Before the company entered the Second Circle marketplace, Éomer summed up the progress, "Right, we know that after the Two Serpents Faramir was still with us, Elphir had his own clothes, Erchirion had no bruises, Éothain's hair was not braided, and I didn't have this." He pointed at his eye that had taken on the colour and texture of a well-made black pudding.

His sister frowned. "Hmm, it almost seems as if everything was fine as long as you stuck to Faramir's plan." Éomer scowled at her as convincingly as one could with half of one's face swollen. Suddenly Éothain grabbed his arm.

"Son of a troll!" the captain observed as poignantly as ever. It was not so much the disarray of stalls, people manoeuvring handcarts around, merchants shouting and buyers chattering. It was not even the two ladies with very red lips catching some sunrays at the door of the local house of ill repute. No, Éothain's eyes were fixed on the left edge of the cobbled square, where he had made out three tents and a wooden wagon. Nearby two horses were munching hay and a long-legged dog lay draped picturesquely on the wagon. The apparent owners were sitting on the ground, one with fabric elaborately wrapped around her head, the others with braided hair and gold earrings.

Éothain's face hardened on realising that they looked awfully familiar. "Oliphaunt people!" he growled and reached for his sword – which happened to be in the Fourth Circle armoury, as he remembered promptly.

"Calm yourself!" Elphir intervened, almost managing to not roll his eyes. "No oliphaunts here! Would be fairly hard to miss, I reckon. Not all Haradrim are warriors, obviously. Those ones have probably never picked up a spear in their lives and are no less delighted that the war is over than your father and mother on their farm."

"We often see the likes of them in Dol Amroth, they travel the lands selling spices and jewellery," Lothíriel added, more to the petrified Éowyn than to the captain. Éothain unclenched his fists reluctantly.

The oldest of the Southrons became aware of the visitors and waved at them.

"My friends! You're back!" he shouted in the thickest accent ever uttered north of the River Harnen and motioned at them to come closer. When they reached the little camp, the old man immediately locked Éothain in a tight embrace.

"Let go of me!" the captain muttered. "I'm not your friend!"

The stranger laughed, showing a missing front tooth. "Funny, you said the same yesterday. Have you forgotten us, Man of Quick Temper? And where are your braids?" At that the company gasped collectively.

"You see," Elphir explained, "we don't exactly remember what happened last night, so we beg your forgiveness for not recognising you. In fact, would you mind refreshing our memory… friend?"

The man nodded knowingly. "Too much of the Northerners' drink, not good for the head. I always tell my children to stay away from it. Come, come, sit!" He directed them to where the two young people were sitting on the ground. They looked up from their work – the man was crushing spices and the woman was stringing colourful beads on a thread – and they both forced a polite but rather icy nod.

"This is my son, Ogyrimur, my daughter, Marsulai," the one with the missing tooth said, "and I am Naaqrud, your humble host."

"Jolly good, well met… again," answered Elphir. "I am…"

"Don't bother, Man of Loose Tongue," the Southron interrupted him, laughing. "No one can pronounce you people's strange names, let alone remember them." Nobody had the heart to respond to that, so they just made themselves comfortable on the cobbles as best they could.

Naaqrud noted, "One is missing. The Man of Learning is not here."

"That is, I daresay, our main issue at this moment," Amrothos replied. "So, you are saying that Faramir was with us when we got here last night?"

"Oh yes, Man of Mischief," Naaqrud affirmed. "It all started with him, the Man of Cunning," he pointed at Erchirion, "persuading the Man of Learning to consult Zarghul the Farsighted."

Erchirion raised an eyebrow. "And who might that be?"

Naaqrud turned towards the tents and shouted something in his language. A woman answered – one did not need to speak Haradric to understand that she was not happy – and after a short exchange the tent flap opened and Zarghul the Farsighted stuck her head out. Her eyes wandered from one guest to the next, until she looked at Éowyn and Lothíriel and stated dryly, "You two need to talk some sense into your menfolk!" With that she disappeared back into the tent.

"Forgive my wife," Naaqrud said, "she means well but she has no patience for wanton violence." His tongue wandered along his front teeth and stopped at the gap, then he glanced at Éothain.

"Wait, you mean I did that?" the captain asked.

The Southron took a deep breath. "Oh dear, oh dear, we might as well start from the beginning then."


THE NIGHT BEFORE

Erchirion dodged a passer-by's elbow and pushed past a group of drunk youngsters in hooded cloaks before he came to a stand in front of a wagon masquerading as a market stall with dozens of colourful spices on one side and a collection of gold and glass jewellery on the other. "Behold, here we are!" he declared, pointing at a painted sign that advertised the name Zarghul the Farsighted amidst some obscure symbols.

The three Rohirrim kept a wary distance. "Skin me an oliphaunt!" Elfhelm mumbled.

Éothain said nothing, he only glared at the rest of the Haradrim's display. A few steps from the stall a young man was lighting small torches. A crowd had gathered around him. Before the Rohirrim could work out what it was all about, a gasp followed by loud cheers went through the audience as the first torch disappeared in the man's throat. Elfhelm and Éomer took a step back and Éothain gulped.

"A few more years of this and he'll have a voice like my father on the battlefield," Amrothos joked behind them. "Come, or you'll miss Erchirion's task." He grabbed Éothain by the shoulder and pushed him through the crowd towards the edge of the marketplace. There his brothers and cousin had joined a queue, at the end of which they could see a veiled woman sitting on a rug, examining the palm of a young girl.

Faramir put on a face of despair. "Woe is me!" he lamented. "Erchirion just challenged me to have my fortune read! I'm not even allowed to make jokes, and I have to pay for it, too."

Erchirion laughed. "It appears that this lady is renowned all over Harad. All these young girls cannot be wrong." He slapped poor Faramir on the back.

Another Haradric man holding a hat full of coins approached them and bowed. "Welcome, friends, to the oracle of Zarghul the Farsighted!" He smiled from one ear to the other. "Which one of you is seeking the spirits' advice?"

Faramir took a sudden interest in the tips of his boots, but when Erchirion nudged him he stepped forward. "Ah, excellent," said the Southron, "bones or palms?"

"Uhm…"

The man grinned. "Hard choice, I know. But my friend, for you I have a special favour: I'm offering you a reading of both your palms and the bones for only three tharni – what do you say?"

"Three tharni?" Faramir repeated harshly enough to make Erchirion clear his throat. "Fine!" The steward produced three coins from his pocket and dropped them in the hat.

"What is the question that ails you?" the Southron wanted to know next.

Faramir could barely suppress a snort at his shameless tactics, but after a side glance at his snickering friends he answered, "I would prefer to keep it general. Anything the spirits can reveal will be appreciated."

"Very well," the Southron replied and bowed again. "It won't be long now." With that he left for the next customer.

When it was his turn, Faramir was invited to sit on the rug opposite the fortune-teller while his friends stood around them. The woman's dress was adorned with countless beads and a strong smell of incense clung to her. For a long while she only sat and looked at her client, until she finally said in a husky voice, "You have sought out the oracle of Zarghul, but you have not come entirely of your own accord – Faramir son of Denethor." She made a dramatic pause, but all she got from Faramir was a polite nod. To him it would have been much more of a miracle to meet someone in Minas Tirith who did not recognise him, and no one with eyes could have overlooked his discomfort.

"That is correct," he only replied. His friends were trying their best to keep straight faces.

The fortune-teller reached for his right hand and studied the palm. "You have seen great hardship," she whispered, "you have lost those closest to you and faced a shadow darker than the deepest night."

"Correct again," Faramir affirmed, but he could not stop himself from adding, "and we have a word for that in our language: it's 'war'."

Zarghul ignored him and continued, "The woman you are pledging yourself to went through the same shadow. In fact, she destroyed it, and then you lifted each other out of the darkness…"

"…a story that every man, woman and child in this city can tell you," Faramir finished her sentence. Erchirion shot him a glare.

The fortune-teller paused for a moment, and despite the veil on her face Faramir somehow got the impression that she was grinning. "I see you are a man of learning and you take pride in the sharpness of your mind. In fact, it was what set you apart from the other one, the strong one, the one you loved above all else and in whose shadow you stood for so long."

At that Faramir drew back his hand. "With all due respect, I would be much obliged if you left my brother out of this."

She let out a deep breath. "As you wish." She reached for a small leather bag, shook it and emptied it on the rug. An assortment of chicken bones fell out, which she studied intently while murmuring to herself. Faramir looked at his friends like a mortally wounded man begging for the sweet relief of death.

"It is the eve of your wedding to the fearless horse maiden from the North," the fortune-teller spoke again, "a day long-awaited but dreaded all the same."

Faramir raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Is that so? Your bones say that I dread my wedding?"

"Oh yes, they do," she answered, but something in her voice had changed. "However, as you clearly do not heed their wisdom, I will tell you that common sense is enough to see that you are afraid. How could you not be? First of all, most people are, take that from an old married woman. And secondly, you grew up without a mother and with a father who was too burdened to do right by you. You are wondering if you will make your wife happy and if you are fit to be a father, when you have never seen either done properly."

Faramir frowned and scratched his chin. His friends were suddenly looking in all directions except for his. "Well…" he started, but she was not finished.

"I do not know you or your betrothed, but I have known enough men and women to recognise good intentions and a true heart. You will do just fine – and if what they say about your lady is true, she won't have it any other way. You will learn and grow together. Now go, Lord Steward, get out of my sight and take your silly friends with you, before you ruin my business!" She chuckled under her veil and shooed him away.

Faramir took a second or two to collect himself, then he bowed his head and quickly got up. He readied himself for his cousins' snide comments, but nobody was paying him any attention.

They were all staring at Éothain who was standing a few steps away, speaking to the torch-swallowing Southron from before who was now trying to sell him some beaded necklaces. "You think this is tacky? No, no, your wife will look lovely in it, my friend," the young man claimed.

"For the dozenth time, I'm not your friend," Éothain answered, "and I'm not buying your trinkets. My wife wouldn't be seen dead in that." He pushed the Southron's hand away perhaps a little too forcefully, and a string of beads hit the young man's face ever so lightly.

Fate took its course too fast for any of the bystanders to intervene. The man screamed something in his language, dropped his merchandise and pushed Éothain backwards. The captain flung his fist at him, missing his chin by the width of a finger.

"Éothain, stop it!" the king and the marshal roared in unison, but now the coin-collecting Southron ran to his kinsman's aid. They both lunged at Éothain, one grabbing him by the throat and the other kicking him, but what they had not considered was the sheer mass of the average Rohir. The captain threw himself on the ground and took both his attackers with him, resulting in a screaming and cursing ball of red and green fabric, black and yellow hair, and flying fists.

"Are we doing anything about this?" Elfhelm asked his king stoically.

Éomer crossed his arms. "Not me, I'm on a diplomatic visit."

The Gondorians stared at the spectacle, much the same as the rest of the crowd. A group of young men, all dressed in black hoods, even started cheering.

"With our luck the Guard will come around the corner any moment," Faramir muttered and looked behind his back.

"On the Second Circle?" Amrothos scoffed. "Don't tell Father, but they rarely come down here after dark, and right they are."

The brawl might have gone on indefinitely, had not Zarghul the Farsighted put an end to it. Armed with a bucket of water, she emerged from the crowd in all her mystic glory and gave the three warlords a cold shower. For a moment everyone fell silent before the crowd erupted in laughter and started to disperse. The quarrellers slowly got on their feet, groaning and cursing under their breath. Zarghul walked away without so much of a word. The older Southron moved his jaw from side to side, pursed his lips – and spat out a bloody tooth.

"Béma!" Éothain mouthed in honest astonishment, and under the reproachful looks of his companions he mumbled, "I didn't… Well, sorry about that."

The Southron started grinning, then he chuckled. "Not bad, Man of Quick Temper!" he said eventually. "Naaqrud and Ogyrimur admit defeat. Thank you for ridding me of this rotten tooth that has been troubling me for days." He picked up the tooth, examined it with satisfaction and gave a baffled Éothain a slap on the back. "Come now, come with me, all of you!"

A while later Faramir's band of heroes sat around the fire with Naaqrud, sipping too much ale in too little time and passing around a pipe stuffed with a sweet-smelling Haradric herb mixture that was doing astonishing things to the heads of those who were not used to it. Elphir especially seemed to get merrier and merrier with every puff he took – and he took them with abandon.

Naaqrud reached into his pocket and produced a handful of blue beads. "These are for you, Man of Quick Temper," he said to Éothain. "You defeated us, you've earned your victory beads. It's only fair!" He crouched down next to him and reached for his hair.

"Wait, what? Don't…" Éothain protested, waving his hands, but the ale and the fumes were taking their toll, and before he knew it Naaqrud was braiding away while the others were having the time of their lives passing their expert judgement. Elphir especially seemed to enjoy himself, chuckling uncontrollably while waving the pipe around.

"Steady, old chap!" Erchirion tried to take the pipe from him, but to no avail. "Fellows, I think my brother is broken. I haven't seen him laugh this much since that time we locked Ivriniel in the boathouse when we were boys."

Amrothos nodded. "Those were the days… But really, Elphir, are you quite alright?" He waved his hand in front of his brother's face, which only made Elphir laugh harder.

A devilish grin suddenly appeared on Amrothos' face. "Brother…" He put his arm on Elphir's shoulder. "I noticed you haven't put forward your quest for Faramir yet."

Everyone, even Naaqrud, stopped short – this was not a good sign!

"Don't tempt him, leave him be," Faramir protested weakly, but it was apparent that the gears in Elphir's head had already started turning.

He got on his feet, pointed the pipe directly at Faramir, and exclaimed, "Cousin! I hereby challenge you to… uhm… to obtain a maiden's undergarment!" He looked awfully pleased with himself for a second or two before he started chuckling again.

Faramir blinked twice. "You don't have to do this, sit down…"

"You heard him," Erchirion weighed in, "no backing down from the quest! Besides, it's not his fault, it's… tradition!"

"That's right!" Amrothos snickered, "It's a time-honoured tradition of our people. Every groom in Belfalas has to do it. Oh, and it can't be bought for money, those are the rules." He winked at Erchirion, who nodded solemnly.

The steward looked at the Rohirrim, then at Naaqrud, and back at Elphir, who was swaying slightly back and forth without the faintest idea what he had started.

"Fine," Faramir sighed, sounding more exhausted than anything else. "I'm regretting every choice I made that has led up to this, but if this is what it takes to get you off my back, a maiden's undergarment it is."


Naaqrud looked no less uncomfortable than his audience as he finished telling the story. Éowyn's death glare at the brothers would have put the eye of Sauron to shame. Lothíriel was about ready to burst into flames or be swallowed up by the earth, either one seemed appealing to her.

"I apol-…," Elphir started, but his sister cut him off.

"Please, I think you have said quite enough. And you two! A time-honoured tradition? You should be ashamed of yourselves!" Erchirion and Amrothos tried their very best to look guilty but could not quite manage.

Éothain turned to Naaqrud. "That was… revealing. Thank you – for refreshing our memory and for your hospitality. And sorry about your tooth, again. Now, do you remember how we went about that undergarment business?"

Naaqrud scratched his head. "All I saw was that you didn't go over there for it." He motioned at the house of ill repute, at which point Éowyn mouthed 'thank goodness' at Lothíriel.

Naaqrud's daughter, who had been watching quietly until that moment, spoke up, "I think you may have gone to that tailor shop across the street." She pointed at the shaggy building in question. "I was there this morning, selling some beads to the seamstress, and she said something about…" She glanced nervously at her hands. "Well, she said no one would ever believe her, but apparently the Lord Steward came to her shop with a horde of drunks and… he kissed her."

"Béma have mercy," sighed the Lady of Rohan. Before she could start a full tirade, her brother wisely decided it was time to move on. They all profusely apologised to the Haradrim again and went on their merry way to the next piece of the puzzle.