Chapter 1: The Bells of Dale

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It was the middle of Spring already, Bilbo noted, and along the slopes of the Mountain the trees had all filled out with leaves, those that were not already evergreen. The first burst of budding bright greens were fading into the darker tones of coming summer and the sun was bright above them among the upper reaches. He breathed deeply of the morning air, cold and fresh off of the waters and wondered why he had waited so long to make this trip.

Two years ago he had been in the Shire, the sleepy, comfortable Shire. Looking back on it now he felt as if he had been asleep, and had only truly woken back up when he passed out of those safe boundaries for good, his feet taking him gradually back to east and south.

Not that he'd been in any danger, not with the Dwarves with him. They'd had a merry time of it for most of the journey, really, and their adversities had only been the common sort that any traveler might encounter. Nothing too uncomfortable or unexpected. Rivendell had been just as lovely as he recalled, only moreso, and he had been quick to accept the offer of a home there, but he hadn't quite finished his journeying yet. He smiled at the memory of it. Rivendell. Ah, it was an anomaly in his memories, really. Most things were not as nice as he recalled, so it had been a treat to find something was even better.

And now here he was, at long last. Back to the Lonely Mountain; Erebor, it had been named on the older maps. He had enjoyed a warm and well-fed wintering thanks to the hospitality of Elrond's household, then an interesting but mostly safe journey over the Misty Mountains..as well as through the lands of the Beornings (another small adventure of its own), and now he was back at the home of so many of his strongest memories. And what a place it had turned out to be!

He had to admit, the last time he'd seen this vale it had hardly been at its best. The town had been a ruin, with everyone two days journey off in the other direction, near the remains of the ruined Laketown. The mountain had been a lifeless desolation of ash and death with hardly a scrap of green upon it. They had all been weary, mourning, relieved at the ending of the battles.

No, this - this was night and day. This was a miraculous turn-around, or so it seemed to him. It was the way of such things, how they seem to spring out of the ground at you if you have not been around to watch the tedious hours (or years) that made it happen.

He looked back down the hill they had just climbed, the stones of their path as smooth and perfect as only close association with Dwarves could make them. The Men's town spread out below them, bright and fresh in the morning light. They had climbed enough they were almost on the level with the tallest bell-tower. No wonder he needed to pause to catch his breath.

The bell-towers were the especial pride of Dale; tall and stately and ornate, built to outshine their ill-fated predecessors. During his stay in the town his host had been nothing less than King Bain himself, and Bilbo had enjoyed a very comfortable stay. He had gotten to tour every point of interest they could show him, whether he was truly interested or not, and waxed enthusiastic about every simple detail of older days. Though Bain was getting older and only now recovering from an illness of some kind, Prince Brand had been a ready and enthusiastic host filled with energy and purpose. Brand had laughed heartily over Bilbo's admiration of his bowmanship, so proud of his lineage from the mighty Bard; he had been eager to ply Bilbo with endless questions about what Bard had been like, and about the surrounding lands and their histories as far as Bilbo could recall. Of the Shire he had asked only a little... perhaps it was simply too far away to seem real to him, Bilbo thought. Certainly that was the fate of Dale among the Hobbits.

Not that he had lacked for attention! All of the Men were curious about him, having heard of but never seen hobbits, and especially having heard of him in connection with their own fortunes in Dale. They were eager to hear whatever tales he felt like imparting, even the most trivial. He had truly enjoyed the pampering and attention for a while; the open, empty lands he had crossed had renewed his taste for socializing and he was ever at home when spinning a tale before a warm fire. And he had been weary from the miles it had taken to reach his goal, weary as he did not remember being before. He wanted to be able to greet his old friends with cheer, not tottering in on his last breath. A few days of good rest and good meals we needed to set it all right, and he finally felt ready to meet them at last.

Those fifty-odd extra years must be catching up with me, he thought ruefully and shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. The road was not too steep, and the pack wasn't really that heavy, but he was strangely nervous.

Now, now it was time to finish the journey. Now to the mountain. *The* mountain. His Dwarven companions had already gone on ahead days ago while he took his ease in Dale, but King Bain had sent along a couple young men for escorts. He felt no concerns. The dragon was gone, after all, and what was to fear from dwarves?

It was only a day's walk up the mountain-side now, trees already growing thick and green upon the slopes once more. He craned his head up at the height of them. Had it really been that long already, that long since the Desolation had stripped these hills of their covering? He felt old again, just looking at them, yet also rejuvenated. His eyes had seen 113 Springs, but as he walked upon these slopes he began to feel as if it were only 50 once again. Time slipped backwards, except for the getting out of breath a little easier than he recalled.

The hours of the day passed pleasantly through a late snack and a roadside lunch. The wide path was smooth and pleasant under his feet, well-kept and oft-traveled. Men and dwarves alike he passed, and on one occasion, a pair of each kind walking together. In spite of a rocky beginning to their relationship, it appeared the Mountain and the Town had gotten along well then. He couldn't help but puff out his chest a little at the thought.

The water, now far below, was winking with late sunlight between the trees as they topped the main rise and turned along a slight ridge toward the mountain's peak. His escort had not had much to say to him, and left to his own thoughts and memories the time had gone quickly. He was surprised to find they were already taking another turn to the left that brought their path onto the main road into Lonely Mountain. The River Running swirled and rushed alongside them, clean and fresh, hasting its way downward to the waiting Lake.

Far above him, the sides of the mountain rose up in a majesty made overwhelming by its nearness. He gasped with admiration to see the many terraces that now lifted up the sides, water cascading over the edges of some into many-leveled, perfectly balanced pools below, others cascading with the green vegetation of their crops. He had noted that the old watch towers had been restored, but had not seen the new towers that had been built until now, and his eyes were round at the thought of the work that had gone into those fortifications. They were not only functional but beautiful in their design, as if they had grown up from the mountainside they stood on. Now that they were there, it was hard to imagine that they had not always been there, they seemed so much a part of what "ought to be."

How proud they must be, he thought, to have brought so much beauty out of that ruin... Distant specks that he knew to be birds circled the towers' peaks. How pleasant to think that old Roäc's descendants could still be among them.

The road that they walked followed along the River, and was set with many colors of stones paved in pleasing patterns, all perfectly set and smoothed. He reached out a hand and trailed it along the low wall that prevented any sudden tumbles into the icy waters below. It was so smooth as to almost be silky, with the warmth of the sun on its surface and the cold of the stone beneath. Like the dwarves themselves could be at times...

His mind full of memories, he looked up at the approaching entrance half expecting to see the crude rock wall that a handful of gold-smitten dwarves had built against an army. Armies. Plural. He shivered slightly, surprised at his own reaction; he thought he had left those reactions behind long ago. But being dangled over the edge, the sharp rocks and merciless water below him, the strength of Thorin's rage behind the grip that held him and shook him was not one he cared to recall - yet there it was in a sudden clarity. How glad he was that Gandalf had been there...

Somewhere far in the distance, he could hear the bells of Dale singing briefly for the end of the day. A golden, spring day.

He shook the mood off. Well. Thorin was regretfully gone, and his wall was also, though that was for the better. The entrance stood clear and clean, elaborate metal gates wide open to the late afternoon's breezes, the half-lit shapes of dwarves moving about within the slanting shadows of the carven pillars.

He had returned.

Chapter 2: Dáin Ironfoot

Bilbo was still agog over the beauty of the new gates when his heart quickened at the sound of rumbling dwarven voices calling his name. It was with greatest delight that two grey-bearded dwarves cried out their greetings and hastened from the gate to his side, glittering in the waning sunlight as they came, stout and cheery.

"Bilbo! Hobbit!" waved the first, with golden adornments shining in his neatly braided beard.

'Bilbo Baggins!" chimed in the second, who likewise shone with gold in his beard and precious stones set in his belt besides. Bilbo suddenly felt under-dressed but smiled so wide he felt his face would split. Was it really? Yes!

"Bifur! Bofur!" he called back, his high hobbit-voice sounding out of place amid the rumbles of the dwarves. Completely forgetting about his escort from Dale, he broke into a trot. The two dwarves did likewise, lumbering towards him so that it seemed for a moment they would all collide, but instead he was swept into an embrace and clasped with such warmth and gentleness that there was no harm to him at all aside from possibly smothering in their beards.

The two cousins were talking to him at the same time, a jumble of words that he didn't really hear at all. He felt in a daze, it was unreal that he was here, in the entrance to the Mountain, with his dear companions once again.

"Are you well, Hobbit? He looks a little glazed over, Bofur. Are you well, hey?"

"Bilbo! We've been watching for you all day, taking turns. Come out of the sun. Why, you've aged well, I must say." Bofur laughed, leading him out of the sun and settling him down on a bench within the entrance. He was dimly aware of the stares of the handful of other dwarves nearby, his companions were ignoring them entirely. Where the Men had gone he didn't even know.

"Yes, yes. I'm well. I'm just a bit overwhelmed! But this is splendid! Really! I can't begin to describe to you how I feel, seeing you again, seeing what you've done with this mountain, and Dale and everything. It's just, just beyond my words right now."

"But give you a bit of time and you'll be at it, eh? You never did lack for words." smiled Bifur. "If you feel up to it, let's go inside. The others will want to see you also."

"And you're supposed to see Dáin, once you arrive," put in Bifur. "He was particular about it, that he was to see you first. He doesn't seem to recall you too clearly from before." The dwarf stroked his beard apologetically.

"All right." replied Bilbo, standing back up, though his legs protested that they hadn't sat nearly long enough. He stretched them briefly. "I can understand that. He certainly had enough on his mind when I was last here."

"He's curious what hobbits are like, especially you." explained Bofur. He led the way, the two of them flanking their smaller companion as they strode down a wide hall then turned and took a short flight of steps.

"What we're like? I seem to get a lot of that. The men in Dale were a curious lot too - not that I'm really a very good representation of my people. I had rather hoped I would be among those who already knew what I was like, once I was up here."

"We do! Of course we do. And glad we are to be reminded of it." said Bifur. "But we've many more dwarves here than just our old company, you know. Expect a bit of goggling." They came out into another wide hall, high windows glowing with the pale afternoon light above them. Bilbo goggled a bit himself at the pillars that lined the opposite wall, all carved like trees; their leaves of silver and gold-veined marble so realistic he half expected them to rustle in the breeze of their passing.

"This is beautiful!" he breathed. "You've all been very busy, I see."

"That we have." agreed Bofur, smiling proudly. "That we have. The building has been exceptional."

"Where's Bombur?" asked the hobbit as he struggled once more to keep up with their rolling pace. "Or rather, has anything happened to him? I haven't had much news..."

"Bombur? Ah, while some of us are slowing down and feeling our age in small ways, my brother's appetite has not dwindled over the years at all." Bofur quirked his eyebrows. "He's gotten so fat it's difficult for him to walk the distance from his chambers all the way to the main gate. We'll see him later...."

"Yes, at supper!" finished Bifur. "He wouldn't miss getting to see you, though I daresay he wouldn't miss a meal either."

"Supper?" said Bilbo. His heart lifted at the thought of a good hot meal. "I couldn't have asked for a better suggestion. Are you sure it will be anytime soon?"

Both dwarves laughed. "He's a hobbit, all right!" said Bofur. "He's a hobbit."

--------

The chamber that they entered at last was one Bilbo only dimly remembered, but it had made an impression on him even then when it lay in shambles. It had once been the throne room for Thrór, and it lay before them now most impressively shining with gilded carvings and cleverly placed gems that caught and reflected the bright lamps. A large fire crackled on the hearth with logs nearly the size of Bilbo himself, and an elaborate throne-chair stood on a slight dais at the far end from the great doors. Beautifully worked banners were interspersed with elaborate weapons mounted along the side-walls. He couldn't help but feel that only someone very important would inhabit such a place.

They themselves had not entered by the large and ornate doorway, but by a smaller side-door, emerging to one side about halfway down from the throne. There were no guards, which he wondered at, but then he realized there was no-one in the room either.

"Where is Dáin?" he asked, voicing the thought as it came.

Bifur indicated a comfortably carved bench near the front of the room and Bilbo seated himself on it. "He should be along shortly. They've the fire and everything ready for him. He's not as young as he once was either, you know. We're all moving a bit slower, eh?"

"Speak for yourself," muttered Bofur. "I'm not slow."

"You were already slow," retorted his cousin. "So now you're just catching up with the rest of us."

Bofur opened his mouth to continue this exchange, but stopped as the doorway nearest the throne sprouted a stout guard from its alcove. "Here he comes. Shouldn't take long, I'd think," he said instead.

Bilbo watched the doorway expectantly, sliding down off the bench so he could be ready to bow. He didn't expect pleasantries, for he knew how dwarves loved titles and pomp. To be a King would be quite a lot of pomp, even for them.

He was not disappointed. Another dwarf dressed much as the guard began to beat a small silver drum, and to that sound, Dáin Ironfoot entered his throne room with a lifted chin that made his generous silver beard seem all the fuller. He sparkled with gems at his belt and rings on his hands, and his cloak was furred and embroidered with a pattern reminiscent of the Lonely Mountain itself. Bifur and Bofur both immediately stood, flanking the hobbit who stood also.

Bilbo looked at him curiously. His face was more wizened by his years and deeply creased, but his eyes showed little of that age, shining both shrewdly and with life. Moving a touch stiffly, he carefully ignored those waiting in audience and mounted the steps to his throne with the smooth, measured paces of a dignitary who knows he is being watched. A young, chestnut-bearded dwarf that had come out behind him quickly went to his side, ready to help arrange his thickly furred cloak along with his movements and to smooth it as he sat down.

The younger dwarf stepped forward and announced loudly " Dáin Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain will now accept audience!" as if there were a crowd, though Bilbo, Bifur and Bofur were the only ones in the room. He stepped back into the shadow of the doorway, leaving them facing the King in his mound of fur.

Dáin let them stand for a moment, eying them carefully. He cleared his throat and spoke. "So. This is a hobbit."

"Yes, this is Mr. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, O mighty King." said Bofur.

"Only lately arrived, and glad to be of service to you and to your family...and your kingdom as needed, also," added Bilbo, bobbing a little bow. He hoped that last part was acceptable. He hadn't thought to ask what sort of changes in greeting might be required when one was addressing a Dwarven monarch.

Dáin frowned slightly, looking down at him. His white beard, heavy with the gem-studded decorations on the braids, swung forward from his chin as he leaned out from his chair to examine this diminutive visitor. "No larger than a stripling. Smaller in fact. You have gained quite a reputation for one so small, Mr. Baggins. I understand that you are the same hobbit that traveled with the esteemed company of Thorin Oakenshield, in the days of the Dragon."

"I am, your...er...Majesty."

"And you've come alone? No others of your kind with you?"

Bilbo was surprised at this thought. He couldn't really imagine bringing a company of Hobbits on such a journey, much less into a nest of Dwarves. It was ludicrous.

"Of course not!" he blurted. "I mean, no, my people are not the, er, traveling kind, if you understand. They rarely leave their own towns much less their country."

"Bilbo is most singular," offered Bifur.

"So." said Dáin, sitting back and plucking at the fur on his cloak, which had caught in his beard. "Are all of your kind given to thievery then? Or are you singular in that respect also?"

Bilbo didn't know what to say. He was astonished, terribly offended and flabbergasted by the comment all at once. He gaped a bit like a fish. Bifur came to his rescue.

"Your Majesty, may you reign forever, Mr. Baggins is a most honorable hobbit. He was hired by Thorin as a professional treasure-hunter, because, if you recall O great King, we were hunting a treasure at the time. He was most efficacious at his employment, and after affairs were settled no longer pursued that, er, line of work."

"There is nothing to fear," added Bofur. "He's here as a friend, to visit. He won't be burgling anything. We, his former companions, will vouch for him in this." He nudged Bilbo, who managed to splutter.

"No! Most certainly not, your Kingship. I wouldn't dream of it! I must say, to find I am thought of as a common thief is a bit disheartening after I've been saying so much good about you and your marvelous works and terraces and towers and such. Begging your pardon, but it is hardly courteous to accuse your guests, is it?"

Dáin shifted in his chair and seemed slightly amused at Bilbo's righteous reply. He leaned back. "Is it? This is my kingdom, and I shall speak as I wish. You were the one who took the Arkenstone for your own, then had the audacity to allow mere Men to handle it, gave it to them, my cousin's and family's own heart, all for your own ends. Should I speak courteously to you, or trust you among the treasures of my realm? Answer me that."

Bofur spoke once more. "Your Jewelship and monarch of this mighty realm, is the foolishness of youth to be held against the elders? That was long ago..."

"And Thorin himself forgave me." put in Bilbo, his voice sounding very high among all of this Dwarvish rumbling. "Would you negate the forgiveness that was extended by the senior member of that branch of your family line, the one that was the first victim of the offense? His retribution comes before all others in your family line, and his formal forgiveness of my actions nullifies any part you have to play in any revenge. If you act against me now for the past appropriations I had to make, you are out of turn and my own family line will have something to say about it. You shall owe formal hospitality to any and all Hobbits of my line for the duration of the world, for we shall not forgive this slight."

All of the dwarves had a communal raising of eyebrows. They looked at Bilbo as if he has suddenly sprouted a second head. Or a beard.

"What is this?" demanded Dáin. "Who taught you that?"

"I have been the companion and friend of Dwarves for most of my living years, which are several," said Bilbo, and could not quite keep out a hint of smugness. He had just pulled the dragon's claws and he knew it. "I am no stranger at your gates, in spite of my difference in appearance. Having been formally forgiven, I am counted as faithful to my word. I claim hospitality in the name of my most esteemed companions, and in the memory of my faithful service to your kin."

There was a long pause. Bifur and Bofur each took a deep breath and held it. Bilbo kept eye-contact with the King, not backing down an inch.

Dáin blinked. 'Very well then," the King replied. There was a small whoosh of relief on either side of the hobbit. Dáin looked as if he were torn between anger and amusement. "I permit it." He waved his hand in an official motion. "But."

The two dwarves looked at him trepeditiously. Bilbo tilted his head inquiringly, ready to counter whatever was said if needed.

"But," he repeated, pointing a finger at his diminutive guest, "I will hold you and the present members of that Company responsible if anything goes awry while you are among us, master Hobbit." Bifur and Bofur were nodding, so Bilbo assumed this was acceptable and held his tongue. The King suddenly smiled. "Now - be off. You have many old friends to meet. I like your spirit. Perhaps I will see you again before you leave."

He waved his hand again, and the young dwarf came forward from the shadows to loudly proclaim "The court of Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, is hereby dismissed!" as the elderly monarch hefted up out of his throne and departed by the same door he had entered. Bilbo found himself wanting to follow, to see where he was going, but promptly quashed the notion and turned to go out with Bifur and Bofur.

"I say," he half-whispered as they exited back into the tree-carven hall, "What was that all about? Does he truly think me a thief?"

Bifur looked unhappy. "He was most discourteous to you, Bilbo, I was not expecting that. I am sorry. You deserve far better! But you were most surprising yourself! You, away from your own home and alone, aren't afraid to speak back to a King in his own halls and on Dwarven law at that! Hoho, you caught him by the beard there. It was well done."

"But I'm not alone." pointed out Bilbo. "I have several good friends here. And I happen to know they are the wealthiest and most influential Dwarves in the Mountain. That's got to count for something."

His companions chuckled. "True, true!" said Bofur. "It will make a good tale over supper. Which we're going to have very soon. Very soon. Come along this way - after you've had a chance to wash the dust from your beard.... Oh, heh heh. I mean wash away your weariness, we shall have a grand feast."

"Now that," said Bilbo, "is the most promising thing I've heard yet."

Chapter 3: No Company Forgotten

Supper with his former Company was a treat he had long looked forward to, and his delight as he greeted each old friend was beyond his ability to tell. By the time the seats at the table were filled, his heart was also. His stomach growled a request to join in.

The table they were all seated at was huge, to Bilbo's eyes. Rendered of a single, thick slab of polished stone it stood on arched legs, each as big as the footbridge across the creek back home. At least it was properly low to the ground, he thought, only slightly higher than his own tables had been. He had been seated on a fat cushion near the center and left to gaze longingly at the centerpiece, a realistically carved rendition of a wreath of nuts all done in amber and tigers-eye stones, wishing for even one real nutmeat. Judging from the appreciative noises from the others, he was not the only one pleased when the meal began to arrive, borne in the capable hands of his friend's servants.

"Now our esteemed Mr. Baggins will finally have the reward for his patience!" said Bofur. "He has waited long, for a hobbit."

"The first portion to Bilbo, hurrah for good old Bilbo!" nominated Nori from the other side of the table, gesturing the serving staff towards him. "The little fellow! He gets the choice cuts."

Bilbo blushed slightly as a platter was set before him and the topmost slice of roast tweaked onto his waiting plate. A second one followed it.

"Just don't eat all of it," said Bombur from his place at the end. "My plate next. I'm famished." Bilbo smiled at him. His beard was almost as fluffy as his torso, nearly obscuring the fine jade and serpentine buttons he had all down the side of his light green tunic, but the rounded folds of his bulk shone as the fire crackled merrily behind his shadowing bulk. The plate of roast was passed his direction.

"Famished?" laughed Nori. "You hear that?"

"I heard, and I believe it," agreed his cousin Dori who sat beside Bilbo. "With a tub that size to fill, he must be famished often."

"You've grown since I saw you last," commented Glóin, who sat on Bilbo's left. Bilbo looked over at him, a bit surprised by this.

"I don't think I have at all," he replied. "I quit growing quite some time ago. Though I do note all of you seem to think I've shrunk; time seems to have swelled me to Dwarven size in your minds."

"No, no," corrected Glóin. "I meant Bombur! I haven't seen him for a while, we've all been so busy of late. He's grown."

"Ah. Sideways." said Bilbo.

"More to the front, I'd say," put in Dori from Bilbo's right. "If he grows too much more, he shan't be able to reach the table." Dori's sparkling amethyst gems winked in the light as he chuckled.

"Well, that would solve the problem then, wouldn't it?" asked Bilbo logically.

Those that heard all laughed. "Aye, that it would - did you hear that, Bombur?"

Bombur, who had heaped roast on his plate and then gone on to scooping up a large spoonful of chopped fruits from a bowl paused to give a mock glower then good-naturedly went back to assembling his repast.

Bilbo had a fat slice of white cheese and a mince tart added to his plate. Glóin took one also and handed it down to Dwalin, across from him.

"Is that my old hood?" asked Dwalin suddenly.

Bilbo fingered the folds that lay around his shoulders and smiled.

"It is!" exclaimed the dwarf, who was still dressed in a dark green though of much richer fabrics, studded now with emeralds. He gestured toward it excitedly. "It's my old hood, the one our hobbit borrowed from me back when we snatched him from his hobbit-hole. I can't believe you still have it."

"I've treasured it," said Bilbo simply. "And besides, I wasn't sure if you might want it back, so I thought I ought to bring it along."

"Did you bring a hat?" asked Dwalin.

"Well, yes..."

"Is it with you now?"

"No... it's in my pack..."

"Then you'll have to keep the cloak a bit longer, and my blessings go with it. I am honored."

"A fitting thing to wear to this supper, I think." said Glóin. He lifted his cup. "To the Company!"

"To the Company!" replied the others, amid the clatter of their grabbing at their cups and drinking from them heartily.

"And to Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit Extraordinaire!" added Dori. "As long as he bears his own weight while he's here. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"To Bilbo!" they chorused and drank again as the subject of that toast protested the implication.

"I think I shall stand on my own feet this time." he said.

"Not if you drink too many of these toasts," said Dori. " Glóin, what wine is this? It's very strong. If you lose your legs in the wine, I will offer you transport to your bed, once, for old time's sake."

"I didn't choose the wine," said Glóin. "I thought it was Nori's."

"Nay," said Nori. "I paid for the pies, not the wine. Was it yours, Bofur?"

Bofur barely glanced up from the mashed turnips and butter he was packing away. "I paid for the fruit."

"Bifur? Did you bring the wine?"

"I paid for the roast," said Bifur. "but the wine is rich and strong, isn't it?"

Dori turned to Dwalin. "Wine?" he asked.

"Yes, please," said Dwalin holding out his cup for a refill.

Bilbo sipped at his; it was rich, warm and sweet. "Maybe it was Balin. Where is he, anyway? And Ori, and Óin? Will the others be along later?"

The sound of forks upon plates stilled suddenly. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and Bilbo had a sinking feeling that he'd suddenly hit the wrong note with his friends.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "I didn't mean to mis-inquire. Has something gone amiss with Balin, Ori or Óin?"

There was a breath as they all began moving again, glancing around silently for a spokesperson. Dwalin sighed. "No, no fault of yours. How could you know, living off in another part of the lands and all. It is Dwarven business, where they've gone and I am not at liberty to tell you, you understand..."

Bilbo nodded. "I understand. But are they all right?"

Dwalin suddenly looked older. "We don't know. My brother would not be dissuaded from this... this journey that he's taken. Ori went with him..."

"And Óin," said Glóin. "And they sent us letters at first so we knew something of their... journey." he glanced over at Bilbo. "But then the letters stopped."

"Stopped?" asked Bilbo. "Was it very long ago? Maybe it's just been a slow messenger or something? Mislaid, perhaps?"

"Ten years." said Glóin, with a hollow voice. "Nearly ten years, since we've heard. From any of them, and there were others that went also."

"Oh." said Bilbo feeling both out of his element and dismayed together. "Oh. I'm so terribly sorry. It must be very hard, not knowing if they are all right then. That's such a long time... I had so looked forward to seeing dear old Balin too, he came all the way out to the Shire to see me, you know, he and Gandalf came... " he felt like he was on the verge of sounding like babbling and stopped. Instead he held up his cup.

"Well. To Balin, then, and Ori and Óin, wherever they may be. May they be safe, and prosperous."

The others looked at him, seeming slightly hesitant and surprised by his toast, but lifted their cups in return. "To Balin, Ori and Óin " they intoned, and drank.

The mood had been rather dampened by this turn of subject, but soon began to lift again. Whether it was wine, or their determination to not have a good meal go to waste by any spoiled appetites, Bilbo didn't know.

Perhaps I am just an optimist, he thought, as they turned to small talk and complimenting the food and one another's jewels, but I do hope they are all right. They probably went mining, or treasure seeking again, seeing as the others won't speak of it. Dwarves are always so reticent about where their treasures are, as if I would go mining... Well, if they don't want to, that's fine, though it is disappointing. Dear old Balin...

His jumbled thoughts turned to the earlier days, when he had known the dwarves who now sat about him in glittering clothing, when he had known them under very different circumstances indeed. His were not the only thoughts turning to those long-ago years, for it wasn't long before the entire table was discussing their past adventures and narrow escapes.

They ate heartily, and toasted Bilbo's resourcefulness in Mirkwood, his cleverness in their escape from the Elves, and his courage in venturing down to see the dragon. They toasted each other, they toasted Gandalf and even Bard of Laketown. Then, with the last of the wine they toasted Fili and Kili, and Thorin Oakenshield himself "for without him and his vision of a kingdom restored, none of us would be where we are now." intoned Glóin.

"And where are we now?" asked Bofur rhetorically, setting down his cup with a thump.

"Fabulously wealthy, and filled with good cheer?" offered Bilbo. He was nibbling slightly on the crust of a tart, filling up the corners. He felt warm, full, rested and well content.

"Ah, but that Thorin could have shared in it," said Dwalin. "I wish he could be a part of this merry gathering." He carefully wiped his beard with a silk napkin.

"Why can't he?" asked Nori suddenly.

"Eh?" said Dwalin. "Because he's gone, of course. Down in the tombs, may he rest peacefully with our fathers."

"May he rest peacefully," agreed Nori, "but suppose we visit him. I think it would be a pleasure to him, and his memory, to think that we included him in our merriment by at least paying some respects to the one who started it all."

Bilbo wondered at this, especially as there was a murmur of assent and they all began standing up and pushing back from the table.

"I haven't been down to the tomb for years, " reflected Glóin, pulling Bilbo's chair away from the table for him so he could get down. "It was marvelously made. The new one that is, not that simpler one they placed him in back then."

"New one?" said Bilbo.

"We all paid for a new tomb for Thorin," explained Bofur. "Many years ago. A fine memorial. You'll be quite impressed with the workmanship, I think."

"Tomb?" asked Bilbo who was now feeling slightly bewildered. He had deliberately only sipped at the wine, but his head felt a little floaty in spite of it. The dwarves had been unreserved in their imbibing, but seemed to be perfectly coherent if a little moody.

"We're going to visit Thorin," said Dori with a wistful smile at the hobbit. "Something we haven't done as a Company for many a year."

"And something I've never done." said Bilbo. "Not since, well, since he was laid there." He wasn't quite sure what he thought of the idea, but it appeared they were all going, so he would not be left behind. Perhaps it was the way of Dwarves, to pay visits upon their dead. He couldn't decide if it was uncommonly neighborly or a bit morbid.

He soon found himself filing through the side-door of the dining hall along with the rest of them, into a long hallway where the stairs went downward to the sides. All but Bombur, who said he had no intention of going down so many steps much less back up again and to please tell Thorin a hearty hello for him. He promised to keep some dessert for them.

They turned to the right and started down a flight of cool stone steps lit at regular intervals by well-filled lamps.

My goodness, this really is starting to feel like old times, thought Bilbo. Here we go underground into tunnels again. At least this time there's nothing nasty at the end of them. At least I hope not.

Chapter 4: Untimely Taken

Bilbo followed the lead of the dwarves down several flights of steps, alternating with cool hallways and sloping passages. Most of the ways had at least a few lamps burning, but as they continued on these became fewer and farther between. The dwarves gave this little thought, but the hobbit among them began to be a little concerned for the safety of his own toes being stubbed in the darkness.

Not that he minded tunnels so much, nor even darkness when he was someplace cozy and familiar, but bumbling along over thresholds and down steps when he hadn't the faintest notion of where they were bound was a bit uncomfortable. At least it was a generally tidy place, the rubble he recalled from before had long since been cleared away... still, he began to wish he had had the presence of mind to bring along one of the candles from the dining table when he heard they were going to a tomb.

Reaching another lower level, they went along a well-lit hall that had several doorways in it, the murmuring of dwarven voices heard here and there, and the faint scent of various foods, a hint of smoke and other comfortable scents of daily living drifting by. He had the impression each doorway concealed private homes, like smials for Dwarves, and his curiosity was greatly piqued. He slowed down very briefly by one that was partly open, to try to peek within. He couldn't see much, just a bit of firelit wall and something on the floor... he daren't really stop and stare for fear of offending his friends with his curiosity, but how he wished he could have nudged that door further open. Maybe there was a bit of the Burglar still in him someplace after all.

The hall angled to one side, then they turned left and pushed past a thick hanging that lay across an opening to keep the chill away from the homes. A pipe ran from somewhere above, and clear water trickled into a small well by the entrance. It felt moist and cooler as they passed it, and Bilbo shivered slightly at the unwelcome reduction in both light and warmth. He walked closer to the others, finding it warmer in a bunch. Dwalin led them without pause down a dark flight of stairs. Bilbo's eyes were still dazzled from the lamps of the hallway as they started down, and he nearly stumbled into his companions.

"Will there be any lamps, er, down there?" he ventured to ask.

Dori, who had been walking along with him for most of the way considered this. "I doubt it. Why keep a lamp burning where there are none to see it?" They came out into another level passage, where only one lamp could be seen burning, some ways down.

"Then pardon me, but shouldn't we be taking one along with us to see by, ourselves?"

"Good thinking, master Hobbit." said Bofur, just ahead of him. "Here, let's take one of these." As they came up on the hall lamp, he reached out a hand and casually lifted it from its hook as they passed; taking it along, he peered at it critically. "Plenty of light left in this one," he said. "It'll do."

"Whose lamp is it?" asked Bilbo, thinking they may have just swiped someone's front porch light.

" Dáin's, I suppose." said Bofur with a shrug.

" Dáin's?"

"Much of the common items are considered the property of the King. Isn't this how it is seen in your land?"

"We don't have a King, and our lamps are our own. But that's not the point. We'll be putting it back when we return, won't we?"

"Don't have a King?" said Dori with surprise. "What do you have, then?"

"A Mayor," said Bilbo. "Among other things. He doesn't much resemble a King."

Bofur pursed his lips. "You didn't let him scare you now, did you?"

"Scare me?" the hobbit trotted a bit faster to keep up with the dwarf. He liked being near the light.

" Dáin, I mean. His thinking you a thief."

"Well, I admit it's made me concerned that nothing goes missing while I am around, I must say. He didn't seem to trust me too much." The old dwarf glanced down at him as they paused for a door to be opened.

"I don't think he completely trusts anybody," said Bofur. "He has too much gold at stake."

"And you don't?" said Bilbo with a smile.

"You wouldn't burgle me, would you?"

"Just for old time's sake?"

Bofur turned to the others around him. "Look at this, our hobbit wants to burgle my gold from me already."

Bilbo laughed. "Never, my friend. I've had far too much of the stuff to lug around myself. I've no interest in having to carry any more weight than I have to, I assure you. I'm getting old!"

"Aren't we all," commented Dori. "But gold still feels sweet to me. What a terrible loss that you hobbits suffer, to not even want gold in your old age."

Dwalin tugged opened the door with a muttering about dust being in the tracks, and it needing to be fixed. They all filed through it. This hall was still cool, but dry.

"Ah, I would gladly sleep in a bed of gold, like a dragon!" said Nori, who had been bringing up the rear behind Dori. "Come to think of it, I already do." he laughed.

Bilbo noticed another change in the air here. It felt... well, not exactly musty or stale, but unused, if that made sense. Unbreathed, he thought. As if it needed a good opening of a window for a while, to let the breeze blow through. He tried to think about Nori's golden bed instead of dark, forgotten passages in the Misty Mountains.

They turned again and started down yet another set of steps. How far down could they go? He was beginning to wonder.

"Sounds uncomfortable," he said. "if you haven't a dragon's tough skin."

"What does? Oh, my bed?" smiled Nori. "Most comfortable! I had it specially made, best goldsmiths..."

Bilbo decided to deliberately misunderstand, to amuse them. "Not only made of gold though, surely. I know Dwarves are a tough race, but..."

As he expected, Nori and Dori both chuckled at this. "No, not only of gold," amended Nori, "but silver and gems as well."

"And blankets," offered his brother in a loud whisper. "A great pile of them. He's not as tough as he likes to make out he is. Now myself, on the other hand..."

Nori gave Dori a strong nudge, making Dori bounce off of the passage wall and return the favor, nearly sandwiching the hobbit between them. Bilbo gave an oof.

"Are you abusing our hobbit back there?" Glóin called back with good humor. "Been a long time since we've had to separate the two of you. Thought you'd outgrown it."

"Nori started it."

"No, Dori did. You aren't too squashed, are you Mr. Baggins?"

He managed to give a weak laugh to reassure them, though it had rather knocked the wind from his lungs for a moment. "I'm all right. How much farther have we to go?"

"We're nearly there," said Dwalin. "See that mark?"

Bilbo looked curiously at the runic symbol on wall they were passing. It was only vaguely familiar... "Ah. I've seen this in some of the epic stories, the ones about great heroes that... well, had, er, died..."

"Well done," said Dwalin approvingly. "A near enough guess. It indicates the tomb of a Dwarf of great stature. Thorin, in this case."

"Great stature? Really. Well, if any Dwarf I've known should have such an honor, I suppose it would be him. Is this the door, then?"

They had slowed, then stopped before a smoothly sealed doorway in the rock wall. The lintel was carved with patterns of dwarves, tools, towers and mountains, and the door with runes, some of it overlaid with precious metals; though he could only see part of it over the shoulders of his taller companions. Bofur lifted the lamp up - this made the shadows of the carvings move and slide about, giving them an eerie, lifelike quality. The cheer of the Company began to settle into a quietness and respect more suited to visiting a gravesite.

"Yes," said Dwalin. " The next one down is for Fili and Kili, who were laid together, housed next to their Uncle as was fitting... Haven't been here for years... let's see now... Now look away, Master Hobbit, we can't share our door-opening with you, you understand I hope."

"I understand," said Bilbo. "Family secrets and all that" Not that I haven't opened your doors before, he thought. He looked at his toes. But something inside him wouldn't quite let him keep his gaze there. He heard Dwalin shifting a piece of rock, and surreptitiously took a sneaking glance through his bangs, between his companions' shoulders he could see one of the carvings pushing back into the wall. He quickly looked down again. A carving of a crown. Most suitable... what a shame Thorin'd never really gotten to be King, after all the work he had done to get there.

The door began to swing open, and as one they all glanced at their erstwhile retired Burglar. His gaze was firmly fixed on his furry feet. There were nods of approval. Glóin spoke.

"You may look now. Come. Let us go and pay our respects to Thorin, King under the Mountain."

There was a strongly murmured assent that made Bilbo wonder at their feelings about Dáin being in his place, but any fledgling thoughts on Dwarven politics were promptly scattered away by the sight of the cool, slightly stuffy sepulcher he now entered.

The walls were smooth and blue-toned, mostly, and a pleasing pattern of rough-hewn stone had been laid along them, stone filled with some sort of quartz so the rough surfaces shone and glittered in the lamplight as a contrast to the smooth ones. More runes ran along the wall, creating a band of writing all the way around the room, telling of Thorin Oakenshield and his great exploits presumably. Bilbo could only decipher a little of it.

What a shame he was so untimely taken, he and Fili and Kili also. King for such a brief time...what a sad time it all was, really. I wonder if they've written him any laments. It would make a fine tale for a lament...

The room was larger than Bilbo had thought it would be so they were all able to fit around the central stone coffer, with space to spare. The flooring under his feet was smooth gold-shot marble, and the slightly arched ceiling above glittered as well, with what he did not know. A pair of tall, elaborate lamps stood in an alcove to one side. Bofur lit them with the small lamp they had carried.

He tentatively peered up at the great marble box that held the remains of his Company's erstwhile leader, it stood slightly higher than his chin. A graven image of Thorin was what he had half-expected, remembering the tomb of Bard he had been shown in Dale. Instead, he saw a great shield that appeared to be made of oak though it was cunningly wrought of an oaken-colored stone. Even the woodgrain could be seen, as if it lay there simply waiting the battle call, set aside by some forgetful warrior of the past. The surface it lay on was elaborate in its patterning, set with precious gems, a pleasing contrast with the simplicity of the shield. He could see along the edge where the main body of the stone and the shield-lid fit together.

The dwarves were all murmuring with low notes, he wasn't sure what. Greetings? Regrets? Some traditional verse? He was strangely fascinated with it all, and saddened at the same time. It was a beautiful tomb, and it had been so long ago... yet...

He looked a little closer at the places where the top fit to the main box. Being shorter than the others, it was closer to his eye level. Something odd....

"Something isn't right," said Dwalin.

There were furrowed brows, and noises of concern all around. "I agree," said Glóin. There, see. On the floor. The dust has been disturbed."

"And this," said Dwalin, indicating the great shield. He bent and eyed it closely. "Slight smudges. As if someone's hands had..."

"Opened it!" squeaked Bilbo.

"What?" they cried, "what do you mean? What is it?"

Dwalin and Bifur were already bending down to see what the hobbit was pointing at. A crack plainly showed where the two parts did not quite meet, as if it had been lifted and then set down crookedly. It was a very small difference, but in the perfection of the rest of the room, it showed up like a farmer's furrow on fallow ground.

"This is terrible! Terrible!" cried Dwalin, pulling at his beard with distress. "Why would anyone open Thorin's tomb?"

Bilbo's eyes were very round as he spoke what all of them already knew in their hearts:

"To steal the Arkenstone."

-

Chapter 5: A Treasure Amiss

"The Arkenstone!" they all cried, reaching as one for the lid of the stone coffer.

"Open it! Carefully..." instructed Dwalin; the marble grated hollowly.

As the lid was lifted away, Bilbo blenched back slightly. He did not really want to see the withered remains of their former leader, but as his companion's voices were raised in distress, he found himself drawn forward as if compelled and was soon on his tiptoes, peering in along with the rest.

He was surprised that it was not anything upsetting - his imagination had been far worse. Thorin lay in his repose almost as if he were merely resting. He was somewhat shrunken, true, but carefully laid in his eternal sleep, arrayed with the beautiful armor that he had been buried in, still shining in the light of the lamps. Orcrist glinted dimly along his side, the golden cloth he lay on was untouched. There was no disarray or signs of dishonoring of his remains. The thick beard lay fanned out across his chest, and his mail-gloved hands were still cupped by his breast.

But they were empty.

"The Arkenstone," they were all repeating in distress around him, "it's gone! It's gone... Gone..."

"I am so very sorry, Thorin," whispered Bilbo under the noise of their cries. "We didn't mean to disturb you. A bit of an unexpected party for you, in a way." He gave the fallen dwarf a bittersweet smile, one for remembrance. "We'll get it back for you, don't worry. I found it once before. Maybe I can find it again. Perhaps that is why I am even here. Stranger things have happened."

"What are we going to do?" cried two or three of them at once. They were dwarves faced with a lost treasure. They wouldn't be thinking sensibly at all for a while, and he knew it. He took the reins into his own hands.

"We're going to have to find it,"Bilbo answered firmly. He turned from the stone coffer and pointed a finger authoritatively at Dwalin. "Do you have any idea how long it may have been since someone entered here?"

Dwalin was tugging on his beard with distress, but Bilbo's level question helped draw him back to the present need. He managed to give it thought, shaking his head. "Not long. No, not long. It couldn't have been. The dust on the floor was cleared away in places, and no new dust had time to settle."

A ray of hope began to spring up among them. They murmured.

"Then maybe it's still here, at the Mountain," said Dori hopefully. "Maybe it hasn't been taken away."

"There are Men going down from the Mountain almost every day," protested Nori.

"But it had to have been a Dwarf," said Bilbo logically. "Not one of the Men, because only you Dwarves know how to open the door." Mostly he amended to himself.

"True, true," nodded Bofur, with hope. "If we all search, search and tell the King, make an announcement..."

"Then you may as well just throw me off the peak," said Bilbo. "Because you can bet that's what Dáin will do to me when he hears of it. I show up after all these years and what happens, within the same evening even? Of all things, the Arkenstone disappears! Please, there has to be another way we can go about this..."

"Come, help me set this back," said Dwalin to the others. "Poor Thorin should at least not be left lying open, to witness our inept guardianship of his treasure." They bent their backs to the stone lid and lifted it gently back into its place, settling it with a hollow thunk. It was rather like the hollow feeling Bilbo was battling in his stomach, and not from hunger. He had to recover that gem.

He had to. He had promised Thorin he would have his precious stone. He was not about to have that promise undone, much less be blamed for it going awry.

------

It was quite late by the time they returned to the small hall they had feasted in earlier, and the fatigue that followed excitement was catching up with them. Most of the meal had been cleared away in their absence, except for fruit and a some plates arrayed in sweetmeats and nuts that awaited their return. Bombur was already gone to his bed, a short stack of empty dishes at one end showing he had enjoyed a hearty dessert before retiring. They would have to tell him about it on the morrow.

None of them seemed to give any thought to the food, not even whomever among them had paid for it, so caught they were in their umbrage and worry about the theivery they had uncovered. Only Bilbo felt the need of a little something to bolster his courage and strength, semi-continuously nibbling at the assortment while they hashed and rehashed what they knew, and went in circles over what to do about it.

Before they had even begun their long walk back up to the main levels it had been concluded that notifying King Dáin was out of the question, at least not until they'd taken whatever steps they could without his knowing.

This was for two reasons: first, because of their agreement that he might be harsh towards their former Burglar, and they still counted it their duty to take care of him. Secondly, Dwalin had confided a fear that Dáin might choose to keep the Arkenstone for himself if he were the finder, and not return it to Thorin's hands. The others had looked very serious, murmuring assent. It was a hard thing to say, they admitted, and smacked of near-treason. But what Dwarf could keep a sane head when confronted with such beauty? It had to be considered a possibility, at least privately, among themselves.

Bilbo sat near the fire, chewed on a handful of candied nuts and nodded. He remembered how it had glowed, so shining and beautiful. He had been fascinated with it himself, and he could see how a Dwarf with their penchant for even common gemstones would be overwhelmed. He continued nodding along with their speech until he realized hazily that his nodding was becoming nodding-off, rather than agreement. He tried to look alert, but gave up as he noticed others openly yawning.

Someone was standing in front of him. "It's late. Very late. And our guest is falling asleep on the hearth," said Glóin. "I regret that our welcome of you has taken such a turn for the worse, Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn. "Not your fault, you've all been most courteous. Most unexpected. Thorin, I mean, not your being courteous."

"But we would be moreso if we would show you to a proper bed now," amended Glóin. "Come! My son's room has been made ready for you. For tonight, we must all sleep, and think. We are not as young as we once were, going through the nights without a thought for rest."

"Your son?" asked Bilbo, climbing to his feet. "Forgive me, but I didn't know you had a son. I do hope he doesn't mind my taking his place."

"No, no. Not at all. He's been busy learning lessons at the forge of late. He's hardly there himself. He was honored to hear you would be with us."

"So, what was our plan again?" asked Bilbo as he began to be led away. His head felt heavy and groggy, though he wanted to keep going, to go searching, there was no way he could. He figured he would be lucky to make it to the promised bed without bumping into walls.

"We'll each search the areas around our own homes, and among our servants," said Dori as they left the room. "And meet back here in the morning. Good night, Mr. Baggins," he gave a small bow. "May your dreams be filled with silver and gold."

"And yours also," returned Bilbo. "Good night."

He followed along after Glóin, grateful when it became evident that it really was not very far. They climbed one flight, then turned down a passage that led to several rooms. He had the impression of rich furnishings and rugs as he was led through another doorway to yet another room. A heavy drape that lay across the doorway was pushed aside. A bedroom. This one was darkened, and smelled pleasantly of rushes, spice, leather, beeswax and a bit of fresh air. He barely remembered saying good-night, the covers were thick and soft and he nestled into them gratefully.

"I do hope we find it... Poor old Thorin..." he murmured, and fell asleep.

Chapter 6: High and Low

Sometime in the night Bilbo was dimly aware of someone quietly entering the chamber he slept in, passing through with a rustle and a creak of leather. There was a shuffling of cloth and silence. He fell back asleep until whomever it was began to snore softly.

He bleared up at the slice of sky that now could be seen through its single narrow window, high up. It looked early, a spring dawn trailing a touch of lavender and peach through the blue. The air was slightly chilly, and he was reluctant to rise from the thick blankets that he had burrowed down into. After thinking about it for a few moments, he sat up and, pulling the blankets with him, peered over the edge of them to view his roommate.

An alcove was set into the wall opposite with its drapery kicked aside and a young dwarf lay on his back on a second bed there, only partly covered with a blanket. Seeing as he had apparently fallen asleep while still in his leather work clothes, this made little difference. He was snoring lightly with the occasional snort through his reddish beard; his dangling arm twitched.

A faint tang of smoke rose from the thick apron that lay in a heap beside him, all dotted and smudged with the evidence of sparking fires. This must be Glóin's son, Bilbo thought. He realized he had forgotten to ask what his name was.

Not wishing to wake him, he slipped out of bed with hobbit-quietness and gathered up the pack that had been left beside him, seeking a place where he could freshen up for the day and hopefully find some breakfast. The heavy drape that lay across the door opening pushed aside easily and he found himself in a pleasant sort of rug-scattered sitting room. There was a mirror, a basin and, to his delight, a small hand-pump that easily brought him a bit of cold washing-water. He laved his face and hands and ran a comb through his lightly greying curls. They did seem to be a bit greyer every year now, ever since he'd left the Shire. Who would've thought traveling would be so aging?

In the mirror he glimpsed a servant peering in at the other door. He smiled a greeting. "Hullo! Good morning. Is there any breakfast to be had?"

"Yes, master Hobbit," nodded the servant, who was obviously trying to hide his curiosity about this odd guest. "I was sent to see if you might be awake. This way, if you please."

---

They breakfasted in the same hall as the night before, the Company slowly trickling in. None of them were too talkative, but it could hardly be expected after the late night and their dampening news. Bombur was already there, installed at the end of the table near the fire with two empty plates beside him; with his fork and knife he was starting in on a third. Glóin nodded at the hobbit in greeting, and pulled Bilbo's own chair with the extra cushion out from the table for him.

There were many things to consider, but to Bilbo (and apparently the Dwarves as well) breakfast came first. Bilbo took his place among the others and hoped very much for something warm and filling, to help them all face what promised to be a difficult day. He visualized golden hot cakes and rich butter, plenty of it, when the servants came in with the platters of food.

He had visualized them so strongly that when a silver plate of kippered fish was set before him instead, eyes and all, he had to take a moment to adjust to the sight. A small tub of something brown that smelled strongly of malt and treacle sat beside it. He wasn't even sure what it was, and if he was supposed to put it on the fish or spoon it up or what. He opted to leave it be, hoping better things would come, and picked at the fish. It had pickles with it. He tried to not make any impolite faces at Dwarven tastes as he poked it with his fork. At least there was tea, even if it was oddly dark and bitter.

The morning improved greatly, to his sight, as a tall stack of hot, flat potato-cakes made their appearance next, along with a chunky applesauce to dip them in. Ah, much better. The applesauce was thick with cloves and cinnamon, southern spices that he knew the dwarves loved in quantity. He dipped a cake and licked a sweet drip of applesauce off of his finger. Perhaps they did know how to cook after all.

It was only after most of the dishes had been cleared away and the servants were gone that they began to speak of Thorin, of the missing stone and how they should try to recover it, if possible. The servants had offered moist cloths for their hands and beards before withdrawing from the room and Bilbo was so occupied with scrubbing his face he missed some of the opening comments.

He came up from the cloth rather tousled and damp to find Dori giving him a mildly amused look. "I don't think I've ever seen someone bathe with napkins," he commented.

"Napkins?" said Bilbo. "They smell wonderful, don't they?"

"Scented oil is added. Gives gloss to the beard, you know."

Bilbo set down his towel... napkin... and gave an embarrassed smile. "I see. Well, it shall just have to gloss me all over, I suppose," he said. "What's our plan, then, and what happens first, do we know yet?"

"Not yet," said Dori unhappily, turning his attention to the others.

Dwalin and Glóin had their heads close together, murmuring. The company were all looking very serious as Bifur related to Bombur their unhappy discovery of the previous night. Bombur's rounded countenance was alternating red and white as he listened, angered and upset.

They were of mixed mind as to what was to be done, and much talk was generated that accomplished little but repetition and indignant noise. Bilbo listened for a while, as they spoke yet again of whether or not to tell Dáin, and how could it ever have happened, he finally decided to speak up.

"Excuse me," he said. They continued, so he repeated himself a little louder. "Excuse me!"

Seven beards swung as heads turned to consider him.

"Everyone be quiet now, our Mr. Baggins has something to say," said Dwalin, stating the obvious.

Bilbo nodded thanks to him. "Who would know the way to open the tomb?" he inquired.

Their eyebrows raised at this common-sense query. "Why, the topmost officials... Dáin of course, and perhaps two or three others," said Dwalin. "And though I know it is a fear we all carry, we may not cast any shadow of suspicion upon our King as long as there is any other option, of course."

"Of course..." murmured the others, glancing around the room for anyone listening.

"There's ourselves," added Dori.

"But it wasn't one of us," said Bofur. "None of us would ever consider such a thing."

There was a rumble of assent. "There would also be the ones who worked on the tomb, the sculptors and artisans," said Nori thoughtfully. "Though there were not a large number of them."

"I can't imagine any of them daring..." began Bombur.

"Are any of them still living, that worked on it?" interjected Bilbo. "The crafters and such, I mean?"

"Some of our own number worked on it," offered Dwalin. "Myself, and Nori here. And Balin..." he paused and looked slightly pained.

"But Balin has gone away for now," said Bilbo, trying to keep the subject going. "And this was recent enough that the dust was still disturbed. Nori, can you tell us how many of the crafters are still here, with us?"

Nori furrowed his brow with thought and tugged his beard lightly. "I'm trying to remember... there's Linór...."

"Yes, he was there, though I don't recall seeing him for some time," agreed Dwalin, coming back out of his own thoughts. "And Malin helped also. He worked on the alcoves, remember?" He turned to Bilbo. "Malin is a kinsman of mine and Balin's, and therefore of Thorin also. Quiet, but skilled...."

"Surely not Malin..." began Dori, hushed by a hand motion from Glóin.

"I fear we mustn't think it impossible of any," Glóin said. "It's beauty could turn even the wisest head." He gestured for them to continue.

" Mizûl," said Nori. "He was there. He did the metalwork, finest work I've seen in many a day."

" Mizûl?" said Glóin with surprise. "He instructs at the northern forge. My son Gimli has been taking lessons there. I'm sure we could speak with him easily enough."

" Mizûl, Malin, Linór..." counted Nori on his fingers, mumbling. He snapped them. "Ûrd!" he said, "He was there too. I remember his work on the lamps, and the doorway also."

" Ûrd?" said Dori, wrinkling his face with distaste. "Never did like that fellow, though he *was* very skilled. Isn't he serving Dáin now?"

"Yes, he's the Chief Jeweler for the King," nodded Glóin. "Been so for several years if I recall. He helped craft the shield for Thorin's tomb as well. I can't imagine him ever taking anything like this, but..."

"But if he is a jeweler," put in Bilbo. "Wouldn't that mean he might be tempted by such a jewel? I don't know him, of course..."

"Just as well," said Dori.

" Mizûl, Malin, Linór, Ûrd," Nori ticked off on his hands and squinted with the effort of remembering. He shook his head.

"Is that all, then?" asked Bilbo. "There weren't any others who would have been able to open it?"

"I don't think so," said Dwalin, "and I believe our Burglar is on the right track."

"Former Burglar," corrected Bilbo. "I'm not stealing anything, I assure you!"

"Former Burglar then," smiled Dwalin. "This gives us the direction we need. We have four dwarves that we need to talk to, or at least to look around their quarters if at all possible. I will speak with Malin, myself. He is my kin and will not find anything unusual in my visiting him."

"I shall seek out Linór," said Nori. "We used to meet on occasion, though it's been many a season since we tooled leather together. I think my inquiring should not go ill. "

"Dori, will you speak to Ûrd?" asked Dwalin.

"Why me?" grumbled Dori. "Just because he's my neighbor doesn't mean I enjoy speaking with him."

"Because he's your neighbor," said Nori. "Go borrow some lamp-oil from him or something."

"I will seek out Mizûl," interrupted Glóin. "And I can take our hobbit with me. I would think touring a guest to the forge where my son is working, to show off his apprentice efforts would not be seen as unusual."

"A forge?" said Bilbo. "Well, that's something I haven't seen. Not a working one, I mean. It will help me feel that I'm being of some use as well."

"You are of much use, Mr. Baggins," said Dwalin with a slight bow. "Never think you are not. You've aided us greatly already, in helping us start our search."

"Now if we may only find our missing stone!" said Nori fervently. "Or Thorin's stone, rather." The others agreed.

Thus it was that by late in the morning, less than a day after his arrival, Bilbo found himself on his way deep into the mountain to see the mystery of Dwarven forges, following along with Glóin whose diamond belt glittered even in the slightest glow of the lamps. Behind them, the bright hall with its table awaited their return presided over by Bombur, who had claimed the right to assure a strengthening meal for them upon their return.

Chapter 7: Forging Ahead

The way to the northernmost forge seemed very long to Bilbo whose slightly shorter legs were aching with keeping up. Glóin seemed preoccupied, and just kept stumping on ahead at the same steady pace, down stairs, down ramps and along level halls, and Bilbo sometimes had to break into a trot to stay abreast of him.

Occasionally they would pass other dwarves, who would pause and stare at him or whisper together and nod. It was not unexpected; he was part and parcel of the events that had re-founded this kingdom, and the tales had gotten round in the years. He wondered what he was like in their tales after so many retellings - surely not the hero in any way. He knew enough about Dwarves to know they would never cast the heroic part of any tale with someone of another race.

Perhaps I am the scapegoat, he thought, remembering the way Dáin had been quick to assume anything gone missing should be pegged on himself. After all, a burglar would be the worst nightmare of many a dwarf. Someone who would come in the night to steal away their treasures, the shadow of a gold-seeking dragon in miniature. This mental juxtapositioning of himself with a phantom dragon would have made him chuckle, if he had had the breath for it.

Or the rascal who goes along with the heroes. After all, I'm not sure that I'm completely harmless,he thought. There are the bones of a real dragon in the waters down there because of me...

Glóin slowed down, glancing at his smaller companion. "Forgive me, have I been traveling too fast for you, Bilbo?"

"No, no. Not at all," he lied. "The sooner we get there, the better. Then we can..." he trailed off as he realized there were other dwarves nearby who might overhear. "...see the forge!" he finished. "I've always thought the Dwarves were so very clever with their metalworking. It will be a rare treat to get to watch a few in action, so to speak."

Glóin glanced over at the others, and nodded to show he understood. "Why yes. You shall be most impressed, of that I am certain. This will only be our apprentice class. The masters cannot have a non-dwarven audience, you understand."

"But of course," replied Bilbo as they began moving forward again. "I expected no less. I am sure it will still be far beyond anything my own people can do."

He had only half-believed this last part, the Shire-pride in him was deeply rooted enough that it was difficult for him to think the Shire's blacksmiths and metalworkers were truly surpassed by mere apprentices. There were a few very good craftsmen in the Shire...

They passed through a wide doorway with metal-bound doors that lay open to either side and all of his prideful thoughts stopped.

"Here we are," said Glóin. "The Northern Forge."

Passing hesitatingly through the opening, Bilbo followed his friend across the wide, sandy floor. The hall that contained it was overwhelmingly huge, and he found himself craning his head back trying to see the flame-lit ceiling far above. Sand crunched under his feet, scattered across the smooth stone flooring, steam hissed, tools banged and screeched. Waves of heat wafted past along with strangely scented smoke, acrid with metal, coal and other things he didn't recognize that made him want to cough.

Great oak and iron racks of tools stood at hand: tongs and vices, pliers, files and hammers of every shape, length and size plus many other tools that he didn't even know the names for. There was a roaring, not only the main forge but some smaller ones as well, bellows pumping, metal clanging and the deep voices of dwarves mixed all throughout. Some of them were singing, but as they seemed to be singing to themselves as they worked rather than together, the effect was a humming of mixed notes that swirled among the smoke and sparks to create an almost magical, dreamlike effect. As if it were not quite real. The unreality of it seemed very strange, considering how loud it all was.

*So the Elves are not the only ones who can weave a spell with their music and sound* he thought. *I've often thought so. And oh my. What an amazing place...*

It was sufficiently amazing he completely forgot about why they had come for a few minutes. The last time he has seen a Dwarven forge it had also been here at the Mountain. But then it had been silent and dark, strewn with wreckage, something noted only in passing shadow as they sought the upper halls beyond it. This was a living, breathing forge, and the rhythm and strength of it mesmerized him.

"Perhaps the apprentices really do surpass us..." he whispered to himself.

Glóin was pleased with the effect it had. "Wonderful, isn't it?" he said loudly, having to lean closer to Bilbo to be sure of being heard. "It isn't our largest, but it's nicely proportioned and works beautifully. See the anvils? We've our best collection of them here, that one over there was made by my great-grandfather. The family mark is still on it. Smaug had little use for anvils, thankfully. We've a fine mandrel with his mark on it too, nearly as tall as you are. Here, put this on."

He led Bilbo to a rack standing to one side all hung with leather aprons, odd mitts, visors and strange, slit-eyed masks. Glóin chose a smallish apron for him and helped him put it on, then chose one for himself. "Keeps any stray sparks from burning your clothing," he explained. "I don't think we shall need visors. Just be sure you stay clear of the wheels, where the sparks are."

"I have no intention of going any nearer than I must!" said Bilbo, trying to tighten the waist strings on his and still wondering what a mandrel was. "Though it does look very pretty from a distance. Reminds me of Gandalf's fireworks."

"Gandalf! Ah, now there's someone who understands the beauty of fire, and what it can do. What I wouldn't give to see him be taught a bit of metal-working. Though he'd probably just make some wizardly thing none of us could understand." Glóin laughed. "Or a pipe. Come this way. Mizûl's class should be over at that forge there, not this big one. Gimli can't wait to get to use the larger forge, you should hear him. He'll be passing the test for that one soon enough, if he's practiced."

"Practiced on what?" asked Bilbo as he walked, admiring the way the sparks came up in different colors from different pieces of metal the students were working with.

"He was forming the common tools, to sell to the Men. Now he's working with axes mostly. He's got to use his own weapon soon, instead of always borrowing mine. There he is."

"Mizûl?" Bilbo asked, craning his neck.

"No, Gimli. Did you meet him this morning?"

"Yes and no. He was asleep."

The young dwarf Glóin was waving at looked familiar, though Bilbo noticed he now had his red beard tightly braided and tucked to the sides, to keep it from being singed. It seemed all the students did, now that he looked around. Very sensible. He glanced down at his own feet and decided the length of the heavy apron he had on should protect his own carefully brushed foothair, or so he hoped. Unlike his head, his feet had not gone grey much at all and he was pleased with how they looked.

As they approached, Gimli set down the file he had been using, brushed the metal shavings from his gloves and came to meet them.

"Gimli!" called Glóin over the noise. "I want you to meet our esteemed guest, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, a former member of my Company lately come to visit from his own lands."

Gimli bowed as best he could in the stiff apron he wore and gave Bilbo something almost like a salute with his gloved hand. "At your service, Mr. Baggins. I am most honored. Forgive me that I was not able to greet you last night, I had trouble with one of my... Oh, Father! It worked! You must see this, see how the tooling came out now with that new hammer to strike it in. The balance is still a bit off, but I think I can correct it, with a little more filing, the metal has behaved most excellently...." He gestured to Glóin to follow him back to the workbench.

"Ever has he wanted to show me everything he does, since he was small," smiled Glóin to Bilbo. "Just a moment!" he added to Gimli. "Where is your instructor?"

"Orin is helping the youth with their hammering, over there." Gimli shouted back, gesturing towards a small cluster of dwarves to one side.

Glóin shook his head as he reached his son's side. "No, not Orin. Mizûl! Where is Mizûl? I would like to speak with him."

" Mizûl?" said Gimli, looking surprised. "He has not been instructing for nigh on two months now. Hadn't you heard? Orin took over for him, seeing as he already carried most of the work as it was. Orin's been quite strict, but..."

"Where is he then? What occurred?" asked Glóin a bit sharply. "He wasn't injured, was he?"

"No, Father. He wasn't injured, he just... His thoughts have greatly wandered and you know he was often given to forgetting many things, but it grew worse, Father. I am told he was kept on for some time out of respect, and because of his great knowledge of the skills, but it was no longer safe to have him about the tools. A youth was nearly injured. He no longer seemed to see them, or to remember what he had been doing."

"Mizûl..." breathed Glóin. "Ah, has age taken yet another of us? What a merciless master time is, Mr. Baggins.... Well, let us see what my son has made and then we shall work our way back to tell the others."

With a gesture to Bilbo, he followed Gimli back to the workbench. The hobbit padded along after him. The table was heavily made, the once golden oak now blackened and scorched from long living near hot metals, and it was a bit tall. Bilbo considered the deeply scored surface and gave a slight jump as a large, shining axe-head was lifted up near his face.

"See?" rumbled the younger dwarf, a leather-encased finger tracing along one side of it. "And here?"

"Hrmmm." nodded Glóin. Bilbo wondered what they were seeing that he was not. The one side looked identical to the other, to him. He did like the cut-outs in the middle of it though..

"How very clever!" he said, "Having some bits of it taken out like that. Must make it much lighter to carry."

"Eh?" both dwarves said in unison, looking at him with surprise. They looked at one another and smiled, as adults will smile when children are precocious. Bilbo suddenly felt like an idiot.

"Yes," said Glóin, in good humor. "That is one of the reasons we sometimes make them that way. Fine work, my son. You are nearly ready for your testing-piece, I think. Ask Orin what his thoughts are on that ridge there, though. It could be a hiding a flaw." He clapped Gimli on the shoulder. "We will take our leave now, but I shall see you in the evening?"

"Perhaps. I've still much to do. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baggins, ever at your service, and your families'."

"Yours also," responded Bilbo with a small bow. "Though I highly doubt any of my family shall ever be underfoot for you, I appreciate the thought."

"Oh, Gimli," said Glóin. "Do you have any idea of where I might find Mizûl? Or who might know of him?"

The dwarf was looking at his axe-head critically. "I am sorry, Father, but I do not know. I only heard of the matter after it was done."

"I see." Glóin nodded, and turned away. Bilbo followed, with a parting wave to Gimli, though the dwarf didn't seem to see it. They went along the perimeter of the work area to finish the purported 'tour,' and Bilbo once again found himself agog over the array of tools and other odd pieces that surrounded them. There were tubs of sands in many colors, tongs of every size, some done up fancifully as wolves with teeth in the jaws. Wheels whirled and sparked, racks of pliers, planes, rasps, vices, chisels, punches and hammers went by. Every now and then there would be a great hiss and steam would rise up from one of the tubs that held water, ever refreshed by the springs from the River Running.

He passed a strange contraption that baffled him greatly. It looked rather like a drying rack for pipeweed, if some giant child had come along and wadded it up. He looked quizzically at Glóin, who smiled.

"It's a treadle hammer," he said. "And a good one too. You push on the treadle, there, to strike a blow. Most excellent when thinning metal into sheets..."

"There's so many things here I don't even know the names of. I must admit, it's a little overwhelming."

"Do you wish to learn more?" Glóin looked at him curiously. "I don't know if it would be permitted, but I'm sure Gimli could teach you a bit..."

"No, no," he laughed, waving his hands in protest. "I admit I'm as curious as I've ever been, and flattered that you should offer, but this is an area I shall happily leave to you Dwarves. The only iron I am interested in is shaped like a frying pan at the moment. Shouldn't we be heading back soon to tell the others, and for luncheon?"

"Luncheon?" said Glóin as he untied his apron and tugged it off. "If I hadn't spent so much time with you before, I would wonder if you weren't still a youth from your appetite." He reached over to take the apron that Bilbo handed him and hung both of them back on the racks.

"It's been many a year since anyone accused me of being anything like a youth," replied Bilbo. "And if aging means eating less for dwarves, I must say your own supper last night belies the whiteness of your beard."

"A good point. And I'm sure we will find something for you, if only among Bombur's leftovers." They exited the hall, Glóin waving at a couple dwarves as they went.

"He has leftovers?" said Bilbo.

"Another good point," agreed Glóin. He veered off to one side and ducked into an adjoining doorway. "Just a moment," he called back over his shoulder.

Bilbo waited, curious. There was a sound of rummaging, and Glóin reappeared with a large bun in each hand. "They keep provisions here, for the youngsters who are working at the forges," he explained. "I hope it isn't too strongly spiced for you."

"Spiced?" said Bilbo, "Doubtful, and even if it is, I am still grateful to have it. My thanks. They won't be upset to find you've taken their lunches?"

"No, no. There's plenty. Here." He handed Bilbo one of the buns, and took a hearty bite from the other as he led the way back.

Bilbo tentatively bit into the heavy, brown bun. It was flavored with something... onion, he thought. And there was a pungent spiced venison sausage filling inside it, rather a pleasant surprise. He took another bite and had to quietly blow his breath over his tongue a bit. There was something in the sausage that warmed his throat and the fumes from the spices rose to his eyes, making them water. He took another bite anyway.

Glóin was already close to finishing his. He glanced down at his companion's countenance and chortled slightly. "Too spicy?"

"No," lied Bilbo. "Not at all. Though it is strong." He wasn't about to let any Dwarf one-up him when it came to food. If they could eat it, so could he. Shire pride and all that.

"Strong spices are good," said Glóin. "They let us know we are alive."


-----


Back in the hall they met with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, who had ordered tea, split-pea soup, more pungent sausages and cardamom loaves to be brought in for them, 'to pass an anxious time more enjoyably.' Anxious or not, Bombur was soon well into his portion though the others paced more often than they ate.

It was Nori who returned next, with news of the stonecrafter Linór that was both for good and ill.

"He's gone, " he said. "I inquired of several others before I was able to find out more. His cousin told me that he had left the Mountain some eight years hence, seeking after his brother who was a part of Balin and Ori's company. He hasn't been heard of since. They presume him lost, I fear."

"Terrible news, that even more have gone off on that fool's journey," said Glóin, "as if we hadn't already lost enough."

"But it was his brother," said Bilbo.

"And Óin is mine,' said Glóin bleakly. "Yet I follow him not. Say no more, Nori. I haven't the heart to hear it."

Nori nodded, and a silence settled on them as they sat, watching the fire on the hearth, occupied with their own thoughts.

"Well," said Bilbo, breaking the silence. "There is one good thing that has come of Nori's news. It means this fellow, Linór, was not the one we are looking for. If he's been gone eight years that's much too long a time. The stone was taken much more recently than that."

"True," said Bombur and Bofur at the same time.

"Maybe Dori or Dwalin will have better news for us," said Bifur hopefully.

Dori returned not long after, frustrated and aggravated. The jeweler, Ûrd, had not been inclined to be helpful. He had not only kept Dori from being able to see into his home at all, he had complained vociferously about filing a complaint to force Dori to take up other quarters farther away from him.

"He can't really make you move, can he?" said Bilbo, horrified at the thought of having a neighbor like that.

Dori gave him a half-smile. "No, you needn't fear for me Master Hobbit, I can hold my own. But it does mean I found out nothing to help us in our search. Let us hope Dwalin has found something of use."

By the time Dwalin returned to them the soup and sausages were long gone. He waved away their offers to order more brought for him.

"Many thanks, but I was given hospitality by Malin. Forgive my delay, it had been much too long since we had seen one another and it pleasured him to speak with me; I left as soon as I reasonably could."

"But of course," said Bilbo, who understood the importance of visiting for a while with relatives and old friends - in the Shire there was little else that superseded it. "What did you find out?"

"Nothing that would show he is involved in this, nothing at all. He has kept to his own business and when I hinted about the tomb, he showed no interest, no change in voice nor manner. I finally spoke openly about having visited Thorin's resting place and all he thought was that it was an honorable way to show respect. Nothing more. I knew him more closely when we were younger, and he was always trustworthy, not given to looking beyond his own small horde of coin. I must conclude that he is innocent of this... this treacherous theft that has occurred."

The others related their findings once again, now that all were assembled, but their discussion on it was relatively brief.

"We have found three of our four to be innocent," concluded Dwalin. "With Linór no longer present at the Mountain, Malin above suspicion and Mizûl unable to carry out his own duties much less perform a skilled theft, we are left with only one."

"Yes," rumbled Bombur. "This jeweler needs to be looked at again."

" Ûrd is unpleasant, but that doesn't mean he is a thief," said Dori. "Though I do agree we need to see his quarters, or at least his workbench."

"His workbench!" said Bifur with sudden horror. "He wouldn't have...!"

There was a wave of consternation and protest that washed over the group as the unthinkable was voiced. Bilbo more carefully considered it. "It would be a way to hide it, if he were to change it's appearance or size..."

"No!" said Dwalin and thumped the table for emphasis. "No dwarf would ever consider such a thing. The stone is perfection itself, they would not dream of dividing it. They would sooner cut off their own arms than harm the Arkenstone!"

"So you say," said Bilbo. "But it should be considered."

"What would a Hobbit know of such matters?" grumbled Nori. "You cannot understand how... how unspeakable such an action would be..."

"Perhaps not," replied Bilbo. "But it was unspeakable that anyone would rob the resting place of a former King also. And I know changing things can hide them. Whomever took this will need to hide it, because there isn't anything else like it. Now. I have an idea. If this Ûrd will not allow neighbors or visitors to drop in, there may be another way to gain entrance. Glóin took me along when we went to find Mizûl because it was seen as acceptable that he would be touring a guest. Would it make sense then for someone to take me to tour the jewel-making room of the Kingdom? He wouldn't stop an official tour, would he?"

"He might try," said Dori doubtfully, "but it would have a chance."

"There's no way Dáin will allow Bilbo into his jewels," said Bifur. "He all but accused him of being a thief when he arrived, and he hadn't even done anything then."

"And what have I done now?" asked Bilbo.

"Well... nothing. But if you start nosing around the jewels, he's bound to be nervous," Bifur replied.

"Who said we need to ask him?" said Dwalin suddenly. "By all means, let us tour our hobbit. Ûrd doesn't need to be told if Dáin ordered it or not. Dori?"

"I don't think I would be the right choice, as I was just there today. My returning would seem too unusual."

"I concur," said Nori. "Dori never visits him as it is. Twice in one day..."

"I'll go," volunteered Bifur.

"I also," said Bofur. "We were the ones who presented him to the King yesterday. It would seem right to the King's servants then that we would be escorting him on a tour."

"Well thought out," commended Dwalin. "It's only midday. Let's not waste any time. Mr. Baggins?"

"Just let me finish," said Bilbo, who was tackling a bowl of soup that Bombur had dished out for him. "And we'll be on our way."

Chapter 8: Jeweler's Passage

Bifur, Bofur and Bilbo stood in the dimly lit hall outside the Royal Jeweler's workroom, which had turned out to also be his living quarters; this was a complication that Bilbo had not anticipated. The Jeweler himself, Ûrd, bristled before them, all but poking Bifur's bearded chest with an indignant finger.

"No!"

"But if you would only..." began Bifur.

The finger poked forward again, and Bifur backed up a step to keep his beard from being touched. Ûrd leaned forward, following his finger, and glowered at him. "No! For the last time, no! I won't hear of it. No...no... whatever-he-is..."

"Hobbit," supplied Bilbo.

He was awarded with a hostile glare. "No holebit is going to be gawking at my work. I've heard of him, he's a known thief..."

"Burglar," put in Bilbo. "Ex-burglar. Treasure-hunter." Bofur nudged him.

Ûrd turned the poking finger in his direction. "Treasures! You just want to see the jewels, to see where the King's treasures are kept, so you can steal them! Well, you shan't. Not a chip."

"Now just a minute..." protested Bilbo (not for the first time) before being cut off by Bifur.

"Nothing of the sort!" Bifur said firmly. "He and his family have great honor, and he already has great wealth of his own. He wouldn't take a fragment of anything. Not even if it were the most valuable gem in the world. You are being foolish, blocking the King's tour of his kingdom this way."

"I wasn't told of it." stated Ûrd flatly.

"Mr. Baggins is an honored guest," said Bofur. "And his Majesty would approve of his seeing your fine work, among the very best ever produced in the Mountain in this age, or even among Dwarves." He gestured towards the hobbit, who nodded slightly in agreement while trying very hard to appear harmless and noble at the same time.

Ignoring the gesture, Ûrd addressed himself straight to the other dwarves and refused to even look at Bilbo again as if offended by his existence. "Why? So he can steal my designs? So he can take them back to his own jewelsmiths in whatever country it was that he came from? He's very likely a friend with those Elves in the wood or something worse. Where does his kind come from?"

"The Shire," said Bilbo quickly before Bifur could open his mouth to reply. "No Elves dwell within our borders." Not that we didn't wish they did...or at least some of us... he added silently. "It's on the other side of the Misty Mountains.; very far away. I doubt you've even heard of it. I've retired from it, and chosen to travel to see my friends here before settling down."

Ûrd's eye was reluctantly drawn back to him. "If you've retired from it, where are you settling then? Not here, Durin forbid!"

"A...er... another place," said Bilbo scrambling around to think of what he could say without lying. He highly doubted a mention of Rivendell would be helpful in this situation.

"That is his own business," said Bifur, trying to redirect the topic. He and the Company knew where Bilbo was retiring to and while he didn't exactly approve of it, he understood the need to keep it under wraps.

"And my business is my own as well," said Ûrd. "Get this...this...beardless... this..."

"Hobbit," said Bilbo.

"Holebit away from my door! No one is touring any of my designs or my gems. And certainly no one from outside our own people. You, Bofur, you and your companions are in high standing with the King, that I know. But this goes too far. If you want to see my work, or to show it to anyone you've but to look upon our King, who wears only my designs."

"We've seen some of them, and they are most resplendent." said Bilbo very sincerely, to soften all this blustering. "Truly, only a King is worthy of wearing your designs, and all others may only look upon them with amazement at their perfection."

All three dwarves looked at him. "You say he sent you?" said Ûrd, looking at Bifur.

Bifur nodded. "Mister Baggins was accepted in a private audience with the King himself," he said.

"You didn't answer my question," Ûrd pointed out. "Though your answer was clever."

"Look," said Bilbo, taking another tack and turning from the jeweler to speak directly to his companions. "In truth, though I did want to see it at first, I no longer have any desire to see this fellow's work, not anymore. After all, true art is only as fine as the reflection of its artist, and his discourtesy sours my hopes of seeing anything like what I was brought to expect by the King. Now that I think about it, we only came because it was pressed upon me to give my opinion of the newer designs. Let him go back to his work. I'm sure I will find plenty of other things to see that will be easily as impressive or moreso." He turned and began walking away, Bifur and Bofur looking at each other and hesitantly following.

Ûrd stood in his doorway and spluttered into his beard with indignation. "Why... it's ...my work is beyond your imaginings, Holebit. Beyond anything your people could ever consider!" His pale cheeks flushed to a splotchy red. "How dare you say you were pressed into having to see it and then turn your back on me! I am the King's own Jeweler!"

Bilbo turned back, chin up. "Prove it. Show me that you have anything worth seeing. I am known to many Kings. I have traveled far over many lands and seen much. It must be exceptional to impress me."

Ûrd opened and shut his mouth then frowned. There was a pause. His eyes narrowed. "You are a crafty one. I'd been told you were the one who flattered the Dragon, used it's own riddle-talk against it. You think to flatter me, and win your way in."

Bilbo rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Flattery? Nay. Quite the opposite. Bifur, Bofur - did either of you hear me flatter him just now?"

"Well, no," admitted Bifur. Bofur shook his head. "If anything, you were, er..."

Bilbo turned from them and looked Ûrd right in the eye. "Then tell me how you think I'm winning my way in? I am insulted that you would think I, a Hobbit of the Shire, would stoop to flattering a Dwarf. And I, from Under the Hill! You think only the Dwarves understand the value of lineage and honor? My family line would be dishonored, and our great wealth shamed if I were to waste the skill of Shire flattery upon one such as you!"

Ûrd seemed slightly taken aback. He had not been expecting his crowing to be challenged by another rooster this way. He considered the facets of this argument about which he knew very little. "Your family line... it has many jewels?"

"We have jewelry precious beyond anything you can make or imagine," said Bilbo, pushing with the boasting tendencies of the Dwarves as best he could. It felt most awkward, but he bluffed for all he was worth. "And fine, pure metals also. We have no need or desire of more than we already possess, for all of my line already hold their inheritance, even while I yet live! And I have no lack. I was pressed into seeing your work merely to report how it compares to others I've seen." He tried to finish this with a haughty look, something difficult when your adversary is taller than yourself; his chin felt stretched.

Ûrd looked indecisive and slightly confused. "You've already given out your jewels to your heirs? Foolishness! Your tomb will be dark, with no gems upon it unless you guard them. No one would do this."

"I have, and yet I stand before you with greater treasure than you can ever hope to grasp. I am the Mathom-Wielder, the Poet Scribe of the Hill! I have spoken to the Gaffer himself many times, and have driven the Motley Treasure-Seekers from my land singlehanded! Those of great strength have stood in my presence silent, as if turned to stone. Across many leagues my name is known - your mere title of 'Royal Jeweler' (while certainly quaint and honorable) cannot stand to mine. You would do well to not turn my opinions away lest others think your work was below my notice. I may uphold you for praise in the far courts...or otherwise. If I speak well of you, perhaps they will listen and your line will gain honor."

The Dwarf glowered but hesitated, warring with his pride of potentially having his work known to the undefined Mighty, his lineage praised - and his confusion over the titles that Bilbo spouted.

"But who are these in other lands you speak of? Not Dwarves, surely... " His brow furrowed once more and he grimaced at his thoughts. "I recall, you were said to have parlayed not only with Men but with Elves. My work shall stand alone. I will not have it compared to any holebits work, nor any Elves trinkets! And I have gems beyond any you have seen."

"Hobbits," emphasized Bilbo. "And seeing as you don't want to hear it, I shan't tell you what I think of it. I'll only speak to those who want my opinions on what I see, those who do not insult the honor of my house. My honesty and integrity are insulted by your distrust, but I am honorable enough to overlook it this one time. Great will be the honor when your name is spoken of in the far lands! I may yet speak favorably of you if the work passes muster." He tried to look as puffed up and stern as he could without the benefit of a beard.

"If you would but let us in, just for a moment..." offered Bifur.

Bifur meant well, but his quiet pleading was ill-timed. The distraction of pride to win their way in, all the careful tension Bilbo had been trying to build was abruptly slackened, like a sail turned and left limp in the wind.

Ûrd looked at Bifur as if he had only just now been reminded the others were there. He looked at Bilbo again, then turned from him and faced his fellow Dwarves squarely. "Bring the King himself and enter. I will not allow it otherwise."

He stepped back and began to swing the oaken door shut.

"Wait...!" appealed Bofur.

"No," said Bilbo, being sure he was loud enough to be heard. "Let him go. I've no use for his work, or his paltry gems. Take me to the treasuries now, as the King commanded." He turned on his heel and marched off, chin held high. He hoped he was going the right direction.

Bofur and Bifur just looked at him, then followed their smaller, surprising companion.

Once they were around a bend in the hall, Bilbo stopped and turned to his friends. He raised his brows at their questioning looks.

"Well. Asking, demanding, bluffing and boasting didn't work. Does this place of his have a back door?"

"You were marvelous," said Bifur. "I had no idea you had that in you. What's a Gaffer?"

"My gardener. And didn't you?" said Bilbo. "I seem to remember being asked to walk down a certain tunnel... by myself... "

"A good point," laughed Bifur softly. "You surprised us then too."

"There's always a back way," said Bofur in answer to his first question. "But it would be hidden of course."

"So, how do I find it?" asked Bilbo. "Is there something I should look for?"

"They're concealed...You think we could get in that way?"

"Not all of us. Too noticeable. Leave it to me, and I'll do what I can. What do I look for?"

"What if you get caught?"

"I'll tell them I was lost and behave as if I know absolutely nothing about anything. I shall be an absolute fool if I have to. Most Dwarves easily believe that of me, it seems."

"You're no fool," said Bifur. "So let's give it a try. But if it's not working, promise you'll come back to us straightaway. We'll wait in the dining hall, you know where that is from here?"

"Yes, just that way." he pointed. "Now the two of you need to be decoys. You go back towards Ûrd's, but talk as if you are addressing me. Walk close together. He should have his door shut, but his ear may be on the sill. And you still haven't told me what to look for."

They hesitated. He knew that distrustful dwarven look.

"Bifur, Bofur - look, it's me, Bilbo. Not some stranger. I'm trying to help you recover a treasure for Thorin, remember? Help me out here. I won't tell anyone else. Trust me."

They blinked and looked uncomfortable. Bifur started reluctantly "A... well, they're different... they're..."

"A crack, a stone that projects out just a little... an irregularity..." added his brother.

"You may have to tap it..." Each detail was dragged out as if from under a great weight.

Bilbo sighed at their reluctance. "It'll do. I'll try. Now go!"

"Right," said Bifur. "Be careful, Mr. Baggins..."

"We'll be right in the dining hall. We'll wait for you." said Bofur. And they went.

Left alone in the quiet hall, Bilbo squared his shoulders and desperately wished he had his old ring, if only for a short time. In volunteering for this idea, he had to admit he'd almost forgotten that he didn't. Well, lacking anything magical he would have to use good old-fashioned hobbit quietness and his small size then. He turned the bend again to where he calculated the back of Ûrd's rooms should be and began looking for a door.

He worked his way along, but found nothing. There was an alcove with a tall decorative urn, so he slipped behind it and examined the urn, then felt all along the walls as high as he could stretch, trying to push and poke at everything he could. He even checked the floor. Nothing happened. A young dwarf went by, intent on an errand and he pressed himself back into the slight shadow of the alcove, holding his breath. As the footsteps faded away, he slipped back out and then into the next hallway that turned in the right direction where he continued with his surreptitious pressing and tapping.

He had worked a couple wagon lengths of it without success and was becoming discouraged when he heard footsteps again, and a murmur of voices. It sounded like more than one, and coming his way. He looked frantically around for any kind of cover and darted across to a nearby doorway. It gave into another hall, narrower. He trotted down it until he was able to duck around a bend. There he stopped and waited for the party of dwarves to pass in the main hall.

Except they didn't pass. They came up to the narrow doorway and after a slight pause, entered it. What was worse, he recognized one of the voices.

It was Dáin Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain, and he was coming straight towards him.

Bilbo ran, his own silent padding covered by the sound of the dwarves rustling, clomping and murmuring to one another. The hall went for another length with no other place to go. He came to another door but pushed and pulled it in vain. It would not open. On he went again, around another bend, nearly falling as he suddenly found himself on some steps, his heart beating in his ears. Dáin was still approaching, right behind him.

He frantically descended the steps, staggering as they came back onto a level surface. He looked left and right, grateful there were no witnesses to his sudden silent appearance. More doors, more halls. Which way? He turned left, trying two more locked doors. The King was in the stairwell. He plunged down yet another hall. This one angled, and went down again. He came to a split in the path and veered right, running just far enough down this new one to feel he could stop and listen again.

Still Dáin was coming. It just wasn't fair! Why hadn't he gone the other way? He couldn't risk it. Bilbo dashed further into the bowels of the Mountain, forced into yet another turn, and one more long set of downward steps. He came out into a wide hallway with lamps and gulped as he saw a guard waiting not a stone's throw from him. He was thankful that the dwarf was turned away from him, fiddling with the lamp beside him to brighten it, thus missing Bilbo's brief appearance around the corner. Bilbo sidled over, then dashed across to another, smaller way where the lamps were not shining.

He went down it a length, then stopped again, gasping for breath.

Dáin came down the last set of steps, then turned toward where the guard had been. He had at least two or three others with him, including one Bilbo thought was the young dwarf he had seen go by before. Bilbo held very still. With some growing astonishment and consternation as he realized the conversations he could now overhear indicated Dáin was visiting one of his treasuries.

A treasury! Oh, confusticate and be bother! he thought. Now I've done it. If they find me now, I'll look like a thief for certain. They'll never believe I'm lost here. I've got to get away from it... can't cross over again, not with them standing in the hall...

Anxiously he slipped down the darkened little hallway with hobbit-quietness, glad that the voices were fading behind him. If he couldn't hear them, then it stood to reason they couldn't hear him either.

His path went down slightly, then sloped back upward, finally turning into a flight of steps curving up. Heartened that it wasn't going further down, he climbed them quickly, panting hard with the exertion. What a rabbit warren this Mountain was. He was doubly concerned at this point because he realized he had completely lost track of which direction he was going, and only had a vague sense of how far up or down he might be from the main level he was familiar with. How could he find his way back to the dining hall where his friends waited without being noticed and caught, seeing as retracing his path was out of the question?

He finally emerged on another main level, hesitantly slipping out after peeking around the corners. It was one of the wide, smooth halls with lamps, and doors and the scent of food and candles. Dwarf-smials, he thought. Maybe I can find a sympathetic youngster someplace to ask for directions. Then again, that might get me in even more trouble. I can try to find my own way if I can just explore a little more...

Grateful that it wasn't yet supper-time and whatever Dwarves lived here seemed to still be out doing whatever they did, he took a deep breath and began quickly walking along the hall, his heart beating in his ears. It came to a tee, a decorative carving of two crossed axes on the wall. He went left. After a short distance it opened into a small sort of lobby that branched off in three more directions, each one only indicated by a different color of capstone on the arch over each doorway. He stood and looked at them, bewildered.

"Admit it, Bilbo Baggins," he muttered. "You're lost. You're completely and utterly lost."

Chapter 9: Dim Hopes

Completely lost, Bilbo stood for a time, turning uselessly from one doorway to another. The only indicators were colored stone, and a single rune on each keystone. He considered them, but they were simply single letters that helped him not at all. Why couldn't they just post some regular signs, he grumbled to himself. Something like "this way to the kitchen." I suppose it comes from so rarely having visitors, at least of the non-dwarven variety.

He finally chose one direction that seemed to him to be more the 'right' way than the others, though his sense of direction had been sorely tested. He was hoping that his much-vaunted luck would hold out, but after a depressingly short stretch of clean, wide grey passage it merely led to yet another lobby with yet another intersection of pathways.

This one had a decorative relief carving dribbling water into a small pool, and two large storage urns flanking a bench. At least he could rest his legs. He took a mouthful of the cold water and hitched himself up onto the bench where he dangled his toes pensively, unsure what would be the best and least noticeable way to deal with this turn of events. How long would the others wait before they began looking for him?

Not many minutes had passed when he heard footsteps approaching, moving fairly rapidly. It was too soon to be one of his own Company. He quickly slid off the bench and positioned himself in the shadow of an urn, watching. A young dwarf trotted past with purpose, dark beard bouncing on his chest.

He could have shouted for relief at seeing a familiar face. Well, almost. It wasn't that he had been formally introduced, but he did remember this lad. It was the chestnut bearded one that had waited upon Dáin when he first arrived - and now that he'd seen him more clearly he realized this lad had also been among the party escorting the King to his treasuries just a short space ago. A royal attendant of some kind then. What luck!

If I follow him, inconspicuously that is, he should lead me back by Dáin's chambers or the area near them, he thought, and from there I can find my way back to the others....

He slipped out from behind the urn and began silently shadowing his new guide.

It was fortunate for Bilbo that the halls were relatively empty - it was only thrice that he had to scramble for an bend, alcove or decoration to hide around, inside of or behind as he traced the path of the youth. They went generally upwards, the air seemed slightly fresher and Bilbo's hopes that he might soon find some kind of familiar landmark increased.

His guide came to a wide hall with stout wood doorways at intervals all along one side. He angled over to one of them, and pushed the door inward with hardly a pause. There was an exclamation from some other party on the other side of the door. Bilbo slowed and hesitated. Near the door was yet another small alcove with its now-familiar water trickling into a basin. Bilbo slid along the wall and ducked into it silently, half-crouching in the shadow. If there hadn't been the voice of another dwarf, he might have tried to follow.

"Dím! A runner was just here, looking for you. Where have you been?" Bilbo resisted the impulse to crane his neck for a glimpse of the speaker. It was difficult to remember that if he could see them, they most likely could see him. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he had his old Ring back if only for a little while. The speaker had a slightly higher toned voice than he was used to in a dwarf.

"Already? What do they want now? I only just left his Majesty, and I haven't even had a chance to get a decent meal..." grumbled the young dwarf in return.

"There's some Men come from the valley and he needs to meet with them and wants to make a good impression."

"He always does..." muttered Dím. "Here, I need to change my vest. Ach. Maybe my shirt too. Get me something to eat."

"Get it yourself. I've already had to haul your share of the laundering back up those stairs..."

"Ach. Why does he always want me for these things...?"

Bilbo could hear the sound of thumping boots and shuffling of cloth though the open doorway.

"Your own fault for being so skilled at beard-dressing. And you've one the best eyes for the colors of jewels too."

"True," replied Dím without a trace of modesty. His voice sounded slightly muffled as he pulled a fresh shirt over his head. "But it pays well. More than I can say for your picking away at that ore again. I know you were at it again, I saw the baskets - it'll hardly be worth the smelting fee. You know it's a bad vein."

There was a small clatter and a winter apple shot out the door, bouncing off the far wall and rolling erratically back towards Bilbo, who shrank away from it.

"Waste of an apple," growled Dím as he came back into view, smoothing his hair and beard with a hand. He glanced around briefly but didn't seem to see it. This was apparently not a concern, as his other hand held two more which he began to eat noisily as he headed off down the corridor again.

Bilbo's heart beat rapidly at the thought that he might be losing his guide. He gathered up his courage (and the apple) and tried not to gulp as he made a dash across the open doorway. The light briefly spilled across him and he glimpsed the back of a stocky dwarf with a thick, fuzzy braid that reached all the way down to the backs of the knees, then he was past.

Relieved that he had hurdled that obstacle so well, he trotted as quietly as he could after the rapidly departing young Dím. He wondered as he went if it had been a brother or sister he had seen through the doorway. He had heard it was difficult to tell one from another with Dwarves, and preferred to think it had been a sister if only to feel he had finally seen a Dwarven lass. He probably would never know...

The next several minutes were quite wracking to Bilbo's nerves. He was so intent on not losing his young guide while also not being seen that there was little room for any other thought; Somehow he had to move forward silently from hiding place to hiding place, timing the distance on every curve of the hallways. He had to be always on the lookout for anyone else coming from ahead or behind, or even to the side. This extremely focused concentration could be the only reason for the situation he shortly found himself in.

Dím had taken him into a long, narrow hallway that was only partially lit and when he suddenly turned into a doorway on the side, Bilbo automatically followed him. He barely had time to realize his mistake and dive for the shelter of a rack of clothing before the person he had been following was being beset by other dwarves, all in a hurry. Why, he'd walked right into a roomful!

Low voices were muttering back and forth, and additional lamps were being lit by many hands. Bilbo peeked through the line of tunics and robes to see a chamber coming into illumination that was all too obviously royal in appearance.

Oh no, he thought. This looks like a dressing-room...and a rather king-like dressing-room at that!

The thick hangings on the walls, the furs laid over fresh rushes on the floor...and most of all, the wide polished mirror, thick robes and beautifully decorated wood and stone cases all spoke of opulent wealth and the care in presentation made by a dignitary. He crouched down behind the clothing, trying to make himself smaller. He considered trying to slip back out the way he had come, though the (now) brightly lit room would make it difficult...

He edged toward the doorway. Just as he was about to make a dash for it, there was a collective intaking of breath by all in the chamber and thinking he had been seen, his heart jumped into his throat. It was a potent mixture of relief and alarm that washed over him next as he realized it wasn't he that they had been made aware of - but that Dáin had entered the room.

Dáin swept in from a doorway at the far end, and Bilbo could see a tantalizing glimpse of the room beyond him, the room he so desperately wanted to reach. It may as well have been on the other side of the mountains for all he could do. The curtains were pulled over the doorway, and a guard took up his stance. Bilbo looked to the servant's doorway and his hopes sank as he found another guard now stationed there as well. He pulled back into the clothing and hunkered down in confusion.

The King was distracted and impatient. Obviously his visit to gloat over his treasuries had been cut short by the arrival of this group of Men and he wasn't in a pleasant mood. He went to the center of the room and sat upon the padded stool that stood there. Wordlessly, the staff of servants began sweeping around him, one kneeling to change his boots for fine, tooled-leather ones, another quickly unlacing his overtunic while a third turned to the rack of clothing that concealed Bilbo.

He tried not to breathe. He found himself closing his eyes, like a child who thinks if they cannot see they cannot be seen. There was a rustle, and a richly embroidered overtunic was taken up. He had not been found. He tentatively cracked his eyes back open and looked around. finding a light robe that had fallen from the rack, he carefully pulled it up over his shoulders in hopes that he might be disguised as a heap of clothing if he were seen.

The young dwarf, Dím, was right in front of the King, carefully yet swiftly combing, twisting and overlapping locks of the royal beard. A small casket of gems lay open beside him and he reached into it at regular intervals, pulling forth jeweled clasps and a bit of shining, smooth chain, neatly arranging them within the braids that were forming under his clever fingers. A smoothing with a bit of oil and the job was done. As the others stepped forward to fasten a belt of rubies around the kingly waist waist and to drape him with his robes, Dáin looked every inch a Dwarven monarch, his beard as sparkling and gleaming as the rest of him.

One of the servants pulled aside a drapery opposite and went through to the adjacent room. Bilbo glimpsed it, a tantalizingly near glimpse of the audience chamber he had been on the other side of only the previous day. There was no reaching it now; it seemed as far away as the Shire. And if there truly were a group of Men arriving, it would be in vain for him to even try. He hoped by laying low, he might remain undiscovered and escape this unlikely prison once the audience was over. Oh, if only he had his ring! Why had he left it behind? Why, oh why, had he let Gandalf talk him into that?

There was the announcement from the other room that King Dáin would now address his visitors. Dáin, glittering and royal, straightened his back and was swept out the doorway with Dím half-stooping, half-walking behind him to keep his robes straight and unfurled. The curtain dropped back into place, but the other servants still waited in the chamber. Bilbo lay still, in great dismay. What would he do if they found him? What would his tale be?

His imagination already had run ahead of him, imagining unpleasant things. Found, one burglar, hiding in the King's own dressing room surrounded by chests of jewels and gems. Dropped, one burglar, over the wall into the valley below. Probably without his hat or handkerchief. No, it didn't look well, not at all.

Chapter 10: Stray Conversation

Through the gap in the doorway's heavy drapery Bilbo could just see the sparkling back of Dáin, King Under the Mountain, addressing the modest gathering of Men who had come up from the Valley. After the usual assortment of formalities the sparkle moved to the side, presumably to be seated on the throne. The young attendant, Dím, took up his place near the doorway, which effectively filled most of the small view with part of his back and a stout leg.

The unfortunate hobbit lay very still, hunkered under the cloth robe that mostly covered him. He waited to see what the other servants would do, hoping that they would leave now that their task of arraying their King was completed. They didn't. To his dismay, one tiptoed past him, over to a padded stone bench on the side and seated himself instead, apparently to await Dáin's return to the dressing room after his address. The other smoothly and silently straightened up the disarray that had been left by the King's rapid change of dress then joined his companion where they sat side by side as if made of stone themselves.

Beyond the curtain, Bilbo could hear the men of the Dale, speaking to the King. It was to his great surprise and consternation he heard his own name being mentioned.

"...Bilbo Baggins?" Dáin was saying.

"The hobbit, your majesty," explained one of the men. He sounded vaguely familiar in voice. One of those he had been escorted by, perhaps? He couldn't recall the man's name. "He was bound for your fair and most magnificent kingdom only two days past and his escort reported he had arrived safely and without mishap. Surely he is still here? He's very small..."

"I know who you speak of," replied Dáin, sounding slightly irritated. "You need not explain. Yes, he arrived and was delivered into the safekeeping of his former companions, which places him under my care and hospitality. Why do you seek him?"

"Forgive us for any undue concern or interruption our inquiry might bring, your majesty. Prince Brand sent us to ask some information of this hobbit..."

"And what information might that be," the gruff monarch cut in, "that he could not tell you of it before his arrival here? I do not brook secrets being kept between those within my kingdom and those beside it."

"No secrets are implied or intended, your majesty, we assure you. As always, we are open to sharing all we might learn and hold nothing back. Prince Brand has asked that we request information of this Mr. Baggins on how we might set up possible trade routes to his country, the Shire, and through it. It is our hope, of course, that our esteemed friends and allies the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain may also benefit by this trade."

"My own people already traverse that land, I am told. The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains are our kin; theirs are the lands that lie beyond it, and many are our people there. Why have you not inquired of this alliance with us first?"

"Ah... no offense intended of course, your majesty, but you must realize that your own people are not... forthcoming to those of non-Dwarven lineage when it comes to such details as - er - maps, directions, trade or... routes."

Dáin seemed to find this amusing. "No, I suppose to you they would not be. Dwarves seek the well-being of Dwarves first, else we should all have been stolen half-blind long before now. But you and your people have certainly benefited from living alongside the banks of our river of gold, and now you would like to go fishing yourselves, eh?"

There was a murmur from the men, but no cohesive answer among them and an uncomfortable pause.

"What do you hope to market or trade with this new route? To what benefit?" asked Dáin abruptly.

"Fish," answered their spokesman promptly. "As you have plainly guessed by your clever reference (may your beard grow ever longer). Our finest lake fish, white and clean, dried on the sun-filled slopes of this very mountain. The same fine fish that often honors your own table, provided by the skilled hands of our fishermen. We had hoped Mr. Baggins could aid us not only in the best route, but in perhaps teaching us of what the Hobbit-folk lack that we might be able to fill, and in what way they might best receive our tally of dried fish on a market day if they have such a custom."

"I see. Go on."

"If your kin in the Blue Mountains would also benefit by this fine meat, we would be pleased to trade with them as well, of course. It was Mr. Baggins own generous orders to our artisans for small toys and crackers to amuse his guests in the Shire that made us aware of the possible extent of this market."

"...Toys and...crackers?" Dáin sounded dubious.

The speaker puffed up a little. "Yes! A great lot of them. Our toy-makers are the best... among Men that is," he finished as he remembered where he was.

"Toys." Dáin observed dryly. "I see. Well, perhaps he can aid you, perhaps not. Either way we will soon find out." He clapped his hands sharply and issued orders to someone Bilbo could not see to fetch the hobbit from where he was sequestered with his companions. "I shall have one of my officials attending this meeting with Mr. Baggins and yourselves, of course."

"Of course," murmured the ambassadorial men. "We are glad to share in all things with our most august neighbors."

"Crackers...?" said one of the servants seated nearest Bilbo.

The other shrugged and motioned him to be quiet.

Well, thought Bilbo, These Men are certainly used to living alongside Dwarves. They've got the flattery down pat. Fish, for the Shire? Not a bad thought, but their timing is atrocious. Why couldn't they have remembered before I left them? And what am I going to do? Now they're looking for me!

"Very well." came Dáin's voice on the other side of the curtain. "You and your company may be seated near the fire for your comfort, and generous refreshment will be sent for. Scribe! Take up your supplies and await the hobbit's arrival. Be seated, be seated, good Men. You will not find our hospitality lacking. I myself will retire, as I have other matters of greater importance to attend to."

"The audience of Dáin, King Under the Mountain is concluded!" announced the young dwarf and the curtain pulled back. Dáin swept into the dressing room, and the thick drapery dropped back into place.

"Fools. They take us for fools," muttered Dáin. "Send for wine, but middle stock is sufficient. They won't know the difference. One platter of cakes, but no additions unless absolutely necessary."

One of the waiting servants bowed and went out the side door, passing by Bilbo so closely he could have reached out and touched him.

"You," pointed Dáin as his rich cloak was being lifted from his shoulders by Dím's quick hands. "You watch for that hobbit. He better not keep them waiting, those Men have monstrous appetites." The other servant bowed and slipped out the curtained entry into the main room.

Dáin stood still, holding his arms out from his side as Dím quickly circled him, removing a variety of adornments and laying them in their waiting cases. The numerous rubies were unclamped from his beard, and a more modest assortment of gems put in their place.

"What's taking him so long?" he grumbled. Dím did not reply.

Bilbo lay under the concealment of the cloth and tried to pretend he was invisible, though his heart was hammering again with the nearness of the King. What would his companions say? How could they cover for his not being among them? The minutes slowly slid by in fat drops and the whole situation began to seem unreal. When the last of the ceremonial jewels were finally laid aside, Dím helped the King back into the vest and cloak he had been wearing before.

The servant that had been sent for the wine returned and bowed. "The Men have been served, your Majesty."

"And that hobbit?" asked Dáin.

"He has not arrived yet, your greatness. He was not with his Companions, and they are seeking him now."

"Not with his Companions?" growled Dáin. "What do you mean, not with his Companions?"

The servant bowed again and tugged his beard in apology. "Only that he was not present, and they seemed taken by surprise to have him inquired for, Sire. They assured us they would find him quickly and sent their sincere apologies for the delay."

"They did, did they?" said Dáin darkly. "And what was he doing away from them in the first place, I wonder, unattended? Summon the Company, with or without their burglar. I want them here immediately!" The servant began to turn but Dáin held up a staying hand. "Wait. It would not be seemly for these Men to view any Dwarf thus summoned in dishonor. First, you are to go to the Dwalin's hall, but do not be openly seen. I want to know what they are speaking to one another when they think they are alone. I want to know where that hobbit really is, and if in truth they've lost him. If necessary, use a server. Food bearers are not noticeable; tongues wag freely within their hearing."

"As you wish it will be done, Sire." he bowed.

"Once you have the listeners in place, you are to serve them with an immediate summons to the Annex of the Hall."

"Yes, Sire." murmured the servant and slipped back out the door.

"I'm going to make them pay for every drop those Men are drinking," muttered Dáin, as if speaking to himself. "Now I'll have to extend them a full meal, I don't doubt it. Delays...! And now a wandering thief in my halls!" He tugged his cloak sharply. "I will await them in the Annex. I want a full report as soon as Mr. Baggins is found. I do not need further attendance now."

"Yes, your Jewelness." bowed Dím, stepping back as Dáin swept out the back hall and rustled away.

There was a long pause. Left alone, the young dwarf laid the remaining jewels in their cases and carefully stacked them in a chest. When will he leave? fretted Bilbo. He imagined vague dire consequences for his company if he could not return to their sides soon, all the more fearsome for their being undefined. The robe that covered him seemed to be suffocating him.

Dím muttered to himself. "Spying on the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. It just isn't right. I've heard some tales of this hobbit myself..." The dwarf closed one last latch and locked it, carefully fastening the key to a leather packet of them that he carried. He closed the pouch and tucked it into the front of his vest. Bilbo watched him through a gap in the cloth and slowly hitched his feet under him, ready to make a dash for the door as soon as the servant left.

Dím walked past, headed for the door. Bilbo gathered a breath.

The young Dwarf suddenly turned, and with lightning quickness pounced on Bilbo, turning him and sitting on him to wrestle the squeaking, struggling mass of cloth to the floor. One of his hands tore back the concealing cloth to reveal greying curls, and the frightened face of the King's missing 'burglar.'

-

Chapter 11: Unexpected Appearances

Shocked, Bilbo had the strange sensation of flashes of light going off inside his head. He looked up fearfully at the young dwarf who pinned him to the ground.

"I... w..."

"Shhh!" Dím said quietly, putting a light hand to Bilbo's mouth. "Not here."

The hobbit's eyes above the dwarven hand were wider than an owl's. "B..."

His captor shook his head and spoke very lowly. "Shhh - someone will hear. Don't talk yet. Follow me!" He got up, easily pulling the hobbit to his feet along with him. "This way..."

-----

In the annex to the Great Hall of Thrór, Dáin Ironfoot waited. The fire had been hastily kindled when he had sent out the summons for Thorin's old Company to assemble there, and the room was yet chill. He pulled his cloak further up his shoulders and buried his hands in the end of his beard.

The servants and food-bearing spies that he had sent into Dwalin's dining hall had come back with no tales to tell, no speech overheard; the Company had apparently scattered in search of their missing companion. Only Bombur had been there when the platters of fishes and cheese had arrived, and he had not spoken any word except "pass me that pepper-grinder" between mouthfuls; they had finally left him there. It was most frustrating. He made a mental note to charge the cost of the platters to Bombur's household account and rocked on his heels impatiently.

Above the fireplace a large variegated marble frieze flickered and wavered, making the banners of the Iron Mountain seem to lift from the midst of the Battle. A warg, its head forever in the act of being cloven, lapped its lolling tongue at the firelight, unheeding of the gem-eyed Eagle just above it.

Dáin frowned at it. He did not want to be reminded of that battle just now. There was a movement behind him and he turned to find Dori and Dwalin entering the room with Nori behind them seeming a bit out of breath. None of them quite met his eyes, and he did not speak but waited for them to compose themselves nearby.

The fire crackled. Dáin pursed his lips and drew breath, letting it back out unspoken as Glóin also entered and strode over to join the others with a dignity that his King found oddly irritating.

"Where are the others?" he asked shortly.

Glóin glanced at his three friends standing together, then turned to his distant kin and leader with an unreadable expression. "I've sent my son to seek them. Bifur and Bofur are most likely with Mr. Baggins, whom they were seeking. No doubt they'll all arrive soon enough. Your summons was lacking in courtesy, Sire, and they had no chance to plan for this meeting as I am sure you realize. We have chosen to come, but not because of your demand."

"Do you dare to flaunt me thus, when you are the ones who brought this thief into our midst?"

"He is an honored guest, and no thief except in your own narrow..."

Dáin cut him off harshly. "Glóin, son of Gróin, your tongue runs overfree. You may claim descent from Durin, but it is I who am the Ruler of Durin's Folk. Not you."

Glóin was silent for a long minute, weighing what words he might have otherwise said. Dwalin shifted as if to say something, but was stilled by Nori's hand to his arm.

Glóin's voice came again, but slowly and carefully. "Forgive me for my rash words, your Majesty. In my worry I was perhaps too quick to speak."

Dáin nodded in acceptance. "Perhaps."

Dwalin cleared his throat. "My Liege. There are those who believe by this hasty summons at the behest of mere Men you have carried out a grave discourtesy not only to us, but to your own honored guest who helped place you on that very throne and aided you in keeping the title of Ruler for your family line."

"His services were long ago bought and paid for." Dáin said, brushing it aside. He shook his head irritably. "And now he brings dissent and division between us, his benefactors, as well."

"What do you mean when you say this? Speak plainly, if you will." said Glóin.

Dáin turned and considered the fire, then lifted his eyes to the frieze above it.

"We have built our wealth, restored our kingdom together!" He glanced back at them over his shoulder, then turned to face them once again, his cloak swirling about his feet. "Each of you are among the most influential, wealthy and famed dwarves of our time, and our names will be spoken of by our descendants long after our days are ended.”

They did not offer comment. Like all Dwarven rulers, they knew their kinsman to be long-winded on subjects such as these and were waiting for his true point.

“We know the true value of gold, of silver and gems to the very depths of our hearts. Gold beats in our blood!" Dáin struck his own chest emphatically, warming to the subject.

"We do not lightly leave it to the uncaring, cold hands of Men and... other races. What do they know of the lifeblood of our mountain, of our people? It is a shame upon us, all of us, every time even a single gold coin, a single cup is set in the hands of those who understand it no more than a babe might. It is all glitter to them, mere metal and shine. We, we are the ones who know it, we are the ones who can name the lineage of each and every worked piece, to know what hands first pulled it from the hidden places in the earth, drew it forth from the rock as smooth and golden as honey, as bright as fire...."

Dáin paused, turning back to the flames on the hearth, knowing all of them were now remembering and savoring the memories of molten gold, poured sweet and pure...

After a long moment his voice came again in the silence, but now he sounded old, and suddenly tired. "And all this you would risk, risk over a single old servant no longer even in service, a loyalty to something long past? You say you trust this halfling, but where is he now? What is he learning, touching, pilfering, even? What other ears will hear of our treasuries through him? What do you really know of what he has been doing all these long years you have been apart, or if he even left his own people honorably? What if he was in fact in flight, for some burglary gone amiss?"

They all drew breath to protest, but he silenced them with a firm wave of his hand. "I know, I know. You do not believe it of him. There are those, even among you, who would proclaim him a hero because of the part he once played. Well, I see it otherwise. He had his time, but in truth he was merely a tool used in Thorin's hands to draw the gold from the mountain once again. His time is past! That tool, that pick should not be set to our works again, or it will only chip away at our own people, our own rightful treasures, not the ungainful hoard of the great enemy of our ancestors, that Worm whom I shall not name."

He spread his hands to them appealingly. "My brothers of the earth, my kin, if only you would open your eyes. Like you, I have many treasures, great gems that are far beyond any value that could be set upon them. Irreplaceable. Men and Elves would give this halfling such a price for them, kingly sums; is he to think us none the wiser and to be lauded as clever to fleece us so neatly? Are our allies to laugh behind their hands when they greet us? Remember, he gave away his own share of the treasure!" His features, which he had turned to them with appeal now hardened at the thought. He spun back to the fire and seemed to address the lolling Warg above him. "One fourteenth! Gold beyond the dreams of any Dwarf; gave it away, without understanding, as if it were so much dross, gave it to Men! How can you possibly trust a creature that would do such a thing?"

Dori spoke up in protest. "A 'creature?' Mr. Baggins is not a creature, your Highness..."

Dáin gave him a pitying look. "Not as one of the animals, of course not. But in comparison to Dwarven kind? He hasn't so much as one strand of a beard; even the Men can grow one."

"He makes up for it on his feet."

Dwalin put out a hand. "Dori, we must remember," he said, as if Dáin were not overhearing him. "And we must be fair. Do you remember how we all had such misgivings about him, when we first learned he would be joining our company?"

"We thought him a coward," said Nori somewhat hesitantly. "And of little worth. But we learned differently before much time had passed." Dori nodded.

"Yes we did," agreed Dwalin. "and it is my hope that our good Ruler will also come to know what Thorin himself finally admitted, that this halfling, this hobbit had both courage and wisdom, and that he was worthy of honoring. The only reason Mr. Baggins would lay hands upon any treasure would be to return it to its rightful owner, to reverse any thievery of the past. No matter what its value, or how highly placed that thief."

"Well spoken," said Glóin somewhat curtly as he turned his gaze back to his King.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Dáin shifted his cloak. "You speak lightly of his laying hands on treasures, yet you admit that you yourselves do not know where he is right now." He gave them all a hard look. There was another pause, but none of their gazes dropped. "I have heard you... I have. I will consider your words. But he has yet to prove his trustworthiness to me. If he is found anywhere near any treasury, if even one gold bead is accounted as missing when he was near... "

There was a small sound from the doorway. They turned to see one of the servants of the King, a young dwarf with a chestnut beard who bowed low.

"Your forgiveness for interrupting, your Greatness, but you did instruct that we let you know when the visitor was found."

"He's been found? Where is he? Where was he?" demanded Dáin.

"He was seated with the Men in the Great Hall, your Highness, speaking with them and drawing them a map."

"What?" cried Dáin. "How did he get there? Where has he been?"

"I know not, your Highness, only that he appeared to have been with them for some while, and they said he had joined them only a very short time after you said they were to await him there. Er...."

"Yes? Speak!"

"They also requested more... cakes, Sire. And more wine. It seems our guest has had a very hearty appetite and an additional platter would be of great benefit to their comfort."

"You did send out a summons for him to meet with the Dale-men." pointed out Glóin, who was struggling to conceal his own curiosity about this event. "Should it be such a surprise that he was obedient to it?"

"It also means we've been impolitely summed and brought here for no reason," grumbled Dwalin. He turned to Dáin. "Did it never occur to you to see if he was exactly where you had asked him to be?"

Dáin was nonplussed. "He wasn't there when I left that room. I am sure of it. Where he came from I would give much to know. Dím!"

"At your service," murmured the servant, bowing.

"I shall require your services for dinner. It seems we shall yet have Vale guests to be entertained. See to it."

"Yes, your majesty."

Dáin marched out of the room in an ill humour, his cloak swirling along behind him. To the surprise of the Companions, his servant did not immediately follow.

The young dwarf bowed to them again and then stepped slightly closer, speaking softly and rapidly. "Your companion sends his greetings. Is there a more private place that your company might gather? The hall you were accustomed to using is no longer secure, the King's eyes and ears are set upon your Company."

From the midst of their surprise and irritation, Dwalin raised his brows and spoke softly in return. "I deem there is need of haste?"

"Perhaps some, though not dire. Please, no more speech upon this matter for now... I must return to my duties, but shall be honored to speak with you once dinner is completed for the King. Where shall you meet?"

"Once we have all of us together, and our hobbit as well, we shall see what this is about..." said Dori.

Glóin raised a hand to still him. "My chambers are nighest, and Mr. Baggins has already been staying there..... "

"Very well," said the servant, and with a quick bow he was gone to the doorway, where he almost collided with Bifur.

Bifur turned to let him pass, then entered with Bofur behind him.

"He's found," said Nori, before either of them could open their mouths.

"He's with the Men, in the Hall," clarified Dori.

"And how did he end up with the Men, if he was supposed to be with you?" accused Dwalin.

"I'd like to know that too," said Glóin, waving a hand to Gimli who was now hovering in the doorway uncertainly. "Gimli, come. Where did you find them? Nevermind. Tell me about it later."

"A fine welcome this is, after our efforts," grumbled Bofur. "We were searching for Mr. Baggins where we had last seen him, near Ûrd's workshop..."

"Shh, shhh" said the others, surprising them with motions of quiet. Dwalin shook his head at them.

"What?" asked Bofur.

Glóin lowered his voice. "We've been told we are being listened to, by servants of Dáin. Whatever it was that happened, we will speak of it in my own rooms, after dinner. It is enough for now that all are accounted for and well. I myself am bursting at the seams to know how our Mr. Baggins managed to appear with the Men of Dale, but it will have to wait for now. But do tell us, did you find... it?"

They shook their heads unhappily. "And no sign of ....it, either."

Glóin sighed. "I suppose it was too much to hope it would be so easy." He turned to his son who was taking the opportunity to warm his hands at the fire. "Gimli, it appears we will have a rather large party to host for dinner tonight in our rooms. Do let the cook know. We will be serving ourselves, no waiters. The servants are to be dismissed for the evening."

"Yes, father. What of the hobbit, Mr. Baggins?"

"He will be with us."

"He’ll be famished, no doubt," smiled Dori. "Even with the men's cakes."

"Yes," said Glóin. "Dori, have you the time to await his finishing whatever it is he's doing with those Men? It would be a help to have you watching over him, to be sure he does not go astray again this evening."

"This I can do," said Dori, "and gladly."

-

Chapter 12: A Private Affair

I.

It was a bemused and worried Company that gathered in Glóin's rooms that evening, feeling crowded together after the expanse of Dwalin's family dining hall that they had become accustomed to. In truth, the room was easily spacious enough for all of them and then some, but they felt crowded nonetheless.

Glóin had dismissed the serving staff once the food arrived and the doors had been carefully closed making them feel even more crowded in and they grumbled. They really had no reason, Bilbo thought, as the room itself was comfortable and artistically balanced; the warm fire bringing the light out on various works of art and weaponry that gleamed, mounted on walls or displayed within their own carefully designed nooks.

Looking down, Bilbo noted the thick fur rugs of the main rooms had given way to a soft woven mat of some kind with fresh rushes spread over for easy cleanup in case of spills. It was just the right size to surround the table and its diners. He had run into this idea before, but almost forgotten it. He thought it terribly clever, seeing as the soiled "floor" could then simply be fed into the fire. He filed it away as an idea for future parties before he remembered that he probably wouldn't be hosting any more parties himself... well, if he ever got the chance to let Frodo know, it would be most handy to have something like this in Bag End....

They had constrained themselves from too much discussion until they were well away and to themselves, but the questions had flown quickly over their plates once they were. They finally heard what had happened to 'their hobbit' after he had gone off with Bifur and Bofur as his escorts earlier that day.

Bilbo obediently spoke, but it was hard to concentrate on it when he was still so hungry. The food was marvelous, especially the venison, and that odd dish with the liver, raisins and onions in it as well. He'd never been that fond of liver, but this one was surprisingly good. And the spiced fruit compote, mustn't forget that.... He spooned up the last bite of it on his plate and hoped there was more.

"So," Dwalin said, dabbling a bit of sauce from his otherwise immaculate beard, "You've told us how you ended up lost..."

"Bad bit of luck, that," interjected Bofur. "We never should have left you."

"He insisted," pointed out Bifur. "And if you recall it seemed a good idea at the time."

"Not so very good," grumbled Bofur. "I didn't think so...."

“That’s not what you said then…” replied his brother. “You…”

"That's neither here nor there now," cut in Bilbo. "I'll admit I was a bit overconfident, but I do think it might have turned out fine if I hadn't been all but chased to the treasuries by your King." He emphasized this with bite out of his second helping of spring-onion pie and had to chase the generous gravy with a napkin.

"But still...." Bifur started again.

"And," continued Dwalin, waving his own napkin to silence them, "how you ended up, of all places, in our same King's dressing-room...."

"Like I said, we shouldn't have left him." Bofur repeated.

Bifur glowered at him. "Why are you looking at me, like it's my fault? You were there, walking out the same as..."

"It didn't mean I was in agreement..."

Dwalin grimaced. "Excuse me!"

"Sorry," the two brothers chorused.

"As I was trying to say, Mr. Baggins, what I think we need to know more about is this youngster who seems to have been drawn in. What was his name again?"

"Dím," said Bilbo between mouthfuls. "And a capital fellow he was too. I was certain I was going to be thrown off one of your peaks or something." He scraped up the last of his pie and shoveled it in, speaking around it. "I told him I was innocent, of course, and that my friends would be in grave trouble if Dáin were to know I'd been there, because he is still determined to think of me as a dishonest character - something that I continue to resent, by the way." He took a drink of tea.

"Understandably so," nodded Dwalin. "And he believed you, which was a fortunate turn. But how much have you told him, this youth?"

"Not much. He does know that we are seeking something that has wrongly gone missing, and that we need to ascertain that it is not among the possessions of the King."

"And you believe him trustworthy, not someone set upon us by Dáin?" asked Glóin.

"I do," said Bilbo. "He regards all of the Company as heroes, it seems - myself included for a change. After he had finished scaring the wits out of me - something he thoroughly apologized for, I might add, so no one need take offense - he was a fine help." He reached for the fruitbread, then passed it to Bombur as the two of them were the only ones still eating.

"What about the Men?" asked Nori, who had already let his belt out a notch and settled back to sip at a cup of warm wine. "Might they not tell some tale to the King?"

"Why should they?" asked Bilbo. "Mmm. Currants. Love currants," he added. Bombur nodded in agreement.

"Because they would know you hadn't been with them the whole time, and that you arrived slyly." said Nori. "Surely they would think it strange?"

"Why should they?" repeated Bilbo. "They were told to sit at the table and I would be with them presently. I was. After Dím showed me that side-passage so I could get in the room, they simply assumed wherever I had been, I was now there. They didn’t care about anything else. I told them what they wanted to know, and that I'll be stopping in to draw up a more proper map before I leave.” He cleared his mouth with a sip of wine. “They are not privy to Dáin's suspicions, and he wouldn't be opening his Kingdom to any strife with them."

"Strife?" asked Nori, with a lift of his brows.

"Yes, strife." smiled Bilbo, setting down his cup and picking his fork back up. "The Dale-men are also my friends, and they would most likely offer some protest if they believed I was being ill-treated by my hosts. Which I most certainly am not at the moment. Pass the last of that peppered venison, will you? The food is excellent. Do extend my compliments to the cook, whomever it may be."

"But this Dím," persisted Dwalin. "He is a jewel-dresser?"

"I assume so, if that's what you call the fellow who decorates the King for audiences and so on?"

They nodded. Dwalin stroked his beard thoughtfully. "If he can be trusted, he would be a most valuable asset. As jewel-dresser, he would have access to all of Dáin's jewel-cases, and perhaps the gem-treasury. He may even be our way of gaining entry to Ûrd's workroom."

"Or we could try just sending him there, for news of any unusual gems that may have crossed those tables lately." said Glóin eagerly. "If he were willing. And if he’d tell us."

"But then he'd have to know what he was looking for," pointed out Dori. "And Bilbo said he didn't tell him. A very proper caution, by the way. That is a weighty trust. Could we send someone with him?"

"Ûrd knows all of us. Who would he let in?"

"How about your son, Gimli?" suggested Bilbo. "He's also young. It wouldn't seem strange to the jeweler that a youth should come along with another youth, should it? At least in the Shire I know it was a rare thing to have only one youngster around. Where there's one, you'll soon find more."

"I think that's a very likely idea." said Dori, with a nod.

"Our younglings are perhaps not as gregarious as yours," said Dwalin more cautiously. "But they do forge loyalties to companions and family early on. It might not seem untoward, assuming Gimli is not recognized as of the lineage of the Company. Glóin?"

"I would like to meet this young jewel-dresser first, before I make my decision."

"Of course." Dwalin nodded. "We will speak to him when he arrives."

"Then if it seems well, he will go."

Bilbo looked at them quizzically. "Shouldn't we ask Gimli?"

"Glóin is his father." stated Dwalin flatly.

Bilbo had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking out of turn. He'd not forgotten about the patriarchal way Dwarves controlled those under their authority, but that it extended to a son who was plainly more than old enough to care for himself had taken him off-guard for a moment. He covered his awkward moment by slicing up his venison and stuffing it in his mouth.

"It is good to see your appetite was not marred by your misadventure." observed Bombur. "A fine sign of a good spirit, a good appetite."

"Well," said Bilbo, chewing. "All I'd had since breakfast was a winter apple, and a sorry one at that. Thankfully, the Dale-men had cakes." He swallowed and mopped the juices on the plate with a bit of bread.

---

When Dím arrived, the meal was well over and they had all retired to what Bilbo assumed was the equivalent of a parlour. The young dwarf entered almost furtively and seemed nervous, which was understandable considering he now had seven of the most influential living Dwarves all watching his steps in silence.

"Hullo!" greeted Bilbo, waving to him from where he sat on a hassock near the fire. "So good of you to come. These are my Companions, whom I assume you already know or I would introduce you. Everyone, this is Dím, to whom I owe the preservation of my honor and dignity this day."

There were murmurs of greeting at this but little else, making Bilbo wonder at their reticence.

"We are grateful for your aid to our companion," said Dwalin formally. He stood and gave a brief bow. "But you understand we must see if you are worthy of our trust before we speak with you further on this matter."

Dím bowed in return and then kept his gaze on his boots. "I understand."

Dwalin turned to the hobbit. "My apologies, Mr. Baggins, but this questioning must be done only among those of Dwarven lineage."

Bilbo just stared at them for a minute as he adjusted to this sudden shift in formality. He got up from his seat. "Oh! Oh, of course. No trouble at all! I'll... er, I'll wait back in the dining room, perhaps? If that's far enough away? I shan't listen in."

There were nods of assent, and with a last look at Dím, he turned to go. What had he gotten the young servant into?

"Don't look so concerned," came Dori's voice to him softly. "He is in less danger than I think our leftovers are about to be." Bilbo managed a small smile of thanks for his friend, and went to the dining area, swinging the door shut behind him with its perfectly oiled *click*.

In spite of his promise, he did briefly place his ear to the door. Only murmurs of dwarven rumbling could be heard. He was glad the fire was still going, for who knew how long it would be. Poking at it, he flipped the half-burnt logs to brighten the flames and took a small plate of sweet fruitbread slices to nibble at while he watched them dance.


II.

A hand to his shoulder brought out of a muddled somnolence that he didn't realize he'd slipped into. "Mmhhf?"

"Mr. Baggins?"

"Are you awake?"

He opened an eye to see the fire, which had been so bright before was now fallen into a heap of glowing coals. How much time had passed? He pulled himself from the slump he had been in and tried to face them more alertly. The empty plate clattered from his lap to the floor, bringing a chuckle from his awakeners.

"See? I told you the leftovers were in danger." Dori's beard wagged in his mirth.

"You are welcome to return now," said Bifur's voice behind Dori. "The testing is over."

"Testing?" said Bilbo, still somewhat in a fog.

"Our own judgment of his trustworthiness. Though he gave just as he was given, seeing as he needed to trust us as well."

“Surely you must have some way of seeing if someone is trustworthy among your own people?” asked Dori.

“I suppose…” Bilbo had to think about it for a moment. “ If you listen to the gossip you’ll find out about someone soon enough. There aren’t many secrets in the Shire.”

Bifur shook his head. “I’ll never understand Hobbits.”

Bilbo stood and brushed the crumbs from his vest and breeches, leaving the plate to lay where it was as he followed them back.

"Likewise, I must say, though I’m giving it a try. About Dwarves that is. Which means I'm brimming with questions about this," he said to their backs. "But I'm also guessing that unless I learn to grow a beard I shan't be knowing the answers anyway."

Dori smiled back at him. "Probably right."

"Very well. I'll try not to badger you about it. But do tell me if it turned out for the better or the worse?"

They entered the parlour room, where for some reason he noticed first of all that the sturdy couch Bombur was seated on was sagging in an alarming manner. The heavy dwarf noted his attention and waved to him. "Mr. Baggins! I do hope you left a little for me? I am fair famished with all this talk and bother. We could do with a little refreshment."

Bilbo smiled at him. "A little, yes. Shall I fetch you something?"

Bifur elbowed Bombur as he rose from the chair beside him. "No need, I'll get it. He shan't pay any attention to anything else until he's fed."

"I do so!" protested Bombur with good humor. "It simply helps me think a little clearer to not be wasting away. Come, sir, have a seat."

"Oh, no thank you," said Bilbo. "I've been sitting so long I think my legs need the stretching." In truth, he was afraid the couch would not bear up under the addition of his small weight. He leaned on the end of it instead as he looked around the room.

"Where is Dím?"

"He's gone with my son to see to the jeweler's workroom," said Glóin. "Gimli himself has never seen what we seek, but knows what to look for."

"Yes," Bilbo nodded. He remembered the stone's beauty and how even he had realized what it was as soon as he had laid eyes upon it.

"It is most unmistakable," put in Bifur, coming back in with a well-filled plate. "Even if it is.... that is, if it has...."

"Don't. Don't even think it," said Dwalin. "He wouldn't have dared ruin such perfection. I hold to that!"

"Well, let us hope this jewelsmith also holds by it," said Bifur darkly. He handed the plate to Bombur and sat back down. "And that he's truly gone from his rooms."

"The youth seemed certain of it," said Dwalin. "Though he knows not what we seek. I am still greatly amazed that he was willing."

"He honors you," said Bilbo. "All of you. He told me he thought of all of you as heroes of the realm..."

"He does," said Dwalin. "And this is a great aid to us. He also seems to have much regard for you, master Hobbit. More than our own King does, to our shame."

"He seems to have a good spirit," observed Bofur. “I wish more of our youth were so properly steeped in respect for their elders, and our history.”

Dwalin looked into the parlour fire, then up at the gems glinting on the mantle above it. "Yes. Reminds me of Balin somewhat, when he was younger of course. He always believed the best of the old tales and heroes, always wanted to restore that lost glory of our elder days...."

"Believed? Why do you speak of him as if he were gone?" asked Bilbo.

Dwalin's face darkened for a moment, then smoothed again as he concealed his thoughts. "We must face the possibility that he *is* gone. It has been silent for far too long. I suppose it is easier to think of his ballad as being at an end than it is to wonder what might yet befall him."

The others nodded silently. Bilbo considered this. "They were seeking some sort of treasure, weren't they? Like our quest for.... here?"

Glóin shook his head. "No, it was not like our old adventures, master Hobbit. Some things of old are better left as they are, though the value be great enough to make any heart beat faster at the thought of it."

"Is that why you didn't go?" pressed Bilbo in curiosity. "With him, and with Óin? Not that I would wish you in any danger..."

Dori spoke up, as if to turn the subject. "There are dangers everywhere, I suppose. For instance, the reports say the spiders of Mirkwood are worse of late... No one travels through that part of the forest anymore. Though the Beornings keep the lands on the other side safe enough, even they don't venture too deeply into that wood. Who's to say what sort of treasures might not be lost in there as well?"

"No ffpiders," muttered Bombur with his mouth full. He swallowed. "Not for anything." There was a murmuring of agreement around the room at this sentiment. Even Bilbo shuddered slightly at the thought.

"I tried to talk him out of it," said Glóin tonelessly. "He was already one of the richest of us, but Balin filled his head with those tales..."

Nori cleared his throat. "They were successful in their venture, though. You have to admit, they did find at least part of what they were seeking. Ori and the others. It wasn't all just tales."

"They were?" Bilbo was a bit surprised to hear this. He had the impression they had simply left and never been heard from again.

Dwalin looked into the fire again. "No, not just tales told around a fireside. Not just tales to frighten the young. But we already knew that. The lineage of our people is woven into that tale. Yes, they found some of what they sought, but what else did they find, I wonder? Why no word?"

"What did they seek?" dared Bilbo.

There was instant silence. It was not a surprise, but he had hoped they might go on a little longer, seeing as they had already said more in his presence than he thought they might.

"Sorry," he added with an apologetic shrug. "I assure you I have no plans whatsoever to go find whatever it is, wherever it is, nor am I going to tell anyone. I was just curious. Balin was a good friend of mine, and I can't help but wonder; but it's all right. You needn't say."

Glóin breathed a heavy sigh. "It was once said of you that you were worth your weight in gold, Mr. Baggins. Your understanding is a great courtesy. If more of us could see the value in mere curiosity instead of needing to hold every treasure in our own two hands, there would be less grief and toil amid our people.”

Bofur nodded. “The love and skill with which we shape all beautiful things is our strength, but it can also be our weakness when it overwhelms common sense."

"Not that common sense had much to do with our venture of fourteen against a dragon," Dwalin put in slightly defensively. "And we were successful. What deeds of great might would we have to sing about if everyone were content with mere curiosity?"

"There is a place for both," nodded Glóin. "Mayhap we may yet hear from them, someday."

"We'll make them a song," said Nori hopefully.

"If you do, I'll want to hear it," said Bilbo. "Oh, hullo! Back already? What did you find?"

The others all turned to see Gimli in the doorway, with Dím behind him.

Glóin stood, and Gimli gave him a slight bow, though his face was unreadable.

"We searched everything we could, Father..."

"And...?"

"We did not find anything. Nothing that was as you described, that is."

"I don't know what you were looking for, of course," said Dím a bit nervously from behind Gimli's shoulder. "But I promise you we looked everywhere. Nothing was touched, of course, but all was seen."

Glóin nodded in acceptance. "We thank you. You have given us a great service, and we are in your debt. Step aside, Gimli, let him in the room."

Dím stepped forward reluctantly. "I am honored to serve you and your families," he responded with a bow of formality. "Without you, none of us would have our homes or fortunes. If there is any other way I can be of aid, you have but to send for me, presuming my duties allow me to come."

"It wasn't there? Well, I'm glad I didn't risk my skin for that one after all," said Bilbo, "Seeing as it would have been for nothing, that is. No offense."

"I was so sure it would have been there," said Dori with disappointment. "Now I can't even think of where else to look."

"How about those treasuries I ran into?" asked Bilbo logically.

There was a collective intake of breath around the room and a combined reaction of shocked silence. Dím looked as if he wanted to flee the room, held there only by courtesy.

"What?" asked Bilbo to their silence. "Oh come now. Are we going to get it back or aren't we? It's not like we're going to steal anything, we just need to see if it's there or not."

He got to his feet and went to the young dwarf. "Young Master Dím, I already know the way to them, or at least I'm pretty sure I can find it, thanks to the mishap that landed me in your company in the first place. There's no need for you to be in any danger of rebuke from your King. If you could just let us know when would be a good time to go there, and how to just pop them open for a moment to check, it would be enough. I promise we won't touch a thing! We just need our own.... treasure.... back again, so we may return it to the friend from whom it was stolen."

Dím looked around the room as if seeking a way of escape, then turned his eyes back to the hobbit standing so entreatingly before him. "Ach," he muttered, then straightened his shoulders. "Very well. What am I to do?"

Dwalin spoke up. "There's no need for trouble, and we don't wish to endanger you...."

"But Mr. Baggins does have a good idea here," said Bofur. "If it is possible."

"Of course it's possible," said Bilbo. "Like I said, I already know the way. All we need is to borrow the key."

"There is no key," said Dím. "It.... er...."

Glóin nodded. "A hidden lock, of course. We understand, it would be expected."

Bilbo rolled his eyes at yet another "dwarves-only" secret coming up. "I know, I know. I'll leave the room. But first, can you tell us when it would be a good time to go? It's getting quite late for tonight, but if I have to I can manage."

Dím smiled down at him. "No need, Hobbit Baggins of the Companions...."

"Just Bilbo is fine, or Mr. Baggins if you prefer."

"Mr. Baggins then,” he smiled slightly, before continuing with the formality. “His Majesty the King is scheduled to make his rounds of the watch-towers tomorrow, and he'll be leaving early. Should nothing untoward occur, he shouldn't be back until the afternoon. I myself have family duties that I must attend to that morning and all will know where I am."

"Perfect! Delightful!" said Bilbo. "I couldn't have asked for better. See?" he spoke over his shoulder to the rest of them. "It's easily done. We have plenty of time, and this fine fellow will have an alibi, from his family.” He turned back to Dim. “So you’ll tell these fellows what they need to know?"

There was a long pause as Dim seemed to struggle with some indecision then he spoke, choosing his words carefully. "I…would need to be there to help you, or you will never escape the notice of the guards. I will tell you when is the best time to go. And I am willing to tell only one of them, no more. Who do you consider the most trustworthy among them, Mr. Baggins? I will bow to your judgment."

This was unexpected, and they all drew themselves up. Bilbo's eyebrows raised as he turned to survey his Companions. He couldn't help drawing it out just a little, but relented quickly. "Trustworthy? All of them, Master Dím. I would trust any of them with my own life. In fact, I have. But if what you are looking for is being close-mouthed, I would choose.... Dwalin."

"What about me?" protested Bombur, not too seriously.

Dori chuckled. "Nay, Master Bombur, for a full plate of cakes you'd tell anyone anything they might like. He's chosen well, I think."

"Do you accept this, Dwalin?" asked Glóin.

Dwalin stood and ran his hand over his beard with thought. "It is also a weighty charge, but no weightier than that which we are asking of this young one. If you entrust this to me it shall go no farther, not even to my own Company. Very well then. Come with me now, and we will retire to a more private place."

As Dwalin led Dím out of the room, Gimli turned to his father and begged to be excused. "I've fallen behind in my work, and must finish before the mastersmith's testing of my work on the morrow. I bid you all a restful evening."

"Restful?" snorted Bifur after Gimli left. "Here we are plotting to break into the King's own treasuries and we're supposed to be restful?"

"We've had years of rest," replied his brother. "I must say I'm almost enjoying all this shaking up we've had in the last couple of days."

"Are you blaming all this on me?" asked Bilbo, who was warming himself by the fire.

"Oh no, of course not." "Yes, absolutely!" said Bifur and Bofur at the same time.

"Well, I never meant to shake up anything at all when I arrived here. I don't know about you, but I intend to take his advice as soon as I know what's going on in the morning."

"I also," said Nori. "The older I get the sooner my bed looks good to me. Ah, but for the energy of your son, Glóin."

"Or of the rest of you," said Bombur, heaving himself to his feet. "Fill me in on your adventuring at breakfast. Will it be here or Dwalin's hall?"

"Here, if you'll take some of the cost again," said Glóin.

"Of course. I paid for the venison this evening, didn't I?" he smiled. "And the pie too. If no one else does, I'll be here to protect our hobbit from wasting away. I shall see you at breakfast then. Good night and pleasant dreams." he lumbered out the door.


By the time Bilbo was gratefully able to seek his own bed it was some time later, and even then he left others to their converse around a low-burning fire. Tomorrow would be yet another day with another attempt at setting a wrong to rights, and while that would have once been terribly exciting to him, now he found it made him just feel tired.

"I hadn't counted on having quite so much adventure here..." he sleepily thought. "Or I would have rested up for it first. I wonder if old age is beginning to creep up on me at long last. We’ve never gotten along well, Old Age and I. I confused it with all this traveling about and it doesn’t seem too good at catching up with me. I bet if I’d stayed home it would have by now, and I would probably be old."

He pulled the covers up more snugly under his chin. "Well, plenty of time for Aging later, should it creep up on me.. it’s probably wandering around Beorn’s place inquiring for me, and I shan’t think it’ll get any information from those folk. I just need some sleep…" Gimli was not there, gone as he was to the forges again, but the bed was warm and soft and his weariness soon washed any remaining worries for the morning into somnolence.

Chapter 13: Hidden Ways

Breakfast was earlier than Bilbo would have liked, not that the food was unwelcome but rather that his head was reluctant to leave its pillow. At least it was colorful: golden-browned carrot pancakes greeted him, topped with a cheerfully red berry sauce. Baked mushrooms well-tucked into a fat cheese omelette followed (to his delight) with a generous side of new potatoes tossed in butter. Though there was once again the dubious looking platter of salted fish, at least it was more than offset by the rest. All was washed down with steaming mugs of dark bitter-spicy tea with lots of sweetening.

He ate heartily and sighed with appreciation when some warm apple-and-clove tarts were brought in towards the end, compliments of Bombur; they were similar to the ones he had loved to bake at home, the kind that can be topped with cream right from the tea-creamer and eaten with a spoon, crust-bowl and all.

"A day without pie is a like a day without sunshine," he quoted happily. "Or so my parents always said."

"I don't know about the sunshine," said Bombur, reaching for another tart. "but mine always said 'pie is golden,' which I suppose means much of the same thing."

"It means you eat too much pie," said Bofur, who had already settled into a chair by the fire to smoke a morning pipe.

"Fie! There's no such thing. Too much pie, hah," he guffawed. "Pass the cream, there's a good fellow. Thank you, Mister Baggins."

Bilbo tucked into his portion with a good spirit. He was pleased at the overall plan they had; and for once, his part seemed simple enough. He was to lead them to the treasuries, and then leave them to go about their investigation while he appeared in a some very visible place to remove himself from all suspicion if anything went awry. With the King off at the watch towers, Dím had assured them that he could arrange for their entrance to the rooms to be unwitnessed.

Where exactly Bilbo was to wander was open to thought, so he ruminated on it while he ate.

"I haven't had a good look at the sun since I arrived. It would be nice if I could do a bit of my wandering by the main doors. There were those sunny porches I noticed you'd built along the front."

"I don't know if that would be a good idea," said Dwalin, who was puffing away next to Bofur. "It might make them think you’re just wanting to give secrets to the Men who stay in the guest quarters there."

"What? You're jesting - no, I see you're not." He couldn't help but think, not for the first time, how frustrating it would be to live as such a suspicious people. He decided not to say so, and set aside his now empty plate to sip at his tea.

"How about the halls, the ones we brought you in along; they have windows, where you admired the tree sculptures?" suggested Bifur. "There was some sunlight there, and it is often busy so you would be seen by many."

Bilbo nodded over the rim of his mug. "All right. Tree-halls it is. I'll make a show of being a great admirer of them seeing as they have windows - after a fashion."

Unlike his own comforting windows back home which gave a clear view into his garden, Dwarven windows were invariably high windows, crafted and slanted so that the sun would land exactly where they wanted it. They used the light as they crafted anything else, to bring out the beauty hidden in the stone and metal, not to have a view. Being not only high but narrow they were also individually too thin for anyone to ever squeeze through, a bow to the pervasive paranoia about being robbed.

He did not expect a view; but as long as they let in a little sunlight he would be content.

Dwalin stood up and took a breath. "Now, who will be going? Fetch us some twigs from the kindling there, Nori. I must be included, as I am the one who can open the way. We agreed on no more than three others and I can see no way for us to decide it without some impartial drawing of lots."

Heads bobbed in agreement. Nori collected some twigs and broke them to the similar lengths, with three of them longer. These were given to Bombur to hold as he had already declared he had no intention of walking that far, and they all stood and gathered around him to pull their lot from his generous fist.

There were murmurs and slight disappointment but no arguments as Glóin, Dori and finally Bifur measured their twigs longer than the rest.

Knowing they were very possibly being watched, by their earlier agreement the remainder, Bofur, Nori and Bombur, would make themselves visible in places they often frequented lest there be an impression that all of them had suddenly vanished at once.

---

As they walked through the halls, they all found themselves once again worrying that it was in fact Dáin that had the missing stone, which would make for a sticky political situation. How should they manage such a thing? Should they confront him? Or just quietly take it away, relying on his own inability to proclaim it missing as he wasn't supposed to have it in the first place?

"And even if he doesn't have it, I fear he will not hesitate to lay claim to it if he should come across it before we do," murmured Glóin. They all nodded somberly.

"Worse, just yesterday we found out that Dáin has ordered a special set of gems, apparently to be worn for midsummer," said Bifur. "To have gems that match for an entire set to be made up..."

"They would all have to be from the same vein," said Dori.

"Yes, or...from a larger gem, cut up..." Bifur finished darkly.

"I still say he would never so such a thing. He wouldn't order it, and no jeweler of any honor would do it!" stated Dwalin.

"Still..."

Glóin held up a hand and looked around them as they came to a familiar hall. "Hush. Mister Baggins, are you sure you can remember the way?"

"Yes, yes. I was coming from over there, and it was a little opening, a narrow hall that you almost don't even see until you're right upon it. That's why I thought it might make a good hiding place - which it obviously wasn't. See, it's right there."

"Ah, yes. Interesting. Now, see how this hall was formed from an old vein that was completely mined out? Very clever work." Glóin ran his hand over the smooth wall with appreciation, pausing at a slight beveled lintel that angled up to where a torch bracket stood.. "It looks like older tooling too. What skills our forefathers had!"

They all filed into the narrow slot with Dwalin and Bilbo leading the way, moving along one at a time and rounding the bends. "It's a good thing Bombur didn't come along on this little walk," chuckled Dori. "Can you imagine?"

"It would have taken a mining team a week of work just to dig him back out," Glóin agreed with a quiet laugh. "He'd have been stuck like a cork in a bottle."

"Hush," admonished Bilbo this time, who was feeling rather nervous about all of this, even without the dwarvish racket echoing around him.

"Watch your step," said Dwalin more quietly from the front of the line. "We're following the old vein downwards." They slowly made their way down several steps in the darkness until they came to the next level.

"Which way?" he whispered.

"Left," said Bilbo. "I went left...those two doors were locked, but just down past them there's another hall. Take it. It should go sort of downhill."

They shuffled along, and turned down the angled hallway, following the slope downward once again. The hall came to a split and they paused.

"Erm...just a moment," said Bilbo. This part was rather a blur in his memory, he had been running... running... "Right." he said. "I remember now, I nearly knocked myself silly on that....er..."

"Torch bracket."

"Is that what it is? Why is it dribbling so far down the wall like that?"

Dori smiled.” That’s the tail. It's shaped like a dragon. Surely you recognize that?"

He glanced back at it critically as they moved down the hall. "A fanciful one, I must say. Doesn't look like him as all."

They went right, downward once again, slightly up and then down yet another hallway to the top of another set of steps where Bilbo stopped them.

"Now,” he whispered. “If I'm remembering correctly, these are the steps that will bring you out near the treasury doors. It looks dark from here, but it sort of bends around. There's probably light at the bottom, and anyone who's there will be able to see you coming out, so go carefully."

"It's supposed to be clear until midday, at least as far as Dáin himself goes. And if Dím carries out his promise, we should be able to cross to it safely as soon as we hear his signal,” added Dwalin.

“He said it there was only one guard at this time of day. What if there’s more?” worried Glóin. “We don’t want to have trouble…”

"Are you sure we can trust him?" asked Dori. It was not the first time they had asked one another this question. He appeared calm, but his voice trembled slightly.

"We're a bit past that point, aren't we?" asked Bilbo rhetorically. "There are several doors - are you sure you know which one to go to?"

Dwalin nodded, seriously. "I am the one who knows this."

"How can we know he didn't put it in one of the other rooms?" worried Bifur belatedly.

"You always did tend to just leave things where they fell, didn't you?" said Glóin with mild amusement. " Dáin isn't like you. He is very meticulous, he would never mix one kind of treasure with another."

Bilbo, who was Baggins enough that he had always believed in things having their proper places (whether he managed to practice it or not) nodded approvingly. "So each of those rooms only holds a certain kind, silver in one, gold in another...? Amazing. But admirably organized, and it certainly beats toting it around in a wheel-barrow. Well! I leave you here then. Best of luck!"

"Best of luck indeed, that you knew the way," said Dwalin. “And that you fell in with this lad.”

“Aye, he was a good find,” nodded Glóin.

"You always were our Lucky Number, weren't you?" said Bifur, giving him a small bow. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me too soon; my luck has been hard-pressed of late. It’s really Dím’s luck we’re all leaning on now. Go on, and do be careful."

Dwalin seemed unusually nervous, but seeing as it had been decided that if anything went awry he was the one who would shoulder the blame, Bilbo could certainly understand it. The old Dwarf looked down at him with concern. "You can find your way back out?" he asked.

"Seeing as I may simply retrace my steps this time, yes. Isn't anyone coming with me?"

"With you?" All eyes were on the stairwell that led to the treasury doors.

"As an escort. If I'm to be above suspicion, I'll need one of you with me in the halls. We should have thought of that sooner."

There was a long pause. They all looked down at their beards.

"I'll go," Dori finally volunteered with obvious reluctance.

"Thank you," said Bilbo sincerely. "I can only imagine what it must be like for you to miss out on seeing what's inside those doors - a bit like having a lovely strawberry cake set before you and being told you can't have any, I would guess."

----

In the long gold-dappled hall far above the darkness of the treasuries, Bilbo and Bofur wandered slowly. Bofur, who had accepted Bilbo as his charge from Dori, had chosen this as their loitering-place because it kept the hobbit in plain sight of any number of minor officials, both of Men and Dwarves. It provided a useful alibi.

Bilbo was cheered by the mild sunlight the high windows offered; His own hopes were bolstered that all would be well. The sunlight touched the metal leaves of the carven trees upon the far wall and brought a faint patterned shimmer all around. It must have been a sight to see in the high summer, he thought, and wondered where he would be then. He hadn’t really decided how long he would stay, after all.

*I suppose some of it depends on whether I may leave in good honor or if I’m thrown out...*

He dutifully admired the artwork, the carvings, tapestries and anything else of note that he saw, and beside him Bofur offered occasional explanatory comments. At the far end of the hall he found a sort of interior courtyard. A low wall partially surrounded it, and inside a collection of tables had been arranged plus a slightly raised area for the officials of the Mountain. It was here that they worked to resolve disputes, collect minor fees, seal documents and otherwise deal with the endless mundane details of running a kingdom; anything that did not require the King’s personal attention.

It was ideal in that it provided many witnesses for them. Besides, Bilbo was quick to note, there were also tables with refreshments! True, it was only light fare, as anyone might put out for visitors who will not be staying long: simple brown breads, butter, a (rather inadequate) pot of jam, dried fruit and a large pot of tea that steamed over a weak brazier. He helped himself generously while looking over the various workers in the courtyard.

The King may have been out, but it was easy to see his eyes and ears were still present. Bilbo recognized one fairly easily, a servant that had been in the dressing room with him. This one shuffled some thick parchment and every now and then made a pretense of marking it, but no matter which part of the room Bilbo wandered to, the servant was shortly on the same side ineffectively shadowing him. He also noted the jewel-maker, Ûrd, passing close by but was willing to consider that one a coincidence.

Well, as it was probably assumed that he was there to eat the refreshments and spy, Bilbo would at least confirm eating the refreshments… Not that any of the information going past would have been worth spying on anyway. The petitions being discussed regarded mundane matters, fees or small squabbles of no interest to any but the squabblers themselves.

“Who pays for the food here, during these petitions, or judgments and such?” asked Bilbo of his escort. “It doesn’t seem like Dáin to offer free food for all comers.”

Bofur raised his brows and smiled slightly. “You understand him well, for a Hobbit. You guess right; the refreshments are paid for by taxes upon the goods of the Men.”

“Then I suppose he won’t mind getting a report that I’ve eaten some, seeing as he thinks I’m in cahoots with the Men anyway.”

“Does he?” asked Bofur with surprise. “Odd.”

“Is it? It seems he suspects just about everyone, doesn’t he?”

“No more than any other Dwarf might in the same situation,” said Bofur reasonably. “You are, after all, not a Dwarf.”

“So I noticed,” said Bilbo. “Though I fail to see how that is supposed to explain it all. Oh - Books!”

“What?”

“Over there, a shelf of books. May I look at them, you think?”

“I don’t see why not…” said Bofur as he followed along behind.

Bilbo reached up, his hand straying over the modest selection of Dwarven books that were neatly lined up along the marble shelf. At first thought he expected them to all be about mining, or forging or perhaps how to conceal a treasure. Seeing the runic symbols more closely, it appeared that none of them were - which on second thought didn’t surprise him. It would not be like Dwarves to openly record such things, after all…. So, what did they write about?

All of them were bound with a metal-bonded leather, yet seemed lighter in the hand than one would expect. The leaves were neatly trimmed, and tooled with shining decorations of gold and silver-leaf. Kingly books to warm a bibliophile’s heart.

The first one he tried simply because it was one of the smallest, and he felt a natural affinity for smaller things. He had to peer at it for a long moment before realizing it was something he had heard before, sung by the Dwarves when they were walking as a walking song. It was, in essence, a lengthy warning verse about the deceitfulness of Elves. Not really something he cared to pass the time with.

He carefully reshelved it and tried again. Skipping a fat tome containing a monotonous listing of historical officials and rulers, he went to the next one, also somewhat slim. The leafy decorations on it reminded him of home. It turned out to be harvest and winter storage instructions for root vegetables with a small number of illustrative drawings and, intriguingly, a couple recipe suggestions. He puzzled over these eagerly. Hobbits have an abiding fondness for cookbooks, and Bilbo was no exception. He was surprised that this part of the book was so brief and hoped there were more like it.

He tried a somewhat thick one from the middle, but it turned out to be thick from unnaturally thick pages, stiff and smooth, rather than from the length of a tale. There were drawings, and the text was fairly easy to decipher. It listed methods for cleaning and sharpening common tools and, he realized belatedly, appeared to be a child’s primer. Among his people it would have been the cookbook that was done up this way, a contrast that made him smile to himself.

“Are you enjoying them, then?” asked Bofur who had wandered back down the length of the hall. “I never did see the use of reading much, but I know some do. Dwalin has a whole chest of books he’s been safekeeping for Balin. Maybe he would let you take a look at them if you asked.”

“Oh yes! I would like that… there’s so much work in them, they are works of art themselves, you know.”

Bofur tipped his head and looked over Bilbo’s shoulder at the tool primer. “I hadn’t ever thought of them that way, “ he said. “Hm.” He walked the length of the shelves, running a critical eye over the bindings. “We could do with a better balance of color. Maybe some in copper.”

“I was referring rather to their insides,” smiled Bilbo.

Thinking on color, he put the primer back and chose one bedecked in a bright red cover that seemed cheerful to him. Unfortunately, his mood was jarred as it had more illustrations than text, and turned out to be a manual for treating injuries with an emphasis on concussions and burns.

Disappointed, he tried once more. He chose the one with the fanciest tooling on its cover and opened it with a furrowed brow to scan over the lettering. The furrows soon smoothed and a look of pleased interest replaced them. This book recorded the history and meanings of the arrangement of beard-hair, including the historical importance of beard-dressing for rank insignia that Bilbo found fascinating. It was entirely new to him. He knew they went to great pains to braid, fasten, loop or otherwise bedeck their facial hair at times, but he had always considered it purely decorative, like a hobbit-lass putting ribbons in her hair for a dance. He sat down on a bench and studied it. Bofur, his brief interest in the books exhausted, wandered off to get a drink and returned after a time with two large mugs of hot tea, one of which he handed to Bilbo.

Bilbo scrutinized Bofur’s beard, then pointed down at the page he had been studying. “Look here. This says that this small bit of a braid you have right there means you’ve done something brave or notable for your family line. Am I right?”

Bofur’s eyebrows raised. “You never fail to astonish me, Mr. Baggins.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Why, I helped regain the Mountain of course, same as you. You will note the same braid on all of our Company.”

“Except me, of course.”

Bofur chuckled. “Well, what do you hobbits do to show such honors?”

“Nothing,” said Bilbo, shaking his head. “Nothing at all. We aren’t much for medals and crowns and such, though I guess we do sometimes give honorary names that describe a person or something they did. Like Bandobras Took, who was called The Bullroarer, a warrior hobbit if you can believe it. Or even Gerontius, who is called the Old Took, because he’s even older than I am.”

“We do this also. Thorin’s name Oakenshield was given for his great prowess in battle. So, what name do your people give to you?”

Bilbo laughed wryly. “Mad Baggins,” he said. “And indeed, sometimes I wonder if I was mad to ever get caught up with all of this.”

“Mad Baggins?” asked Bofur, as if feeling out the sound of it on his tongue. “It does not have an entirely ill sound to it, though I would think something like Brave Baggins would be more apt.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo. “Brave Bofur.”

--

Time passed slowly. Though neither of them mentioned it aloud, they were both worrying that something might have gone wrong with that morning’s foray. They had run out of books and both finished their tea before they began to worry in earnest, and thus were most grateful when Dori finally entered the hall.

He came and quietly asked them if they would like to join him for some early luncheon, with cakes. An innocent sounding invitation that was their signal that the others were safely back. Leaving their empty mugs on the nearest table, they quickly went to get the news.

-

Chapter 14: Something Fishy

They reassembled in Glóin’s rooms once again, except for Bombur had stated that he wasn’t inclined to move from the lower dining area he had parked himself in. Closing the doors and gathering near the fireplace they waited eagerly in spite of some of the news already being guessed; that there was no discovery, or even any sign of the missing stone. Those who waited still held out some hope there might have been at least a clue to make all the risk worthwhile.

“We have good news and bad news,” began Glóin. They murmured around him and he quieted them with a gesture. “The good news first. No, it isn’t what we hoped, but remember, we knew our chances of finding it so lightly hidden were slight when we began.”

“Yet we needed to know it was not there,” interjected Dwalin, to quell any dissent.

“Yes,” Glóin nodded. “We did. But you are leaping to the end of our tale; I think we should begin where we left our hobbit with Dori at the head of the last staircase. And we thank you once again, Bilbo, for your guidance.” They all nodded to the hobbit, who was trying to hoist himself up onto a padded stool by the fire without tipping it.

He settled himself carefully and smoothed his jacket. “Yes, do tell. I can’t say anything of interest happened to us, so if anyone has any adventuring to tell of, it’s you.”

“Perhaps,” Glóin replied, then shifted his stance, speaking out as a storyteller might.

“I’m sure you remember that the stairs were dark, though that is little barrier to us. Only a single guard stood on duty at the time we arrived, even as Dim had said. When we heard his signal the guard was already in the far room where Dim had lured him.”

“Lured him?” asked Nori. “How?”

“What signal did he give?” asked Dori. “Had he told you of this, Dwalin?”

“There are three doors, great treasury doors, in this part of the hall, just as he had described for me. Dim was there before us and had opened the one farthest away from the staircase…” began Dwalin then subsided to allow Glóin to continue.

Glóin nodded. “The one we wanted was the one with the gems, and thankfully it was the first one we tried. I really do not know what we would have done if it hadn’t been. There was a most terrible crash, the sound of many golden vessels and chains tumbling to the ground, beads also. I can tell you it startled us right enough! We would have been ready to give up and run if Dim hadn’t already told Dwalin that he would be signaling us by calling to the guard to pull him from his post. It was his voice we heard after the crash.”

“He called to the guard to help him, that he was trapped under the treasures, whatever had fallen, and needed aid setting it aright.” Added Dwalin. “We had to hope it was planned and not a true mishap.”

“That was touch and go,” admitted Glóin. “We decided to chance it. By the time we reached the hall, the guard was in the far room and we could hear him speaking with Dim, none too courteously either. Dwalin was able to reach the door and release it, and thus we slipped into the gem treasury without being seen.”

“How could you possibly search all of it?” asked Bilbo, who pictured a huge room stacked with boxes of gems. “Wouldn’t it be too much? And wouldn’t they all be, well, locked up in their chests and such?”

“No, not at all,” said Dori and the others made sounds of agreement.

“For such a wealth as Dáin holds, the room *is* the treasure chest,” explained Dwalin. “Within his own treasury, who would want them locked into boxes? How else can anyone truly *feel* the gems, the gold, the smooth feel of them warming to your hand, to be surrounded in such beauty, all open for the touching….”

He trailed off, a half-rapturous look on his face. Looking around, Bilbo found all of his companions had gone into the same half-dreamy state. It reminded him of the looks he would see back home, right after the first big meal of early strawberries and cream had been served out, when even the corners were filled with the sweetest of fruits. Sheer bliss.

“Have you all got treasuries like that, then?” he asked curiously.

Immediately all the walls slammed into place and their looks went from blissful to reflexively furtive before they came to themselves again. It confirmed his question without words: yes, they did. He did not pursue it.

“Our treasuries, a Dwarf’s own treasury, is a very… private place,” tried Dori.

“It’s all right. Forget I asked! Do go on – so the gems were all out for the looking over. Did you see anything promising at all? And how did you get back out?”

“The Arkenstone is unmistakable…” There were murmurs of agreement all around at this. “And we very familiar with gems. We each took a side of the room and worked our way towards the middle. It was difficult going, for we needed silence and gems do not always whisper when they are moved.”

“We could hear the guard, too,” said Dwalin. “Talking to Dím. Dím was most insistent that everything that had fallen be put back exactly the way they had been, implying that the guard would have to answer for it if it weren’t. And what a clatter he was making!”

“Cleverly done, it was,” agreed Glóin. “About the time we were finishing up, we heard him sending the guard up the stairs to fetch the inventory list for the room, claiming he had hurt his ankle in the fall and couldn’t get it himself. We decided that this was our chance to get back out, whether it was intended to be or not…”

“It left Dím in charge of the guarding, if only for a handful of minutes,” clarified Dwalin.

“And so you were able to slip out?” asked Bofur.

Glóin waved his hand. “You see us standing here, don’t you? We had to be quick. Dwalin waited until we were sure the guard’s footsteps were nearing the top of the steps, but just as we were about to open the door, it opened itself and there was Dím. He urged us out and around the corner before the guard’s return. No sign of a limp on that ankle either.” Glóin seemed to find this very clever. “We ran of course, as quietly as we could. I assume he went back to his post to moan about his poor ankle again.”

“And you didn’t… take anything, did you?” asked Bilbo. His imagination had pulled him to that dim interior, a room of gems of every color and size, heaped and sparking all around. He couldn’t help but wonder if they might not take a small souvenir.

“Not the smallest bead!” said Dwalin seriously, and Glóin nodded firmly at his side. “You needn’t fear for the guard, Mr. Baggins. He is safe.”

“The guard?” said Bilbo, slightly confused. “I wasn’t even thinking of him. What does he have to do with it?”

Their eyebrows went up. Bofur said “Dáin would know if anything were missing, as would any of us if a part of our treasure were gone. And the guards that allowed such a thing to happen would be severely punished, dishonored. Perhaps even lives could be forfeit if it were on their watch that something truly valuable went astray because of their negligence.”

“Oh, I say! I had no idea,” said Bilbo. “None at all. That seems rather harsh, doesn’t it?”

“What happens to the guards who fail in their duties in the Shire?” asked Nori.

Bilbo thought about this for a moment. “I have no idea. I can’t think of anything remotely like it! Perhaps they might have a farmer’s dogs chase them if they stray into someone else’s field, or lose the feather from their cap. It’s really quite different.”

“Yes,” Dwalin nodded. “Quite different.”

“So now it makes sense to me why he would leave his post to go get an inventory list,” continued Bilbo. “I wondered a bit at that one. ”

“So we were successful, and yet we were unsuccessful,” concluded Glóin.

“Is that the bad news?” asked Bofur.

“No, I’m afraid there’s other bad news. Worse, to my mind,” said Dwalin.

They were interrupted by the jangling of a small silver bell. Glóin went to the servants doors and unlocked them, allowing four servants to carry in an early luncheon. They efficiently laid out the dishes and plates upon the table and withdrew, bowing. The others gathered around the table as he carefully locked it behind them again.

“If we continue with these private meetings much more, I’m afraid my servants will become used to it and not want to wait upon me properly,” he smiled as he joined them. “What did you order brought, Bifur?”

“Simple things,” said Bifur. “Bofur is paying for the fish, I merely took up the side-dishes.”

“And I paid for the pie,” volunteered Nori. “It’s only apple, but it’s spiced.”

“Well enough. No standing on ceremony here, help yourselves,” said Glóin, taking up a plate.

Bilbo didn’t have to be nudged again. He eagerly reached for a plate and accepted a large helping of hot poached white fish from Bofur, who was lifting out the portions on a large silver fork. After dubiously poking at a heap of the side-dish, of a mushy pea mixture, he topped it off by reaching into the basket for a handful of rolls. The butter seemed to be missing but at least there was plenty of jam, a fruit ground up with sweet herbs he found interesting. He was tasting a spoonful of it when all thoughts of rest of his meal were swept away by...

“Baked mushrooms!” he exulted. Bifur smiled as his small friend abandoned the jam to scoop up as many of the fragrant fungi as seemed polite. Bilbo hoped the others wouldn’t be in the mood for them that day; he even managed to greedily calculate how many he didn’t have to share thanks to Bombur’s absence as he did so.

“So,” Bofur prompted Dwalin as he neatly sliced his portion of fish, “What is this bad news you have?”

Dwalin shook his head. “I can’t help but wonder if we’ve placed our trust in the wrong person.”

“What do you mean?” “Why?” came the voices from around the table.

He held up a hand. “No, no betrayal was made, at least not that we know of. We just had a few misgivings. Perhaps it is nothing, then again…”

“What sort of misgivings? About this Dím?” asked Bofur.

“Why would you doubt him? Did he give you reason to?” asked Bilbo at the same time.

“When he came to us, to tell us it was safe to go out, he asked if we had found the gem we were looking for.”

“And?” asked Nori, passing the rolls across the table.

Glóin nodded. “It was a problem because we had never told him what we were seeking.”

There was a general murmuring and frowning.

Bilbo looked at them and shrugged. “Well, the room you were going into was the one for gems, wasn’t it? He would be able to guess from that, wouldn’t he?”

Dwalin did not appear comforted. “Yes, it was the one for gems, but then why did he clear the way for that particular room for us *without ever being told it was the one we would be wanting?*"

“Then he must have guessed from your wanting to see Ûrd’s workroom,” Bilbo said. He went back to spreading jam. “After all, he *was* the jewelsmith. You’re being too suspicious.” He finished his roll and reached for another scoop of the mushy peas. They were surprisingly good in spite of their appearance.

Glóin grumpily stabbed at his fish. “There’s no such thing as too careful. As my father always said, listen with one ear, be suspicious with the other.”

“Yes,” agreed Bofur. “The one who holds your secrets spends your treasure.”

“My father said a coin unguarded is a coin unsaved,” offered Nori.

“Caution is the father of a well-filled chest,” nodded Bifur.

“Beware of Elves with their tongue of silver, for soon they will have fingers of gold!” added Dwalin.

“But Dím isn’t an Elf,” said Bilbo.

“Of course he isn’t. What does that have to do with it?” replied Dwalin impatiently. “The point of it is we need to be careful, or *suspicious* if you prefer. Suppose he knows the King has it, and is deliberately trying to make us to give up our search?”

“After all,” said Glóin, “Why would he go to such lengths to help us in the first place?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Look, he said the King would be gone until afternoon and it appears *that* was true. If he wanted to get us into trouble, wouldn’t that have been the perfect time to do it? He didn’t!” He waved his fork in a general circle at all of them. “And didn’t all of you declare him officially trustworthy or something?”

“That was yesterday,” grumbled Dwalin. “It’s today that I’m worried about.”

“It’s only good for a day?” Bilbo threw up his hands with exasperation at their suspicious nature. “How do you *live* like this?”

“He did swear that he would not betray us to Dáin …” pointed out Dori uncomfortably. “Maybe we are being a bit harsh…”

“No. I do not think we can be harsh enough, if it is harshness to question and to test.” Said Dwalin. “Which I do not think it is. We still do not have our answer, of why he would risk his own honor at the treasuries.”

“He was almost in awe of us,” said Dori more softly. “He regarded us as heroes of the realm, for defeating the dragon. And what else could he do to help us? Would you expect him to go walking up to Dáin and just ask him where it is? I think he served us very well.“

They all nodded at this, stroking their beards.

“I don’t think he would do anything to risk us,” Nori agreed. “If only all the younger ones had been taught as well…” They murmured and nodded over their plates.

Bilbo nodded along with them. Dwarves are naturally a little self-centered and inclined to flattery, but in this case he thought they were right.

Perhaps he was guilty of a bit of pride as well, he had to admit that to himself, but he *had* been a part of that heroic history, hadn’t he? Never mind that he’d missed all the fighting during the battle…

Slightly comforted, they allowed their talk to turn from their unfounded worries to smaller things; the price of foodstuffs going up, the lack of good hired help for spring cleaning, which blend of metals were the strongest for axes versus hammers and picks and the merits of each. Bilbo’s attention wandered back to his plate.

All too soon, the mushrooms were gone. At least there was still some of the pie left, except someone had broken the crust off all around the edges. He took one of the less mangled pieces and nibbled at it. It had been a very satisfying luncheon. He wondered what the rest of the day would hold, and what would be for dinner.

They all retired to Glóin’s sitting room once again as the servants returned to clear the meal, and were in the middle of a discussion on whether to go out to show Bilbo their new fortifications or whether to stay in and show him their newly improved glass-blower’s forge when a servant came to Glóin and bowed, a paper and an envelope in his hand.

Glóin took them and dismissed him, turning the envelope over in his hand. He looked up at them suddenly with a look of shock that silenced all conversation.

“This is addressed to you, Dwalin… and it has Balin’s seal!”

-

Chapter 15: Old Secrets

Glóin read the note that had come with the envelope as the others gathered near. “It was sent from our young Dim. He says here that he found it under a chest while moving the effects of his aged uncle to new quarters. As he says, it appears to concern us and the seal is unbroken so he sent it on straight away.”

“It was an honorable thing to do, sending it like that,” Bifur said.

“Indeed it was,” said Dwalin, scanning over the small note as Glóin handed it to him.

“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Bilbo.

“It’s unmarked, and from one of the wealthiest among us,” Bifur patiently explained. “It’s quite old and had never been missed – he could have easily kept it, and possibly gained a secret for a treasure from it. We would have never known the difference.”

“It shows his honesty,” clarified Dori.

“Oh, of course…” said Bilbo, who would’ve never thought of such a thing. A treasure map, then?

Glóin examined the wax that held the fold of yellowed parchment closed. “It is most certainly Balin’s seal,” he said almost fearfully. “I am afraid to hope…”

“What does it say?” “Open it…” “How can it be possible…?” came the voices around him. He did not reply, but took a breath and handed it to Dwalin as if he thought it might suddenly sprout wings and fly away. Dwalin’s hands were trembling so that he found the wax seal hard to break.

The seal cracked. Holding his breath, he carefully opened it.

“It’s dated from a season after they left…” said Dwalin. His voice trailed off as he frowned over the lettering. There was pause. “Forgive me, my eyes are not what they once were, and this is a hand I do not recognize.” He moved to the side of the room where Glóin was already lighting one of the delicate silver lamps for him.

“How could it have lain hidden for so very long…?” wondered Bofur softly, voicing what many of them were thinking.

“Who is it addressed to?” asked Bilbo.

“It does not say..” Dwalin said absently. He tilted the paper into the bright pool of lamplight and squinted at it.

“That’s odd,” Bilbo began…

“No, not really,” said Nori thoughtfully.

Glóin agreed. “It must have been originally enclosed, within a larger missive.”

“A post-script, then…?”

Nori nodded. “Of sorts. By custom, it means the writer has more to say but only for certain eyes to see. The rest of the letter may have been for all. In this case, we do not know whom it was intended for, but as Dwalin is Balin’s closest relation….”

“It goes to him,” finished Bilbo, nodding his understanding.

There was a long silence. The fire shifted and hissed. Dori’s boots creaked next to Bilbo as he shifted his weight.

Dwalin frowned and his lips moved with concentration. He made a small sound of dismay. “The writing is not a hand I know, but it says it is written by another for Balin’s hand was injured…” His eyes went to the end of the letter. “The scribe’s mark may be that of Ori …strange that he does not name him if it is…”

“*Ori?*” Nori and Dori both breathed eagerly. “What…”

“No, perhaps not. It is unclear. Let me see…” muttered Dwalin. He returned to the body of the letter and his frown deepened. “This is an older code…”

“Code?” said Bilbo.

They ignored him. “Did Balin sign it?” asked Glóin. “Is it his hand?”

“No signature, just his seal. But it is impressed with ash…”

“Oh no…” breathed Dori; all waiting seemed gravely concerned.

“Ash?” asked Bilbo, feeling that he was missing something of obvious importance.

“A sign of sorrow…” said Dori softly.

“Something of worth that is no more… or a regret…” murmured Nori.

“Ah. Oh.” He bit his tongue on further questions and waited impatiently. A code? Well, that would explain why it was taking so long… He itched to see it himself. He was good with codes…

Dwalin moaned. In the silence of the room it seemed unbearably sad. “No….” He seemed to bow down, as if the words he read were a sudden weight. He shook his head gravely. “No. Glóin, you need to read this also… for it concerns your kin as well as mine.”

He gave it over to Glóin’s now hesitant hand. “It concerns us all…” his voice sounded oddly broken.

Glóin puzzled out the words slowly, as Dwalin stood by him, pulling at his own beard with a rising distress.

‘This cannot be!” cried Glóin. “He would not take the stone!”

“And yet it must be, what else would be ‘Thorin’s treasure,’ that he could have carried away with him? What else would bring such regrets? And what have we found missing…?”

“Óin, what have you done?” Glóin lamented. “Surely Balin was mistaken…!”

“He knew about it,” said Dwalin over the exclamations of the others. “Balin knew about it, and he failed to set it right. He let one of our own take the Heart of the Mountain out of Erebor… he has shamed our family, he has shamed our Company…!”

“Óin, what trickery, what beguilement would ever bring you so low?” Glóin was crying, ripping the gems right out of his beard.

Bilbo and the others watched wide-eyed as the diamonds fell to the rug, shining white in lamplight. Dwalin turned to the stone fireplace, lamenting and beating his fists on the marble mantle so hard the items scattered on it jumped about with each blow.

“Ash…” said Dori, “Alas, what ill news is this!” He and Nori looked at one another fearfully.

“Do you think Ori…”

“The stone is lost to us, lost to us as our kinsmen are lost…” wailed Dwalin.

“We are dishonored, alas! Alas Óin, that you listened to him….why did you listen to Balin’s tales?” In his grief, Glóin lashed out at the only target available. “It’s your fault, your family with all their stories, he never would have touched it if….”

Dwalin lashed right back at him in disbelief. “You blame my line, and yours harbored the very thief who took it! At least Balin has the decency to confess it…!”

As Glóin and Dwalin fell to blaming one another, Bilbo carefully backed away until a set of large chairs stood between him and the railing Dwarves. Nori and Dori looked stupefied, Glóin and Dwalin were getting out of control and Bifur…

He looked to the brothers who had also stepped back a couple paces. They seemed pale and upset, but at least they weren’t carrying on like the others. But then again, none of their direct relatives had just been implicated in a theft. They just seemed unsure what to do….

Bifur reached down and picked up the letter that had fallen to the floor.

“Bifur!” hissed Bilbo over the noise, for now Nori and Dori were joining in on the general ruckus and beard-tearing, and he feared they would soon be exchanging blows. If they turned their distress upon the letter that had borne the news, it wasn’t likely to survive. “Let me see that!”

Bifur looked at him, startled.

“I need to see it!” he beckoned. Bifur brought it to him. He looked suddenly older, and terribly sad.

“What are we to do, Mr. Baggins?” he asked in a quiet, strained voice. “Our companions are dishonored, our very company is…”

“Hush, none of that now…” Bilbo said, opening the letter. “Something isn’t right about all this…”

Behind the shelter of the chairs, Bilbo opened the letter and laid it out on top of a footstool. The lettering was familiar to Bilbo’s rune-trained eyes, and yet not so – but that was not what was concerning him.

“You can’t read it, can you?” asked Bifur, who was aware of Bilbo’s bookish tendencies.

“No, but that’s not why I wanted to see it. I say, they won’t hurt one another will they?”

“It is a grievous lamentation,” said Bifur.

“That doesn’t answer. Shouldn’t we… do something to calm them down? Before they take pokers to one another?”

“They won’t,” said Bofur who joined them. His voice sounded rough, and strangely pleading. “Give them time. They’ve been dishonored!”

Bilbo didn’t reply, hunkering down and poring over the letter. “Hm.”

“What is it?” asked Bofur. “What do you see?”

“I’m not sure… something just doesn’t add up. It just isn’t like them to do something like that. It just isn’t…. Here, can you bring that lamp to me? Watch out…”

Bofur nodded and ducked past his wailing companions to return with the lamp. All four of them were now blaming each other’s lineage for weaknesses several generations back, Nori and Dori having apparently concluded that Ori was indeed the scribe and thus also in the know and an accomplice.

Well, if there was one thing *Bilbo* knew it was parchment, especially very old parchment. He had been working with old documents in one form or another most of his life, and could confidently say he knew them well. He turned the thick paper in his hands, felt the edges and ran his fingers over the creases. He held it up to the light to peer at the ink and examined the broken wax seal quite close to the lamp.

The brothers weren’t sure what he was doing, but they could tell it might be important. “What do you see?” asked Bofur again. He ducked as an emerald beard-gem flew past his head and the chair thumped briefly from some stumbling blow. The noise was incredible.

“The paper is old,” affirmed Bilbo in a moderate shout,” but something isn’t right… this crease, see how the fibers tear? Here? This was folded when the paper was already stiffened, not when it was fresh. And here. When a wax seal like this one is old, the color from the seal seeps into the paper and stains it. The wax becomes brittle, the seal fills with dust. This one lifts from the paper cleanly… it’s too soft. And the seal is clean. Even the edge detail here, clean as last-night’s tallow….” They hunched over the paper to see what he meant.

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Bifur.

“Is it a trick, then?” asked Bofur anxiously. “Is it?”

“Well, I can’t be *absolutely* certain, but…”

He looked over at the fireplace where Dwalin and Glóin had now moved on to lamenting their own character, that they had been suspecting their own King when the fault was their own and so on. He looked up at the brothers helplessly.

Bofur stood up. “Stop!” he boomed suddenly over the hysteria. “Mr. Baggins has something to say!”

There was a sudden startled cessation of noise that made the Hobbit feel he had gone deaf. He stood and climbed up on the footstool, holding the letter.

“Something is fishy about this,” he declared. “Before you go tearing out your braids and such, listen to me! The letter may be a fake.”

“A fake!” said Glóin with a look that was afraid to hope.

“What do you mean?” demanded Dwalin. “That is Balin’s seal, and no other’s…!”

“No, no… hear me out,” said Bilbo, waving his hands at them to be calm. “I don’t know how the seal got there, but this letter is not old. It was only recently written and sealed, or my name’s not Baggins. I don’t think it is from Balin at all – it’s a forgery.”

“But…” Dori began.

“A forgery?” growled Nori. “By who?”

“And why?” added Glóin. “And what about Balin’s seal? That cannot be easily forged!”

“It had to have been his!” insisted Dwalin.

Bilbo gritted his teeth over their stubbornness. “Look, I don’t know how whomever it was got ahold of Balin’s seal, or made a copy of it or whatever. But I’m telling you this just isn’t adding up.”

“I think he’s right,” said Bifur. “Tell them about it, tell them what you found!”

Bilbo took a deep breath. “In short, the paper is old, yes, but only recently written on, only recently folded. The seal is too fresh…”

“The dust in the tomb!” Nori suddenly spoke.

“It was only recently disturbed,” finished Dori with relief. “It can’t have been from that long ago…”

“Then….” began Dwalin hesitantly.

“We are not dishonored,” Glóin said slowly. The two of them didn’t seem to quite believe it.

“I had so hoped for a letter from him,” Dwalin said. “Hoped for better news…but this…”

“We are not dishonored!” Glóin repeated, clasping Dwalin’s arm and meeting his eyes to get through to him. “But if our Hobbit is right, we *were* very nearly deceived.”

Dwalin’s expression changed, that terribly broken look welling up instead to a firm resolution. His eyes sparked instead with anger and his voice came slow and deep.

“Someone has tried to make fools of us.”

“Or at least tried to get us to cease looking for the Arkenstone,” said Bifur. “If we can find out who wrote this…”

“Then we may find out who really has it,” agreed Bilbo quickly. He had already reached the same conclusion. “But go softly, I beg you! Please! Just because it was found by Dím doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it. Maybe it was this uncle of his he mentioned…” He liked Dím, and couldn’t quite believe the young Dwarf would do something like this. Besides, there was the seal – how would someone as young as Dím have even known what Balin’s seal looked like much less have been able to copy it so perfectly?

“Softly? He is a forger and such deserves to have their limbs twisted by their own tools! His fingers bent until he’d never forge again.” glowered Dwalin.

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Bilbo. “None of that, please!”

“It is the traditional punishment meted out for forgery,” said Nori, “Much less for false witness.”

“False witness! False accusations against honor!” said Glóin, who was still emotionally reeling from the near miss of his own kin being the supposed thief. “Our fathers would have ripped out his beard, cut out his tongue…”

“Good heavens!” said Bilbo, paling at the thought. “Even so! Hold off with your… tools and *Dwarvish revenge* and all that, just a bit!”

“For this outrage…” spluttered Dwalin.

“He’s young and it may not have even been him,” Bilbo argued. “Would you condemn him for something he may have just been an innocent messenger for? Slow down and think about this!”

“He may be right,” Dori admitted, though without conviction. “He could be a tool for other hands…”

“Or deceived,” nodded Nori.

“Even so,” Bilbo said firmly. “That is what I will believe until I am shown otherwise. We need to talk to him first.”

“We need to…” growled Dwalin darkly. “And then…” He left unspoken what would follow, but the tone did not imply it would be pleasant.

Bilbo shook his head and mutely appealed to the others for help.

“We will speak to him,” said Bofur. “But not until we’ve had time for this wrath to pass. Our thinking is not clear. Our burglar is right.”

“Former burglar, thank you,” corrected Bilbo.

“Strike while the iron is hot!” said Dwalin.

“Nay. Cool the iron to test it’s edge first,” countered Nori. “Lest we strike amiss.”

“Apply the heat slowly, and the form will be yours,” added Dori in another Dwarven proverb.

“I don’t think all of us should seek him, as a group. We are too many.” Bofur observed. “He would know something was amiss. A small number may do well to learn more of this matter. But who?”

“Dwalin and Glóin should go. They were the most affected,” Bifur pointed out.

“And Bilbo,” said Nori. They all nodded in agreement. “He trusts him.”

“I was going to insist, so I’m glad you volunteered me,” Bilbo noted. He did not trust his friends to gentleness, and had hoped to be present to intervene if he could. He tried to lighten the mood; “Dori ought to also go, lest my legs tire and I need someone to carry me.”

He was rewarded for his effort with a small chuckle from his friend. “What do you think I am, a porter? Pass the wine around, Nori. It may help us regain our wits, which it appears we’ll be needing. Come, Dwalin, all is not lost yet. As long as we have our hobbit here, I have hope.”

“Hope of what, I wonder?” said Bilbo, but he was relieved to have them all beginning to behave like themselves again. It had been a harrowing time. He carefully folded the letter and pocketed it before it could start up a row all over again. Sipping his own small portion of the woody-tasting wine he tried to gather his wits, wondering what the rest of this day might bring.

Chapter 16: Well Guarded Treasure

It was some time before they were ready to seek out Dím and inquire about the letter. Dwalin had had an especially hard time calming down; his own hopes for true news from his lost brother had been hard dashed, and it was his desire for immediate revenge that seemed to burn the hottest. Glóin was the one who had finally managed to calm him, speaking in low tones beside the fire while they puffed at an early pipe.

Bifur had gone out to make inquiries while they waited and eventually returned having succeeded in getting directions to Dím’s home. Bilbo was grateful that he would not be expected to lead the way in their own mountain again, and even gladder when they were finally on their way and not sitting and fretting. He still sincerely hoped the lad was innocent but he realized it would fall to him to be looking for ways to prove it; his companions most likely would not. Dori, Glóin and Dwalin marched with a determined pace; he did not think they looked very forgiving.

It was only when the familiar hallway with its wooden doors came into view that he began to really feel nervous about it. What would he do if they suddenly, well, attacked the lad? Perhaps he would run for help, goodness knew he wouldn’t even think of getting between two Dwarves in a rage; worse than a dog-fight, they could be so focused. He glanced up at his companions warily but they didn’t seem angry. Businesslike perhaps, or stern of feature, but not violent. Still…

“That one,” Bilbo indicated even as the others slowed. He recognized it by the water basin he had hidden behind the previous day (had it only been yesterday?). They paused, looking at one another uncertainly. Glóin reached out a hand to the iron knocker and banged it once, decisively.

There was a long pause and some shuffling inside then silence. Glóin knocked once more, hard.

The door opened and Bilbo recognized the dwarf he had seen from the back before, the one who had thrown the apples at Dím when he had been there last.

Being near the fore himself, he drew breath for what he hoped would be a courteous greeting but bit it back as Dwalin abruptly barked at the them instead. "Why do you answer the door when strangers come? Have you no Guardian?" He was uncharacteristically gruff.

The dwarf at the door seemed just as startled as Bilbo had been, startled enough to step back and almost stammer. "My honored Guardian is not here, and I expected my brother's return... I did not know. I ask forgiveness."

"The Treasure shall be Hidden."

"Yes, the Treasure shall be Hidden." the ceremonial-sounding phrase was returned, looking down at booted feet.

"Who is your father?" he demanded.

"My father was Dímûl, lost to us these many years. My uncle is my Guardian, my brother is the Holder of the Treasure."

"We need to speak with your brother, it is of much importance. Where is he?"

"Tending my Guardian who now dwells at the Hammer's Crossing."

Dwalin seemed to have lost his voice. Dori spoke instead. "We thank you and ask forgiveness for our speech. The Treasure is Untouched."

"Yes, the Treasure is Untouched," the younger dwarf nodded with something almost like a smile and closed the door. The lock clicked into place.

There was an uncharacteristically awkward pause as all three of the Companions looked at their hobbit. He looked back at them and at their oddly flushed faces.

“Erm… I take it that was not Dím’s brother,” tried Bilbo hesitantly.

“No,” said Dori quietly. “It was not.”

“An unfortunate happening,” said Dwalin, offering no further details. He rubbed at the back of his head and ran his fingers over his beard. “Very unfortunate. This way.”

Their pace resumed, steady and fast. Bilbo trotted along with them, grateful that they seemed to already know where this 'Crossing' was though he was having a hard time keeping up. He looked up at their backs. "Well, if their father is gone, what about their mother? Are they orphans, you think?"

"We do not speak of our people's mothers so lightly..." said Glóin, glancing back over his shoulder at him. He did not slacken his pace.

Dori dropped back alongside him. "We are not their family." he said, as if this ought to be self-evident.

"And if she yet lives, it is not for us to know nor does it change what we are asking." added Dwalin firmly as he strode ahead.

"I will never understand Dwarves," Bilbo sighed, shaking his head.

Glóin threw him a brief almost-smile. "We do not ask to be understood."

"Consider how open your homes are in your land, how you leave your treasures out where anyone might see them or take them. Do you think it wise?" inquired Dori.

"Well, we trust our friends not to take what isn't theirs."

"And are those treasures occasionally stolen?" he persisted.

Bilbo pursed his lips and shrugged. "I suppose it has been known to happen but not often. And our Sherriffs do a fair job of finding whomever it was."

"And what if it is a treasure that cannot be replaced?" Dori continued. "One that if it were even touched by a thief, it would be... used up?"

"What, like a bottle of wine? Well, em, I suppose it's gone then."

"We do not take our guarding of our treasures so lightly, Master Hobbit." said Dwalin. "Nor do we risk our... wine... being handled by others."

"Oh!" said Bilbo as he suddenly realized what they were referring to. His cheeks tinged pink. "Oh! Right. I see. Well. I must say that is a bit different than wine. Her family would be more than a little upset by something like that..."

"It is good to know that the Hobbit-folk do recognize a true treasure when they have one, then."

"Of course we do, it's just that we don't... er, lock them up this way. No offense intended, but it seems a bit harsh."

"To be treasured, cherished and guarded is not to be imprisoned, Mr. Baggins. And I will say no more on the matter. It is not spoken of. It was a most unfortunate occurrence."

"I... all right. All right. Sorry, I guess my own curiosity was running off with me again. Oh, I say – look there. Are those the hammers she mentioned?"

The arch that they were coming up on bore a clear carving at its apex of two large hammers, one in silver, one in gold, their handles crossed.

“Yes. This way…” Dwalin led them unhesitatingly to the left, where a closed door was found at the end of a short, wide hallway.

“Dímûl,” mused Dwalin. “The name of Dím’s father. It is familiar, and yet I cannot place it.”

“A jeweler, perhaps?” asked Dori. “Seeing the son is familiar with them.”

“No… I’m not sure,” said Dwalin. He stopped and took a deep breath, then reached out and firmly knocked the curving metal doorknocker that hung from the crossbeam of the oaken door.

-

Chapter 17: Time Out of Mind

The door opened partway and it was a very startled and wary Dím that peered out at them.

Dwalin did not give him time to speak. He gave a small nod and immediately addressed him with both volume and gravity. “Greetings, Dím, son of Dímûl. There is need of speech with you. We would ask of your kinsman that we may be allowed entrance to his home.”

“I…” Dím began uncomfortably. He glanced back, then opened the door a little wider, returning with a softer voice. “My kinsman is unable to speak with you but I have his leave to tend to such matters.” He hesitated again, looking uncertain for a moment then stepped back, giving an awkward partial bow as he was still holding onto the handle of the door. “Please enter, I am at your service.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” said Glóin formally as the four of them filed out of the hall into the small and smoky set of rooms. There was no real hearth; a metal brazier burned fitfully heating a kettle. The air was thick with the tang and woody-bitter smells of medicinal herbs.

Bilbo looked around curiously. Almost all of the time he had spent around Dwarves had been in the company of those who were of great wealth or importance. He realized now that he really had very little idea of how the lesser Dwarves might live. There were no oversized thick rugs here, no wide fur coverings - only two modest ones and a slightly more tattered version of the same straw floor matting he had noted in Glóin’s dining room. At the far end of the room a sleeping alcove could be seen with a carven ledge. It was done up as a bed, the thick, dark bed-curtain pulled to one side. Below this lay a sheepskin, a heavy felt pad and a jumble of blankets as if someone else had been using the floor to sleep. Two more small rooms could be glimpsed through a second doorway, but that seemed to be the extent of the home.

A large chair had been pulled up towards the brazier and in it sat an elderly Dwarf huddled in blankets, his only movement a slight turn of his head. The rheumy eyes wordlessly took in their appearance before going back to gazing at the fire.

“How may I serve you?” asked Dím formally, no doubt sensing that it was not a visit of friends or even acquaintances but of business matters. “If you’ve any concerns about the events of this morning…”

“No, no we haven’t. And we thank you for your aid to us,” said Glóin a little gruffly. “Forgive us for having to come to you so unexpectedly. The matter of this morning’s search was well planned and well carried out. We are in your debt.”

“It was my honor,” responded Dím. “If naught has gone ill with it, may I ask why you have come? Is something amiss?”

Dwalin opened his mouth to speak, but Glóin spoke first. “There is one other matter that could not wait. We received the letter you very properly sent on to us.”

”Oh! Oh, yes!” said Dím. “I found it when I was moving…”

“Yes, so your note said,” Dwalin cut in abruptly. “We need to know what you know of it, everything you know of it."

There was a pause. Dím seemed taken aback by Dwalin’s bluntness, but recovered quickly. “I… it was as I said. I found it when I moved that trunk, my Uncle’s, to here, this home.” He gestured towards a large iron-bound oak trunk along one wall. “This is a new set of rooms for him; I’ve only recently finished moving his belongings.” He paused and his brow furrowed slightly. “How did you know to come here, to his new home?”

There was another uncomfortable pause but this time it was on the part of the Company. When they didn’t say anything, Bilbo spoke up. “We simply went to your home. Someone was there, so we asked where you might be found and were directed here.”

“Home?” said Dím and there was an odd note to the younger dwarf’s voice.

“We beg your forgiveness, and we assure you…” began Dori. “It was…” began Glóin.

“All they did was ask and got an answer. Then whomever it was closed the door,” said Bilbo, realizing some sort of etiquette line had been crossed when that Dwarven lass has answered their knock. He tried to smooth it over and changed the topic. “That was all. You’ve obviously been very busy, moving and all. And a very nice place this is, very comfortable. I especially like the way that, er, doorway arches across the top like that. You should make all of them do that.”

Dím stared at the diminutive hobbit for a moment, then bit his lip with thought. “Nothing else?”

Bilbo glanced at his companions. They seemed to almost cringe.

“Nothing else,” said Bilbo firmly, wondering what the penalties were for speaking out of turn to a lass here. Apparently they were quite severe if they gave his friends pause.

The younger dwarf seemed to make up his mind about something and nodded first to Bilbo then to the others, giving a tug of his chestnut beard. “It is forgiven, for the sake of this one, who has great courage and whom I trust is truthful.”

There was a communal release of breath that had been held. “Now,” Dwalin hesitantly began again, still off-balance from the tables having been turned on him. He had come into the room expecting to be the one in charge and it had shaken him, so abruptly being placed in the position of nearly having to beg for Dim’s mercy.

“Dímûl!” said the elderly dwarf by the fire. “Dímûl!” It was the first this one had spoken, and they all turned to look at him.

Dím went to him, speaking back over his shoulder at his visitors. “He believes I am my father sometimes,” he explained apologetically. “He is…very old.”

“Dímûl, where is my tea?” the dwarf said querulously. “I am thirsty.” Dím tucked the blankets back around his arms, which he promptly untucked again.

“I’ll get it for you; it’s almost ready,” he said soothingly. He looked back up at them. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment. I fear it is a medicinal tea, so I cannot offer you hospitality… My apologies, if it were my own home….”

“No, no, that’s fine. Do what you need to,” said Dori. They all shifted their feet self-consciously and waited as Dím went to the an alcove at the side and returned with a small mug. He scooped in a spoonful of the concoction he had apparently been making when they interrupted him and poured the kettle’s steaming water over it to steep. It smelled woody and green.

The herbs were neatly lined up along with their mortar and pestle, nearly filling a white stone shelf near the brazier. For the first time, Bilbo noticed there were other small shelves carved into the walls here and there, niches to hold things and a small rack of hooks with some tools suspended from them. A couple of niches had even been fitted with hinged doors.

How clever, he thought. But then, I suppose it isn’t that different from when we hollowed out the Hill to build that extra pantry. What a mess that was, though I enjoyed playing in the dirt. Must be why I remember my mother constantly washing me. What do Dwarven children remember, I wonder. Playing with rocks?

“A moment! Mizûl, is that you?” asked Glóin suddenly. They all looked more closely at him, even Bilbo who wouldn’t know one way or the other. The elderly dwarf’s head bobbed up and his eyes swiveled around at the name, but there was no recognition in them. He mumbled something unintelligible and reached for the tea.

“Wait, wait,” said Dím, blocking his reach. “I have to strain it… There, careful.” He held the cup to steady it and brushed away stray strands of beard that got in the way. He looked up at his visitors again, with a flush to his cheek. “Did you know him?”

Glóin frowned, nodding. “He was the instructor at the Northern forges for many a season. My own son learned his first strokes under his hand. I knew he had retired from his work, but…”

“You were not told why, then?”

“My son said his mind was wandering… I had no idea…”

“I remember him, though it’s been more than three years since we spoke. His appearance is much changed... He’s a fine craftsman,” said Dwalin. He sounded more subdued.

“Or was…” said Dím softly from where he knelt by the chair. His uncle didn’t seem to realize he was even being talked about. The old lips placidly pulled at the rim of the cup, drinking the tea. “Sometimes he still comes back to himself, but more and more he is wandering.”

“Well,” said Dwalin, clearing his throat. “We greatly regret his decline. His work shall be missed at the forges, though his name shall be remembered. Do you think… hem, he might be able to tell us something about this letter, if we were to show it to him? It is of grave importance to us.”

Dím took the empty teacup from the aged hands. Mizûl clutched at the air where the cup had been, agitated, until his nephew stooped and quickly handed him a small wooden mallet. He grasped it with surprising strength, muttered something and quieted in his blankets.

“He is comforted by the feel of the tools,” he explained wryly. “And the mallet does the least damage to the brazier if he mistakes it for the forge.” He looked down, arranging the trailing ends of the woolen blankets. “I can understand why it would be very important to you. You are welcome to show him the letter, of course, though I cannot say if he will know it. He never spoke of it to me, and he is quite old.”

“So are we,” grunted Dwalin. He patted his pockets then looked about at his companions. Bilbo somewhat reluctantly handed it over. Dwalin unfolded the letter. “Though it remains to be seen…” He did not finish the thought. Instead, he stepped forward. Bending down, he held the letter where the invalid’s eyes could see it, though he was careful to keep it out of reach.

“Mizûl, can you hear me? It’s Dwalin, son of Fundin. Do you know me?”

They all watched as the smith’s face creased in thought. He looked at Dwalin for a long moment, mouthing something silently. “Ahhhh,” he said softly, something like a spark of recognition in his face.

“Yes, Mizûl. It’s Dwalin. I’ve…come to see you. Do you know this letter?” He moved the paper to match with Mizûl’s line of sight. “Where did you get this? Is it truly from Balin?”

Mizûl stared at it blankly for a long moment. “Who?” he breathed. “Who?” Dwalin seemed unsure how to answer.

“Who what?” prompted Glóin, “Who is Dwalin, or who is the letter from?”

Mizûl did not respond. He looked at Dwalin again as if seeking a cue.

“This letter - did you get it from Balin?” Dwalin tried again.

“Balin?” said Mizûl peering at Dwalin. He sat up slightly and spoke with a sudden, rasping clarity “You’re back again, are you? I told you I won’t go! He’s gone… I told you… It’s impossible. Why did you come back? Why are you here again?” He waited for an answer.

Dwalin was somewhat taken aback. “I am…sorry. I’m not Balin, I am his brother. Balin’s been away… I just needed to know about this letter.”

Mizûl blinked at him, the dim confusion suffused his eyes once more and he lowered his gaze to the mallet laying in his blankets.

Dím spoke softly from his uncle’s side. “He won’t understand…”

Bilbo agreed. “Dwalin, I’ve seen old Hobbits that were like this. One of them was bound and determined that I was his deceased son-in-law and nothing would dissuade him. I found he was much happier and made more sense if I just pretended that I was, whenever I greeted him. Maybe if you were Balin, for a few moments anyway… the two of you do bear a certain resemblance, after all.”

Dwalin looked distressed.

“Only for a moment,” encouraged Dori.

“Very well. I’ll try,” he said, his voice gruff with frustration. He gathered himself for a moment then turned back to the silent dwarf by the brazier. “Mizûl. Mizûl! It’s Balin. I’ve come to see you.”

Mizûl’s head came up and hunted around, like a hound seeking the scent of its master on the wind. “Balin?” he quavered. “I cannot go.” His eyes seemed to slowly focus on Dwalin where he stood, still holding out the letter.

“I know you can’t…go,” said Dwalin carefully. “And I agree. It’s all right. I didn’t come to ask you to go. I just need to know…” he considered, trying to think of what might make sense in this context. “I need to know if you can still take this letter to my brother. ”

“Letter?” Mizûl peered at it. He made a querulous noise in his throat and looked back up at Dwalin. “Where is the seal?” he demanded.

Dwalin paused to think. Of course; the letter was open. “My seal? I can seal it…”

“I haven’t finished it. I haven’t finished it. You must give me more time.” He grabbed the mallet and waved it up and down for emphasis.

They were all confused by this. “You haven’t finished…the letter…?” tried Dwalin.

“You can’t seal it, it’s cracked! I cannot go, I tell you.”

“I know you can’t go. That’s fine. This letter was in your home, Mizûl. Where did you get it? Did… I give it to you?”

“It’s cracked. The seal is NO GOOD.” Shouted Mizûl with sudden surprising energy. He seemed angry, half raising himself from the chair. The mallet waved around in circles and glanced off the edge of the brazier with a clang. “I’ve told you….!”

“Uncle, Uncle!” Dím said, intervening and pulling down the old arms as they gesticulated through the air, soothing him with soft words. Mizûl looked at his nephew and gradually quieted and settled until he allowed the scattered blankets to be tucked back in again. He mumbled to himself and his eyes closed as if he were very weary.

“What is this he says about Balin’s seal?” asked Glóin.

Dori nodded beside him. “I was wondering the same.”

Bilbo looked to the youth. “Do you know anything about this?”

“I thought he was saying the seal was cracked open on the letter,” said Dím. He gave an apologetic shrug. “As I said, he doesn’t make much sense.”

“Want…. where….” muttered Mizûl, twisting at his blankets. He dropped the mallet. Dím put it back in his hands. He dropped it again. “Where… can’t….”

“Forgive me, but he will be needing medicine, and sleep. I think it’s worn him out. I am truly sorry you did not learn what you wanted to know. I’ll certainly tell you if he says anything that seems to make sense about it.” Dím was very businesslike, brushing them away.

“Of course,” said Bilbo and Dori at the same time. Glóin nodded. They began to turn back towards the door. Dwalin did not follow them.

He frowned. “I for one am not satisfied with this at all. I think there’s still something that may be learned from him. Are we to give up so easily, with so much at stake?”

“Where is it…!” repeated the elderly smith, with a note of desperation in his voice. He threw one of his blankets to one side and beat on the arms of the chair with his hands. Dím looked extremely uncomfortable and tried handing him a large spice box from the shelf as a distraction. Mizûl’s papery hands felt it and clutched at it convulsively, pulling it to his chest.

“After he’s rested,” said Glóin firmly, taking Dwalin’s elbow in his grasp to draw him towards the door. “It will serve no purpose to exhaust him. I think his kinsman is right. We shall have to try again later.”

The others offered polite farewells as they withdrew from the chamber. The door shut behind them with a click.

Out in the hallway, Dwalin pulled away. He shook the letter in Glóin’s face. “We should have stayed. Investigated that trunk of his. Maybe there are more like this one, did you ever think of that?”

Glóin shook his head. “He is old, Dwalin. So are we. We’ll try again. It would serve no purpose to stay and witness the abasement of his dotage; in all decency, we need to leave him in privacy until he has rested. It would be dishonorable to do otherwise.” They retraced their steps back down the hallway. “What did you think of his nephew’s tale?” he asked. “Do you think he was being truthful with us, that it was found in that trunk?”

“I think so,” offered Dori. “He seems trustworthy. But I also trust Bilbo’s knowledge of such things. He said the letter wasn’t as old as it ought to be.”

“It isn’t,” confirmed Bilbo once again. “But I can’t say I understand this puzzle either.”

“I am of the same mind,” said Glóin. “Only the most trustworthy relatives would be allowed anywhere around the elderly whose minds are wandering, as they might accidentally divulge secrets in their doddering ways. The lad is genuine, yet the letter is not.” He glanced at his fellow dwarves. “How well did you know Mizûl, either of you? Do you think he could invent such tales and write them down, when he was yet lucid? ”

“I barely knew him at all,” said Dori. “I cannot say.”

Dwalin pursed his lips. “I knew him long ago, more for his work with Balin on occasion than because of any lasting friendship between us. I had wondered why Balin did not take Mizûl with him when he left, but I think we can now safely say that he did ask him.”

“And Mizûl did not go,” nodded Glóin.

“Obviously. I knew no deceit in him, but that does not mean he was not capable of it.”

“Could it have been a dream?” asked Bilbo. “Not in a regular sense, I mean, but the sort of jumbles that a person gets when they’re feverish? If he’s been ill for some time, it has to be considered.”

They thought on this as they walked. Glóin stroked his beard. “I can see this. If he believed it true, then he could have written it without intending deceit. The penalties for forgery are severe and I can see no reason he would risk it in his right mind.”

Dwalin was not inclined to be so generous. “That doesn’t explain why he would make it appear to be from my brother, nor the seal,” he glowered. “The timing of it is also suspect. I can see it being risked for the sake of the Stone, whether in his right mind or no.”

Bilbo suddenly stopped in his tracks. “Dwalin,” he asked. “Didn’t you say he had been a metal-worker?”

“One of the best,” Dwalin said.

“Could he have done very, very fine work, filigrees and pictures and such?”

“Yes, most assuredly so. A shame to lose his art.” said Glóin. “Why do you ask?”

“I… I’m not quite ready to say. Let me think on it a little more.” He waved their curiosity away and continued walking, listening to them talk though inwardly his mind was now far from their conversation. He was trying to sharpen his senses so he could be certain of finding his way back again: he wanted to see something in that room again. Alone.

-

Chapter 18: Boxed In

Walking along with the others as they whispered and muttered to one another about the unsuccessful visit, Bilbo turned his thoughts this way and that in silence. How could he surreptitiously slip back to that room, uninvited and unseen? That was much more difficult to do now than it had been in his younger days, but if his much vaunted luck held he was willing to try it.

The trouble, he pondered, was how to do it without bringing a gaggle of Dwarves along with him. They had been directed to watch over him, to escort him. How could he keep them from following him? All the way back to Glóin’s suite he mulled this over, watching his steps carefully so he could be assured of knowing his way back.

Back in the now-familiar rooms and halls, the remainder of the day eked along terribly slowly; he became more restless as the hours passed, falling into a peevish mood as his companions talked, debated, argued and bemoaned incessantly. No matter which ones he was with he found their diversions too Dwarvish in nature to engage him and their very presence began to seem noisy, cluttery and irritating. He was hard pressed to keep his manners and conversation pleasant. The only event that he found to truly lift his mood in the entire evening was the wonderfully sumptuous dinner.

After all, when a tender roast lamb is carried in upon its silver tray, stuffed with spring onions to complement the fish soup, nothing can seem too gloomy. Fat golden loaves of braided egg-bread were pulled apart in good-natured competition, goodly chunks of amethyst beets and reddened sweet carrots were speared, heady with flavor after being cooked in wine. He ate heartily of these, plus several of the small meat and cabbage dumplings that were heaped on the sideboard. It was a shame that most of the party were still too out of sorts to properly appreciate their meal. Even the dessert failed to properly perk them up. Bilbo sniffed appreciatively at the darkly moist brandy cake, all flecked with fruit that shone like gems when sliced upon the bright plates. He topped it with clotted cream and then generously consumed the extra portions, lest they go to waste.

It was difficult to wait until each dwarf had departed for his own home, though they did so earlier than before; all were worn from the unusual activity they’d had the past couple of days. He was not the only one who retired soon claiming fatigue, though it is possible he was the only one who was not truly weary. Tugging the curtain across the opening in the bedchamber, he did not change into bedclothes but instead lay awake on the bed with only a light cover pulled up under his chin. Above him, he watched the last of the deep blue fading to black in the sky. The small stars brightened until they shone brighter than icing pips on a burnt chocolate cake.

It was so relaxing he snorted awake some time later, surprised he had been asleep. He listened carefully. All was silent. Slowly sliding from the bed to peer around the edge of the thick curtain he assured himself that no one was there. A dim light came from the last of the embers settling in the fireplace, just enough for him to make his way to the door without bumping furniture. The heavy door unbolted silently. Grateful for the perfectly greased locks and balanced hinges of his Dwarven hosts, he silently slipped out into an abandoned, darkened hallway.

As silently and carefully as only a hobbit may be when they are trying to be careful, he slipped around the corners and back down through the dimmed halls of the sleeping mountain. It should have felt more dangerous than it did, he thought. After all, it had been made quite clear that a roaming hobbit was a suspect hobbit; he had no idea what a guard might do if he was found without an escort. Lock him up until Dáin could see him? Take him back to Glóin? He had written out a brief note giving out his intended destination and tucked it under his pillow; if for some reason he did not return he assumed it would be found and he would be rescued from…whatever….

Being within the Mountain he found little difference to show the passing of time. The dark corridors were traversed easily enough. True, the lights (never plentiful) were even fewer and there was a silence that only now made him aware of the hum of activity he had been surrounded with before; little else had changed from daytime. He smiled to also realize how much muffled snoring he could hear from all directions, like a darkened Bag End after an exceptionally large and late-running party.

Smooth, cool, dark stone slid under his hands as he ran his fingertips along the walls for guidance. Mercifully the floors were just as smooth, clean and well-kept so the only danger of barking his toes came from unexpected steps. He considered helping himself to a small lamp but decided against it, continuing along in the darkness. It was, after all, a clean, peaceful darkness that no longer hinted at the years of uninvited habitation by Smaug. Somewhere in the far off distance he could hear something like hammers; the nighttime sounds of the always-busy forge, little else.

All went better than he had dared to hope. There was one near encounter, scrambling to hide from a middle-aged dwarf who lumbered out of a side-hall rather abruptly. Indeed it was a nod to Bilbo’s general good fortune that the dwarf was half-asleep and missed him entirely, the thickly bearded face gave not so much as a flicker as he passed a crouching hobbit hiding behind a woefully inadequate stone bench.

When Bilbo at last reached Dím’s home he was even more grateful to find the door firmly closed. No light showed beneath the door’s edge upon its well-fitted threshold. Hopefully the young dwarf and his sister were safely asleep at this hour. He couldn’t help but think on that chance encounter they had had with… well, he didn’t know her name. Come to think of it, he couldn’t think of a single instance of a dwarf-woman’s name in anything he had studied. Surely they had names…. Probably names of gems or metals, he thought, but in Dwarvish…

Turning and tiptoeing down the next hallway he was brought up short for a moment, amazed that he had never thought about whether or not his own Companions were wed. Being a confirmed bachelor himself, marriage was not a large part of his own life though he had lifted many a toast at friends’ and relatives’ weddings over the years. Obviously Glóin had a wife, or at least had had one in the past. He had never mentioned her… Was she yet living? Where was she? Hidden away someplace, behind some secret door or off in some hidden community where dwarf-women stayed all together? Was it possible that some of those many hours Gimli was gone from his rooms he was not working after all but visiting with his mother, or even a sweetheart? Bilbo shook his head, both at himself for it not occurring to him before now, and at Dwarves in general. What a strange race they were.

Thinking of them also sobered him again. If what he suspected and sought for was true, they would not forgive the perpetrator but would punish most harshly, unlike his own folk. He set himself to insert a little Shire grace if it was possible.

Counting doorways he passed the crossed axes and slowed to a stop. Here it was. His hand slowly settled on the handle of the door and gently pulled on the latch to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. Once more he owed his stealth to Dwarven perfection in lock and hinge as the door swung open soft as an owl’s flight. Slipping inside the warmth of the room, he gently closed the door behind him. In the near darkness the brown-green scent of medicines, tea and smoke enfolded him.

He stood very still for a long moment, taking stock of his surroundings. The dimly lit room seemed almost bright after the long darkness of the hallway. There was no movement, just the slight rasp of a breath, slowed in sleep.

The empty chair still stood by the brazier and in the light of its coals he could see Mizûl across from it. He lay asleep upon the bed with the alcove drapes only partially pulled to. The large wooden spice box sat on the floor, a square brown block of shadow upon the lighter fleece rug. Beside it, just below the limp, withered hands of its owner the thick wooden mallet lay.

Bilbo stood by the door, watching the even rise and fall of Mizûl’s chest for another moment then silently stole forward to the chair, half-hiding behind it. The brazier was warm on his back. He slowly slid away from the chair, lowering himself to stay within its shadow like a cat slowly circling in on some small prey among the grasses.

Reaching the edge of the sheepskin rug, he bent until he was almost crawling across the floor. He reached out one hand and ever so slowly grasped at the carven, dark spice box that lay so near under the dangling quiescent hands. His fingers nudged it, it was bulky and tipped slightly as he pulled it along the rug. The latched lid shifted slightly, a wooden whisper no louder than a breath.

With an astonishing and sudden ferocity the old smith roared up out of his bed.

If it had not been for the tangle of the bedclothes and covers Bilbo would have been in serious trouble; as it was he barely had time to dodge. The mass of writhing cloth surged upward as Mizûl snarled, kicked and heaved his way out. Stunned, Bilbo rapidly backpedaled away from him instinctively pulling in and clutching the spice box tightly to his chest. It was heavy.

As a child who has been warned about not climbing into a bull-pen will run in unreasoning circles around the corral when that animal gives chase upon him, so Bilbo ran. He had no thought or plan or strategy but to avoid the roaring, flapping mass of shadowed Dwarf that was bearing erratically down upon him. Around the chair, behind the brazier, back across the bed, past the trunk, over to the far wall and back to the chair he ran. He ducked under the overhang of shelves that ran along the walls as the old smith found his mallet and began using it wherever he could reach, crying out hoarsely in Dwarvish all the while he hammered.

Another confused ricochet around the room, this time including a brief frantic attempt at opening the door before he was driven away from it. There was a tremendous clatter as tools were wrenched from their hooks on the wall, the frail seeming arms of the invalid strengthened in their defense against a thief. Bilbo knew how Dwarves were about thieves. He dodged around the brazier with dwindling hope of survival as that worthy old heating-bowl rung like a bell in a near-miss with a hammer. Embers flew overhead. He tried for the door again but to his great dismay overshot it, scrabbling along the far side with no handle in reach. Mizûl was right behind him. He panicked as he realized he was cornered and grabbed at a tall, heavy stone urn, fear adding strength to his hands so that he forced himself between it and the wall as a shield. He flinched as the stone shuddered and fractured beside his head with the force of Mizûl’s hewing at it. The scent of coal rose from it’s lid.

“Hoy there!” he tried in a squeak. “Hold up on your blows! Friend! Friend!”

The door opened.

“Uncle!” cried Dím’s voice. “Uncle! Uncle, what is it? Calm, be calmed!” This was followed by a some rapidly spoken Dwarvish in soothing tones, and Bilbo could see the younger dwarf’s hands on his relative’s arms, pulling them down, trying to lead the old one back towards his bed. Elderly or not, Mizûl was not inclined to go so easily.

“Thief! Thief…” he panted and growled, though less strongly than before. Pulling away from his nephew’s grasp he tried to return to the door. It was still ajar but having swung wide it was now hiding where Bilbo hunkered behind the stone coal-urn. Mizûl paused in front of the door panel as if in confusion at Bilbo’s seeming disappearance.

Dím put hands to his shoulders, trying to turn him back towards the bed again. “There’s no thief, Uncle, you were dreaming. Come lie down, it’s late. You need your medicine.” He wheedled and comforted and talked until the old dwarf finally allowed himself to be led to the bed where he sat heavily, still breathing hard and coughing. He reluctantly released the heavy hammer he had pulled from the wall, letting Dím take it from his hand to replace it with the lighter wooden mallet. Dím shook out the tangle of covers and smoothed them out on the bed again, hunting around for something on the floor as he did so but apparently not finding it.

Speaking in a nonstop gentle voice about soothing, simple things he turned to the shelves and poked around among the boxes and bundles of herbs. He was now beginning to look concerned, working his way along them. “What have you done with it this time?” he asked in the same gentle singsong. “Just lie down, lie down, we’ll soon have you right as rubies…”

“Soft as opals and good as…” He reached over and swung the shielding door shut. “…gold. Mr. Baggins!”

-

Chapter 19: Memento

The dwarf literally jumped with surprise.

Bilbo peered up at him apologetically from behind the battered urn, still clutching the heavy spice box to his chest. He coughed slightly. “Ehem… I.…”

Dím somehow managed to keep modulating his voice, glancing back at the old dwarf who was now laying sideways on the bed. “What are you doing here?” he whispered fiercely before going back to his singsong, even if it did sound slightly strangled. “Let me just get the water heated up for your tea, Uncle…”

“I can explain,” Bilbo whispered back, “but I’m not sure it’s safe to come out.”

Dím didn’t reply, but keeping an eye on Bilbo he turned to the dented brazier and stirred the coals to bring the flame back up, resuming the gentle patter as he set a small kettle of water to heat. “…Just a little tea and you’ll soon feel more yourself. It was just a dream…”

Mizûl made his querulous sound and grumbled something in Dwarvish, hunting around in his covers for something. Bilbo eyed him distrustfully from behind the relative safety of the urn and stayed right where he was in spite of the discomfort. The stone was cold and the scent of the coal so near his face was making him sick. He squinted down at the box in his hands and tentatively tried the latch. It was locked.

Dím went to his uncle and helped him lie down properly, pulling the blankets up and speaking to him low and soft. He reached over and pulled the thick bed-drapes slightly, just enough to block the occupant’s view of the door where Bilbo peeped out at them.

“Quietly now,” he whispered as he crossed back to Bilbo’s hiding place. “Come out. I'll speak with you after he’s asleep. I’m sure that it must…” He saw the box in Bilbo’s hands and faltered to a stop, paling. “What are you doing with that?”

Dissembling, Bilbo looked down at the locked spice box as if surprised that it was there. “I have no idea! I just grabbed it when he started in with that hammer, trying to defend myself. He seemed to be, er, mistaking me for one of his filigrees.”

Dím’s mouth set into a thin line. “No wonder he was upset. That’s… never mind. Here, let me have it,” he said firmly. He reached for it and as Bilbo reluctantly handed it over he could feel the young dwarf’s hands trembling.

Without further comment, Dím quickly carried it to the restless Mizûl and tucked it into the elder’s hands. Mizûl grasped it like a child and lay where he was, cradling the box and staring at the brazier’s orange glow upon the kettle as if nothing untoward had ever happened, only his rasping breathing and mussed hair showing the recent exertions.

Bilbo tentatively slid out from behind the stone and straightened up, slowly brushing bits of rock and coal dust from his clothing. He watched Mizûl warily, torn between wanting to just go back out the door and wondering if he ought to be wheedling and sing-songing too. He tried to appear as innocent as he could, though the very fact of his presence in the room had to be explained somehow…

“What are you doing here?” Dím repeated softly, though with the intensity of his gaze he may as well have shouted it. He measured a spoonful of herbs into a mug and set it near the brazier to wait for the water. “And why, after you swore to your honesty, were you trying to steal something from a helpless old dwarf?”

“Helpless? I beg to differ…” began Bilbo.

“Why?”

“I was doing nothing of the kind! I only wanted to…”

“You were trying to take that box,” he hissed.

“All right, I confess I was curious what was in it. Not to steal it, mind you. Just to see. I just wanted to see what was in it. Hobbits are… a…a hopelessly curious race.”

There was a long silence as both of them contemplated the smith, laying on his side in bed with the box cradled close. The wrinkled eyelids lifted and lowered with a slight shine from the brazier but he seemed unaware of them.

“You have to admit there have been some mysteries,” Bilbo softly continued after a time. He discarded his earlier thought of trying to further dissemble, choosing to speak plainly. He owed it to Dím after causing all the ruckus with his elderly relative, justified or not. “We told you we are missing a treasure, and then there was that very strange letter that so conveniently showed up when we met you, telling about that very thing…”

Dím rapidly glanced around the room with alarm, as if expecting several other people to suddenly appear. “So you were sent…”

“No one sent me. It was my own idea and I didn’t even tell anyone,” Bilbo cut in. “Though the others are not going to be long behind me, I would guess. If there is anything odd going on you would probably do better to place a little trust in me than to wait until they all come down upon your head. Perhaps we can set it right.”

There was another long silence. Dím, his face now impassive, picked up the kettle and poured it though the water was barely steaming. He stirred it, strained it and took it over to the bed where he propped up his uncle with a strong arm and helped him to his drink. It was only after Mizûl pushed away his hand, coughed and was settled back into his bed with the curtain pulled near around him that the younger dwarf spoke again.

“I did find that parchment, behind my uncle’s chest when I moved it…I swear that I told you the truth.” He decisively pushed the cork stopper back onto the tea crock.

Bilbo considered him closely. “Was it already written on? And sealed?”

The crock clattered against its companions on the shelf. Dím shoved it into place so hard it nearly rebounded back off. He stopped and bowed his head, yanking at his beard. “It was… it… I swear I was….”

“It wasn’t was it?” said Bilbo. It was not really a question, but a statement. “It was an old parchment, true, but you forged the letter.”

Still Dím kept his head bowed. His voice came soft, but harsh. “If it was a forgery, I swear I know nothing about it. I would never have delivered it to you if I had thought it was. I am not disloyal to the heroes of our realm or to their memory…”

“Aren’t you?” asked Bilbo in return. “By it you unjustly accused one of them and had the others fearing for their family honor. What is so loyal about that?”

“I am not disloyal!” hissed Dím in what seemed honest distress. “I’m not…”

“Then explain the seal,” the hobbit persisted, ignoring the claim of innocence. ‘Why go to the extent of using Balin’s seal and where did it come from anyway?”

Dím looked over to Mizûl as if to an advocate, twisting at his dark beard. “He’s… I was…”

“Go on,” Bilbo said. He considered the younger one who was becoming so terribly rattled and tried calming him down. “Why don’t we have some of that tea ourselves while we talk?”

“It’s medicinal,” said Dím with difficulty. “But I have some rosehips…” He scrubbed the back of a hand across his face and turned to the shelves, drawing down a small box.

“That would be fine. My thanks.” Bilbo stepped to the side of the room where he had noticed a small amount of neatly stacked crockery. He selected two of the smaller mugs and brought them back with him. Nothing like a cup of something hot to introduce civility to a situation. They poured the tea and seated themselves near the brazier along with a small handful of dry cardamom biscuits Dím had pulled from a basket.

Bilbo sipped at the tangy tea while his companion began haltingly to speak. He spoke not of the letter or the box, but of the elderly dwarf that lay before them in the faint light. He spoke of his pride in his uncle’s work, in the honor his family had because of it. Of years spent after his father’s death in the company of the old smith.

“We came from the Iron Mountains,” he said. “They are far, far from here…I’ve never seen them myself but I have heard of them in tales from my youngest days. He fought in the Battle of Five Armies, and great was his valor, though he fought not with an axe but a mighty hammer. Oh, how I wish I could have seen those days! They must have been glorious.”

“I wouldn’t really call them that,” said Bilbo whose thoughts had been drawn back not to any glory but to the remembrance of the smoke-ridden, blood-stained valley he had viewed after the fighting was finished. “Though we were glad enough to have it over and done with.”

“Your people are not a fighting folk, are they?” asked Dím. “Do they shape weapons or bear them in battle?”

“No,” said Bilbo with a shake of his head. “They do neither. They are farmers, mostly, and peaceable. We do have some smiths but they mostly concern themselves with the mending of carts or shoeing of ponies. It is not our way to seek out war at all, much less in vengeance.”

“What a strange thing that must be. Who avenges them, then? What metals do they use?”

“Vengeance is not thought of much…I admit that I don’t even know how to answer your question. Iron, copper…silver, I guess. I had some silver spoons that were beautifully shaped.”

“They have mines then, and smelters and forges,” said Dím eagerly, warming with curiosity. “I was taught that you lived within a hill there. Was it a very rich mine? Were there gems?”

“No,” smiled Bilbo. “It wasn’t a mine at all, just a fine dwelling within a hill…” He sighed slightly in remembrance of it. “I had a garden there… Yes, there are gems a-plenty in the Shire but they are mostly living ones, for we often name our lasses for flowers and gemstones.”

Dím sat and thought about this for a moment. Bilbo bit into another biscuit which promptly crumbled all over his shirt.

“I was named for my father,” said Dím slowly. “And he is gone. When my father’s older brother who lays before us breathes his last, I will have no near relations older than myself. I will be eldest.”

He looked down at his hands, wrapped around his now-empty tea mug. “I will be the one who carries on our family honor then. But how can that be, if I am not honorable with you now?” He took a deep breath and held it a long moment.

Bilbo waited, surreptitiously picking the larger crumbs off of his front and eating them. Sitting still was reminding him how tired he was and he was grateful for the pick-me-up at this late hour.

“My uncle knew Balin closely. I did not deceive you when I said that. He was proud of it, and Balin really did try to get him to go with him when they left. I believe it was only the burden of needing to care for our family line that kept him here.” He looked up at the grizzled sleeping form on the bed again. As if he knew he was being spoken of, Mizûl coughed slightly and made some dry rasping sounds in his throat before settling back into sleep.

“I have heard of his work and it was spoken of with admiration,” offered Bilbo, trying to keep him going.

“It is his work that concerns you now,” said Dím after another moment. His voice sounded slightly strangled as he continued, forcing the words out. “For Balin entrusted no other than Mizûl of the Iron Mountains with the form and repair of his… personal seal.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot upwards and several of his remaining crumbs flew off to be lost on the floor.

Dím continued, staring fixedly at the brazier as if to save his life. “And when the seal’s metal was flawed and… a crack was found, he remade it. But he kept the flawed one, kept it deep within that chest, where…” He stopped.

“Where you found it,” finished Bilbo. He swirled the last of his tea in the cup thoughtfully. “And I think I can guess why you were tempted to use it.”

Dím turned to him in surprise then grew fearful. “You can?”

Bilbo was suddenly struck by the way this dwarf, larger and stronger than he with the distinct advantage over him in many ways – not the least being he could easily accuse him as both trespasser and thief – cringed beside him with guilt like a hobbit child caught pulling off the crust-edges of pies cooling in a window.

Bilbo spoke very carefully and softly. “I don’t think you meant to frame anyone, you just wanted to turn the attention away from the Mountain. Away from anyone in the Mountain who might know where that missing treasure might be. So you decided to use someone who was no longer here, someone who would have known about this treasure also…”

Dím put his hands over his face. “I… I even thought about…you….”

“Of course,” nodded Bilbo as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the dwarf’s arm consolingly to show he was not taking it personally, though inside a little portion of his thoughts was running around in circles hollering about it and waving its arms with indignation. “A stranger of another race who was known in the past to work as a Burglar. So. Why didn’t you?”

Dím scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I…well, once I met you… I… liked you. I had no desire to hurt you…”

“I am rather fond of you also. Thank you,” Bilbo said, trying to cover up the awkwardness. “And it was right decent of you. You could have had me out on a ledge or something when you found me there in Dáin’s dressing-room. But you didn’t. I haven’t forgotten that courtesy.” Dím nodded gratefully.

“Though you know,” continued Bilbo, “you could do with some lessons if that’s the way you’re inclined. Sending a forged notice about it to the very folk who are looking for it wasn’t really all that smart. Of course they would come looking here, after that! Next time just stay quiet. But what am I saying, eh? You shan’t be doing this again, right? Now!” He brushed away the last of the crumbs. “How did you end up with the Arkenstone?”

Dím’s eyes nearly bugged right out of his head. Bilbo thought for a moment he was going to have some kind of fit. His empty mug fell to the rug. He gasped, choked and made some odd squalling noises down in his throat.

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded imperturbably. “I know what you keep in that spice box.” He was pleased with himself for being able to state this so smoothly, especially as it was not until that very moment that he was truly sure of it. Dím’s expression confirmed it; Bilbo felt as if little fireworks were going off inside of his head and stifled a desire to jump up and down and shout with triumph.

“He needs it,” cried Dím. Mizûl stirred at the sound and somehow Dím managed to pull his voice back to a quieter level. “He…he saw it…”

“He was one that helped make Thorin’s tomb,” Bilbo prodded.

“And he saw it… he held it. He could not forget it, ever. Who could?” Dím held his hands out towards him, as if pleading.

“Indeed, who could?” Bilbo agreed softly. He remembered its incomparable beauty well himself, even after all these years. He had known its weight within that box. Already he was wanting to open it and gaze upon the gem once more himself. If it was thus for a Hobbit, what must it be like for a Dwarf?

“He needs it,” repeated Dím. “Ever he would speak of it, and then…when his mind began to fail him he would wake at night crying for it. You can’t imagine the guilt that haunted him, that he desired to take it for himself…you understand, surely…?”

“Did he go himself, then, to…” Bilbo hunted around for a word that would not connote thievery. “…to fetch it?”

Dím gave him an anguished look. “I aided him. Please, do not think me a thief also! He would not be dissuaded, as his health failed him so his desire for it grew. He wanted it and nothing else, night or day. I…I honestly believe he would have died if he had not been able to hold it again…. You understand…?”

“That’s twice you have asked me if I understand,” said Bilbo. He grimaced slightly and shut his own eyes against the memory of something that he had once had, a treasure that had seemed to call out to him if ever he left it. Something of great beauty and incomparable worth. “Yes,” he whispered. “I think I do.”

There was another pause. Bilbo straightened his back and took a breath. “Well. And so he opened the tomb and you put it into a box for him, so it would not be openly seen. But then the unexpected happened…others also opened that tomb and found it was missing.”

“Yes,” whispered Dím.

“What were you going to do with it if they hadn’t? Just keep it in that box forever?”

“No!” exclaimed Dím so vehemently that Bilbo jumped and leaned back away from him.

Mizûl groaned, but this time his nephew ignored his sounds. “I was going to put it back, after…” He let the sentence remain unfinished, hanging in the air. They both knew what he had been about to say.

“Does he have much time left?” Bilbo asked gently.

“No,” whispered the young dwarf. His shoulders slumped. “No, I have only small healing skills, but even I know what I see. All the signs are there.”

“He was very active earlier this evening.”

“I am amazed that he had such strength yet in him. He will pay dearly for it, I fear. Only that box being taken from him could have brought out such fight.” He turned toward the herbs and medicines that lined the marble shelf, speaking rapidly.

“I’ve done all I can, without having to pay a healer. Some of it I mix with sweet oil…. The coltsfoot and comfrey are both very good for the swelling; my neighbor told me to try the tea with licorice root but I haven’t yet. Maybe when summer comes…” he trailed off, looking troubled and grieved. “But I don’t expect he will be with me when summer comes.” He leaned on the shelf and looked back at Bilbo. “What can I do? How can I set this right, when its loss will surely be the end of my uncle’s life?”

This was an unexpected twist, Bilbo thought. To finally find it, but have the price of a life hanging on its restoration. Would his Companions be merciful or understanding? He doubted it. He remembered Dwalin and Glóin speaking of the crippling of the hands, the cutting of the tongue… He shivered. No, Dwarven vengeance was an ugly thing at times. He wanted to believe better of them but knew that he could not risk it. A woody scent rose from the lighter fibrous roots that lay ready to be pounded with the small iron mortar, the bowl waited with a dried red herb, rubbings of sage and a small mound of fennel. The mixed odors were pungent, sweet, bitter and green. Dím traced a finger through the fennel unhappily.

“Can you even open that tomb, yourself? Could you put it back, after…” hesitated Bilbo.

“I don’t know,” said Dím without hope. He drew a circle in the fennel, then mounded it back together. “I haven’t had the courage to really think through that part of it yet.”

“Does your uncle ever open that box? Does he hold it, the stone, himself or is he content with it closed?”

Dím looked up at him with surprise. “It is opened now and then, but he cannot seem to bear looking at it for long. It is more often left locked. But I see where you are leading. If we were to let him see it…”

“And then replace it with a stone of the same weight…” nodded the hobbit.

“…then it could be put back!” finished Dím with new hope flickering. Then he grimaced. “If I can get the tomb open.”

“If you can find another stone, I can help you open it,” said Bilbo. “And no one need ever know.”

“You can? What about your Companions?” asked Dím with fear.

“No one,” repeated Bilbo. “Need know.”

-

Chapter 20: Circling

“How soon can you find a matching stone for the box?” asked Bilbo in a whisper. “The sooner we can get this done, the better for all.”

“Or nearly all,” nodded Dím, following Bilbo’s glance back at his sleeping uncle. He paused in thought and leaned closer, speaking so softly Bilbo had to strain to understand him. “It will need to be exactly the same in both weight and size or he will realize something is amiss.”

“Do you have something that will work?”

He hesitated, running his hands over his knees and didn't reply.

“Or can you get something…”

Dím grimaced slightly then gave a decisive nod of his head. “I’ll try my best.”

“That will have to suffice,” whispered Bilbo.

"But how will I disguise it, once it is out of its box?"

"Make it look like something everyday. That spice box was quite a stroke of inspiration, really. Maybe something round, like a cheese."

"A cheese?" Dím gave him an odd look. "To take something so valuable and make it into a cheese…how do you think of such things?"

"Well, I suppose to my people cheese is valuable," Bilbo shrugged. He looked around the darkened room out of habit searching for a mantle clock. He didn't see one. “Now, it’s getting quite late I expect. So late that it is getting early and I’ll be missed if I’m gone much longer.”

“You need to go,” Dím agreed. “The King will be returning late this morning and I must be there to help minister to him. I’ll get what I can done tonight, while there are still a few hours.”

“Don’t you need to sleep? Oh, nevermind. You’re young. I used to do that too, but now it just makes me yawn until I feel my head will topple right off." He rubbed at his eyes. "The King has you helping him quite a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Dím said seriously. “And it is an honor. I respect him greatly, and am grateful that I have been given the position I have… I just hope I’ll be able to keep it.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you? Of course you’ll be able to keep it. We’ll manage this.”

“Will we? I hope…” The dwarf tipped his mug up and drained the last of the tea.

Bilbo tried to turn him away from his worries. “How did you get to be in that position anyway? How were you chosen for it?”

“I was an assistant for my uncle here, when I was younger. My father was a miner of gems, and his brother the one who made the filigrees to hold them. What fine and beautiful works they made together…. Alas, nearly all was sold or traded long ago so I cannot even show them to you. When my father was gone, I was the one who helped select the gemstones to be shaped, what shapes they needed to be and how many, for my uncle’s settings. With time I learned to arrange them also, on vases, chests and lamps, then on clothing, belts and even beards.”

“And the King liked them.”

Dím looked up at him from the empty mug he had been staring into. “Yes, we gained his notice. My family has… had…. great honor and were well spoken of as craftsmen…” He trailed off. There was a silence, with only the soft wheezing breath of Mizûl in the darkness.

“Well,” Bilbo said softly, standing up and carefully setting his cup down. “I need to be off. And you need to send me some sort of signal to let me know when you’ve gotten the…” He glanced over at the sleeper again. “ The…it ready, so I can try to get away to meet you. What would work?” He tapped his chin, thinking. “I’m afraid my Companions are a little unsure about you right now. An innocent signal…. Maybe if you were simply to send back something I had mislaid? To Glóin’s chambers?”

“Something you’d mislaid?” said Dím, confused.

“Something I’d lost. Maybe in the King’s dressing room.”

“But you didn’t lose anything,” Dím insisted.

“Aha, but maybe I did… Maybe I lost...” He glanced around for something sharp and lifted a small trimming knife from the supplies on the sideboard. With it, he snicked off one of his beloved buttons and handed it to the bemused dwarf. “…lost this.”

Dím weighed the button in his hand. “It’s brass.”

“Yes. Not gold, but I promise you *that* is something I would want returned and my friends will know it. Don’t bring it yourself, just send someone along with it. And don’t really lose it, please!”

“I won’t,” he promised, turning the small circle over in his hands again. He considered it closely then tucked it firmly into one of his own pockets.


----

Bilbo awoke to the sound of low voices talking outside the sleeping chamber: Glóin’s voice, and Gimli’s perhaps. He squinted up towards the window; it was barely dawn. Slowly sitting up, he scrubbed his hands over his face and waited for his sleep-fogged thoughts to solidify. Oh yes. It had been very, very late before he had managed to creep in to his bed, and he did not even quite remember his head reaching the pillow. He had never even changed to his bedclothes… He looked down at his rumpled condition and tried to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles, both from the clothing and from himself. He couldn’t have slept above three hours. He yawned widely, trying to stifle it with a palm.

No use. The curtain was nudged back and part of a white beard, a nose and a single bright eye peered in at him. The curtain pulled further back and the rest of Glóin appeared.

“You’re awake early.”

Bilbo rubbed at gritty eyes. “I feel as if I were up rather late…”

“I didn’t sleep well either,” nodded Glóin. “We are all troubled by these events, I deem.”

“Oh yes. Tossing and turning,” agreed Bilbo, slipping down from the bed. He ran a hand over his rumpled shirt self-consciously. “Bless me, if I didn’t go and fall asleep still dressed.”

Glóin didn’t seem to notice, continuing his own thoughts. “Dwalin should be here soon and we would like your counsel as well, if you will join us?”

“Oh, of course. Will there be…”

“Breakfast?” The dwarf smiled. “Yes indeed. Dwalin said you wouldn’t leave your bed otherwise.”

Bilbo put his fists to his hips. “I was *going* to ask if any of the others would be there. Did you really think I wouldn’t come unless you fed me?” He raised his eyebrows self-righteously and waited for an answer.

Glóin’s smile just broadened. “Of course! I’m too old for you to be fooling me anymore. You wanted to know whether there would be cakes, you may as well admit it.”

“Honey? Or nut?”

“Both. And tea besides.”


-----


Dwalin was picking at the small golden mound of eggs that lay on his plate. Across from him, Bilbo reached for the serving spoon to add another mound of eggs to his own and looked around for the promised honey cakes. Glóin pulled a piece of bread off a toasting fork and waved it in the air to cool it while absently passing them across the table with his other hand before Bilbo even asked. The hobbit had thus far managed to hold his tongue as the other two had hashed and rehashed the situation regarding the apparently forged letter and their unsuccessful attempt to confront the forger.

“If,” Dwalin said to his eggs. “If we could somehow get Mizûl to speak sensibly, if only for a while. He must know something …”

“Do you think that’s what drove him to madness?” asked Glóin pensively. Bilbo looked up from his own eggs momentarily startled at this near miss with the truth.

“Knowing he’d committed forgery?” Dwalin said. He lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “Umhm.” He swallowed and took a sip of tea. “That or knowing his own kin had?”

Glóin shook his head. “I don’t think the lad was a part of it. At least not knowingly. What I fear is that the stone is lost to us, hidden away or carried away, and the only one who knows something of its fate is likewise being carried away from us by age.”

Dwalin pushed his plate to the side, half-eaten. “There is where we differ. I do think that lad knows something, even if it is only as a witness to his uncle’s doddering confessions.”

“But that is a family matter. We cannot ask that he reveal such things.” Glóin picked up the butter knife and rather forcefully applied it to his toast.

“Can’t we? In this case I think it concerns us also, very closely. We need to visit him again, as soon as possible. Mizûl, I mean. Or summon him to us perhaps… I would hear what his ravings reveal.”

“We have no right!” Glóin returned, waving the butter knife for emphasis. “If it were myself, would you have Gimli forced to reveal my secrets to some stranger of another line? Or yours? That is what you are proposing!”

“This is the *Arkenstone*!”

“I *know* it’s the Arkenstone! It’s just…”

Dwalin shook his head impatiently. “We need to talk to the others. We need to have this forger and his nephew brought here, where we are the ones in control. Both of them. Bring them where we can all see and hear. We cannot risk the Arkenstone being lost to us; too many of our great treasures have already gone that way.”

“He seemed frail… but…” Glóin began with waning conviction.

“If the lad could get it out of him then, make him tell where he’s hidden it,” Dwalin continued. “We could act upon it.”

Goaded by curiosity, Bilbo spoke up. “What happens to treasures that are left behind? That is, buried or hidden away? Surely there are times when someone is lost in battle or other misfortune waylays them and they have no one to tell?”

Glóin and Dwalin both shook their heads regretfully. “Then they are simply lost,” Glóin answered. “Though every once in a long while they may be found again, by later mining or delving where they lay, by chance discovery. When Dwarves hide something it is not easily found.”

*Or so you think,* thought Bilbo, reflecting on how ill-hid the stone had been in its spice box.

Glóin crunched his toast and brushed the crumbs away as he chewed. “There have been times recorded in our history when it happened far too often. It is grievous how many works of beauty we once knew have been lost to us this way. Fine tools and weapons also. Still, what can we do? No one could be expected to have to give up their secrets if they have no wish to. Some, maybe even most, would sooner die than tell such a thing.”

"Die?" Bilbo blinked at him. It was not all that hard to believe though it sounded harsh when spoken. "And yet you would try to take his secrets from him?"

Dwalin frowned. "Do not think we are being cruel, Mr. Baggins. We do not wish to cause hardship or grief for the old smith or his kin…"

"Still," Bilbo replied carefully, "only yesterday you said you wanted to break his fingers with his own tools, if I recall rightly, and other horrid things besides. Granted you did not know whom it was you were thinking of at the time but I hope you understand why I find your claim of clemency a bit hard to believe just now. "

Dwalin came to his feet so quickly his chair thumped against the wall behind him, narrowly missing the hearth. He stabbed a finger at the startled hobbit. "You cannot understand what this means to us, to all of us!" he announced. "It must be done. The sooner the better."

"Dwalin…" Glóin stood also, reaching out a hand.

"Glóin, you know how…"

Bilbo slid off the chair to the floor intending to look up at them from across the table in a steadfast and authoritative manner. At least that was what he had meant, but for his unaccountable catching on the leg of the chair and his undignified stumble to his knees on the floor. There was abrupt silence as the two dwarves saw their companion bob up, tilt and suddenly disappear with a thump.

His eyes, topped by his forehead and curly grey hair popped back up. There was a pause.

Dwalin cleared his throat. "Are you all right, Mr. Baggins?"

Bilbo climbed to his feet, brushing at his knees. "Except for my dignity, yes. Quite. How about… we all sit back down?"

Glóin gave Dwalin a long look and silently handed him his chair before settling back into his own.

"We should be sending for him later this day, is that much agreed?" Dawlin continued in a more subdued manner. "The sooner the better."

"I think we need to let the others have their say first, but yes," Glóin turned to Bilbo. "I promise you, we are a just people. No punishment shall be meted out until we are certain of his forgery."

"You sound certain of it already."

"Well, who else could it be?" demanded Dwalin impatiently. "For the sake of my brother and for Thorin himself we must see justice served!"

"Give me some time," said Bilbo.

"What?" They both looked at him, confused.

"Give me some time, I say," Bilbo repeated slow and clear. "I think I know what has happened."

"What happened? demanded Dwalin. "To what? The stone, the letter?" cried Glóin at the same time.

"Both with the stone and the letter," he continued in carefully measured tones. He held up a hand to stop their exclamations. "I need you to trust me. Trust me, and hold off on your justice and punishments until I can see this through."

"See what through?" they asked. "Where is it? Did you see it?"

"No, I haven't seen it, but…"

"How did you find it? Or have you?" "When? Why didn't you tell us right away?"

"By chance. Recently. Because…"

"You should have told us!" "You knew something and…"

"Yes. I did. I was afraid you would…"

"And you ask us to trust you?" "Are you hiding it, then?"

"What? No! I don't have it. But I hope I can…"

"You *are* a burglar, aren't you?" "Where is it? Who has it? Is it hidden?"

"No! I can't say yet. Yes! Now calm down!"

"Can't say yet? Why not?" "Calm down?!"

"What's happening here?" asked a new voice.

They turned to find Bofur looking as if he weren't sure whether he should enter the room or not. Nori stood behind him, eyebrows raised high on furrowed brow.

"Our burglar is turning against us!" said Dwalin bitterly. "Ask him what he found and didn't tell us of." he pointed an accusing finger at Bilbo. "Ask him! He hides it from us!"

"I am not…!" began Bilbo, drowned out by Glóin's own correction as he all but forced Dwalin down into his chair.

"He is not turning against us! Rein in your temper before you make false accusations yourself, son of Fundin!"

Bofur looked at them blankly. "What was hidden?" Nori turned to Bifur who had come in behind them and said something in a low voice.

Dwalin glowered at Glóin but did not try to rise. Glóin turned to the others. "It seems our *good* Mr. Baggins believes he has found both our forger and the stone… though he will not tell us whom or where."

Amid the exclamations that came from the others Bilbo drew a deep breath trying to find some patience. He had been afraid of exactly this sort of reaction, plus he found himself trembling slightly from that moment of anger that Dwalin had directed so venomously towards him. He knew his friend would regret those words once he calmed, but it was hard to face anyone when they were in such a mood, much less a powerful Dwarf who he thought had only been kept from impetuously throttling him by the width of the table between them. He placed his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself.

"If you'll all just listen to me…" he started.

This was interrupted by a renewed hubbub of talking as Dori tentatively entered and the others all tried to bring him up to date on their hobbit's apparent surprising and secretive doings.

"As I was saying…" he tried again.

"Listen!" "What did he say?" "He's talking, be quiet!" "He found it?!'

"All of you be quiet!" Bifur said loudly. "I want to hear."

A welcome silence settled in, except for a low muttering that came from Dwalin's direction where he was still trying to speak to Glóin about it, though Glóin was no longer listening.

"If you'll just bear me out, all will become clear in time." Bilbo began. "I have two purposes in why I've chosen to proceed as I am proceeding. First of all, yes I think I know what happened with that confounded letter. Wait! Wait. As I said, all in due time. Secondly, yes I think, and I emphasize that *I think* I know what has happened with the Arkenstone as well. Stop. Stop… I can see you are all just bursting to ask about it, but I must ask something terribly difficult of all of you. I must ask you to give me some time."

"Time?" asked Dori from the rear.

"Yes. I do not want your pronouncements, judgments or punishments being brought into this matter, at least not yet. Preferably not at all, but I realize that is a decision that will ultimately be up to you among your own kind. I have reason to believe it would be best to set aside those aspects here, and just keep to one thing: that our promise to Thorin Oakenshield would be kept." Here he had to hold up his hands and again shush them as they all drew breath. He was feeling more confident by the minute and much more in control.

"I need you to trust me, as you always have. When have I ever let you down or deceived you? Wait, strike that. When have I ever done so recently?"

This brought slight smiles.

"In truth, I truly do need you to trust me. I will do my utmost to see this through, for the honor of my own family line as well as for the Company."

"You speak of the honor of the Company, yet you will not confide in us," said Dwalin.

"Not yet."

"Then you intend to keep this thief and forger hidden from justice?"

"I want your word not to judge until all is known. Will you grant me that much?" They frowned, brows furrowed. He could see more than one of them drawing breath to speak. He planted his feet firmly and faced them with all the serious authority a small hobbit could muster among dwarves. "By the honor of my line, of yours, by the honor of Thorin's line and even of the Men of Dale I ask this."

"The Dale-men?" spluttered Dwalin.

"Bard himself was the one who spoke that promise," Bilbo reminded him. "Even Gandalf himself witnessed it. If you do not deal with this honorably you can be sure some word of it would reach him one day."

"Gandalf?" said Glóin, perplexed at the wizard's name being added to the stew.

"How would it ever reach him?" Bofur asked. "Not that we're saying it's a bluff, of course," he hastily added.

“I’ll find him and tell him myself, if that’s what it takes to keep your honor on the level." Bilbo held his hands out to them all. "If ever I truly knew you or if ever our friendship was anything more than happenstance, listen to me in this. I will take care of it.”

There was a long pause.

"And you will let us know about it as soon as possible?" asked Glóin.

"You will ask for help if you need it?" asked Dori.

"You dare to call on a wizard to answer?" asked Dwalin.

Bilbo smiled slightly at Dwalin. "I will not need to, for all of you are honorable and patient and trusting, of course. I truly never meant for this to turn into such a difficult pass. Will you aid me and not thwart me, then?"

"What do you need to do?" asked Nori.

"Wait, mostly," Bilbo said, grateful to turn to a gentler face than Dwalin's. "And have you not worrying or searching for me if I am missing for a brief time! Of course, if I'm gone more than a couple days please do come find me - In that case I probably *would* be lost."

They all began talking again, but now it was low and between one another.

Dori and Nori had made their way over to Dwalin and aside from a brief somewhat heated exchange in that corner, the consensus was soon agreed upon. Bilbo had their respect and (grudging, temporary) trust, at least for a time. It was not wholehearted or cheerily given, but still it was given and for that he was grateful. He had feared he would have to be far more underhanded or secretive about all of it. They were good fellows really, all of them. Even grumpy old Dwalin.

Now, he thought as he reached for his lukewarm tea, now his waiting began.

-

Chapter 21: Planting

Bilbo looked up from where he had been enjoying a light after-breakfast pipe by the fender with his host, wondering for a moment why Glóin was grumbling about 'who would come by the rooms so early in the day.' He had been there long enough to realize his friend was inclined to keep late hours and only awaken when he had to, though. The elderly dwarf had been getting up and about earlier than he was normally inclined to with a morning-loving hobbit in his care, so it was later for Bilbo than it was for Glóin, so to speak. Bilbo drew a little on his pipe and carefully formed a single light smoke-ring, watching it float upwards in a thin, wafting oval.

The dwarf came back from the door and held his hand out to his guest. A brass button shone up at him from Glóin’s calloused palm. “What is this?” he asked.

“My button!” said Bilbo with what he hoped was real-seeming surprise and relief. “I thought it lost forever!" He tapped out his pipe on the hearth. "It disappeared sometime when I was in that mess with Dáin's dressing room. Wonderful. Couldn't be better.”

“You’re still losing buttons?” smiled Glóin. He considered it, holding it up briefly between thumb and forefinger. “Odd that it was sent with no note.”

“Oh, well,” said Bilbo lightly. “I suppose whomever found it was just too modest to draw attention to themselves. Very kind of them to have sent it along, I’ve sorely missed it.” He took it and held it up to his chest, matching it with its vacant buttonhole. “See? What’s for luncheon?”

"Luncheon already?" His friend was readily turned away from hobbit fashion concerns to other subjects. "I had hoped we could take you out to see the upper fortifications, where the vegetable gardens have been sown; you have so often spoken of your own gardens we thought you might like it. When the new towers were built up, we terraced the land between them, you see." He held his hands in the air to illustrate. "The water is drawn up by a most clever wheel and pump. I admit I'm a bit biased about it, of course; I helped draw up the plans." He fluffed his beard lightly with pride.

"Gardens? They sound like a marvel indeed. Especially if you had a hand in them." Bilbo found himself torn between truly wanting to be out among green and growing things again and knowing that Dim would be waiting for him now that the signal had been sent; these rooms were sometimes rather dark and fusty.

But it would be good to have it over and done with. It had been a long day yesterday, waiting and wondering, watching as the moods of his Companions had so very slowly settled….

-----

It had been late, quite late before he thought they were quite 'all the way' settled. That they all seemed accepting, or at least resigned, of his taking on this part of their mystery himself was a relief - though a fragile one. By the evening all but Dwalin had been willing to relax a bit and engage in some songs and storytelling until even Dwalin's fretting and glowering found distraction in old ballads of secret, hidden ways, of treasures recovered by epic victories over foreign usurpers and robbers.

Bilbo had been concerned that of all of them, this last one would not be brought around, and was quite relieved when Dwalin had finally left off stabbing the log in the fire and turned from the hearth to join the others, singing and playing. The group of them had continued for hours, just like old times, the warm darkness wrapping them in melodies and sounds of their forefathers; all other cares set aside.

As they had sung, Bilbo had watched them all from where he sat near the hearth, pulling at a pipe now and then, humming along here and there. The embers of their dinnertime fire reflected in the spark and twinkle of their gems, in their bright eyes glinting as they sang together, and they looked younger in the dim firelight. It was good to feel their unity again and to feel his own inclusion in it. Still he was not fooled with the words they gave him promising they would leave him alone to do his part; he knew they would be watching him, both for caution and for curiosity, and he was not assured that they would not try to follow if they saw him slip away….

-----

And now here it was late the following morning and he was already fretting to do that very slipping away. He didn't want to call attention to himself; they would follow. Perhaps this garden walk could be a perfect chance for him to get away unobtrusively if he watched for some opportunity. With care and a bit of luck, his friends might not even notice for a time. They also could not be questioned as to his whereabouts if any suspicions were raised or anything went wrong, as they honestly would not know.

He pocketed the loose button and smiled up at Glóin who stood waiting for an answer. "Gardens would be quite refreshing. I'm looking forward to it."

A few messengers having been sent down the hallway, they soon met up with Bifur, Dori and Nori along the way, stopping only briefly in the dining hall to gather up some rolls, nuts and small wedges of firm cheese as provisional snacks. Bombur waved them on their way cheerily, ensconced as he was in his favorite corner with a large helping of coldcut venison and brown loaves stacked before him, fortifications for his own exercise of counting and weighing out a chest of small jewels. "Be sure you've got enough to see you through, Mr. Baggins. It's a long walk up the mountainside and you'll work up an appetite. I know I always did."

"You always work up an appetite," snorted Bifur. "Perhaps you should come with us and work off some of your girth."

Bombur chuckled and reached for a loaf, neatly splitting it open to fill the soft insides with butter and meat. "Be off with you. Why, just thinking about it makes me weary and I need to keep up my strength! Oh, and if there's any new lettuce up yet, bring me some, will you?"

Bifur shook his head as he led the way out through the arched doorway. "He's hopeless," he smiled.

---

By the time they neared the gardens Bilbo was thinking old Bombur had had the right of it. His legs ached from climbing and the extra nuts he had stashed in his pockets for a walking-snack were gone. Indeed, the small sack their luncheon was bobbing along inside of looked better and better, swinging from side to side ahead of him over Nori's shoulder. He quickened his pace slightly to catch up, intending to ask if they were near and if they weren't how about they stop for a little refreshment when Glóin called for him.

"Mr. Baggins! Come and see. It was worth the climb, was it not?"

Bilbo stepped up beside him, puffing, and found himself looking down into an impressively expansive terraced area that lay between two of the arms of the mountain. "Good gracious me," he breathed. "You were rightfully proud. What would old Hamfast Gamgee think if he could see such a sight as this."

The terraces, which had appeared quite small to him when he had glimpsed them from the main entrance, now rolled out before him in huge green and tan and chocolate rectangles of new spring plant life, bisected by gracefully formed stone lines and level golden-grey gravel paths that slipped across them at intervals to frame in the giant squares of well-tended earth.

"Do you see the troughs? They bring the water to every plant, the gardeners can direct it from up there." Glóin noted with pride.

"And there's even fountains," Dori said. "We placed them along the way for the gardeners to drink from, and for the ravens. They help us by keeping the crows and other pests away from the plants. See?"

Bilbo looked in the direction of Dori's sweeping arm and saw two small black forms perched lightly on the edge of one of the fountains, bathing in the trickle that came from the upper tier. Their size made him realize that the fountains were also larger than he had first surmised.

"It's all so…big!" he said, feeling at a loss for words. "Will there be flowers also?"

"Ah, Hobbits and their flowers," smiled Dori.

Glóin cocked a brow at him. "Sadly impractical. We've an entire kingdom to feed. Almost all is given to food crops. If we have any extra we trade with the Dale-men, though we do grow some edible and medicinal flowers and keep a field further down for the bee-tenders. We do have plenty of herbs."

Bilbo looked out over the neat, brown rows of earth. He couldn’t imagine having such a garden and not planting at least a few flowers for their beauty's sake. "Don't you miss their brightness? I would think with your love of colors in gems you would want to grow all that you could. Just to look at, in a vase."

"Why?" asked Nori. "I suppose they are pretty, but they don't last but day or two. A gem lasts forever."

"True!" agreed Bifur. "And gold leaves neither tarnish nor wither. We can capture such fleeting beauty much more perfectly."

"Come," gestured Glóin. "There's one of our gardeners. Some of the younger dwarves spend time working here also, when they are learning to forge. One must first perfect the humbler tools before being given the right to make weapons, after all."

Dori chuckled at this. "Indeed. I still remember my first hoe. What a sad affair; I am surprised it cut so much as a clod."

"I'm surprised your first axe did any better," grinned Nori, receiving a strong elbow to his middle for his cheekiness.

"Hey now," protested Bifur as Nori staggered into him with a *whoof!* "Watch out for the hobbit."

"Yes, you might trip over him," said Bilbo dryly sidestepping. He ran his hand over the low stone wall lining the shallow steps they began descending. "How about we stop, sit a bit and have a bite to eat? I can see new spring onions coming up just over there. There's so many, you don't think anyone would mind if we pulled up a few? They'd go nicely with the cheese."

It didn't take much convincing. He expected all of them were feeling their age, even as he was though he didn't like to admit it; the idea of stopping for a moment was well-received, as was taking Bilbo's appetite as their excuse to rest. Glancing around to see who was watching Nori nudged Bifur, who furtively took up a few of the small onions for each of them. They felt little guilt about it as they crunched down on the fresh, pungently green taste, eating them tops and all along with the brown rolls and cheese. There were plenty, after all. The taste of spring.

Bilbo hunted around in the pack for another roll. "Do you think they would mind if a hobbit wanted to take a turn with a trowel? I didn't realize how much I have missed my old gardens; it would be most pleasant, even if there aren't any flowers. Maybe I could help with some of the herbs."

"How about the bees down below?" asked Bifur, pointing to where two dwarves were walking along in the distance, a newly framed bee-box being toted between them.

"Oh dear me, no," said Bilbo. "I like them well enough when I am watching one among the blossoms, but I never did take to sticking my hand in a nest of them."

"Remember those bees that Beorn had?" asked Dori. "Now those were big ones."

"I remember them," nodded Bifur. "Never seen the like again."

"It's no wonder he had so much honey," agreed Nori. "We don’t have any like that, I assure you." He passed the last wedge of cheese to his smaller companion.

"Nonetheless, I think I'd just prefer plants. Is there a tool shed? A shelter for the herbs? Where do I start?"

"You really want to do this?" asked Glóin.

"Why, yes!" persisted Bilbo. "Don't you?" He finished the cheese in one last big bite and stood up to brush off crumbs. "I mean, it's all right if you don't want to. Maybe one of these young gardener fellows would be willing to take me on for a little while, eh?"

It took a bit of doing to convince them that he was serious and it was not a passing fancy. They finally took him over to one of the gardeners where he was outfitted with a trowel, no hoe being found that would be quite short enough for him. A small row was given for him to trowel the weeds out of. He expressed much enthusiasm for it and set about digging on his knees in the earth. As he had hoped, his friends stood around for a short time, then conferred in low tones with one another about who would stay with him so the rest could go back inside. Dori opted to stay, and the others gave him brief farewells, bidding him not dig too deep lest he inadvertently uncover some hidden treasure.

Time passed. Dori wandered up and down the rows. Bilbo dug out a stubborn old root and hacked apart some large clods trying to make what he had been given last longer. The gardener had obviously thought he would not last long, for the original patch was much too small. He moved on past it to breaking up the earth around some young squash mounds. Dori took up a hoe and halfheartedly chopped around the ground nearby, but gave it up after a short time. The shadows grew small as the sun climbed. Bilbo dug, prying up small stones and tossing them to the side.

"Are you nearly done, Mr. Baggins?" Dori called from where he now impatiently sat upon a rock retaining wall, fiddling with the amethyst clips he wore in the braids of his beard.

"What? Oh no, of course not!" Bilbo called back, trying to sound more energetic and interested than he really was. In truth his back was aching terribly, the sun was feeling hot even for spring and he longed for a drink of water. "Isn't it just marvelous weather for digging?"

Dori did not reply. He fidgeted a while longer, then finally stood up and began slowly pacing again, absently swinging a hoe in his hands. Bilbo turned his trowel under a patch of old weeds, yanking at them to get out the brittle roots. There was a murmuring of voices and shortly thereafter he found a pair of dark purple boots tentatively stepping along the row near his hands. He continued doggedly scrounging in the earth as if it were all he could think of.

"My deepest apologies, indeed I do wish I could stay, but I have errands I need to attend to inside the Mountain," said Dori with a small bow to him. "I did not give proper thought to your people being tunnelers of hillsides and that digging in the earth this way would be such an entertainment for you. Please forgive me that I do not join you in it."

"What? Oh, no offense at all. Are you sure you don't want to dig? The dirt breaks up most delightfully." He smiled up at Dori, crumbling a large clod in his hands as if he were fascinated with the texture of it. "Ah look! I've even found a worm."

Dori gave another bow, not quite looking at the worm that Bilbo cheerfully displayed in his palm. "If you will allow it, I have asked one of the gardeners to tend to anything that you might need. He will provide you with escort back to the lower gate when you are finished with your… gardening. There you may simply send one of the door-wards to fetch me."

Bilbo gently reburied the worm and reached for another good clod. "If you truly do not wish to join me, that is a very generous thing for you to do, good Dori. I thank you. I truly have not had such a fine day's digging for a long time. If it isn't an inconvenience to you, I would like to do another row or two. Maybe more."

Dori smiled and shook his head. "I am sure the workers will be glad of your help. Indeed, they may request that Dáin invite hobbits more often, just to help them with their tilling. I will see you at luncheon?"

"Unless I get digging so that I forget to eat, yes."

"Forget to eat?" laughed Dori. "Is this even possible?"

"I suppose," Bilbo said, feeding the notion to gain more time. "It's been known to happen with hobbits, when they are digging and tunneling. Please don’t worry about me, I am more than satisfied here." He set the trowel aside and enthusiastically dug into the loose soil with his bare hands to illustrate his point.

It worked. The purple boots moved out of his sight. He continued digging along the row this way for some time longer to be sure Dori was really gone and not just watching him from the ridge. His shoulders and arms ached, there was far too much dirt rammed up under his fingernails and he was sure he had gotten dirt in his hair when he was acting enthused for Dori. It itched, and he could not scratch it with both hands covered in more of the same.

When he felt it might be safe he slowly climbed back to his feet and ambled back towards the greenhouses, stopping to weed here and there along the way to avoid notice. Whichever gardener it was who had been approached did not make himself known; he could only see two from where he was and they were both occupied with their own work, showing no interest in him. Bilbo reached the nearest greenhouse, a large, low coldframe of sturdy wood. He casually stepped inside its walls. There was a bucket of fresh water with a drinking dipper standing just inside, kept in the shade to keep it cool. He gratefully washed the dust from his throat then splashed some here and there in an attempt to wash up with mixed results. He wished he had a handkerchief to wipe his face properly and patted for one out of habit.

Reaching into his pocket he found nothing but his loose button. Fingering the warm metal circle he wondered once more why he had given up his old ring. So much better than a button. It seemed so long ago right now, yet he wished he could borrow it back it again, just for a little while; it would have been useful at a time like this. He pictured the sour visage of his erstwhile relative, Lobelia, and how he had ducked away from her more than once using it. It was not really a pleasant reflection; he forced the image away and withdrew his hand, making his mind turn to the favor of fonder memories: his own blooming flower garden, old Hamfast's generously crinkled face bobbing among the blossoms as if he were one of them.

He looked around the greenhouse and considered the plants. If he could not hide, perhaps he could at least try to blend in.

Nearby were dozens of young angelica plants, laid out in rows. They were still young for their variety, but being a tall plant already stood large enough to look nicely vigorous with greenery in their pots. He leaned down and picked up two of the most leafy ones to carry. They didn't use angelica much in the Shire, though he had tasted it many times chopped and candied or as a flavoring in ale. The Dwarves seemed to have a taste for it, using it more like a vegetable. Once he had tried the crisp stalks when they had been offered to him, but found them unpleasantly astringent on the tongue. His friends didn’t seem to mind but there was no accounting for Dwarvish tastes.

He mused on this as he toted the plants. It had always been his experience that someone walking with a purpose while carrying some innocent item in their arms could generally pass without notice or question. His identity and purpose would be summed up by what he was carrying and little more thought given to it. After all, who thinks to wonder if the lad carrying a packet of letters is coming from anyplace but the postal office, and going anyplace but where the letters are addressed to?

Carrying the plants, he strode with a firm gait back out of the greenhouse and up the path. Unchallenged, he climbed the steps up and out of the terraces. Near the gardens this worked well enough, but the closer he got to the gates the less camouflaging his plants would be. He clutched them and kept on steadily for lack of any other idea.

Cresting the ridge he began the long walk down, which went much faster than it had been going up. The road with the river brightly splashing alongside it soon approached. He paused as if resting so he could watch the gate, waiting until a group of dwarves strode in that direction rapidly as if they were in a hurry. Perfect.

He stood and began jogging along the path, the plants waving around his face as he went. Their cool weight was seeming heavier by the moment. By the time he reached the gate he was honestly panting with the exertion, trotting right in after them.

"Hold!" called one of the door-wardens uncertainly.

Bilbo slowed only a little, turning to peer at him through the fronds. "Sorry," he gasped, "I couldn't keep up with them. I'm trying!" He waved apologetically, then turned back the way the group of dwarves had gone and trotted off, leaving the baffled door-warden staring in confusion after him.

"Wait for me!" he called out to no-one in particular. "I've got the rest of those plants! Blast you, can't you wait for someone with shorter legs?" He kept on, waiting to be called back, waiting for some heavy hand to descend upon him and drag him back to the door but it didn't happen. He crossed into the next set of rooms. Relief gave his feet wings; he strode straight on towards his rendezvous.

Along the way he did receive a handful of odd looks, but kept up the firm, purposeful stride and found no other barriers. It was laughably easy, really; and he thought it was a good thing he was not a real burglar as the King had worried he was. The stone rooms and steps gave way to the lower area he had mentally labeled the 'Dwarf-smials' and he slowed to regain his breath, to rest his legs and get a drink (as well as a refreshing splash to his face) from one of the cold, trickling water basins that were scattered along these hallways.

The now somewhat droopy angelica plants having served their purpose, he didn't quite know what to do with them. He considered bringing them along to Dím, but had second thoughts about it, not wanting it to be seen as conferring stolen goods however small or innocent seeming. He finally just left them in one of the halls, next to the water-basin. Hopefully someone would find them and return them to the gardens above in due time, or eat them.

Reaching the now familiar crossed axes with relief, he trotted down the short hall and had barely begun to knock on the door when it was yanked open and a very nervous Dím all but pulled him inside, shutting the door closed behind him.

"What took you so long?" he grumbled under his breath.

"I came as soon as I was able. I had to be sure I wasn't being followed first, my friends are very suspicious that I'm up to something, I'm afraid."

"You're alone?"

"Present company excepted, yes. Are you ready?"

"As much as I can be."

Bilbo followed Dím's gaze to where Mizûl lay sleeping, the spice box by his bedside, one hand lightly touching it.

Dím's voice lowered to a bare whisper. "I swapped it out this morning after he was asleep. The new one is well wrapped, so even if he opens it he should not see anything amiss… at first… I've given him a stronger sleeping draught than usual. The deeper rest should not bring harm."

Bilbo nodded then glanced around a bit anxiously. "Where is it?"

"It's right here. I hope I hid it well?"

With surprise Bilbo saw the woven lunch basket he had only briefly noted on the shelf by the brazier. Open, it held a loaf, a small jam-pot, a withered winter apple and a round cheese, all coddled in brown cloth. A round cheese of a very familiar size to him. It appeared that Dím had taken the real Arkenstone and after wrapping it in thick cheesecloth, had gone so far as to partially dip it in thick wax. In the basket it looked for all the world like a common cheese.

"A cheese? Cleverly done! Unless there are more hobbits about in this place than myself, no one is likely to pilfer your lunch."

Dím gave a nod. "I am in your debt for the idea. I admit I am still terribly nervous about carrying it in the halls. The sooner this is over with the better."

Bilbo considered the dwarf's wringing hands. "And you are sure you are able to let it go? You won't be trying to get it back again? No matter what?"

Dím looked down at his hands, then to his uncle's sleeping form. "No. Never again. Not for all the gold of my ancestors."

"Very well then. Let's go."

-

Chapter 22: Returning

With the handle of the heavy lunch basket firmly clasped in Dím's hands, the two of them hesitantly entered the halls. It was now drawing on well past mid-day into afternoon, and as they slipped along hallways and down steps, Bilbo could smell the late dwarven luncheons that had been cooked here and there, roasting meat and spicy soups wafting past teasingly until he half-wished that the 'cheese' they were carrying really was one.

From what he could remember, they were nearly to the point where they would be able to turn from the main thoroughfare and he began to relax. "This isn't so bad now, is it?" he murmured in encouragement.

Dim gave him a half-smile in spite of his nervousness and gestured ahead to a doorway that opened up on their right about a dozen paces down. "Just there," he said softly. "We can…"

A deep voice suddenly interrupted, calling out from somewhere behind. "Where are you going with that creature?"

Dim and Bilbo both spun around, the dwarf trying to not appear guilty, Bilbo with a mixture of surprise and righteous indignation. He had no doubt which of them was being referred to.

"Creature?" he spluttered.

Ignoring Bilbo's rejoinder, Ûrd, the Master Jeweler of Dáin's realm strode towards them giving Dim a polite nod. "Not to intrude, of course… Dim, isn't it? Dímûl's son, weren't you? Yes. Well. I do hope you realize what you are in the company of? I would not be concerned except seeing as this particular holebit was seeking entrance to my own worktables…"

"Hobbit," corrected Bilbo. "And I was not trying to…"

"… I feel I must at least inquire as to what he is doing away from his approved escort of esteemed Companions." He paused to give Bilbo an unfriendly look then caught Dím's reluctant eyes again and lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if it made a difference. "There is no telling what some foreigners will do to lay ahold of our treasures, you realize. It would be unwise to allow yourself caught up in it."

"I…" Dim faltered.

"Now just a minute. He was escorting me as a favor by my *most* esteemed Companions, and with the blessing of your own King," Bilbo said as firmly as he could manage.

"I was," nodded Dim, glad to follow Bilbo's lead. "And I am honored to do that service on their behalf, have no fears for myself or our treasures, Master Ûrd ." In spite of his smooth voice, the basket swung, betraying the trembling of his hands.

Bilbo, who had been wracking his brain for the puffed-up titles he had invented for himself during their last meeting, suddenly inserted himself between the Jeweler and Dim, blocking the basket from his view.

"As the Master Mathom-Wielder of the Shire from Underhill, I was sent in the keeping of your chief jewel-dresser by Dáin himself," he interrupted pompously. "Seeing as you yourself had refused to entertain me earlier, a discourtesy, I might note, that I have kept from the King's ears thus far but may not be inclined to do so a second time in light of these ill words. I had thought the servants of the King Under the Mountain, much less the Masters of Trades would have more gracious tongues for their august friends."

"Friends?" The Jewel Master raised his brows.

Dim tried picking up a few of the threads Bilbo was scattering about. "Of course…the people of the Shire are friends with our Kingdom," he nodded. "And Mr. Baggins is most esteemed even among them. It is no wonder that the King should want his thoughts upon these matters."

"You are only the jewel-*dresser*. I am the Master. Why was I not asked?"

Bilbo thought fast. "He must have realized how you were occupied already…"

Dim promptly echoed his lead. "The King must realize that the gem sets for Midsummer you have been designing are taking so many of your hours, he would not have wanted to burden you with something so…"

"It was most thoughtful," Bilbo nodded, "Not surprising, seeing as you are in such good standing with the King. I am sure my thoughts on the matter are only preliminaries to your own much more authoritative ones."

"For what?" asked Ûrd, looking both confused and doubtful. "Preliminaries?"

"We are on our way to the gemworks," offered Dim. "Our guest is to give his expert and most learned opinion on the quality of the stones we retrieved from our newer veins, and perhaps…"

"I can provide some guidance in light of my own experiences in other lands," finished Bilbo when Dim hesitated.

The elderly jeweler raised one hand to briefly twist at the point of his beard, suspicion still lurking in his eyes though not as strongly as before. "It would only take less than an hour for a viewing of the *public* gemworks," he commented. "Why do you carry a meal with you?"

"Hobbits are a noble but hungry folk," said Bilbo.

"So I have been told," Ûrd said dryly. Dím looked down at Bilbo as if wondering what his diminutive conspirator was talking about.

"It is by the enduring courtesy of my *current* escort that I am supplied with sustenance, a small provision for our walk to help keep up my strength. I look forward to a greater meal upon my safe return to my Companions, who are in full support of my services being used to further the wealth of this kingdom."

Ûrd considered this. "If this is what you need for a mere walk, your folk must need to store many provisions to travel."

"Oh yes!" Bilbo replied with a small bow, warming to the subject. "Waggons full. That's part of why they rarely leave their homes. They can get positively famished on a short jaunt to the Post. I have heard tales of certain stronger races - if you take my meaning - gaining good gold in exchange for the lending of their strength in carrying all of the food it takes just to get a family of Hobbits over the mountains." He hoped this wasn't laying it on too thick, though the thought of it rather tickled his own imagination now that he had it there.

"Now if you will pardon us, we need to be on our way," interjected Dim with another small bow. "I must have him back to his Companions within the expected time, you understand. And I am sure you have many other pressing matters to attend to."

"Oh. Yes, I understand. Of course," replied Ûrd. He didn't look as if he did, but he stepped back and after a moment turned back the direction he had come from. He glanced back at them as they turned together and walked down the hallway. Dim marched right past the doorway he had indicated before, so Bilbo went with him. It was only after several minutes of walking that they slowed and dared a communal glance backwards themselves. Ûrd was no where in sight.

"Phew," Bilbo said quietly. "Do we double back or is there another way? Do you think he would hide or try to follow us?"

"We'll have to double back," Dím whispered. "I don't think he would, but let's stop here a moment to be sure he's really gone. That was a close one."

"I'll say. It's not the first time I've met him."

"That was obvious," Dím said wryly, and then suddenly smiled down at him. "Come on."

Bilbo was tremendously grateful when they finally left behind the upper halls with its suspicious inhabitants and scents of cooking to descend below the living levels. Dim pushed past the thick, musty hanging he vaguely remembered, the one that kept the chill of the lower halls from the homes just above them, and they entered darker, lesser used streets of this dwarven-city.

The sudden quiet seemed loud to him, the only sounds being the trickling of water into the small wells that dotted the passageways of this mountain, a tiny thread of silver sound in the colder, darkened air. Dím's breathing echoed around the hall, or perhaps it was his own; in unspoken agreement they had both begun to hurry their pace. Dím paused to light the candle in a tiny iron lantern that Bilbo carried; he had added at the last minute when he realized that his companion might not be bothering with a bit of light, but he very much wanted some. No delay held them until they reached a branch in the hallway where Dim hesitated a long moment (it seemed much longer to Bilbo than it truly was) and then turned to the left. The hobbit found even this small hesitation reason enough to mull over the many dark and mysterious ways the two of them could falter or be lost in these halls to either wander on forever or to come out in the middle of Dáin's bedroom. It was testament to his rather frazzled state of mind that the latter did not seem all that farfetched.

His imagination on musings of this sort was strong enough that it was with great relief that he saw his guide pause to pull on a door that slid along dusty tracks, leading to a dark hallway with a stillness and a stale feel to it. He remembered this door, and that boost of certainty held him for perhaps ten paces in peace until his imaginings returned to query what would happen if there were more than one door just like that one, and they had the wrong one. What if it led to some other set of tombs, and they stumbled upon mourners for some more recently deceased dwarf… or something darker?

"There," said Dim. He ran his fingers briefly over a single rune carved in the wall beside them, a confirmation that they were very near. It was the first time he had spoken since they had descended into these darkened paths, and Bilbo, his runaway train of thought broken, literally startled. His small jump jostled the basket in Dím's hand making both of them reflexively grab at it, hugging it between them as if their very lives depended upon it.

"Eh…sorry," muttered Bilbo. Dim shrugged in an almost embarrassed way himself, grunted and began walking again, leaving Bilbo to follow along behind him.

So quick and furtive were their steps and so focused on walking quietly that they overshot what they were looking for. "Wait,” Dim said, peering at the smooth door coming up before them. He held the tiny lamp up to the carvings on the doorposts. "This can't be right. There are two dwarves entombed here."

"Fili and Kili," nodded Bilbo in sudden understanding. "Thorin's kin; they saved his life, or tried to. He died of his wounds after, but they were slain on the battlefield itself, they fell fighting right beside him, shielding him …" He trailed off.

"Were you there with them?"

"No, no; I am no warrior. But they were good friends. To tell the truth, I was watching from a hilltop when I was struck senseless. I'm afraid I missed a good lot of it - not too heroic, was it? Probably just as well. Fighting is such an ugly thing to watch or to be in, for all the songs written about it."

"They perished in glorious honor, then," said Dim, reading the runes on the lintel.

"If you count that glory," sighed Bilbo. "It was honorable, anyway. Let's go back."

The smooth doorway to Thorin's tomb was if anything, more elaborately framed than he recalled. Their single flame made the shadows of the carvings tremble and bob, alternately shadowed and shining with touches of bright metals and gemstones.

"My uncle opened it before, I cannot and what is more, I do not want to know how to open it, lest temptation take me someday the same way it has taken my kin." Dim said, looking down as his companion.

"I understand," said Bilbo.

Dim set the precious lunch-basket down on the floor and turned his back, covering his eyes firmly.

"Here, said Bilbo. He drew off his waistcoat and wrapped it over the hunched dwarf's head, covering his face. "Just in case," he said.

"Thank you…" came Dím's muffled voice.

Bilbo stepped up to the doorway, running his hands over the carvings that wound their way up the doorposts and peering up at the ones that adorned the lintel. In spite of their mutual haste to have it 'over and done with' there was a reverence and stillness about this place, about the carvings themselves that called out to be seen, to be read, to be pondered upon and not merely brushed past as decoration. Bilbo's fingers slid over the key carving, the shape of a crown. He briefly caressed its shape with thought, then suddenly pressed in upon it. It gave way easier than he had feared. There was a shifting sound and the door released.

Dim was suddenly beside him again, wordlessly handing back his waistcoat.

As the door opened, Bilbo reached for the basket but it was already back in Dím's nervous hands. It swung, bumping him as they tentatively went in. He thought it strange that now that they were finally here and so close to their goal all he could think of was the scent of that apple in the basket, laying there withered, bruised but yet sweet beside the stone.

The tomb sparkled about them, the smooth walls and peaceful symmetry bringing a visual hush to his heart. He stopped and gazed once more upon the sepulcher in the center of the room with its 'oaken' shield wrought so cleverly in stone. Off to the side, Dím was lighting one of the elaborate silver lamps from the small lantern they had brought.

"Mizûl made this, my kinsman…" he said softly, running his hands over the silver tracings. "His crafting was so fine. I will never have such skill. He made that filigree over there also, the one along the wall…"

"I had no idea," said Bilbo without thought. He knew that for proper manners he really ought to stop and take a proper look at the lamps, or examine that filigree and make an admiring remark or two. Instead he found his feet taking him up to the stone box in the center, reaching out to almost touch that hard, cold edge where it would open. All of his thoughts were for Thorin now, being drawn far away from Dím or his kin, or their troubles.

"I suppose we should open it first," he added, not even aware that he had interrupted Dím's soft monologue about this uncle's other past accomplishments. The dwarf stopped mid-sentence and after a moment joined him where he stood pushing at the heavy lid of the box, drawing a short prying bar from his belt where he had carried it concealed.

The oaken-colored stone of the great shield shone brown and gold, chocolate and black as they slowly shifted the lid, or rather as Dim slowly shifted it. Bilbo's felt his own feeble pushes were unlikely help, but as the young dwarf grunted and strained, he shoved too, offering what verbal encouragement he could along with his small strength. It finally shifted and they paused to catch their breath. Thorin was once more open to their viewing, the lamplight shining on him nearly to his waist. As before, he looked unperturbed, dignified and silent despite all of the unusual activity going on around him. Somehow it was fitting.

Dim bent and pushed aside the brown cloth within the basket, lifting the heavy, waxen gemstone up in his hands delicately, as if it would shatter from a breath.

Taking a small cheese-knife from the basket, he paused a moment, then decisively scored the surface. Cracking the humble wax, the stiffened cheesecloth was slowly pulled away from the silky-smooth stone it had concealed. The inimitable beauty of the Arkenstone shone forth, like pure moonlight stabbing through a break in a cloud-darkened night. He rubbed away the traces of wax with a forge-roughened thumb, polishing it to a sheen even beyond what was necessary. A long minute passed, and then another and still he was polishing that mesmerizing beauty. Bilbo began to be concerned; he edged a little nearer. Another minute passed.

"I….I don't think I can do this," said the young dwarf, his voice sounded harsh, as if he had to struggle to force it out. His eyes remained fixed on the silvery globe in his hands, slowly turning it. "I…can't."

"Let me," Bilbo said, reaching out. He understood. Oh, how he understood. He moved slowly, tentatively placed one fingertip onto Dím's hand, knowing better than to ever get between a Dwarf and their treasure, even at a time like this. Dím's eyes were half-lidded now, as if in sleep, but there was no somnolescence about that lidded gaze. He stopped turning the gem, took a deep, shuddering breath, then slowly managed to release his hold, allowing Bilbo to take it.

Bilbo received its weight, flashing in the small light of the lamp, warm from touch and cool at the same time; soft as mist and solid as steel. He cupped it in both hands as the dwarf trembled and turned away his face, swiping at his eyes with an impatient hand.

"Perhaps he will accept it back better if it is one of his own Companions who restores it," he said gruffly.

Bilbo looked up from the glowing gem to the edge of the stone casket and realized he would need his hands to help pull himself up if he was to reach Thorin where he lay. Glancing back at Dim, he saw the dwarf turned away. It wouldn't be fair to make him hold it again.

He looked down at the stone, trying to gauge its size and then tried fitting the Arkenstone into his pocket, but it was too big. Putting it under his arm almost worked, but the perfect roundness of it made it impossible to hold it there long enough without it threatening to suddenly squirt out. He took out his pocket-handkerchief and briefly tried making a sling for it, hoping that he could then clutch the bundle in his teeth, but the handkerchief wouldn't quite meet around it.

Frustrated, he finally had to unceremoniously plop the Stone up over the ledge, hearing it clunk down onto some part of Thorin's armor, and only then remembered the obviously useful basket they had brought with them, wincing at his own forgetfulness.

Hopefully the armor had kept it from, well, making a dent in Thorin. Too late to correct it now. He reached up and pulled himself higher, balancing on the shallow decorative edge that ran around the circumference of the box. The stone lay by Thorin's right side, apparently having hit the side of his breastplate before rolling off. Bilbo was relieved at the lack of damage to both Thorin and the Stone. He had to reach over the edge and gingerly fish around by Thorin's side to scoop the gem back into his hands, an uncomfortable moment that made him mutter apologies to Thorin, feeling as if he were invading his privacy.

It was considered one last time, the silver fire of the lamplight running along it, setting all of the flecks of moonlight and starlight inside afire. The Heart of the Mountain. Thorin had been the one with the dream, the will and the determination to bring life back to this place. And he had succeeded. It was fitting that he, also the Heart in his own way should remain its keeper. This mountain was where both of them had found their beginning, and where both should rest.

He took the stone and, unable to think of a proper Dwarven blessing, inwardly said an Elven one. He would think about whether that mattered or not later on; for now, it seemed right. The Arkenstone nestled back into the rounded space between Thorin's withered hands as if it had never left them, and Bilbo finally released the breath he had not realized he was holding.

There it was. His friend had his treasure; the promises of the Dale, of Bilbo himself, were honorable once more. He wondered if somehow, someplace outside the world old Thorin even knew whether that gem remained with him. If anyone would know the difference, it would be Thorin.

He looked back down at his other friend, the one that was yet living. Dím's chestnut head was bowed down, facing half towards the delicate silver lamp that burned in the alcove, as if he had not the strength to turn all the way away from where that Stone of beauty shone.

"Well, that's done," Bilbo said, taking refuge in being brief and businesslike in the face of the poor dwarf's emotion as well as his own. He jumped back down to the floor. "It's over. Come now, help me get this lid back into place."

-----

The way back seemed longer than the going had been, perhaps because both of them were a bit overwrought and weary from interrupted sleep the past days. They had little reckoning of how much time has passed since they had set out, though Bilbo knew it had been long enough that even his consuming the remaining contents of the lunch basket was not quite enough to stave off hunger. It had to be nearing supper-time, he thought, and wondered if any of his friends had decided to go hunting for him in spite of their promise not to. They probably had.

At least it was over and done with now - he could report to them with good news and a fairly clear conscience. His only concern now was that he would have to talk them into showing mercy towards the elderly smith who lay under Dím's care, he would have to find a way to make them refrain from all of the vengeful things they had spoken of. Surely they would understand…

They had only just entered the hall that led to Mizûl's rooms, having managed to find their way back without event or trouble, and both of them had been starting to relax when his thoughts were interrupted by an odd clunking sound somewhere ahead, followed by Dím giving a gasp beside him. Immediately alerted, Bilbo saw there was nothing in front of them, so he spun about to see what might have been behind them, only to almost be knocked off his feet by his companion running for the door at the end of the hall. He staggered and followed, still not knowing what had happened to cause this sudden panic.

"Uncle!" cried Dím, pushing his way into the darkened rooms. "Uncle…"

Chapter 23: Harvest

By the time Bilbo managed to follow, Dím had pushed the door open and was already across the dark room, kneeling beside Mizûl on the bedside floor. The elderly smith lay awkwardly curled on the floor-rug, his breath rattling and wheezing sporadically in his throat. The long strip of cloth that had been wrapped around the replacement stone straggled from his sprawled hands. The spice box lay open and empty on the rumpled bed just above his head. Bilbo automatically began to swing the door shut behind him, stumbling over something on the floor. It rolled away from his foot; a globe of humble marble, exactly the size the Arkenstone had been.

"He opened it…" choked Dím, chaffing the cold hands he held. "How, I don't know. I left it locked. He should have been sleeping."

"Should I get help? Who do I call for?" asked Bilbo, alarmed at the ashen face of the old dwarf and his obvious frailty.

"No one…"whispered Dím. "I don’t think it would be of any use now…"

Bilbo could think of no words to say. Numbly he bent and picked up the marble sphere, a great weariness seeming to settle on his shoulders. He had never intended for it to lead to this. He stood hesitantly for a moment, then sat on the edge of the chair by the yet-warm brazier, turning the stone in his hands. "Can I get anything…some water…?"

The young dwarf hunched over, tugging one of the blankets the rest of the way down from the bedding to pull it crookedly over his uncle's shoulders, but did not answer. Bilbo wondered if he should call for help anyway, or even if he should just leave, leave them alone. The old dwarf's worn wooden mallet lay nearby. On impulse, Bilbo got up and fetched it, placing it in his grasp.

The fingers weakly clutched at it once, before the handle rolled down the palms, back to the rug. Dím touched it briefly, but did not try to replace it in that faltering grasp. Instead he just held his elderly kin to him, smoothing the tangles of his beard away from his face and whispered to him, almost crooning something in dwarvish, again and again. As Bilbo stood there helplessly, they both heard the strange rattling in the throat, saw the old hands and legs jerking briefly as if in protest of the spirit's departure. The old smith's eyes opened briefly, without recognition, then rolled and closed. After a long moment there was one more shallow breath, then his breath faded away.

Dím was still for a long moment in that silence, knowing - the only movement where he still absently chaffed one of the limp hands. "He has gone away then, gone with his treasure," the youth said in a low voice. "Gone away on his journey at last. When he sees my father, I hope he will understand why I had to take it, to put it back, that he will still speak well of me to our ancestors." He lapsed back into whispers of Dwarvish, then looked up at Bilbo as if for reassurance.

"We had to put it back," he said.

"Yes," Bilbo agreed gently. "We did."

"I'm glad we did," Dím continued, stroking his hand over the gray-white hair and beard, straightening tangles from it. "It was well, for now I have hope that he was able to face our family with honor, not as a thief."

"Not as a thief…" Bilbo echoed, unsure what to say. The smith's death had come rather as a shock; they both had known that the substitute stone would be discovered sooner or later, dwarves in general were too astute about such things, but he never *really* expected that the shock of it would be fatal, or that it would happen so soon. The fact that Dim did not seem to find it all that surprising was an eye-opener on how deeply it had been affecting him.

"I do not blame, I do not look for vengeance," Dim was saying in a monotone, rocking back and forth. "I forfeit all vengeance to the line of he who was wronged, though it was only in his dotage that he fell…"

Bilbo was wrung by a surge of pity for the lad. "Now, no need of worry on that part. It's over and done with, we've set it right." He awkwardly patted Dím's shoulder where he still sat, cradling Mizûl's body.

Dim slowly released the still form to the sleeping rugs beneath it, and pulled the blanket up over the still face. He raised his eyes, glancing over Bilbo and focusing on the darkness of the wall somewhere beyond him.

"When the kin of Thorin Oakenshield ask, you may tell them that justice was served. Justice was served. He was slain by one of the King's own servants… his own kin have seen to that." Dím's voice broke as he bowed his head.

"Is there someone who can help?" asked Bilbo, not for the first time. He was feeling utterly at a loss. "A, er…," he hesitated, unsure of Dwarven burial procedures and who aided them.

"No, I will care for him. His kin will care for him as is proper." He met Bilbo's eyes then, speaking in a strangely conversational tone, quickly, as if it would ward off the unreality of what was happening. "We have a family tomb, though perhaps you did not know it. Or perhaps you would think we would not deserve such a thing, but we do have one…" He looked back down at the still form and grimaced. "The resting place of our forefathers lies back in the Iron Mountains, far, far from here. Those mines are now abandoned anyway.. and now we own one here. It is nearly empty, of course. None rest there but my father, Dímûl. Now his brother will lie beside him." He was silent for a long moment, raising his glinting eyes to the rack of tools that hung upon the wall, now barely visible in the dimness of the dying brazier fire. "One day I may lay there myself, hopefully in more honor than those who have gone before me."

“I believe you will," said Bilbo with sincerity.

The smith's life had seemed to pass away along with his treasure, and he shivered at the thought, realizing his hand had strayed to his pocket out of long habit, as if to be sure his own treasure was safe and with him. He rubbed his hands together until the feeling passed.

---------

Author's Note:

I had someone ask why I had the dwarves farming - she said canon for Tolkien was that they would never farm, but would have the Men doing that work for them. I thought post her answer here, in case anyone else was wondering the same thing:

I decided to allow the dwarves just a little farming - but not much, and to make it an odious/unpopular task assigned to the youngsters who haven't progressed beyond forging farm implements. This was partly because of the sort of foods they seem to enjoy cooking and eating in the books being in need of it - but moreso because I frankly figured they would rather have their apprentices care for a few basics than to have to pay the Dale-men any gold (heaven forbid) or to have to be completely beholden to another race for their basic survival in the mountain.

They don't hunt (they buy their meat and fish from the men), or keep long-term things like vineyards or orchards, but a few storable/dryable veggies seemed prudent. I allowed myself this liberty also because I never did agree with the good Professor on this point - it just didn't seem reasonable that an entire city of any race could survive without some kind of provision for their own foodstuffs, not without putting themselves into too much debt to another race, and the dwarves he presents are far too money-oriented to want to be in debt at all much less for something as humble as this.

It would also have been a problem strategically speaking, as 'starving them out' would have been easy should their enemies surround them, and economically also - what if the Dale-men should decide to start charging many times what their food or labor was worth?

Hence the limited use of some terraces on the mountainside as a bargaining chip with the Men and safeguard against being beseiged. While they might be proud of the engineering of it, they don't want to have to spend the time working it unless they have no choice. (always useful to have a 'drudge' chore for disciplining those unruly youngsters anyway).

---

Chapter 24: Footwork

"Where have you been?" Bifur all but pounced on the hobbit as he made his way towards their customary meeting place in Glóin's rooms. The dwarf even didn't wait for a reply, which was well as Bilbo was not in the mood to talk just yet. "It's been hours! When Dori came back without you, Dwalin and the others were carrying on at the poor fellow - we had to climb all the way back up to those gardens, but then you had disappeared and no one knew where to. We've been searching all over for you…"

"You promised me you wouldn't," pointed out Bilbo wearily.

"Bilbo! There he is. Where did you find him?" Nori exclaimed, trotting over to them the opposite end of the hall they had just entered.

"I didn't. He found himself."

"I took the chance of checking with the Door-wardens," said Nori a bit accusingly. "They told me you came in from the gardens quite a while back with a bunch of plants, and assumed you were with us."

"A bunch of plants?" Bifur queried.

"You found him!" came Dori's voice. "About time! Where did he wander off to?"

"We don't know," said Bifur.

"Wherever did you go?" asked Nori. "What's this about plants?"

Bilbo kept walking, spared from answering by yet another call to their rapidly growing group. "There they are - and look, they have Mr. Baggins with them!" Bofur was coming towards them, with Dwalin giving measured paces behind him.

"Where did you find him, is he well?" asked Bofur as he came up on the group.

"Well enough," said Dori, peering at him. "Are you well, Mr. Baggins?"

"Quite," Bilbo said. "Just a little tired."

"Tired! I should think so if you've walked even half as much as we have looking for you," exclaimed Bofur.

"And that after we already climbed all the way up to those blasted gardens," put in Nori.

Dori looked over at his brother. "Did the Door-wardens know then?"

Nori shook his head. "All they knew is he came in with plants."

"Plants?"

"At least he wasn't off wandering the slopes or woods…"

Dwalin gave Nori a sharp look. "We were able to find one person who said he'd been seen in the lower halls, walking with someone… "

"Yes. We just got back from there. My legs are killing me," grumbled Bofur with a hand to his back.

"Lower halls?" chorused Dori and Nori.

"With someone? Who were you with, Mr. Baggins?" asked Bifur.

"No one, apparently," groused Dwalin. "We never saw him or anyone who would admit to being around him. Obviously. A complete waste of an afternoon."

They all began bumping one another as they funneled from the room into the hallway that led to Glóin's, comparing notes about all the places they had searched. Wrung out, Bilbo allowed himself to be swept along with them. He felt like he could sleep for a week, provided he could also eat several meals in a row first.

Glóin opened his doors at their hail and was forced to immediately step aside as the lot of them pressed in towards the parlour. "Baggins, there you are," he called as they pushed past him. "Good to see you're safe at least. Where did you get off to? Dori, did you find him?"

"He didn't," Nori said, "Though he should have, seeing as he was the one who lost him."

"I did not!" protested Dori. "I left him in the care of that gardener, and he said he would be along..."

"He was long, all right," said Dwalin, flumping down in one of the chairs.

Dori threw up his hands with frustration. "What was I supposed to do, carry him again, against his will?"

"Leave Dori alone," said Bilbo, sitting down on the stool by the fire. He was so tired. He rubbed at his temples. "I'm the one responsible. I contrived to send him away so I could take care of more important things. If you must rail at someone, go ahead and rail at me, just get me something to eat first or I'll faint dead away and miss most of it."

Glóin closed the door and followed them in. "Miss most of what?"

"Railing," offered Nori. Dwalin muttered something under his breath.

Bofur sat down without comment and rubbed his legs, but Bifur stooped over the hobbit for a moment and looked at him in concern. "Do you still have any of that rabbit-sage pie left, Glóin?"

"Pie?" said Glóin in mild confusion. "Oh yes. It's just over there, under that cover. Here, let me help." He fetched a small silver plate from a stack on a shelf and held it out for Bofur to slip a generous slice onto. Licking some stray gravy from his finger, Bofur took the plate over to Bilbo.

"My thanks," said Bilbo faintly as he took it. Ignoring the rumbling conversing going on all around him he set to transferring every bit of that slice from the plate to his empty interior, thereby raising his general level of comfort and goodwill by several notches. He accepted a second slice appearing on his plate as the first one vanished as the natural progression of events, and finally his head began to feel clearer. By the time a large mug of amply sweetened dark tea had joined the plate, he was feeling much more himself, though it was at best a rather washed out, tired and old version of himself, he thought.

He looked up from his plate and mug to find that the rest of the company had also been serving themselves with drinks, though no other no food was in evidence. Whence had come the leftover rabbit pie? He was hazy on what time it was, it couldn't be that far past supper-time already, could it? No wonder he had been faint; no wonder they had begun to worry about him.

"Did you deal with that forger?" asked Dwalin suddenly, leaning forward in his chair to meet Bilbo's eyes. His brows were drawn together and his eyes looked hard. Taken a bit off-balance, Bilbo had to recall what he was even talking about. With the replacing of the Stone in Thorin's tomb and then everything dealing with poor Mizûl's sad demise he had completely forgotten about that blasted false letter. It not only felt very long ago, it just didn't seem important anymore - but he knew to the likes of Dwalin and Co., it still would. Dwarves had very long memories when it came to such things, and this had only been a few days ago.

He shifted his feet towards the warmth of the fire to gain time. "Well, yes…" he said with sadness. "I would say it has been dealt with. Completely. And to the satisfaction of even the most.. offended among us." He trailed off and looked at the fire bleakly.

The Dwarves looked at one another. This was a turn of mood they had not expected and they weren't sure what to do with it. Glóin came up behind Dwalin's chair and half extended a hand, as if to hold him back if he should persist.

"He was… quite old," Bilbo added. He glanced back at them, at their own elderly eyes reflecting the firelight of both hearth and candles. They were looking at one another uncertainly.

"What happened to… him?" Dori finally asked, his voice low and hesitant.

"He's dead," said Bilbo with flat finality. He looked back at the flames. Perhaps there was something of the lingering guilt he felt down inside, knowing that it had been his own urging that had taken the old smith's treasure from his hands, brought on that fatal shock. Whatever it was, it gave the gathered Company pause.

"You… killed him?" asked Bofur.

Even as it was voiced there was some uncomfortable, muted near laughter among them, it was ludicrous, the idea that their gentle Hobbit would murder anyone, much less a Dwarf… wasn't it? Then again, they had seen him fight the Spiders, walk down to face a dragon alone… He wouldn't… would he?

Bilbo did not move, or answer. Dwalin drew a noisy breath of exasperation. "Is that all you have to tell us then? That the forger, whomever he was, is dead? And we are supposed to just accept that? What if you are lying, what if you let him go to keep us from avenging our honor? Hiding him? You were very vocal that we not do so earlier…"

Glóin's hand came down on Dwalin's shoulder, hard enough to make him grunt. "Enough, Dwalin. I believe him." The others nodded gravely, assenting.

"He wouldn't," nodded Bofur.

Glóin gestured. "Look at him. We must hold it as avenged, at least for now, until we know the tale. I am sure after he's had a chance to rest, Mr. Baggins will tell us more…"

"But what about the Arkenstone?" asked Bifur as Dwalin reluctantly subsided. "I am willing to leave this other mystery until the morrow if I must, but what about the stone? Was it found, in truth?"

"Yes, was it?" asked the others, stirred to sudden movement again, they overlapped in their impatience. "Did you find it?" "Where is it now?"

Bilbo turned back to them again. His head was feeling hazy and slightly disconnected from the rest of him so he had to concentrate on his words, what to say, how much to say. "The Arkenstone is unharmed - smooth and as lovely as ever," he said. This brought a sigh of relief and remembrance from all of them, Bilbo included. "Thorin holds it clasped to his chest as he desired it would be." There was a confusion of murmuring.

"How can you be sure of this?" asked Nori.

"I placed it back into his hands myself," said Bilbo, deciding it would not hurt to add a couple details just to keep them busy. "Though I almost got the wrong tomb, in which case it would have been Fili and Kili who had it. As there was only one dwarf there, I can assure you it was Thorin."

"You opened the tomb? How?" asked Dwalin suspiciously. The others murmured around him.

"I had help from a dwarf. You are not the only ones who wished to right this wrong." He turned toward Dwalin and almost toppled off the stool as his fatigue caught up with him again. Bofur put out a hand to steady him.

"What do you mean by that?" persisted Dwalin.

"He's tired," Bofur pointed out and waved a hand at the him to quiet him.

"Why is everyone always telling me to be quiet?" grumbled the dwarf. "You yourselves were saying…"

"Tomorrow morning is soon enough," said Glóin firmly. "Yes, we did want to know and we will know, but I would not do so with our friend falling into the fire while he tells it. Come, Mr. Baggins. I will see to it that you are not disturbed until morning."

"After breakfast," mumbled Bilbo, staggering to his feet. "Toast. And tea."

They all smiled at that, even Dwalin. "And a pipe, if you wish," that individual contributed as he left the room under Glóin's guidance. They fell to talking with one another, a rumbling murmur that Bilbo could still hear as he went to his own chamber, halfway undressed and clambered up into the bed. He drifted off quickly, spinning into a deep velvet slumber in which he fleetingly dreamed he himself lay in state, a cheese clasped in his hands over his chest.

----

Bilbo stood, puffing at his second pipe, and watched as Bombur demonstrated to him his trick of throwing nut-shells up in the air so that they landed inside a silver chalice on the mantle above and behind his head. He hadn't missed yet, in spite of Bifur and Bofur both attempting to distract him at key moments. Their laughter and good-natured jibing was a relief after a long morning of questions and answers.

The morning had passed quickly at first, seeing as he started late and supped long, but the time he had spent in that somewhat grueling session with his friends had crawled by. Their questions had been many and in spite of the sweetmeats that they had brought to fortify him into talking longer, he was grateful that it was over and pleased enough with the results. He supposed it had been a success inasmuch as he could measure such a thing; some of the dwarves had gone off now, he assumed to double-check his tale regarding Mizûl's demise and the presence of the Arkenstone in Thorin's withered hands. If they had been hobbits, he might have been upset by this implied questioning of his trustworthiness, but with dwarves it was expected - they never took someone's word for it if they could check up on it themselves.

A walnut shell bounced off the lip of the chalice and clattered down to the floor where Bofur snatched it up triumphantly. "Aha!"

"Aha yourself," chuckled Bombur in good humor. "I must have filled that cup so full no more will fit."

"Oh, you think so do you?" Bofur said, launching the wayward shell into the air himself. It tinked into the chalice with the rest. "Plenty of room I think. My turn again."

Bilbo smiled and helped himself to some of the pile of nuts Bifur, Bofur and Bombur had been cracking before they'd abandoned their task for flicking the shells at one another, which had led to this tossing contest.

"You missed again, Bofur," called Bombur. "Admit it, we are better at this than you."

"Never!" said Bofur cheerfully. "It was only a wayward breeze what moved the shell."

"Let our hobbit do it again," suggested Bifur.

"Yes, come Mr. Baggins. Your aim has yet to go amiss."

"Only if I get to play with nuts rather than shells this time. The prize must be worth the effort."

"Done! Bofur, bring that sack of walnuts. The other one too. As many as you can toss into that…hm, how about that chest over there? Bifur, open that chest. Used to have winter wrappings in it, but we're still using them all it's been so chill. That's good. Think you can hit that from this far away, Mr. Baggins?"

"Easily," said Bilbo. He chose a single walnut and weighted in briefly in his hand. In a single movement, he whipped it off and there was an echo of a clatter as it hit the open lid of the chest, falling down into the interior with a small thunk.

"Excellent, good fellow!" said Bombur.

"How about trying to hit that knothole in the lid, the one about a third down?" asked Bifur with a glint in his eye.

Bilbo picked up another walnut, weighed it and lobbed it.

"Spot on!" cried Bifur. "Do it again. But step back another three paces first."

It was some time later when the others came back, satisfied as much as they could be under the circumstances. The old smith was dead, they confirmed, and yes, Thorin held his treasure safely in his hands.

They gathered around the fire as Dwalin read through the a brief official missive he had drawn up for all of them to sign.

"…With this confirmation, we will formally concur with your request," said Dwalin a bit stiffly. "All revenge for this matter shall be regarded as fulfilled by the death of the perpetrator, and all dishonor bound back to that generation of the family line. No further matters will be pursued upon his relations or upon your own."

"A clean plate?" asked Bilbo. "No more jam in the jar?"

"Yes, as your people might say," bowed Dwalin. "No more." Glóin, Nori and Dori bowed with him, having also had their family lines impugned in that ill-fated forgery. "And now that that is done, may I inquire of one more thing?"

"What's that?" asked Bilbo with some trepidation.

"Why were you sitting in a blanket chest full of nuts?"

--

Chapter 25: And a Bit of Gemwork

Bilbo shifted his weight as he stood once more before the great throne of the Lonely Mountain, waiting for its glittering King to make his entrance - or at least he assumed Dáin would be glittery by the time he finished changing his apparel for a courtly appearance. Bilbo's own entrance to the hall had been almost as fussed over; his Companions had been at pains over the past hour to fluff and preen their own appearances as well as his though he had resisted most of the attempts. He had declined their offers of fur-trimmed hood and cape, small golden clips they thought might be becoming in his foothair (he did not agree) and various jewels to wear on his person for the occasion. Even now could see all of their own geegaws, ornaments and trim sparkling as they moved to either side of him. The magnificence which suited them so well would have felt most out of place on himself.

"You look a little worried." It was a question more than a statement, whispered by Glóin as the dwarf passed by to choose a seat on one of the benches.

Bilbo realized he was furrowing his brow and made an effort to relax his face. "Oh no, no. …don't mind me. Just thinking."

He was rather worried though, mostly about Dím. He hadn't seen the young dwarf since they had parted company more than three days ago, days which had gone by both slowly and quickly at once.

He realized some of his Companions had spoken privately to the young jewel-dresser in that time, personally reiterating their promises to bind all mention of revenge back to the past and regard it as fulfilled, but he hated having to rely on Dwarvish words of honor this way. Especially when it came to revenge. It would have very much helped his peace of mind if he could just know that the lad was well and not laying someplace in a dungeon or being tortured in some Dwarvish way in the bowels of this blasted Mountain; it was hard to imagine his friends doing such a thing, and at the same time disturbingly easy with what he knew of Dwarves in general.

Besides, he thought, Dím and his nameless sister were alone now, as far as he knew. With the death of their guardian uncle, Mizûl, were they somehow vulnerable? Demoted to some lowly status, relegated to some unhappy labor? Had anything dishonorable been done to the old smith after his passing, with their own youth and lack of wealth or prestige making them unable to stop it?

Remembering the hero's rune that marked Fili, Kili and Thorin, he imagined some sort of mark upon Mizûl's tomb, something big and ugly that had the equivalent of "He was a Nasty Old Fellow Who Stole Things." In spite of Glóin and the others assuring him that Mizûl had been laid peacefully to rest in his small family tomb with his tools in hand - his true tools, not the wooden ones that he had grasped in his illness - Bilbo was still a bit distrustful about it.

Thus it was when a summons had been issued for Bilbo to appear before the King, it had been a surprise that was not a necessarily pleasant one, well-seasoned as it was with suspicion and the unknown. Glóin and Dwalin had both been convinced that Dáin had somehow had wind of their misadventure with the Arkenstone and bore ill-wishes for their friend, or that Dím had somehow painted their hobbit (or themselves) as meddlers of tombs and treasured gems. They were by no means the only ones uncomfortable with the thought of this royal audience, Bilbo included. It had quickly been decided that although the summons was only for their Mr. Baggins, all of them would be gathered together in that throne room to await this audience with the King, even (to Bilbo's surprise) old Bombur, who would not be left out and had waddled in to take up one of the stone benches.

Bilbo could hear the dwarves all whispering back and forth to one another, and watched as a couple of curious lollygaggers were escorted out by a guard. The doors were quietly shut. He hoped this was only on behalf of their privacy and not to keep them in.

"He'll be here any minute," Bofur whispered.

"Taking him long enough," muttered Nori behind them.

"You know," said Bombur, "I was just thinking. After we're done here, we could have some of those sausage-stuffed cabbage leaves from last night. They taste even better after they've set a bit and there was at least two trays left from that batch."

"We haven't been here long enough for you to get hungry," said Bifur disapprovingly.

"And some sliced white cheese, with pickles," Bombur continued more softly. Bilbo smiled.

There was a long pause, and Bilbo shifted his weight from foot to foot again.

"How about that lamb, we could slice it thin," Dori suddenly put in from the side. "It would be good on those rye loaves, the seeded ones."

"Rye, with cardamom," nodded Bombur approvingly.

"I like rye," agreed Nori.

"Don't encourage him," said Bifur.

"We need all the encouragement we can get," Bombur said mildly, refusing let his cousin's words bother him. "And hopes of a fine meal boost the spirit considerably, don't you agree, Mr. Baggins?"

Bilbo did not get a chance to reply. There was a motion at the front and the curtains swept aside. As before, a heralding servant stepped forward to announce loudly "Dáin Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain will now accept audience!"

Dáin swept into the hall, sparkling and pompous as always, and behind him came a young dwarf with a thick chestnut beard deftly straightening his cloak as he went. Bilbo was so terribly pleased to see that Dim was whole and well and still in attendance upon the King that he broke right into the beginning of their dwarves' courteous phrasings.

"Your Maj…" started Dwalin.

"You're here!" Bilbo exclaimed before stopping himself with a brief flush of his cheeks.

Dáin, thinking the hobbit was referring to himself, frowned at this extreme lack of decorum and sat down in his throne rather harder than he had intended to, though Dím seemed pleased (silently) to hear him and smiled down at his boots. The jewel-dresser looked very tired, but otherwise wore no outward sign of the mourning that he must be in. Perhaps the mournings of lesser folk were not fitting to display when one stood before a King.

Dáin waited until his furs were carefully arrayed on his throne before carefully running his eye over the assembled Company. "I summoned only one of you," he noted.

Reclaiming his more usual manners, Bilbo stepped forward and gave a small bow. "My most loyal friends have chosen to accompany me, I hope you do not find this troublesome?"

"Nay. They may remain." Dáin flicked a hand, then paused as if weighing up his words. He toyed with the end of his mustache. "It could be said to concern them as well. It has been brought to my attention that our honored guest has worthy talents. That he is skilled in a way that I was not made aware of before."

"Talents? Skilled?" echoed several of the Company blankly. There was a subdued confusion of murmuring. "Do you think he means the burglaring…?" whispered someone before being stifled. "But we…" "Shhh!"

Dwalin was nudged forward by his friends behind him. He gave a deep, formal bow. "We have not withheld anything from your Jewelness…" he began hesitantly.

Dáin waved a hand at him again. "I do not blame you, Dwalin. Or any of you. If I held in *my* company such a worthy gem-master, I would also be tempted to keep his skill hidden."

"Gem-master?" blinked Bilbo, readjusting his thoughts.

"I do not know what title those of your training and skill receive in your land, or what honor they are given, but among Dwarves you will find we properly value those with such an eye. You have been found out, ah yes, I see you are surprised at this, but I will make it worth your time if you will graciously lend our Kingdom that skill during your I hope comfortable stay with us. You may have beheld the gems of many other kingdoms, but I assure you that you will find few to equal ours."

Behind the King, Dim risked one brief glance up to see Bilbo's reaction to this, then looked back down at his boots.

*Ah,* thought Bilbo, *I think I know where that story came from. But a master of it? Many kingdoms? As much as I appreciate his enthusiasm, I hope my young friend didn't make it too much to live up to.*

"A Gem-master? Mr. Baggins? What? Is he?" some of the Dwarves were whispering to one another behind him.

Dáin settled back in his throne, apparently quite pleased with himself. "Yes, I have caught you by surprise. You wonder how I came to know? Do not think your ruse was poorly wrought; it was cleverly hidden indeed. I might never have guessed, excepting that I have among those in my service the very best of gem-workers, and they know their own when they encounter them. You, no doubt, did not even realize you were being watched, eh?"

He gave a hungry sort of smile and leaned forward to waggle a finger at the group. "At last we understand one another, Dwalin, Glóin…all of you. I wondered greatly that you welcomed such a foreigner among you as you did, knowing you have treasures to guard and care for. I mistook his interest in our works as potential thievery and feared you were being blind to it."

His eyes turned to that foreigner among them. "I admit to ill manners at your arrival, Mr. Baggins. I did not know of your *professional* interests, and misjudged you. You shall not hold that against us now." It was and was not a question, even as it was and was not an apology.

Bilbo was still at a loss as to how he should respond to all of this. As confidently as he could would be his best guess, it being both a Dwarf and a King. He was pondering Dáin's expression, why it was familiar. *I know what it is - He looks like a hobbit-lad who's just discovered the key to the pantry,* thought Bilbo. *And of all things, is he looking to me to help him improve his hoard? Well, I suppose I might pull it off… bluffing is something I've had to do a lot of around here.*

"Eh…but of course!" he stumbled. "I mean to say, I see no reason to make it a problem, that is, to remember it. I hold nothing against you at all."

He heard some stifled chuckling going on behind him, and a grunt as one chuckler was elbowed into silence. The others had obviously begun to make the same connection, that Dáin had gained a 'much enlightened' opinion of Bilbo with his apparent expertise with gems from the youth who so deferentially stood behind the throne.

The King sat back in his throne again and considered the hobbit. "That is well. Now, if you will humor my wishing to take some small advantage of our hospitality to you, I have a mystery involving a bit of gemwork, and I wonder if you may be able to help me solve it."

*Oh no, not another one,* thought Bilbo, followed by the even more disturbing thought that Dáin was only toying with him and did in fact know about the recent episodes with the Arkenstone. But then why would Dím be appearing so at ease? He nodded once and gave the King his attention with some trepidation.

Dáin shifted thoughtfully. "Many years ago," he said, "When my Kingship here was first being established so that I could to restore this great Kingdom…"

"From Thorin," interjected Dwalin.

"Of course," Dáin continued after a small pause. "Only after my esteemed cousin Thorin Oakenshield had regretfully breathed his last. After the honored and victorious battles were over, I had brought before me all of those who had aided so valiantly in the rightful restoration of my Kingdom."

"Thorin's," muttered Dwalin, this time getting a significant nudge from Glóin.

"Don't start him up again…" he rumbled in a low voice. Dwalin gave Glóin a sharp look, but subsided.

Dáin ignored him. "Among those who were gifted with great and precious gifts to reward them, there was one among them who came from that far-off land known as the Shire. Do you recall what you were given, Bilbo of the Shire? Among the treasures you accepted from us, I gave into your hands a necklace of fine-wrought silver and pearls, each pearl perfectly matched, strands of silver with chasing as fine as the hair of my beard..."

"One question," said Bilbo.

"Yes?" Dáin pursed his lips at being interrupted in his small speech.

"Pardon me. Just wondering. You seemed to barely recall me at all when I arrived, in fact you had difficulty remembering my name. I find this surprising when now you tell me that you can perfectly recall a single necklace from over fifty years ago."

"Of course I do. Who would not? It was a very valuable piece and cunningly wrought. I recall it as clearly as if I had seen it only yesterday."

"Such are the memories of old age," offered Bifur from the side.

"I am yet hale," said the King dryly. "And the state of my mind has little enough to do with it." He turned and snapped his fingers at one of the servants standing by the doorway to his dressing-room. The dwarf hurried forward with a smooth, shallow wooden box and opened the lid. Dáin reached in and gently lifted up a strand of silver that glittered in the light of the torches. A low murmuring swept the hall.

"Why, that's the very thing!" exclaimed Bilbo, as surprised as any of them. He had almost forgotten about it, after all this time.

"Yes," said Dáin, letting it turn lightly in his hands so that it sparkled, as tiny stars of silver and pearl pouring from his fingers.

"But…how did you come to be in your keeping?" asked Nori, echoed by the others; "How did it? Whence came the necklace, Dáin? "Are you sure it's the same?"

Dáin raised his eyebrows and gave the hobbit a long look. "So, Mr. Baggins, can *you* tell *me* how my generous gift came to be presented back to me by the Men of Dale as a part of their annual trade taxes? It has been a mystery for some time. Did they steal it from you?"

"No indeed!" replied Bilbo quickly. "They would do no such thing. I presented it myself to Thranduil of the Woodland Elves that dwell in…"

"Mirkwood," finished Dáin with an impatient noise. "They forced you to give up your treasure? At what price did they do so? Just like those Elves to…"

"No, no! Not at all!" protested Bilbo. "They did not force me at all. It was given freely."

"You gave it up…"

Bilbo knew their opinions of those who did not appreciate the 'true' value of gems and metals. He hastened to assure all of them. "Not lightly, not lightly. No, no. I realized its great value, of course, but unfortunately at that time I had a great debt to repay to the Elven King for the time he, er, so graciously and, er, generously gave myself and my Company bread and…well, shelter when we were sorely in need."

Dáin lowered the necklace to his lap, seeming to forget it in ironic recollection. "Now this is a tale I have heard," he said. "But it was not bread and shelter that I was told was given."

"Anything but hospitable…" grumbled Glóin's voice amid a consenting growling and muted complaints from the rest.

Bilbo waved a hand at them, willing them to silence. "It was long ago, and there is more to the tale, yes, but for now let it merely be stated that I personally had a debt to honorably repay and I did so with the means that I had. Now, how it came to be in the possession of the Dale Men afterwards I cannot say, though I do know that the Elves often purchase wine and…and apples…"

"Poor Fili," nodded Bofur. "I recall that."

Bilbo nodded with a slight smile. "And the other fruits of their orchards and farms. Perhaps the Elves also had a debt that was in need of payment."

"Just like Elves to give something of such value and work into the hands of Men," snorted Dáin with disdain. Bilbo noted that the others were nodding along with this and had a flash of inspiration.

"Ah, but there you underestimate the judgment of the Men, O Dáin, King Under the Mountain."

Dáin opened his mouth as if to protest this, but Bilbo continued rapidly. "For they *did* have the wisdom to realize that it was a work of such amazing skill that it could only have come from the hands of their Dwarven neighbors Under the Mountain. No other could ever have produced such a necklace, and so they no doubt speedily sought to find a way to present it back into your hands with honor. What better way than requesting it as payment from the Elves, and then laying aside their humble coin and goods to bring this princely piece back to its proper home?"

"You think they would have done this?" It was apparently a new concept to the King. It was a new one to Bilbo too, but he didn't let on. Better to butter it up a little.

"I see this as the only reasonable answer to your riddle, your Majestic Jewelness. The Men are not as clever as Dwarves, but they do try their best when they can."

Dáin stroked his beard, toying with one of the gems that bedecked it's side braids. "Why, that is clever. Almost worthy of the stealth of Dwarves."

"They've no doubt only learned such valued lessons by dwelling near your own august presence for so many years." He gave a bow, partially to keep heaping on the courtesy, partly to hide his face as he was having a hard time swallowing his own story.

Inwardly he highly doubted it was the case, though it may have had a bit of truth. It was more likely that the Elves had sent it along when they were low on common coin, and the Men had no use for it, pretty though it was. They would have taken the first chance to be able to keep a significant amount of those "humble" farm goods for their own consumption instead. Trinkets like this warmed a Dwarven heart, but did little to fill the belly of a Man.

He half-expected Dáin would realize he was being strung along with something half-baked, but to his surprise, the King not only seemed to accept this, he even preened a little with the implied flattery. Pride was a marvelous force with Dwarves, and Bilbo inwardly shook his head over how their egos could be stroked like one might smooth the fur of a barn-cat.

The only moment of doubt that stole into his eyes came as he hesitated over laying the necklace back into its box. A furrow appeared between his thick, white brows. "Do you yet regard it as your own?"

Not having confidence in his facial expressions, Bilbo bowed low once more. "By no means, O King Under the Mountain, I do not." He slowly straightened as he regained control over his features. "And even if you were to offer to restore it to my hands this very day, I would refuse. As custom dictates, I have already sworn my treasures to my heir and he is many leagues from this land. It would be dishonorable to accept this treasure in his stead and not deliver it. I do not plan to return."

"Do you not *want* your rightful treasures?"

"No sir, I do not. Only the treasure of time with my Companions do I seek, rightful or otherwise."

"Then that at least you shall have." Dáin seemed to be almost cheery at this. He waved his hand to the servants and gave Bilbo half a smile. "You are welcome to remain on in our Kingdom for as long as you desire, and perhaps we shall have to see what your advice may be on some of our own jewels. I will be summoning you to instruct my chief jewel-dresser on the manner of gem-setting among the Shirefolk. This audience is ended."

The herald stepped forward from where he had been standing silently in the shadows beside Dím, who was still trying to not look at him. "The court of Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, is hereby dismissed!" he proclaimed. Dím stepped up to unobtrusively smooth the fur cloak as the Dwarven monarch climbed to his feet and the two of them disappeared into his curtained doorway.

The curtains swung back into their places. There was a long pause.

"Well, that was interesting," offered Bilbo softly. "I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I don't think that was it."

"Let's not start talking about it here," said Bombur.

"Do you think he is listening?" murmured Dwalin as the others looked around the room.

"No, I think I shall die of malnourishment if we have to keep sitting in this drafty, empty hall. It would be much better talked over with a well-filled plate and a pipe to follow, don't you think?"

Bofur rolled his eyes. "You would."

"I think it's a grand idea," said Bilbo. "Lead the way, good Bombur."

"Help me up," he said. It took three pulls with Bifur on one arm and Bofur on the other and Dori pushing from the back, but he finally came to his feet and good-naturedly began leading the way back towards the private dining-hall.

"I don't know what made him think you were a gem-master," said Dori to Bilbo softly. "But we know you aren't. What will you do if he asks you to select gems for shaping, or how to wear them?"

Bilbo had been considering this himself. "Is that what I would be doing? I figure if they don't like what I see in whatever jewelry and stones are around, I can just say that folks have different styles in the Shire and such. I doubt any of them will be all that eager to show their work to a non-dwarf anyway in spite of the King's ideas, especially that neighbor of yours - that unpleasant Master-jeweler fellow. We don't seem to take to one another."

"I don't think he takes to anyone, not even Dáin," Dori murmured back. "You did marvelously well in front of him just now."

"Thank you," said Bilbo. "Things do seem to be coming out all right. Maybe we can finally get back to visiting. You know, tea and talking and proper naps and all that, instead of all this running about we've had this past week."

"…A huge steamed pudding with plenty of currants…" came Bombur's voice back to them as they rounded a bend.

They both smiled, and walked on in silence for a bit.

"You know," said Glóin, coming up on his other side as they followed their companion's slow waddling through the passageways, "Dwalin and I had new seals put on the tomb."

"Thorin's?" asked Bilbo.

"Of course Thorin's, who did you think?"

"I was just thinking…oh, never mind."

"He will lie in peace now, his stone is where it belongs."

"Yes. Yes it is."

----- Fin ----