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Just Desserts  by Lindelea

A/N: For background, see All That Glisters. [Written at the request of Bodkin, who won a guessing game on LJ and claimed this story as the prize.]

Just Desserts

Chapter 1. Prologue

S.R. 1446

At the sound of marching feet passing through the marketplace, Denny (named for the old Steward of Gondor, but hardly anyone remembered that any more) looked up from the knife he was honing. He took his foot from the pedal and let the stone wheel slow. The usual bustle of a busy morning died down as merchants and customers turned to see the honour guard marching along, sober-faced Halflings in their midst.

The Shire-folk had arrived only the previous day, and Denny had been called up from a lower table to sit at the high table with the King and his honoured guests, not because once upon a time he'd saved the King's life on the battlefield, and been promoted to Elessar's elite guard, but rather because Pippin--Thain Peregrin, he corrected himself--had called for him to join the hobbits at the welcoming feast. Though injuries had caused him to retire from the guard, he was still in the thick of things at the Citadel, what with sharpening weapons and his luck at gaming, not to mention his talent for drawing uproarious laughter with the jokes he could tell.

His sweet wife was reaping the harvest of curiosity this morning; before Denny had left for his stand in the marketplace, where he sold knives and sharpened blades and tools, she had already had three callers, bearing baskets of one thing or another, calling in on the pretext of bringing some treat to a woman about to enter her confinement, pretending they came to spare her the necessity of shopping in the marketplace that day, and incidentally hoping to hear all about the King and Queen and visiting Halflings at the feast. Denny had taken himself off, but not in time to avoid a gabble of excited questions. At least he had the joy of Merileth's laughter to sustain him on his way.

What is it? What's going on? The breathless whispers swirled about him.

'So, Denny...' said his customer, one of the guardsmen, come to the market while off duty.

'So, Faenon...' Denny said in exactly the same vein.

'Was there word of a parade at the feast? Though they scarcely look festive...'

'Was there word of a parade in the buttery this morning?' Denny said. 'You ought to know better than I.'

'But... they're stopping in front of Seledrith's shop,' Faenon said.

Denny thrust the hilt of the knife into the guardsman's hand, not waiting for payment, and would have walked toward the little shop, his breath coming shorter than usual, even for a man with only one good lung, but Faenon's hand stayed him. What would Kingsmen have to do with his sister-in-law, or any of her family? They lived quiet, unassuming lives; as a matter of fact, Seledrith's husband Gwillam and his father were quiet men, retiring, speaking little, content to let Seledrith run the shop and rule over the family. Denny had often tried to draw them out when his wife's extended family gathered together, only to be defeated by their reticence. Only Gwillam's younger brother, Robin, had much to say, and he smiled more than he spoke.

'They don't appear as if they're in search of pocket-handkerchiefs,' he said, trying to pull away. 'Surely there's some mistake... the Halflings were there just yesterday, all smiles, and...'

'Stay, Denny,' Faenon said. 'This looks like trouble. Don't go mixing yourself...'

But the former guardsman wrenched himself free and began to hurry across the marketplace, leaving his old friend gaping after him.





        

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