In which it all goes a bit "Two Mules for Sister Sara." Or perhaps "Nine Mules for the Sisters Sarae"
~o~O~o~
Another small town, another gatekeeper, another recommendation of a local hostelry.
This one was not as salubrious as the Mountain Eagle in Sarn Esgar. It did have its compensations, though, Éothain felt, as they entered to see a low stage to the left of the bar, with a line of girls dancing. Even better, they were doing the high kicking dance typical of Anorien, and all with frilly petticoats and even frillier knickers which became visible as they danced.
Elfhelm's attention, however, was drawn to the contretemps taking place in the snug to the right of the bar. Four men were arguing vociferously, one in military uniform, one in formal robes which betokened some sort of official rank, one in the clothes of a prosperous merchant, one in somewhat flashy (but much patched) garb, with expensive rings and a pearl earring. Elfhelm beckoned to the Gondorian errand rider who was still attached to their party and asked what the uniform and robes signified.
"The uniform's the local militia – most towns have one. Sort of informal soldiers – in fact often they're retired soldiers, gone back to their trades or farms. They guard the town, quell unrest, defend its boundaries, and act on behalf of the town magistrate. That's the man in the fancy robes."
Elfhelm felt a familiar, sinking feeling. It didn't take a genius to guess that this might have something to do with Éowyn's progress through northern Gondor. He picked a table close to the entrance to the snug, ignoring Éothain's surprised and outraged exclamation of "but the girls are over there," sent the younger man to get tankards of beer and whatever food looked good, then settled down to eavesdrop.
"So, how did these girls come to be in your keeping?" The speaker was the man in the magistrate's robes. He was addressing the man with the flashy rings.
"Undercutting my trade, he was…" This interruption came from the prosperous merchant.
"You'll get your turn to speak in a moment, Delion. First I want to hear this man's account."
"They was from Rhun. Wanted to better themselves. More money to be made… entertaining… over in Gondor. So I offered them jobs."
"You kept 'em locked up, you did. You could charge less in your dive than I do here because you had no outgoings, because you didn't pay your dancers."
Ah, thought Elfhelm. So Delion's the landlord here.
At this point the militia man gave a snort of laughter.
"You have something to add?" the magistrate said, in a voice a wise man would have interpreted as meaning And that's a rhetorical question, so shut up and let me do my job. The militia man clearly lacked wisdom.
"'Dive' is a polite way of putting it. Knocking-shop more like!"
"Thank you, lieutenant. I think, however, that I am capable of carrying out my own interrogation without your assistance."
"'S norra knocking-shop," said Flashy-Rings. "It's a public house, just like this one, with ladies to entertain the customers just like this one."
"Ladies he keeps locked up," repeated Delion.
"That's slander, that is."
"Ask any of my girls, they'll tell you. His girls are no better 'n slaves."
"Stuff and nonsense. They was good gels, if it seemed like they didn't have much in the way of ready cash it was 'cos they was sending it home to their families in Rhun. Good gels like I said. Then that straw-haired rider from Rohan came along and stole them."
Elfhelm gave his head a shake. His worst fears were realised. Eowyn was involved, yet again. This time, she appeared to have absconded with a troop of dancing girls from Rhun, who might, or might not, have been here against their free will. The White Lady never did anything by half measures, including, it seemed, when it came to leaving a trail of chaos wherever she went.
"Stole 'em, he says. See I told you he was keeping them as slaves."
"Figure of speech, innit?"
"I want him arrested for slaving." The landlord jabbed a finger at Flashy-Rings.
"I want that rider arrested for kidnapping my gels. And I want my gels back for breach of contract. And I want bring an action for slander against 'im." Flashy-Rings jabbed a finger right back.
The magistrate looked fit to murder both of them. The man's black mood was not helped yet another unsolicited interjection from the militia man. It came out as a bit of a whine.
"So what am I supposed to do? Arrest him…" He pointed at Flashy-Rings. "And take him to the White City? Or chase after this mystery rider? Or try to chase down the girls? I've only got…" Here, his voice took on an air of put-upon self-importance, "Limited numbers of troops."
Elfhelm decided it was time to intervene. He ducked under the low archway separating the main bar from the snug.
"Maybe I can be of assistance? This rider, was he a young lad, sounded like his voice hadn't even broken properly yet, skinny, bit under middle height, kink in his left arm like it had been broken?"
"That's the one," said Flashy-Rings. "Bloody kidnapper. Came into my bar, looked down 'is nose like it weren't good enough, then went elsewhere. Then came back a couple of hours later, chatted to a couple of the girls – didn't pay 'em, mind – then first thing in the morning he kidnapped them. All nine of them."
Elfhelm raised an eyebrow at the thought of a supposed gangly youth barely past childhood successfully kidnapping nine women. But before he could make any retort, the magistrate spoke again, somewhat angrily (and with a note of exasperation).
"And you would be…"
"Elfhelm, third marshal of the Mark, charged by Éomer King with the capture and return of our runaway." He fished in the leather pouch which hung from his waist and produced a document bearing the royal seal of the Riddermark. "My bona fides."
The magistrate read through the papers, then returned them with a curt nod.
"If I might make a suggestion: I will continue to pursue our runaway, thus relieving the lieutenant here of one burden, and he can concentrate his energies on either tracking the missing young women, or (if you feel it necessary) taking this fellow to Minas Tirith to stand trial for slavery. If I remember aright, it is illegal in your realm as it is in ours, and I think would be dealt with in the Steward's court?"
The magistrate looked surprised that a Rohir would have such a detailed grasp on the Gondorian legal code; he was not to know that while Elfhelm remained with his army, camped upon the Pelennor fields, and Faramir had taken up the mantle of the stewardship, the two of them had had many conversations, including discussions around the appropriate fate for captured Haradrim, especially those who had been pressed into service in the army. Elfhelm knew far more about the subject than he had ever wanted to – unlike Faramir, he did not find knotty legal problems an endless source of intellectual entertainment.
"There weren't no slavery," said Flashy-Rings.
Elfhelm noticed the music had died down, and saw Delion gesture to one of the dancing girls, who came over.
"Tell the lords here what the young horse rider asked you about."
"He asked me about the girls at the Purring Pussycat – said he wasn't that happy with what he'd seen. So I told him what me and the other girls had found out, talking to their girls' clients when they came here, and whispering through cracks in the shutters in the day as we were on our way past to market. We knew as they were locked in. They'd been brought here from Rhun with chains around their legs and all. So the young man said he'd see about that. Then round about noon – that's when folks get up in our line of work – all hell broke lose. Your man there, the landlord of the Purring Pussy, he starts charging around shouting that his girls have been stolen by a horselord with a great sword."
Éothain, who had finally returned with the tankards in time to catch the tail end of the conversation, said "Not so sure about the lord bit, but the great sword bit, definitely."
"Oo-err, missed a trick there, did I?" said the girl.
Éothain put his hand to his face. "No, for once I meant it literally."
~o~O~o~
AN: If I want can-can dancers in Middle Earth, then I shall have can-can dancers in Middle Earth. (Bangs authorial gavel.) Besides which, "Anorien tarts' knickers" are already an established part of my head canon.
Thanks for the review, Earthdragon - yes, ROP was a bit like watching paint dry (or the Silmarillion unfold in real time).