(A/N: Again, many thanks to my beta, Nieriel Raina, without whom my offerings would seem silly indeed. And now that school has started up again, let us hope my muse has more time to sit in front of the computer and hack out chapters for her to perfect! --- Le Rouret)

18. The Thorn Amongst the Roses

Kaimelas regained his breath and health long before his three Dwarven companions were quite finished fussing over him. “I am well,” he would insist irritably, brushing aside their polite helping hands and solicitous words. “There is no need to treat me like an invalid. No; I am quite capable of lifting that bag myself – no thank you; if I find myself thirsty I am certain I can get the water on my own – no; I am not tired, and I do not want to take a little nap!” Nír discovered first how much fun he might have, twitting the Elf about his infirmities; but once Ibun caught on and joined him, Kaimelas discerned their mischief, and pled with Glóin for peace.

They sailed the skiff under cover of darkness, for both Dwarvish and Elvish eyes are superior to Men’s, and the moon peering round the scudding clouds afforded them ample light to aid them. The Running River was broad and straight, and as the skiff skimmed the surface, they saw naught upon the banks save sere and empty fields, abandoned houses, and the wrecks of barges and fishing craft. Kaimelas found this inauspicious, for since the death of the dragon the wilderness round the river had been lush and prosperous; now however all he could descry upon the banks were burnt homes and boats, and the occasional bloated carcass of a sheep or pig, half-consumed and rotting.

The first day the Dwarves hove to in a shady and secluded cove, and pulled the tarps over them and slept. “We are too exposed in the sunlight,” said Glóin, “and anyway there is naught to see; it is almost as though I walk in the past, ere Smaug was slain.” So the Dwarves slumbered beneath the low and stifling tarp, and Kaimelas prowled restlessly round, poking through the outbuildings of an abandoned farm, and appropriating some beans for their breakfast.

On the second night the land round the banks rose into rolling hills. Upon these hills were houses, but Kaimelas with his keen eyes could not see folk in them; they were lightless and abandoned, and kine nor people could be found about. Above them flapped herons and croaking ravens, and when they paddled the skiff in the shallows at dawn were thrushes there to sing to them. “This is good,” said Glóin, satisfied. “There yet remain birds that might speak to our people. If Dwalin is still thinking clearly, he might know of our coming ere we arrive.”

Sure enough, as the sky paled on the third day, Kaimelas saw small huddled figures on the eastern bank, with bright eyes glittering in the reeds; he called softly to his companions, and Glóin steered the boat through the shallows. “Now, Kaimelas,” he said warningly to the Elf. “These are tricky times, and my folk are chary. Do you please attempt to appear as a diplomat, dignified and knowledgeable; for in that way shall they be appeased by your wisdom and tact.”

“Wisdom and tact!” exclaimed Kaimelas. “That will be a good trick.”

“Please,” said Glóin. “At least try. For your lord’s sake, if not for my son’s.”

He looked so beseeching that Kaimelas sighed, and said, “O very well, Glóin Groin’s son! Though I should rather play-act for your son’s sake and not my lord’s; were Legolas several centuries younger would I apply a willow-switch to his hindquarters for the ridiculous position he has put me in!” With this was Glóin constrained to be content, and he clapped the valet on his shoulder. He beached the boat, and they clambered out, and one of the figures in the shadows of the bank separated itself from the darkness, and approached cautiously.

“Ho, there!” said Glóin softly. “Is that you, Nith?”

“Glóin?” The Dwarf peered at them from beneath his dark hood. “Who is with you?” He stared up at Kaimelas, his eyes unsure.

“This is a friend,” said Glóin firmly, laying a hand on Kaimelas’ arm. “He is a shrewd and venerable diplomat, come with ambassadorial status to bring news to Stonehelm.”

“Hm!” said Nith, looking Kaimelas up and down. “Well, he does not look very dangerous, at least; but then, diplomats rarely do. Very well; come with us then!”

Glóin drew Kaimelas aside as the other Dwarves came forward to empty the skiff, and the two stood in silence, watching and being watched in turn. Kaimelas held his tongue; he trusted Glóin, and knew the old Dwarf was wise and cautious, and better acquainted with his folks’ views. When all the baggage had been transferred to a low waggon, and the skiff covered with a dusty brown tarp, they all clambered in, and Nith took up the reins. He slapped the ponies smartly on their rumps, and the waggon rolled and jerked up the bank. Kaimelas sat upon the floor, for the benches were too low for his long limbs. He stretched his arms across the sideboards and watched the paling sky as they bumped and lurched along the rough country track; he knew the other Dwarves regarded him carefully, and was not offended by their stares; rather he hoped to show them he had neither fear nor concern, but was unperturbed by their presence. Nír and Ibun chatted quietly with the others about their journey, and Kaimelas noted to his amusement that the other Dwarves seemed rather to be talking round him instead of asking any questions. At last a young Dwarf with a blue beard cocked his head at the Elf, and said:

“So, you are an Elvish ambassador, are you? What were you doing in Lake Town? Cozying up to Malbeach like the Elvenking?”

“Hush, Ónar!” said Nír angrily. “Do you have so little sense you would insult the ambassador of a mighty foreign lord?”

“’Cozying up to Malbeach,’” added Ibun scathingly. “The very idea!”

“Is this the common sentiment hereabouts?” asked Kaimelas calmly. “If so, then my lord has set for me a daunting task.”

“O, I mean no offense,” said Ónar quickly. “Only the Master of Lake Town seems to be rather fond of the Elves nowadays.”

“Does he truly? He does not show it well,” said Kaimelas dryly. “We received more than our just due of abuse whilst sojourning there, and were glad enough to put Esgaroth to our stern. Neither my lord nor I have much good to say about Malbeach or his little slattern; you may set your fears to rest on that subject, anyway.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said another Dwarf, offering his hand to Kaimelas. “Jári son of Nári, at your service! Ambassador, are you? Well we are pleased to have you, especially if you might aid re-opening negotiations betwixt our folk, and the Elvenking and Girion, so assisting us in solving this most perplexing riddle.”

“I should rather solve it simply by sticking a sword through Malbeach,” admitted Kaimelas. “I am no good at negotiating.”

Jári and several other Dwarves laughed, Ónar included. “What; an ambassador that does not prevaricate nor obfuscate nor convolute?” exclaimed an old Dwarf then, his eyes twinkling. “What manner of ambassador are you, Elf?”

“An unwilling one,” said Kaimelas, and the Dwarves all laughed again. Glóin winked at Kaimelas, and said in a loud voice:

“He is the chosen and appointed ambassador of the Green Knight of Gondor, the Lord of Dol Galenehtar far to the south; he and his lord and sundry other companions, of whom include Gimli my son, the Lord of Aglarond, have heard the news of our difficulties and are anxious to put an end to them. This may, I fear, involve some minor readjustments to the authority elected in Esgaroth.”

“Are we going to depose Malbeach?” asked Ónar in surprise.

“I still like the ambassador’s idea about the sword,” piped Nith from the front of the waggon, and several Dwarves assented.

“It would be a good trick,” conceded Kaimelas. “The difficulty is, of course, gaining access to Malbeach with said sword, and having the ability to run him through, while still maintaining the wherewithal to escape with one’s life afterwards, which would be gratifying. A pity it is he is so well-guarded.”

“Kill the guards first,” said Nír with a shrug.

“Easy enough!” said Ibun dryly. “Care to try it yourself, then?”

“There are an awful lot of armed men,” said another Dwarf. “We need an army.”

This prompted a discussion of armaments and numbers and phalanxes, to which Kaimelas listened with flattering politesse. Nír, Ibun, and Glóin remained silent. After an hour of wrangling back and forth, the old Dwarf said:

“Well, it would help if we knew the number of men Malbeach commands, and whether or not Girion would defend him. But I warrant we could spare at least seven hundred fifty warriors to march on Lake Town.”

“That will not be enough,” said Kaimelas calmly. “You need three times that number at the very least.”

“We will march in secret,” argued the old Dwarf.

“The roads are likely watched. That is why we came by boat.”

“We will go by boat, then.”

“Boats for seven hundred fifty? How will you get them past Girion?”

The old Dwarf gave Kaimelas a frustrated look. “You are supposed to be agreeing with me,” he said huffily. “You are an ambassador, after all!”

“Perchance I am too honest to be a good one,” admitted Kaimelas. “I hope I do not over time develop a predilection for duplicity; that would be awkward, for my wife would object, and I might be forced to ask my lord for a demotion. But attack Malbeach by all means; go by boat if you like. But I dispute your being able to approach him in stealth.”

“Well, I like it,” said Jári. “Just you set it before Thorin that way, Thrás, and I shall vote it in.”

“Good,” said the old Dwarf. “I am tired of skulking about, worrying about what the King of Dale, or the King of Mirkwood, think we are doing. Let us Dwarves stand up for ourselves! We will endure no longer to wait about and be robbed and slandered!”

“Hear, hear!” cried several of the younger Dwarves. “Down with Men! Boo!”

Kaimelas said nothing, but exchanged glances with Glóin. Glóin shook his head, and silently did the Elf and his companions ride through the growing dawn to the Lonely Mountain.

O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O

Kaimelas with his Dwarvish escort gained the celebrated front gates of the Lonely Mountain without much fuss, though the guards seemed wary of him, and granted him passage solely on Glóin’s recognizance. Kaimelas passed through the grand halls and waiting areas casually and without comment; the grandiose staircases, shining chandeliers, marble-paved floors and splendid fountains did not impress him overmuch. But he was wise enough to politely concur and murmur appreciative praise when the clutch of Dwarves round him pointed out the glories of their home: “Look, Master Diplomat; that is Balin son of Fundin’s stair; he built it ere going to Moria. And that font was carried in one piece from the Iron Hills, where Dain made it; it is a solid block of onyx. Ah! And that pair of sconces are pale quartz overlaid with gold filigree … “ And Kaimelas nodded and said, “Splendid! Beautiful! A marvel of workmanship!” and wondered to himself how on earth he was to pay his lord back for sending him there.

At last they went up the broad marble steps to the throne room. Many Dwarves were milling about, for they had heard an Elvish ambassador had come to treat with Thorin and were curious to see him. Some muttered behind their hands to each other that it was too late for diplomacy; others regarded him with cautious clemency, for they wished to return to their work, as the marketplaces in Dale and Lake Town had been abandoned for months. When they approached the great golden doors, marked all over with bas-relief and runes and strange symbols, an old Dwarf in splendid habiliments, sporting an elaborate gold belt, stepped before them, a scowl on his face.

“Glóin!” he said disapprovingly, glancing at Kaimelas. “So you are back. Did you bring a prisoner for interrogation?”

Kaimelas raised his eyebrows; Ibun snorted into his hand, and Nír glanced up at the Elf apologetically. “Nay, Dwalin,” growled Glóin. “Do not be ridiculous, please! Nír, Ibun and I have just returned from Lake Town, and there we found the Lord of Dol Galenehtar with my son Gimli, and a good stout Hobbit named Bandobras, who is much like Bilbo was, only a touch less cautious, and with rather worse language when pressed. They have set off to find sundry folk of theirs lost in the wilderness, and we have come to see Stonehelm, for the time is ripe we deem to settle this affair once and for all!”

Several Dwarves standing round listening murmured their approval, but Dwalin glared at his son, and looked Kaimelas up and down.

“And so you bring an Elf to Thorin Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain?” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “I am surprised at you, Glóin; I had thought you possessed more sense than that!”

“It was not his idea,” said Kaimelas patiently. “My lord did send me to see your king.”

“Indeed!” said Dwalin suspiciously. “And why should your lord send you, Elf? What especial position do you hold in the courts of Dol Galenehtar?”

Kaimelas said, “I am his val – “

“Ambassador,” interrupted Glóin quickly, stepping on Kaimelas’ foot and making the Elf wince.

“A valambassador?” said Dwalin suspiciously. “Sounds like an Elvish convention. I don’t like it.” He glared at Kaimelas. “He does not look like an Elvish ambassador. All of the Elvenking’s diplomats are well-dressed, and he is so shabby. Where is his robe, his sash? Where are his jewels?”

“He travels surreptitiously, to throw Malbeach off the scent,” said Glóin impatiently. “Had the Master known of Kaimelas’ position to the thrones of Eryn Lasgalen and Dol Galenehtar, would he have made observation and obfuscation the more difficult.”

“Ah!” said Dwalin; though he looked convinced, he did not seem to be any less chary. “And what might this valambassador wish to disclose to his majesty?”

“The destruction of Lake Town,” said Kaimelas glibly, then gave a squeak of protest as Glóin trod on his foot again. Several Dwarves laughed and Glóin said, “What Dol Galenehtar’s ambassador says to the King Under the Mountain is the business of the King Under the Mountain, Dwalin, and not yours; his words are of grave import and the king must needs attend to them. Tell the guards to let us in, and do you please impede us no longer!”

Dwalin shook his grey head. “You have changed, Glóin Groin’s son,” he said, his voice heavy with disgust. “It is the fault of your son, running round with Elves and digging up gold and gems for a southern king. You have got soft.”

“If I have, then I will not apologize for it,” said Glóin angrily. “Let us in!”

“Very well!” said Dwalin. “And if Thorin throws you out with naught but a pick-axe, I hope the Elves will let you in!”

“They will,” said Kaimelas. “Glóin is always a welcome guest.”

“Hmph!” Dwalin gave Kaimelas a black look, but took up the scarlet cord by the doors, and pulled on it; a bell rang out, sweet and clear. The doors opened inward, silent upon their well-built hinges, and Dwalin, gesturing to them, went within, and they followed him.

The throne room of the King Under the Mountain was splendid and ostentatious, but to Kaimelas’ eyes it seemed a little bare. There were empty niches and shelves and displays, and a great vacant room with the broken nubs of piping. Remembering what Glóin had said in his letter to Gimli about the Dwarves being robbed, he shook his head; he was no lover of wealth for wealth’s sake, but thievery rankled him, and he determined to see the throne room restored to its original splendor.

As they walked down the Hall several courtiers turned and exclaimed to see them; a cluster of Dwarvish women were talking anxiously together, and as they passed one of them gave a cry of surprise.

“Kaimelas?” A female Dwarf, gorgeously arrayed in green and with shining red hair, pushed her way through the throng; she stared amazed at the Elf and then burst into a glad laugh. Kaimelas dropped to his knees and let the lady embrace him. “Kaimelas!” she exclaimed, laying one stout hand on the Elf’s dark untidy head. “Whatever are you doing here? And where is that poor silly boy Legolas? You are supposed to be looking after him!”

“He sent me to your people as an ambassador, Lady Frera,” said Kaimelas, making a face.

“An ambassador!” she exclaimed, astonished. “You, Kaimelas?”

“Yes,” said Kaimelas. “It simply oozes irony, does it not?”

“Nay! Gushes it, rather,” she said with a laugh. “But if you are here I am glad, Kaimelas; for that must mean my son and his friend are not far behind.”

“Let us hope so,” said Kaimelas, shaking his head. “Frankly, my lady, the sooner I get through convincing your king to do something, the better pleased I shall be; I do not like this at all.”

“Well, just you be yourself then,” said Frera comfortingly, gesturing him to rise. “Do not put on any airs, no matter what my husband says!” She wrinkled her freckled nose at Glóin, who blushed a little and gave her a quick bow; then she scurried back to her ladies, and they set up whispering at an even more frantic rate.

“Thorin Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain!” cried Dwalin, bowing before his sovereign. “Glóin Groin’s son has returned from Esgaroth with news of the turmoil to the south!”

He gestured them forward to the dais, and Glóin, Nír, and Ibun bowed deeply. Kaimelas, mindful of his greater stature, knelt and inclined his head; then he lifted his face, and looked for the first time upon Thorin Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain.

Thorin was young for a king, but he was stern and forbidding nonetheless. He had a long black beard and sharp features, and his eyes were deep-set and black, glittering like jet. Upon his head was no crown but a tall helm, cunningly worked with mithril and gems, and at his waist upon a jeweled belt he bore a sword. He was holding a letter in his fingers, held away from him as though it displeased him, and was looking down at it in disgust. He lifted his bearded chin, and looked down his long hooked nose at Kaimelas. The Elf raised himself, put his hands behind his back, and regarded the King Under the Mountain with equanimity.

“Your majesty,” said Glóin.

“Glóin,” said Thorin. His voice was deep and gravely, like a great boulder being dragged over stone.

“May I present to you Kaimelas, a diplomat from Dol Galenehtar, issued ambassadorial status by the Green Knight, Lord of Dol Galenehtar, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, who wishes to parley with you during these troubled times.”

Thorin said nothing, but simply stared down at Kaimelas. His chiseled face did not reveal his thoughts. Kaimelas patiently bore this, gazing respectfully up at the king.

“So,” rumbled Thorin after a moment. “You are the ambassador to the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen!”

“So it would appear,” admitted Kaimelas.

Thorin looked him up and down. “You do not look much like an ambassador.”

“Apparently I am incognito,” said Kaimelas.

“The valambassador is in disguise, your majesty, to fool Malbeach,” supplied Dwalin helpfully.

“Hm!” said Thorin. His black eyes narrowed at the Elf. Kaimelas, who had been raised in Eryn Lasgalen under the tutelage of both Baranil and the Elvenking, was immune. “So, Ambassador Elf, what plaint brings you before the throne of the King Under the Mountain?”

“Warriors, your majesty,” said Kaimelas. “And an end to this fooling about. The three kings of Rhovanion have played round enough; it is time for you to hear the will and reason of the Green Knight, the Lord of Dol Galenehtar. Though to be certain,” he added judiciously, as Dwalin and several other Dwarves sputtered with rage, “my lord has been rather silly too of late; I am guessing ‘tis a combination of reticence, witchcraft, and royal idiocy driving the terrible decisions here.”

“Indeed!” growled Thorin, settling his chin into his beard, and gripping the hilt of his sword. The throne room seethed with the mutters of angry Dwarves, though Frera was smiling. “Idiocy, is it? And of course ambassadors have ample opportunity to observe idiocy, and thus proclaim it as such.”

“Idiocy can be observed at any level of one’s letters patents,” said Kaimelas. “I happen to know your majesty has accused the Elvenking of thievery. It does not take an ambassador to see that as idiocy, O Thorin Stonehelm.” Dwalin began to speak angrily, but Kaimelas waved him silent. “Also, your majesty, has Girion of Dale expressed suspicion of the Dwarves’ culpability in certain violent acts – “

“Lies!” cried a Dwarf from across the throne room; Thorin shot the Dwarf a look, and he subsided.

“So he has,” said Stonehelm. “And do you count that idiocy as well, O Ambassador?”

“Of course,” said Kaimelas scornfully. “Piffle, from start to finish.”

“Hm,” said Thorin again.

“And King Thranduil, bless his hot head, appears to be afflicted with the selfsame mistrust as well. Shutting his gates, and scowling at his neighbors! Does this not seem suspicious to you, O King? One man, Malbeach of Esgaroth, stirring up all this trouble; and you three kings, accepting his whisperings? Idiocy I say, and idiocy I contend yet; my lord, at least, has put his foot down, and as all know, when Legolas of Dol Galenehtar puts his foot down, something or someone gets squashed; at the moment, I am rather hoping it is Malbeach.”

“Do you!” said Thorin; his jet eyes flashed. “And what does Legolas of Dol Galenehtar suggest we do to aid him in the squashing?”

“We need numbers,” said Kaimelas. “Someone was saying – was it Thrás? – ah, there you are, my venerable friend! – that you could muster seven hundred fifty stout warriors. All we need to do, your majesty, is to gather up Girion’s men, which at last estimate, depending upon intelligence given to Galás (I will not deign to comment upon that) might be three thousands, then go on to Eryn Lasgalen, let me talk to Baranil and Thranduil, and we’ll have at least five thousands more. That will be – seven hundred fifty, three and five – well, nearly nine thousands, anyway. Then we all march down together to Esgaroth, set it aflame, put Malbeach’s head on a stick, shake hands, and go home. There! Now is that not a clever plan?”

He grinned up at the king, and Glóin looked from Thorin to Kaimelas nervously, plucking at his beard. In the sudden silence of the throne room someone, possibly one of Frera’s friends, gave an uneasy cough. Thorin stared down at the Elf, his frown nearly lost in the great black beard; then the skin round his eyes crinkled, and he laughed.

It was a hoarse, rusty laugh, sounding to the Elf as though it had not been used in a while; at his side Glóin gave a sigh of relief. Thorin laughed and laughed, and when he was finished he leant forward, his eyes twinkling merrily.

“A fine plan indeed!” he growled. “And I would concede it to you as done if it were not for one little thing.”

“O? What is that?” asked Kaimelas.

Thorin held out the letter to him, and Kaimelas took it with a bow. “This is from Girion of Dale,” said Thorin. “He has signed an armistice with Malbeach, agreeing to withhold hostilities from Lake Town for the duration of his rule in Dale.”

“Bugger!” exclaimed Kaimelas, staring at the letter, his eyes angry. “Why, that two-faced little sneak! And here it says he wishes to maintain peace between the thrones of men at the expense of those non-human creatures of magic – why, that is us, your majesty!”

“So it is,” said Thorin, smiling down upon the Elf. “So that is at least two thousands from Dale negated from our equation.”

“Well, what of it then!” cried Kaimelas. “I was never very good at arithmetic anyway. We will have to do without Girion then. Do you think we might sneak past him on our way to Eryn Lasgalen?”

Thorin took the proffered letter back from the Elf, and tucked it into his tunic. “Do you think you can sneak us into the throne room without getting shot by Thranduil’s archers?” he asked dryly. “I do not much fancy marching on the Elvenking’s palace without some sort of guarantee of our safety.”

“O, leave that to me,” said Kaimelas dismissively. “Thranduil is an idiot, but Baranil will see sense. Well, your majesty? What do you think? My lord is creeping round the wilderness putting his life in danger, and Gimli Glóin’s son is right at his side. Who knows what they have found out so far! We can sign documents and wrangle agreements later. It is two days’ march to the Elvenking, and I am anxious to get this over with so that I might go home and see my wife. It has been near two months since I have been with her and I do not wish to wait any longer than I have to. We can share intelligence as we march. O, and I will most likely need armor or something to wear when we are fighting; I am rather at sixes and sevens and did not even bring a leather jerkin! Do you think you could find something in the armory to fit me? If I am injured in battle again, Seimiel will never forgive me, and she can hold a grudge for a very long time.”

“True enough,” called Frera’s voice from across the throne room, and Thorin chuckled throatily, and sat back in his cushions, smiling down at Kaimelas.

“Thank you, Glóin,” he said, glancing at the older Dwarf, who had listened to this exchange anxiously. “I have rarely been so entertained by an Elf. If his lord is anything like him, we might have to open negotiations with Dol Galenehtar! Very well, Kaimelas Ambassador of Dol Galenehtar; go you with Dwalin here, and we shall set into motion the machinations needed to march upon Malbeach of Esgaroth. It is long ere I put hand to sword, and the frustrations he has thrown at me have irritated me, and I wish to see to his chastisement.”

“Good!” laughed Kaimelas, rubbing his hands together. “Let me just have a wash and a brush and we shall be ready to go! Lead on, Dwalin son of Fundin,” he added to the old Dwarf, who was glaring at Glóin and shaking his head in disgust. “I promise I will try to act more ambassadorial, if it will please you.”

“Do not do that, Master Diplomat,” warned Thorin. “I have had enough of negotiation, treaties, accords, pacts, truces, and contracts. Too much talk! I will dismiss the court, and we shall go to dinner; you will sit at my right hand, O Kaimelas of Dol Galenehtar, and I promise you a jug of good rich wine!”

“Ale, an it please you, your majesty,” said Kaimelas, bowing deeply, and smiling Thorin nodded to him, and watched the Elf as he strode away, Dwalin’s disapproval sticking out of him like quills.

“Glóin,” rumbled the king. “Tell Nori and Bombur to send out the order to muster. I want us to be ready to go by daybreak.”

“Yes, your majesty,” said Glóin, bowing; and when he turned to leave the throne room, he took a deep breath, and smiled.