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Vairë Was a Weaver, or, Real Men Wear Corsets  by Celeritas

“Is it done?” hissed Pippin.

“You said it was a good sketch you wanted, not a hasty one,” Targon muttered.  “I cannot believe that I am actually subjecting my lords to even more disgrace.  This ought to be treason.”

“You’re doing this because I wanted it, and I’m an especial friend of both King and Steward.  If they get angry, they’ll blame me, not you.”

“Yet there is a part of me that says that I am doing wrong.”

“Oh, there’s a part of me that says that, too,” said Pippin.  “I’ve just learned to clamp it up.  Besides,” he added, sobering, “I’ve made enough real mistakes before to know that this doesn’t feel like one of them.  How far along are you now?”

Targon sighed.  “Almost done, small knight.  I would finish more quickly if you were not continually badgering me.”

“Sorry.”  Pippin resolutely shut his mouth, but continued to peer over the amateur artist’s shoulder.

“And that is a form of badgering as well,” said Targon, not even bothering to look up.  Pippin sighed and turned around.

A few more minutes and Peregrin was given permission to look again. The sketch was no more than a sketch, but a marvelous sketch it was. “Targon,” he said, “I am in awe of your mighty talents.  This will become a treasured heirloom of my house.  Here.”  Pippin’s form of coin diplomacy was much more direct than Merry’s: give the fellow the money and then clench your fists shut.  He thrust some coins into Targon’s hand.  “Wait, aren’t you going to sign it?”

The look on Targon’s face baffled Pippin.  “Very well, though I feel I am signing my own death warrant,” he said.  He drew forth the charcoal once more, but just then both of them looked up to see His Majesty the King Elessar striding, dress and all, toward them both through the emptying court.  From one glance at his bridling countenance it was clear he had divined their intent.

Pippin gulped.  Suddenly he got that feeling that he had whenever he had made a real mistake.  “By your leave, sirs,” he muttered, dropping a curtsey.  Then he snatched the leaf of paper from the sketchbook, and bolted.

For a brief instant it looked as if the King were going to follow Pippin’s exodus, but instead he stopped and stalked up to Targon, who looked even more ashamed for the silver and sable he wore.

“My lord,” he said, the entire cast of his body tending downward.  “I have transgressed my line of duty.”

“Perhaps you would have,” said Aragorn, “if this day were not in complete and utter shambles as it is.  I know Peregrin very well and know that no malice was intended by this humiliating act, so I will forgive you if you will assist me in detaining him until I have time to deal with him personally.  I wish for no record of this day to exist.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Targon.  “How shall I fulfill your command?”

“Pursue him swiftly, and do not let him reach his lodgings on the Sixth Circle, nor allow him to secure the drawing in some place other than about his person.  Then you must assign him this duty for him until I am free to pursue him…”





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