If the rumors concerning the King spread like a disease, those concerning the Steward were epidemic.  For it had befallen upon him to investigate the conflagration in the First Circle, in person, which unfortunately entailed passing through all the main thoroughfares of Minas Tirith on foot—and even though it was currently overcast he was still highly visible.  Faramir was well beloved by the people of Gondor, and thus was neither scorned nor stared at.  Even the whispers conducted in his wake held no disrespect, only sheer curiosity.  Many wondered whether his strange attire had anything to do with the wild shieldmaiden he loved, and whether she had, in fact, tamed him.  But these were made in secret, and Faramir was not harassed for the entire morning.

            Not, at least, until Éomer King decided that this day would be most excellent to better his acquaintance with his future brother.

            Faramir was returning to the Citadel, juggling the information he had received at the site of the fire with such other trivial matters as breathing.  No one aside from a slightly burnt and extremely irritated magpie had been injured, and the basic structure of the cellar was still intact, but the wine was entirely gone.  He knew the accounts of the Royal Treasury as well as his own sword, and aside from a few bottles for personal use that were stored in the White Tower itself—definitely not enough to furnish tonight’s fête—there was nary a drop of alcohol in the city.

            Except, of course, at the inns…

            The inns!  Why had he not thought of them before?  It would be simple to arrange: find a fine establishment, and pay a fair price both for the wine and for silence.  Knowing the nobility of Minas Tirith, wine from inns was “low,” even if it was of the finest quality.  Discretion, therefore, was the key.

            “Faramir?”

            Faramir looked down to see Meriadoc the hobbit, still garbed in that ridiculous thing—though, he rued admitting, he was in little position to judge.  “Merry, I thought you were supposed to continue helping devise whatever torture Éowyn has next in store.”

            Merry grinned.  “Oh, I am, though I’ll get a break as soon as I deliver this message:  Éomer King requests your attendance at the stables.  He wishes to speak with you, I don’t know why.  How bad is the damage down there?”

            Faramir shook his head, still amazed by the apparent rapidity with which these pheriannath could change the course of conversation.  “All of the wine is gone.”

            “But how are they going to furnish that—whatever is going on tonight?”

            “I do not know,” said Faramir, “though I believe we shall be purchasing wine from one of the inns.”

            “That could work,” said Merry, nodding to himself.  “And if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have a stomach in sore need of filling.”

            “Go, then.  I shall see Éomer.”  And Merry trotted away, though, Faramir noted, not back toward the Citadel. 

            Faramir made his way over to the stable, not even bothering to stop and catch his breath since he was certain it would be a fruitless exercise.  Inside a boy was holding the reins of two saddled horses.

            “My lord Faramir,” said the King of Rohan.  “Ever since I first talked to the Master of the Stables here I have been filled with a most driving curiosity about one of the riding customs of the people of Gondor: I believe it is called the side-saddle, and was designed to accommodate the style of dress that women wear.  I thought today would be a fine day for a demonstration: fancy a ride?”  He flashed a wide grin at him, as the sun came out and gleamed upon his golden hair.

            Faramir swallowed.