Pippin had just gotten past the gate separating the Sixth Circle from the Seventh when Targon caught up to him.  “You people and your long legs!” he cried.  “Strider’s sent you after me, hasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“The King!”

Targon nodded briefly.  “I hope to atone for my disrespect by assisting him as I may.”

“And how are you to do that, pray?”

“Simply by reminding you that he is your liege-lord, and if he commands you to surrender the sketch and you refuse, you will be charged with insubordination.”

Pippin sighed.  “He had to pull that card, didn’t he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, it’s an expression.  I meant to say—he had to… er… resort to that tactic.”

“It is but a reminder.  He also told me to tell you that while duty constrains him to other tasks for some time, and thus he could not be here to tell you this in person, this does not mean that he has surrendered to your will, and he will pursue you as soon as time permits.”

“Anything else?”

“He also wished me to remind you that he is the most skilled tracker among Men.”

“Pshaw!” said Pippin.  “He needn’t have said that.  He’s tracked me once before—and under far less fortunate circumstances, I might add.”

“The rules of the engagement are as follows,” continued Targon, leading Pippin past his quarters.  “Until this afternoon’s session of court is over, you may not return to your residence, and you must keep the drawing about you at all times.  After then, if you can deliver the sketch to your room, it will be considered justly yours and you may do with it what you will, save make a copy.  Until that time, however, you will be subject to search and seizure by His Majesty.  Failure to comply with these rules will result in being commanded to yield the sketch, and the sketch’s destruction.”

“And what is my lord the King’s first move?  He must have some method of effecting my exile.”

“If the pherian will follow me, I will show him.”  And Targon led Pippin to the entrance to the Houses of Healing.

“Oh, no,” muttered Pippin.  “If he makes me work with Ioreth, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

“Not do anything treasonous,” Pippin grumbled.

They did not go to any of the wards, though, but rather to one of the pleasances where recovering patients and those weary of the city could rest their hearts at whiles.  There, next to one of the healers, sat a girl in a plain black dress.

“This,” said Targon, “is one of the wards of the City.  Your duty is to look after and protect her during the hours of court, then return her here to safety when that time has passed.”

“Oh,” said Pippin.  This was unexpected.  “Hello,” he said to the girl.  “What’s your name?”

The girl stole a look at him; Pippin could not tell whether she was more concerned by the fact that he was a hobbit and thus famous, or by the fact that his bare and incredibly hairy legs were exposed by an incredibly short skirt.  “Míriel, my lord,” she said.

“Oh, there’s no need to ‘lord’ me around, miss,” said Pippin, nodding to Targon that he could leave.  “Really, I’m quite unused to all this fuss about heroes and titles and all that, especially when there are thousands of folk ten times more deserving.”

“Excuse me… sir… but which one are you?  If you don’t mind the impertinence.”

“I’m Pippin.”

She gave him a confused look.

“Peregrin Took.”

“Ah!” she said.  “You’re the one that saved Lord Faramir’s life, then!”

“It was really a joint effort…”

“But I’ve heard such things—”

“If you don’t mind, Míriel,” said Pippin, “I’m asked to recount my exploits in Gondor quite a bit, and it can all be a bit embarrassing at times, so if you’ll stop with the hero nonsense and tell me a bit about yourself, then I can tell you some better tales, of the things I’ve seen in my time abroad—or better yet, about my homeland and the everyday folk there.  Are you hungry?”

“I just had my nuncheon, sir!”

“No matter—we’ve got plenty of time.  I know anexcellent pie shop in the Third Circle…”