Mean What You Say part 4
Pippin slipped timidly into the throne room. This time the main press of courtiers was concentrated at the other end of the room, near the high throne, so nobody noticed the front door opening. Pippin sighed in relief and crossed the long stone hall.
Aragorn was seated on the throne, high above the room, and looked uncomfortable. He saw Pippin come to the edge of the crowd, and gave Pippin a shallow acknowledging nod. Pippin bowed in return. The courtiers did not seem to notice.
Some beribboned popinjay held forth to the assembled court on the subject of barrel taxes. When he was done speaking, one of Gondor's few women courtiers harangued on the same subject from the center of a mound of stiff fabrics, reminding Pippin a little of a daisy: one bright face in the middle of a circle of petal-flounces.
"Hold," said Aragorn. "This discussion is in recess. I shall give consideration to this issue." He climbed off the throne, waited for those who pounced on him for various entreaties to clear off, and made his way through the throng to Pippin. "A private word, Pippin," Aragorn said softly, and pointed to the door at the back of the room. That had once been Denethor's quarters, and now it was Aragorn's.
Pippin followed him in. As in Denethor's time, the front area held a desk and chair, with a more casual seating area off to one side in front of the fireplace, and behind that was the bedroom, with doors onto a closet and a privy. It was all the same furniture, in fact. Redecorating had not been high on Aragorn's list of priorities, or perhaps he expected Arwen to do that, whenever—if ever—she finally arrived.
Aragorn regarded Pippin uncertainly for a moment, as if unsure what to say. "Did you actually… go and have yourself beaten?"
"Of course."
"Of course?"
"Aragorn, do you know what happened to the last person who disobeyed one of Denethor's orders? He didn't quite go so far as to have the fellow's head displayed on a pike in the Court of the Fountain, though he considered it; ultimately he rejected the idea because he said it would spoil the symmetry, whatever that means. But he did strike off the man's head. Personally, with that sword he always wore around under his robes. So it hardly made a difference to the man's wife and children in the end."
"I'm not Denethor."
"You are the ruler of Gondor," Pippin said. "Please don't tell me you didn't mean it."
Aragorn nodded. "It will present one less difficulty for me if I don't have to figure out how to create imitation marks on you, to show to the Haradric Ambassador."
"The who what?"
"You really have no idea the stir you caused, do you?"
"Ooh, there was a stir? And I missed it?"
Aragorn shook his head. "Oortowe thought that being directed to a public house was a deliberate insult from my government to his. That it was the start of a particular negotiating style in which both parties try to be as intractable as possible, so he responded in kind by demanding you be punished before he would even discuss the seating arrangements for the trade delegation. There is no way to salvage the first impression now, but there are two different ways for me to score points in that style. One is to refuse to punish you at all—that would essentially halt negotiations entirely until a third party could be brought in to mediate, or until a new Ambassador was assigned. Because it would be a tacit admission that you acted under orders. Not my first choice. The other is to go completely over the top. If you had not actually done anything, I was planning to try to counterfeit something really horrible looking, to impress Oortowe. That would send the message that he can expect an enthusiastic response to any proposal of his to move forward, and that we truly desire his alliance. The median position is to do the bare minimum; it moves the negotiation process forward, but does not gain us any respect."
Pippin just blinked at him. That all went way over his head.
Aragorn sighed. "So, let me see what you've had done to yourself. Remove your shirt."
Pippin peeled out of the skin-tight uniform. After a momentary pause, he took off the pants, too. Despite taking a few hours that morning to let the wounds close before dressing again, some of them had stuck to the cloth, and Pippin squeaked as those scabs broke open again. Blood trickled down Pippin's back and buttocks.
Aragorn walked around behind Pippin, and gasped. He had expected to see welts and bruises, or perhaps reddened skin, not bleeding gashes. "By the Valar! How are you up walking around?"
"Looks bad, does it?" Pippin asked.
"It looks," said Aragorn, "like you've been given fifty lashes. Which is a death sentence. For Men, that is."
"Oh. Well, I wasn't. That was five, not fifty."
Aragorn walked a few paces away and sat down on top of some papers on his desk. "There are far more than five wheals there."
"Five times nine," Pippin said. "From the cat-o'-nine-tails. We found it in the battle detritus in the lower levels."
"Dropped by a dead orc?" Aragorn asked.
"I'd imagine so, yes."
"Those orc whips are meant to be used against armor, not skin," said Aragorn. "They are studded with metal scales so they'll make a frightful din when they hit the metal-armored back of an orc soldier. I've seen orcs on the battlefield literally be whipped along toward the enemy by their sergeants."
"Yes, I've seen it too," Pippin said. "Though the Uruk-hai used single thongs." Pippin shuddered at the memory. The really terrifying thing about his captivity had not been the orcs themselves, though; it had been the uncertain future, and the knowledge that an evil wizard was waiting for him. Someone just as powerful as Gandalf.
"You and Merry have endured much," Aragorn said quietly. "I am surprised either of you could even look at an orc-whip again."
"Do you read minds, Aragorn? Like Galadriel does?"
"I only wish I did. It would make dealing with all these foreign envoys, not to mention the Gondorians, so much less tiresome. Well. Over the top it is, then. We are going to show you off to the Haradrim, and then I shall treat your wounds. Wait here. And, try not to look so, well, perky. If that had been done to one of my race, especially the young boy you appear to be, you ought to be half dead."
"Sure. No problem. On with the show." Pippin had learned very early to wail convincingly under the lash, even when Merry was faking. It had never fooled Uncle Saradoc, but it had fooled a few irate shopkeepers when Pippin was caught stealing. Then Merry had pretended to be outraged at Pippin and offered to punish him himself instead of involving the parents, even though Merry was generally the instigator, planner, and lookout for whatever mischief they got into. Pippin was quite sure he could still come up with a good pretend whimper, especially since he was genuinely in pain.
Aragorn left his quarters and was immediately besieged by petitioners. He waved them all to silence and called for a servant. "Tell Ambassador Oortowe that I wish to see him for a private conference." The servant bowed and vanished into the crowd. Aragorn had already spotted the Haradric man on the other side of the room, but was not about to wade through the throng to get to him.
The demands for his attention began again as soon as he was done speaking to the servant. Aragorn decided that he really needed to get back control of his time somehow. Perhaps he would ask Faramir what to do about that when the Steward returned from his country estate in Ithilien. He was due back today, in fact, if Aragorn remembered correctly.
The Man of Harad appeared out of the multitude as if out of a bank of fog. "Ah, Ambassador, good." Aragorn made a suppressing hand gesture at the gabbling courtiers, and they fell silent. "I have something to show you. This way."
Aragorn went in first, and when he saw Pippin, he had to quell an urge to run to Pippin and support him. He barely remembered to step aside so that Oortowe could enter, and get a good view.
Pippin was leaning heavily against the edge of the wooden desk, shaking, as if holding himself up with his last strength. The position stretched the skin on his back, and even more of the scabs had cracked open, oozing dark red blood. He could not see Pippin's face, but he could hear sniffling and puppy-like whining.
His healer's instincts screamed inside him to go help the injured. Aragorn made himself stand still. His voice came out surprisingly level when he said, "Ambassador, I trust you are satisfied."
Pippin looked over his shoulder when Aragorn spoke. There were tears on the hobbit's cheeks.
Oortowe did not speak. He could not, because he had his hand pressed to his mouth in a way that implied he was trying not to be sick on the floor. He nodded his head yes, bowed, and backed out of the room.
Pippin nearly giggled at Oortowe's expression, but managed to keep up his woeful countenance for Oortowe's eyes. The strangled laughter came out as a kind of choking sound. This had been quite a good prank. It was too bad Merry hadn't gotten to see Oortowe's face.
The Ambassador collided with someone in the doorway. Whoever it was had a fist up to the doorframe, as if about to knock on the door. The two people sorted themselves out with a sorry (from the new person) and a puff-cheeked bow (from Oortowe, still trying not to lose his lunch), and Oortowe sped off, leaving a man staring white-faced at Pippin.
The expression of queasy horror that had been so amusing on Oortowe was not nearly as funny on Faramir.
Pippin pushed off from the desk and started to turn. Before he got all the way around, Aragorn started to say, "This isn't what it looks—" and Faramir fled, slamming the door. Aragorn took a step toward the door, but stopped. A good huntsman knows better than to chase a startled deer.
"Oh, no," whispered Aragorn. "There goes a month's work, trying to get him to trust me."
"I'll talk to him," Pippin said, all hint of weeping gone from his voice despite the wetness that remained on his face.
"Later," said Aragorn. "First things first. Your wounds have not been cleaned properly." Aragorn gestured to the couch at the side of the room. "Lie down, please, Pippin. I will brew athelas."
Pippin wiped his tears away with his pocket handkerchief and obediently lounged on the lounge, resting the side of his face on the dark blue velvet, regarding Aragorn with weary eyes.
Aragorn got some of the dried herbs from a cupboard, set them next to Pippin on the couch, and then put a pot of water into the hearth, near the fire, to boil. He went into his closet and returned with towels, setting them down on top of the herb pouch. He sighed, sat down in a chair, and stretched his feet out to the flames. It was a Strider-like pose.
"Pippin," Aragorn murmured.
"Yes?"
"If I told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?"
"Yes."
"Just yes? No hesitation, no doubt, no question?"
"Everyone in the Tower Guard would. You're the King."
"I can't stand being the King. I can't stand being closed up in these walls of stone another moment, for all that I lived here for years when I was just Thorongil. Everyone reacts to me as if I were some kind of evil god, too powerful to cross and too insane to reason with. Even you, who ought to know me better than that by now. Except the foreigners, of course. And the ones who act like the evil god's demon toadies. Some of my courtiers are—odd."
"Everyone who knew Denethor sees the Ruler of Gondor through that prism. Denethor ordered his men to kill him. And they did. That's not fanatical loyalty, it's terrified blind obedience. You'd have to have been mad to defy him."
"You defied him."
"I guess that makes me a fair nutjob. As cracked as old Bilbo, at least. Maybe crackier. Now, if only I'd managed to hook out a dragon hoard to go along with my lunacy, I'd be getting somewhere." Pippin's eyes twinkled.
Aragorn smiled. "Gandalf told me that hobbits can endure things that would kill me, and walk away laughing. I thought he was exaggerating. I'm glad to see I was wrong. Your unquenchable good humor is a solace to me. I wish… I wish I could keep you here, or at least that the Shire were just over the next hill, and you could visit often. Somehow I've got to make some friends here in this city before the Fellowship departs. But it's hard to make friends with people who think I'm an evil god."
Pippin chuckled. "Nobody thinks that, truly, Aragorn. Just don't show up invisible some day and nobody will."
Aragorn's smile faded. He got up to check the water, dragged the pot out of the fire with the tongs, breathed on the athelas leaves and began steeping them. The wholesome fragrance filled the air. After letting the water cool a bit, he dipped a towel into the herbal water and started washing Pippin's wounds.
Pippin squeezed his eyes shut, thinking the process would be painful, but to his surprise the warm athelas water eased the pain on contact. He relaxed. This was actually quite pleasant. When Aragorn had tended his hurts after the battle, Pippin had been unconscious from being squished under a dead troll.
"This must have been a handy talent, during your years in the wild."
"I cannot call the power of athelas for myself. Only for other people. I've tried."
"Oh. It's magic then, not just herbcraft."
"I suppose you could call it magic. Hobbits seem to describe a lot of things as magic."
"Mmmm." Pippin felt like he was being dissolved and turned into white light. "If I go smash myself up tomorrow, will you do this again?"
"Tomorrow I will be busy listening to the endless debate on the fine points of barrel taxation, who sits where in the meetings with the Haradrim, and whether the word "is" is defined properly in Gondor's law code. Give a poor King some rest."
Pippin grinned. "Was that a yes? Does healing someone count as rest, compared to all that?"
"Do not get hurt. That is an order."
"Ooh." Pippin's grin got even wider. "Yes milord."
End of Part 4