“A problem with what?” Aragorn hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  It was getting difficult to concentrate in this garb.

“With the inns, taverns, and public-houses, my lord.  I encountered at least five of their proprietors on the way to the Citadel, and they were all very irate.”

“Irate?  What about?”

“That, sire, it would be best for you to find out yourself.”

“Faramir, I have a very pressing matter at hand.  One Peregrin Took has in his keeping a record of this day and I must eradicate it.  Could you not just tell me?”

Faramir sighed.  “Very well.  Apparently word of our predicament with the wine got loose, only somewhere along the way it transformed into a predicament with spirits in general, and now every single establishment in the City that sells anything fermented is demanding why we are using one place’s stores and not another.  You may have another audience on your hands, Aragorn, whether you want one or not.”

The King pressed his lips together in frustration.  “Then I am delegating such an audience to your capable hands.  Precious time is already slipping, and I have had entirely too much of audiences today.  I trust you will be able to handle these warring factions well, and on a day as madcap as this I crave the simplicity of a hunt.”  He turned, ready to continue stalking from the emptying hall, but paused.  “One more thing—were you able to find those documents?”

“Indeed.  They are sitting even now upon the desk in your study.”

“Good.  Perhaps we will have the time to review them once I am finished with this business.”  With that, Aragorn left the Hall and had soon passed into the open air on the way to the hobbits’ dwelling.  An escort silently formed around him.  It was good his legs were so long; he did not know if he could run with his breath restricted thus.