Chapter 9: Lindelea’s Part
Faramir was not one to stand inaction. From the moment Elessar had pronounced the white powder “Haradric poppy” his mind had begun working at the puzzle. Haradric poppy... how would Pippin have come by such a thing?
He knew enough of healing to realise that there was a fight before them, a long fight or a short one: “short” if the young hobbit should succumb to either the poison or its equally poisonous remedy, and from the apparent speed with which Pippin had been overcome, Faramir was not feeling optimistic about the possibility for victory.
He listened with only half his attention as Elessar laid the case before Pippin’s cousins.
He did not wait to hear Frodo’s choice, whether they would take up the fight with belladonna, or let the poppy take its course. It hardly seemed to matter. A little of the old darkness that he’d known, doggedly pursuing his duty in the face of his father’s grim despair, settled upon him. But he’d faced hopelessness before, and combated it with action.
Faramir drew a deep breath and slipped from the room. Not only would the King be tied up here, for an unforeseeable time to come, but there was an urgent need to trace the deadly poppy to its source, and make someone pay dearly for this night’s work.
He met with the captain of the Guard and the company commanders. Security was already tight, with the foreign representatives among them, but the guard would be doubled from this point. In addition the men would be questioned, and the barracks and buttery searched for evidence. Beregond would be a logical candidate to head up the search; set apart as he was until his hearing should take place had distanced him in a subtle way from his comrades.
When he returned to the Houses of Healing, all was quiet and calm. Faramir hid his apprehension as he inquired after the young knight, but he could not completely suppress his sigh at the news that the fight continued. 'And the pouch?' he said.
'Locked away, by order of the King,' came the answer.
'Good. I’ll take it now,' Faramir said, his tone brooking no dissent.
'Sir, I—' But seeing his set expression, the healer nodded, excused himself, and returned shortly, leather pouch in hand.
Faramir took the thing as if it might be a snake ready to bite, turning it cautiously over in his hand. 'Citadel guard,' he said slowly. 'Standard issue... a salt pouch...'
Salt was a valuable commodity, rationed in times of war or siege, and salt was part of the pay received by the guardsmen of Minas Tirith. They were free to use the stuff themselves, or trade it for goods, though if they endangered their health, collapsing in summer heat due to a lack of salt in their diet, they were subject to disciplinary measures.
Of course, with victory, one could find salt selling in the marketplace for a pittance. No need to hoard the stuff, and its value in trade had dropped dramatically.
Opening the pouch, shaking out some of the white, powdery stuff into the palm of his hand, he could see clearly that there was no salt, not even mixed in, no attempt to disguise the deadly powder gleaming in his hand. Whatever guardsman owned this pouch had to know that there was no salt therein.
Could Peregrin mistakenly have used the stuff to salt his food? How had he ingested such a deadly portion?
'I want to look through Peregrin's effects,' Faramir said, and called for the clothes the hobbit had been wearing when he'd been brought to the Houses of Healing. He found nothing, but then Pippin had changed from his livery before proceeding to the public house, so Faramir's next objective was the guesthouse where the hobbits were living.
The house was deserted, but a bewildered serving woman let him in, saying,
'None of the masters are at home, my lord... I could take a message...?'
'Show me Lord Peregrin's rooms,' Faramir said, his tone brooking no obstruction.
'He sent you to fetch something?' the woman said uncertainly, for this was Lord Faramir, Steward to the new-returned King, and while she might expect young Bergil to come seeking, the Steward was quite another matter. 'O I beg your pardon, my Lord, of course he didn't. If you'll just walk this way...'
Faramir thought privately that he'd never walk quite that way, not unless he disguised himself once more with women's skirts, for a prank, like the time that Boromir had wagered with him... How Peregrin had laughed, to hear that story! ...but that was neither here nor there, he thought, pulling his scattered thoughts back to the matter at hand.
Peregrin had among his possessions his pouch of salt, a little less than half full, which meant he'd likely shared his portion with others since its issue. But if Peregrin's salt-pouch contained what it ought, the pouch containing the poison must belong to some other Citadel guard.
But what was a Citadel guard doing with this powder? Was there some conspiracy, reaching all the way to the highest levels of the City? Was the King in danger?