meal was finally done, Lord Goldur clapped his hands for attention. He smiled at the gathering, rosy-cheeked, while the merry chatter of voices subsided.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "it is my wish to salute the courage of the souls who stood forth this day to see justice done. Even –" he held one plump finger rigidly upright – "when that justice might prove unpopular in the public mind. We have taken yet another step on the long road towards a better, more peaceable future. Master Cameroth, if you please?"
The innkeeper nodded and disappeared, to reappear moments later with four bottles of wine clutched in his arms, while Jasimir followed with two more. They set the bottles at intervals along the tables, Darien reaching forward to pick up the one nearest and study it.
"Dorwinion," he murmured appreciatively.
"Indeed." Goldur smiled so that his cheeks bunched like apples. "Lord Valthaur is not the only one with a taste for the finer things. Cups, everyone."
When all had poured, even Lugbac gingerly clutching a plain clay mug in his clawed fingers, Goldur raised his cup before him.
"My friends," he said cheerfully, "I give you Nik. The first orc in recorded history to come before the Steward of Gondor and have his innocence affirmed – and not only that, but he claims to have enjoyed the experience."
If Nik's rough complexion permitted a blush, surely he would have turned scarlet when laughter swept the table and glasses lifted high. After the toast was drunk, Erin tapped her spoon ringing against her cup, eyes dancing.
"And I have another toast," she proclaimed. "To Lord Goldur, the Man with a Hobbit's heart!"
Lugbac looked stricken as he peered into his empty cup. However, he immediately regained a snaggle-toothed grin when Gubbitch judiciously splashed a small dollop therein.
"To Lord Goldur!" echoed Halbarad, and the cups rose once more.
Toasts rounded the table several times over before the last of the bottles emptied, cheers being drunk to everything from Russ' winter wheat to Erin's Great-aunt Posey. Fortunately for all heads, the cook's excellent bread pudding sopped up some of the strong wine, and a fine time was had by all.
As the fire burned warmly in the great hearth, contented bellies and satisfied smiles became the order of the evening. When the door to the inn opened to a final late guest, those within felt almost too comfortable to look up. However, Willelmus' startled cry jolted them all to awareness.
"My Lord Faramir! Oh, good evening to you, sir!"
The young steward smiled greeting to the various exclamations of "my lord!" then he shut the door behind him.
"Please remain as you are," Faramir said, walking towards the hearth. His easy glance hesitated only minutely at the sight of Lugbac crouched there, licking whiskey sauce from his fingers. "I wish only a few moments of your time, in order to clarify some matters for my reports."
He nodded thanks as Cameroth hastily turned a chair for his comfort, and then sat to look over the curious faces and scattered remnants of supper. Reaching into a pocket he produced a battered fold of paper, which he tapped upon his knee.
"I've Captain Halbarad's report on the affair regarding Margul's demise, but it is always best to hear events from those who lived them." His clear grey gaze settled briefly on Sev, then moved to Sira, who promptly flushed to the roots of her hair. "Ladies, if you will, I should like to begin with you."
For possibly the first time in her life, the barmaid failed at words and appealed silently for help. Low chuckles rippled around her as Faramir smiled, and Sev sighed before taking the lead. At least this time she sat among friends and her inquisitor looked more like a man just in from fishing than the second highest lord in the realm.
Briskly she told of Raberlon's murder, followed by hers and Sira's subsequent imprisonment amidst Margul's orc minions. Of particular interest to Faramir were Margul's insinuations that he knew details of Sev's experiences that no stranger should, and that she had inconvenienced some mysterious 'client' of his.
"You have had no previous dealing with Margul?" the Steward asked once more.
"None, sir. Erin conversed with him on the streets of Henneth Annûn last March, but until yesterday I had never laid eyes on the man."
Faramir regarded her steadily. "Who then have you inconvenienced?"
"Lately?" Sev responded. She frowned at the ill-muffled smiles that flashed about the room.
Lines of controlled merriment crinkled the corners of Faramir's eyes as he said, "Within the scope of these events."
"That far back?" She sighed and lowered her head in thought.
After a few moments, she asked, "Are you willing to discount Anardil, Halbarad and the rest at The Burping Troll? I mean, they get angry when I argue over the restrictions they try to place upon me, but I doubt they've reached the point of hiring assassins."
Faramir glanced from Anardil to Halbarad and said, "Speaking from experience, they will have entertained occasional thoughts of locking you in a closet. But I agree we might leave them out of consideration."
"Very well. There was Grady. If I hadn't been rude to him, perhaps none of this would have happened. Then, of course, Darien and his men. Captain Tarannon. And Lord Valthaur."
"The captain did make mention of some escaped pigs." At Faramir's comment, Lugbac hunched down and averted his eyes. The steward's expression sobered. "As well as the orc attack last spring just outside the village."
"A circumstance that by all indications was instigated by Margul," Anardil said with a shrug. "Though we can find no direct proof."
Faramir nodded then leaned back. "How, other than your testimony at the trial concerning orc's rights, have you inconvenienced Lord Valthaur?"
Sev's eyes dropped beneath his gaze. "His lordship was not pleased by the delaying of the hearing."
"Why would his lordship hold you responsible for a man's illness? Even one so conveniently timed?"
Was there a faint emphasis on the word 'conveniently' or did it only seem so in the face of Sev's feelings of guilt? She studiously avoided looking at Lord Goldur's sympathetic, fatherly face.
"I know not the workings of Lord Valthaur's mind," Sev said hesitantly, "but Margul made mention of searching the apothecary's records. It is entirely possible that Margul acted solely on his own and sought to lay a false trail with suggestions of a powerful client."
"Perhaps." Faramir paused until Sev again met his gaze. "One final question. Was Master Horus' illness faked?"
Behind his eyes was knowledge of the truth, but with the phrasing of his question he offered her a route she could take with honesty. Gratefully, she accepted it.
"No, sir. Horus was indeed sick."
The steward's firm little nod suggested he accepted that statement at face value, and the questioning moved on. Of Sira, Faramir asked little, for it became evident within a few words that the terror of being a captive of Margul's orcs might never leave her. Subsequently Halbarad, Darien and Anardil shared the chore of detailing the search for the missing women, and the firing of Alfgard's barn during Margul's attempt to snatch Odbut and Cullen.
"I've no doubt whatsoever," said Anardil grimly, "that Margul intended to see them both dead, when his purposes were served."
"The boy is safe now?"
"Yes, home with his parents." Anardil grimaced wryly. "Odbut meanwhile is reportedly gnawing on the walls of the icehouse, while he awaits your pleasure."
"And you say earlier the orc reacted violently to the mention of Lord Valthaur's name, when you tried to question Cullen in his presence?"
"Like a mad thing," said Halbarad grimly. "I've wished we knew a way to discern what unholy intelligence he is privy to, but alas, there is very little civilized men can threaten an orc with, that he has not already faced before."
"Unfortunately …" Faramir lifted the fold of paper he had been turning in his fingers. "I believe we have that missing piece to the puzzle here."
Halbarad and Anardil both recognised the note they found in Margul's belongings, with its plain wax seal and ornately-sketched sigil.
"Is it what I fear?" asked Halbarad.
A grim nod formed Faramir's reply. "I have seen this mark too many times to ever mistake it for another. Lord Goldur, would you kindly confirm?"
Goldur's jowls sagged heavily as he looked at the cartouche marking the note. "Yes. It is unmistakably Lord Valthaur's."
"Thank you. I need only one more link in the chain. Willelmus?"
The skinny chamberlain straightened where he stood. "Yes, my lord?"
"Do you recognise this note?"
Willelmus took the offered paper and turned it for scrutiny. His mouth pursed in a tight moue of distaste ere he responded.
"Yes, lord. This is the message which Lord Valthaur bid me to deliver to Master Drath of The Black Caldron."
"It was found in Master Margul's pockets, when they searched his possessions." Faramir watched his chamberlain's face register shock. "Would you care to read its contents?"
The older man looked startled, but then gingerly opened the paper to read. What little colour he had washed from his face.
"Oh, good heavens." Willelmus swayed, and for an instant it appeared he might faint. Looking up, his eyes were enormous. "My lord, I cannot imagine what this cryptic nonsense means – no, alas, I do know. I swear if I had any inkling what this -."
"Peace, Willelmus." Faramir rose and gently plucked the offending note from his chamberlain's nerveless fingers. "You could not know that you served a false master – one which I, myself, sent you to assist. We have all been duped."
His look became commanding as he scanned each face in the room. "I would ask that you keep discussion of this matter between yourselves. While investigation goes forward and I study my findings further, nothing of Lord Valthaur's affairs needs to become public gossip."
"You are protecting the puppet master's master?"
A deep voice, as yet unheard-from, struck a new and grimmer note to the evening. Faramir sought its source while Russ rose to his full, formidable height.
"I am not," Faramir replied.
"Then why do you shield him?" Long-pent frustration simmered in Russ' deep-set eyes. "Should a thief not be punished so his neighbours know the thief is caught?"
Faramir lowered his gaze briefly in thought and looked at the huge man again. "Would it be your wish that he can never hurt, or cause the hurt of another person again?"
Russ hesitated, weighing the words for hidden meaning, seeking duplicity in cool grey eyes that oddly seemed to look at and know the trouble in his heart. Did he wish more? Had he allowed vengeance to take root in his mind like a noxious weed? He glanced briefly down at Nik's earnest face before facing the steward again.
"Yes," he rumbled quietly. "That would be my wish."
"It is also mine," Faramir replied. "Let me uphold the law of my lord King, and let the King himself see truth or falsehood as Lord Valthaur speaks it. For, I promise you, no man lies twice before Aragorn, the King Elessar."
And in that moment, Russ the Beorning saw the grace of lost Númenor shimmering in Faramir's eyes, as if reflecting the distant, steady light of powers greater yet. There still remained justice in the world older than the memories of living men.
"So be it," said Russ, and at long last, his heart began to settle back into its old tranquillity.
Faramir now turned his attention to the Haradrim. "You seemed quite recovered at the hearing, Master Horus. I trust the illness caused no lasting harm."
Touching his forehead in a gesture of respect, Horus responded, "I trust so too, thanks to the care offered by Sevilodorf and Celebsul, and the fine tonics sent to me by the apothecary."
Satisfied by the response, Faramir smiled acknowledgement at the silver-haired elf and glanced once more towards Sev. "Then I bid you all good night." He rose to his feet and drew his cloak about him. "Peace and fair dreams."
With that he inclined his head in the briefest of bows and turned away even as the others hastened to respond. Willelmus magically appeared to open the door for Faramir, and then followed his master out into the night. The door thudded gently closed behind him, and with his exit the entire room seemed to exhale.
"Well," said Erin. "That was certainly an interesting thing to follow dessert."
"Indeed," observed Celebsul with a twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps if we had offered him some bread pudding, Lord Faramir might have lingered."
Sev snorted and shot the elf a warning glance. "Don't put ideas in her head, or she'll be after him with a plate and none of us will get any rest." She stood and pressed both hands to her back. "Which I intend to do directly after a long, hot bath."
"Bath," sighed Darien. "I had one last night, but I must be getting old, because another one sounds like just the thing."
Horus clinked the backs of his fingernails against an empty wine bottle and humour glinted in his dark eyes. "Unless," he said, "you chance to fall asleep in your bath. I shan't be responsible for you then."
"Mm." Darien grinned wryly. "You may have a point. To bed for me, then, and my thanks to our most excellent host."
A chorus of gratitude and compliments echoed on the heels of that statement. Cameroth stood beaming while benches scraped and his guests got to their feet to begin collecting cloaks and coats. Kerwin scrambled to assist Lord Goldur in rising, the two of them laughing together almost like father and son. Jasimir came to stand beside his father, and the innkeeper draped an arm around the lad's shoulders.
"It's been a good night, Da," said Jasimir, grinning. "Don't you think so?"
"Yes," replied Cameroth, and he scanned the cheerful faces of Man, Elf, Orc and Hobbit, each bright with goodwill such as he had never thought to see mingled, let alone under his very roof. "A good night to a very good day."
Thus Nik and Russ, their friends from The Burping Troll, and Darien with his lads from Silverbrook retired after a long, tension-fraught afternoon. The peril was past, justice was served. The morrow would bring its own cares, but for this night they would rest without trouble or worry.
xxx
Lord Valthaur sat alone within his room, a silver tea service gleaming at his elbow, a delicate saucer in one hand and a matching teacup in the other. The hour grew late and warm light from lamps about the room bathed his fleshy features in deceptive softness and shone on the rich material of his robes. His plump fingers were steady as they lifted the cup from its saucer to his lips and down again, porcelain meeting porcelain with a soft click. His keen eyes never left the door.
When he heard footsteps thud out in the hallway, he took one deep breath then carefully set the teacup aside. The law lord arranged the hem and sleeves of his robe, and folded his hands in his lap. Thus, he sat serenely when a knock rapped upon his door.
"Come!" he commanded.
The latch rattled and the door opened to admit the tall, grave figure of Faramir. Two stern-faced Rangers remained outside in the corridor. Valthaur's expression did not change.
"I have been expecting you, my lord," he rasped, and brought one hand lightly to his chest. "Forgive me that I do not rise."
As Faramir closed the door, he shook his head. "No need, Lord Valthaur." He dipped his chin to study the corpulent man with some concern. "Are you feeling unwell? Shall I fetch someone to tend you?"
The briefest frown touched Valthaur's brow and tightened his mouth ere he waved a be-ringed hand in dismissal. "Naught but the complaints that ever plague me. Now please do me the favour of revealing the nature of your visit. I am quite sure my health is not at issue."
The young steward's expression cooled. "Very well. I would not wish this news to be brought by lesser hands."
Long fingers reached into his jerkin and drew forth a fold of parchment sealed in silver wax. "I regret the necessity, but you are hereby requested to hold yourself ready for questioning, regarding a forthcoming investigation into various irregularities in matters under your care."
Faramir offered the sealed page, which Valthaur leaned to take calmly, the adamant ring on his finger winking in lamplight. The steward straightened and continued quietly.
"You will of course be treated with all courtesy due your rank and station. When you return to Minas Tirith, you will oblige me by remaining strictly to your own quarters. I will assure that you are informed of all developments in your case as they occur, and you will be granted the advocate of your choice."
Valthaur might have been a vast, squat figure carved of alabaster and draped in regal curtains. Only his mouth moved as he asked, "House arrest, my lord steward? I suppose I should be grateful."
"I wish you no ill, Lord Valthaur," said Faramir evenly. "Indeed, I regret the need of any investigation at all. Your service in my father's council and to Gondor is of notable record."
A slow blink formed Valthaur's only reaction. He brushed the seal with his thumb.
"When I open this, what will I find, besides the order for my arrest?" The tightness around Valthaur's mouth grew more pronounced as his tone became brittle. "What charges will be constructed and construed from the fanciful deductions of men who resent the powers set above them?"
Faramir could not miss the lines of battle thus drawn, but he met the older man's eyes with composure. "You will find a fair copy of a recent communication from you to one Margul, a merchant late of Minas Tirith. Further study of it may link to several injuries and the murder of Raberlon of Rohan. You will also find notations relating to previous cases you handled, which in subsequent review have revealed a certain pattern of … peculiar happenchance or accidents."
"Happenchance." Valthaur snorted. His eyes glittered coldly while he looked up at Faramir. "I will have you know, sir, that happenchance and accidents will not be enough to see me removed from my rightful place -." His breath soughed raggedly when he plunged on. "A place that I have laboured for more than forty years to earn – earn, mind you, by the toils of my own hands and my own wits."
Mottled colour tinged his cheeks as he sucked another harsh gasp to spit, "Bring forth the liars who dare speak such fallacies. Bring them all! I will not only see them dishonoured, I will dangle them before the world as the charlatans they are!"
Alarm pinched Faramir's features when the obese man's chest heaved noisily. "Please, Lord Valthaur, you must calm yourself!"
"Calm myself." Valthaur's wheezing voice sounded harsh as a badger's snarl. "Know you this, my lord steward. I will not suffer myself to be humiliated before the eyes of a cruel and ravening crowd. I will not be mocked!"
"No, lord, you will not." The young steward raised a reassuring hand. "I promise you that this will be handled with the greatest discretion, and that the King, himself, will be available to hear your arguments."
"Of course he will." Clear disdain flashed with the podgy hand Valthaur waved between them, and he held the other hand to his chest as he laboured for breath. "Please, my lord, leave me now. I am an old man and I wish the dignity of what solitude may be left to me."
Faramir stepped closer and refilled the teacup, holding it while Valthaur leaned heavily forward to suck another gasp of air. When at last he sat back and appeared to breathe evenly, Faramir offered the cup.
Gravely he said, "No hardship will be visited upon you, Lord Valthaur. On this you have my word."
Valthaur took the teacup and sipped with the appearance of gratitude. When he looked up, the unhealthy colour was receding and his face seemed composed.
"Of course, my lord. I would expect nothing less from you."
Nought remained to be said, and Faramir gave a courteous inclination of his head ere he turned to the door. When it closed and silence descended once more, Valthaur set aside the still-unopened letter.
"I expect nothing less," he said grimly. "And I expect nothing more. No, my lord, I will not be mocked."
When he placed the teacup back onto its saucer, porcelain clattered with jarring loudness.
xxx
TBC ….