Lindelea

Chapter 17: Lindelea

(with thanks to Dreamflower, for comments and suggestions, and to SurgicalSteel for technical advice)

A tap on the door, an acknowledgment from the King, and the Steward entered, nodding pleasantly to the guard posted outside. He shut the door firmly and sank into a chair at Elessar's wave, throwing a folded paper onto the desk.

'What's this?' the King said.

'Read it,' Faramir nodded at the paper. 'It was left upon my desk, though no one saw the messenger.'

Elessar unfolded the paper on the desk, absently smoothing the creases as he bent to read. A furrow appeared in his brow and he took up the paper, reading on intently. He looked up. 'Ingold?' he said.

'So it purports to be.'

'A plot against the King,' Elessar said slowly.

'A plot on the part of the High Lord of Far Harad,' Faramir said.

'This, to explain his absence?' Elessar said, re-reading the brief missive. '...overheard by chance, but had the ill luck to stumble and drew their attention... hunted... fear I am marked for death... gone into hiding...'

'Why not simply retreat to the Citadel, inform his captain, set a formal investigation in motion?' Faramir said.

'...will send word when I've discovered more...' Elessar concluded, and laid the note down again. 'It could explain his absence.' He nodded, steepling his fingers and frowning thoughtfully at the peak. 'From what I remember of Far Harad, a formal investigation would drive the rats back into their holes, and we'd never discover who they were or the extent of the plot...'

We don't know that he's been compromised by the drug,' Faramir said, feeling relieved on the guardsman's behalf, for he had great pride in the Men of the Tower Guard, who had served under him with courage and loyalty. 'Only that he passed the powder on to Eldil. Perhaps his story is not so different from that of Targon, who only used the powder for two or three days before he gave the bulk of it to Pippin.'

'Perhaps,' Elessar said. 'In his dealings with the source, he might have stumbled upon the plot he mentions.'

'Highly likely,' the Steward nodded. 'But what sort of plot, I'd like to know. I only wish he'd been a little less cautious in the wording of his warning.' He added, 'In any event, I've sent Beregond to try and ferret out the Men who are providing powder to my guardsmen...'

The door flew open and a small, panting figure pushed his way in, unhindered by the guards, who had standing orders to let one of his ilk enter at any time - an errand runner for the Houses of Healing, Elessar recognised, rising from his chair in sudden alarm. He could think of several among the ill and injured who might merit such urgency... but the lad's first words, gasped out in a breathless rush, froze his blood.

'Murder! They're madmen! Murderers!'

'What is it, lad?' Faramir said, catching at the boy, half-supporting him as he sank to his knees, sobbing wildly.

'Murderers!' the boy sobbed, clutching at the Steward. '...slaying the Pheriannath...'

In a blur of motion, the King was gone from the room; Faramir heard the guardsmen in the corridor shouting the alarm and then the heavy sound of their boots, following. His first impulse was to run after them, but he could not leave the fainting lad, not in this state, and not with his awful knowledge. He couldn't just hail a servant; the news would be all over the Citadel, and the Steward did not want to think of the resulting uproar, especially when the facts had not been established. No, he must have more information.

He lifted the boy to his feet and shook him. 'Now, lad,' he said. 'The King will soon have all in hand...'

But the errand boy raised a tear-stained face, gulping back sobs, and said bleakly, 'Too late. He'll come too late.' And he buried his face in his hands once more.

Faramir shook him again. 'Come along,' he said. He half-carried the boy to the door, but then the boy, drawing on the dregs of courage that had brought him through the siege, straightened in the Steward's grip.

'I'm all right,' he said, drawing a sleeve across his face, and then he pulled at Faramir's hand. 'I fear,' he said, and gulped, but forged on bravely, 'I fear the Halflings are all slain, for a whole host dressed as guardsmen pounded into the Houses, swords drawn and bloodied, and I heard someone shout the Ernil i Pheriannath's name...'

'Surely they were not unopposed,' Faramir said, to reassure him, but his heart was not so sure, and now Ingold's warning of a plot against the King reared up in his memory - perhaps this was only the start of it! 'Come!' he said, and together Steward and errand boy ran in the King's wake.

****

Two men, plainly dressed, sat hunched over mugs in a dark corner of the Silver Swan. There were more colourful patrons, and others as self-effacing.

The younger man was sweating profusely despite the recent dose he'd been given, to hold him for this final task. He stiffened as two swarthy figures sauntered through the door and sought another table in the far shadows, well away from the windows. His companion laid a cautioning hand on his arm, and he forced his eyes away from the newcomers, meeting his companion's steady gaze. They are the ones! he nodded, his eyes intent.

You're quite sure. Calm, but grim, purposeful was the gaze returning his urgent look.

They are the ones! I'm sure of it! That day I followed Ingold, to see where he went to renew his supply of the sleeping powder...

All this was said without words, with just a look, a grimace, a tightening of the fist to convey his emotion, his fury, his shame and regret.

A squeeze on his arm, and his companion nodded once more. Go on. You know what to do.

Eldil rose, abrupt and jerky, shoving back his chair so that it clattered against the one behind him. He stalked to the newcomers' table, staring down at the occupants.

'Yes?' the bulky man said smoothly, teeth flashing in the dim light. 'You would like a seat, perhaps? Plenty to be found.' His sweeping gesture indicated a number of chairs, drawn up to other tables.

'I...' Eldil said through his teeth, and as he wiped sweat from his brow he saw the southerners exchange glances of satisfaction. 'The powder... I need more of it. Ingold told me I could buy it here...'

'Buy?' said the thin man, reminiscent of a weasel with his glittering, predatory eyes. 'We have no powder to sell...'

'But,' Eldil said desperately, and if not for the dose the healers had given him, before he'd led Beregond to this place, he'd've truly been desperate - and the dose was already wearing thin - he grabbed at the bulky man's sleeve. 'But Ingold said...!'

'It seems you are having trouble sleeping, my friend?' the bulky man said in a soothing tone. 'We have no powder to sell, surely, for there are laws in this land, but as a friend...?'

'Yes!' Eldil whispered. 'Friend!'

'A favour for a friend, truly,' the bulky man said with a nod and gentle smile that chilled Eldil to the bone.

'And a favour in return,' the weasel hissed.

'Sit yourself down, have a sip of beer,' the bulky man said, shoving his own untasted beverage at Eldil. 'When you've finished the glass, follow...' His eyes flicked to the rear exit, leading to a hallway with a few small, dingy sleeping rooms for let to travellers with low standards, little money, or little choice in the matter.

'I think not,' Beregond said - Eldil hadn't heard him approach, but he was there, having heard enough to make his move.

With another hiss, the weasel struck swiftly, but Eldil, nerves jumping, moved with him, intercepting the slim blade meant for the interloper. He gasped with the fire of its assault, even as the room erupted around him - Beregond had held his sword ready under his cloak, as they'd entered, and wielded it now, shouting for reinforcements who boiled into the common room from the kitchen.

The weasel died squirming on Beregond's blade, but they managed to take the bullish man alive, wounded in his struggles to escape, but alive.

****

Elessar ran, heedless of kingly dignity, faster perhaps than he ever had in his long years, yet bitterly aware that the tragedy would have played itself out long before he could arrive on the spot.

Heart in his mouth, he paused only briefly at the steps to the Houses of Healing where healers bent over a bloodied form, but then he ran on, bounding up the steps. Healers' attentions meant the man was still living... but what would he find inside?

The usually quiet corridors were in an uproar, healers and their assistants rushing here and there, ill or bandaged patients in their short gowns leaning in their doorways or against the walls, having all too evidently dragged themselves from their beds. There was a huddled heap draped in blood-stained linen part-way to Pippin's quarters, a body decorously covered, but in haste and obviously no time for more, and another small cluster of healers tending a wounded man just beyond. One of them called after the King as he passed, but Elessar had already reached Pippin's room.

He heard Frodo's voice raised in warning, 'Stay away!' and touched the shoulders of two of the guardsmen crowding the entry. With startled looks behind them, they pressed against their fellows to either side to allow the King to enter. The small gap grew as the group became aware of the King's arrival, and Elessar pushed his way through the opening, stopping at the sight that met his eyes.

The bloodstained form of a guardsman lay sprawled near the bed, the ruins of the bedside table shattered in splinters to either side of him. Two bowls had been hurled to the floor with enough force to dent their fine surfaces of beaten gold and silver. Congealing soup lay in puddles and unidentifiable blobs - though Elessar thought with a sniff that mushrooms might comprise the principle part.

'O - Strider,' Frodo said with a shuddering sigh. 'You're here, at last.'

It had been but a few moments since Ingold had breathed his last, but it seemed an eternity to the distraught hobbits. Merry, with a cry, had stumbled to Pippin as the younger cousin crumpled, with Frodo and Sam right behind. The Ring-bearer, thin and pale, looking as if a breeze might blow him away, had grown suddenly stern, holding off the three sword-bearing guardsmen and those who boiled into the room after them with no other weapons than a word, a look, and an upraised hand. He and Sam now hovered protectively to either side of Merry, who sat on the floor, cradling the unconscious Pippin, his head bent as he whispered entreaties and reassurances by turns.

'What has happened here?' Elessar said, himself grown stern, though his insides felt limp with relief.

'He - madness took him, and - we thought he'd slay the Ring-bearer - ' Hador, foremost in the furious chase, wrenched his gaze from his bloodied sword to meet the King's look.

'No,' Frodo put in firmly. 'He came - ' and paused at a loss. He wasn't sure why Ingold had come, but from the look on his face it was clear to Elessar of his certainty that Ingold had meant him no ill.

'He said he would not harm us,' Merry said, raising his head, disclosing haunted eyes. 'He swore he meant us no harm. He only - '

'We were able to strike him down before he could do any harm,' Hador said, standing straighter.

'He might've struck down the three of us at a blow,' Sam said steadily enough, but the shaking hand he held out to the King mirrored the depth of emotion in his troubled brown eyes. Though the hobbit had seen horrors enough in the Black Lands, Elessar knew he'd never thought to see such sudden violence here in this time of hard-won peace. 'But he didn't.' The gardener's look turned to one of confusion. 'He was that determined, to strike a blow, and that he did, but...'

'A mighty blow,' Pippin said groggily, and chuckled without any humour in the sound, as the other hobbits bent closer to him with soft exclamations, and Elessar fell to his knees, heedless of the mess on the floor. 'I fear the mushroom soup cannot be saved.' His face was deathly pale, his breathing ragged, and he turned his face away from Ingold's huddled form and swallowed down sickness before forcing his eyes to look upon the slain guardsman once more. 'He begged my pardon...' he finished simply, and then he laid his head on Merry's sheltering arm and wept.

The soup! Elessar thought, and then, in sudden remembrance, A plot against the King!

He bent closer to examine the nearest of the fallen bowls, its proud gilding battered and dented, the heavy inner lining of crockery, meant to keep the contents warm, ruined. White shards dotted the floor, but the bottom of the bowl remained intact, if crazed with cracks, and a small puddle of soup resided there.

The King's eyes narrowed as he took up the remains of the bowl for a closer look, and he dipped a finger in, bringing up a gritty residue from the bottom. Gritty... and bitter, to the cautious touch of his tongue.

The soup had been laced with Haradric poppy, a deadly amount, though to what purpose, Elessar could not fathom. The dose might have been effective, introduced in food or drink that could better mask the characteristic bitterness of the drug, but a knowledgeable man - or hobbit for that matter - tasting the soup, would have known at once.

He looked up. 'Send for Sarnor!' he snapped. 'And the cook who had charge of the kitchen when this was made. Master Cook Nicolas, was it? I want them both brought here without delay!'

Merry was speaking Pippin's name now, patting and rubbing his young cousin's back, for the youngster's shoulders were shaking. Elessar saw with concern that Pippin was laughing and weeping in the same moment, overtaken by strong emotion, and weakened as he was by his recent ordeal...

He laid down the bowl and moved to take the tween from his protectors. Merry resisted a moment, but Frodo laid a gentle yet commanding hand on his shoulder, and he gave up his burden to the Man.

Elessar took up Pippin as if he were a little child, pulling him close, hearing the broken voice repeating over and over, 'Slew the stew...' He wiped his hand absently against his shirt and laid his palm over the cold, sweat-beaded forehead, and closing his eyes he listened a moment, and then began to sing, low and gentle, in a language that only Frodo, among the hobbits, recognised bits and snatches. He felt the tension leak away as the taut muscles relaxed, the shuddering breaths steadied, and Pippin at last gave a deep sigh and lay still.

'He's not,' Merry said, starting up, but the King met his gaze with a look of reassurance.

Elessar stood slowly to his feet, lifting the limp, sleeping form, and moved to the bed, settling Pippin and drawing up the covers to warm the hobbit. They'd have to move him to another room before he wakened, but for the moment the King wanted the hobbit under his eye, and he must get to the bottom of this matter without delay, serious as it was.

Faramir came then, and the messenger boy with him burst into fresh tears - of relief, this time, on seeing the hobbits alive - and was escorted away by an assistant healer to be soothed. The Steward was much relieved to find the report so much worse than the reality, but his face was grim as he took up the remains of the bowl the King indicated, stuck a cautious finger into the broth, and tasted. 'Poppy,' he said, no question in his voice.

'Ingold did the same!' Frodo said suddenly, and Merry added in confirmation, 'Even in his dying, he was trying to warn us against the soup!'

Samwise drew his sleeve across his eyes, blinking away sudden tears. What a terrible tragedy, the guardsman slain, his actions fatally misconstrued, struck down in the midst of saving them from poisoning, or worse!

The master cook came puffing up, escorted at a trot by grim guardsmen, though the old food-taster entered a bit later, brought at a more decorous pace, and both were pale and shaken at the splotches and puddles of blood they'd seen in their coming, on the stairs and in the corridor - and shocked speechless at the sight of Ingold, still sprawled on the floor in the middle of Pippin's room.

The story came out, of the soldier bending over the pot. Neither could identify Ingold as that soldier, though King and Steward thought it likely. That soldier had known of the plot, had pretended to play a part, had deliberately introduced the powder into a dish where it would be easy for the food-taster to detect - and then panicked when the soup bypassed the taster and was carried away by the hobbits, heroes of the City, and one of them Ingold's comrade-at-arms.

And now the King ordered Ingold borne away, to be gently tended and prepared for his final rest, with all honour, in accordance with his efforts on the part of Halflings and King.

When the guardsmen, his somber slayers among them, were gone with their burden, Elessar turned to the three hobbits standing by their sleeping fourth. 'You are well?' he said, with a searching look for each.

Merry shook his head. 'As well as might be expected,' he said. 'Who would have thought that such a feast would turn into a funeral?'

'I'm that sorry,' Sam said low. 'If we'd've left the soup, as was intended for you, Strider, rather than acting as burglars, it all would've come out well, and not like this at all.' He sniffled, and swallowed hard, and it was clear he blamed himself for Ingold's death.

'I'm just as much to blame, Sam,' Frodo said. 'As a matter of fact, it was more my doing than yours.'

Workers were hovering in the doorway, bearing scrub-brushes and buckets, and Elessar thought it better to take the discussion elsewhere. Taking up Pippin from the bed, blankets and all, he cut the recriminations short as he walked softly from the room, finding an empty room readied and waiting not far down the corridor.

He laid Pippin on the fresh bed and covered him warmly, calling for bedwarmers and a brazier to warm the room, and warm, sustaining drinks and nourishing food for the other hobbits, who had climbed up on the bed and settled themselves about the youngster in a protective huddle.

And then Beregond's detail arrived, bearing their prisoner. The Southron died of his wounds shortly after arriving at the Houses of Healing, but not before glaring a final defiance at Steward, healers, and guard detail. Eldil, too, had been wounded in the skirmish, but it appeared he'd recover, though there'd be some difficulty with the complication introduced by his dependence on the Haradric poison. Faramir's quiet praise was something for the guardsman to cling to, as the healers began their work, and Beregond stood by him to sustain him, eyes shining with pride on his behalf.

The Steward was able to identify the prisoner as a minor under-server to the party of dignitaries from Far Harad, and he returned to Elessar with this news.

'I must leave you now, for the time being,' Elessar said to his friends. 'Eat, and rest, and wait for my return.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Frodo said firmly, but the sentiment was rather spoilt by the large yawn that followed on his words. His look of surprise was so comical that Elessar found himself echoing Merry's laugh.

'That's a mercy,' Sam said under his breath, and aloud added, 'Well, Master, I should imagine you wouldn't be - why, you've been short of sleep since...'

'Speak for yourself, Sam!' Merry said with another laugh.

'I did have a bit of a nap, before it all...' Sam said. 'But Mr. Frodo, he - '

Yawns are contagious, and Frodo's was no exception. Merry and Sam both found themselves yawning at this juncture, though after Merry brought his hand down from his mouth, he chuckled again, and there was no sleepiness in his bright eyes. The crisis was over, Pippin was sleeping, recovering, and it behooved him to keep things as light as possible, that Frodo might relax enough to fall asleep himself.

Elessar nodded in tacit agreement with Merry's significant look. 'I'll just leave you to your guarding,' he said. 'Don't let him up out of the bed, should he waken, but send for me.'

'Your least wish is our greatest desire,' said Merry, giving as good an imitation of a sweeping bow as a sitting hobbit might.

Thus reassured, the King left the hobbits, holding a whispered conversation in the hallway with the head healer, which resulted in an apprentice being stationed just outside the door to Pippin's room, to listen for any word of summons.

'Far Harad,' Elessar said, his brow furrowed with thought, as he and Faramir slowly descended the steps from the Houses of Healing. 'How far do you think the rot has spread?'

'The ambassador himself seems an honorable sort,' Faramir said. 'Very brave in battle, and his Men are loyal to him, protective…'

'Honourable enemy,' Elessar said.

'He was one of the first to throw down his arms, before the Black Gate, and he shouted orders for his troops to do the same, to save as many lives as he might when he saw that all was lost,' Faramir said.

'That would hardly put him in favour with his Lord,' Elessar said.

'And so he is sent to Gondor to sue for peace, perhaps meant to fail miserably in his mission, that his head might be easily lifted from his shoulders upon his return,' Faramir said.

'You think that some of his servants were sent to see to his failure?'

'I wouldn't put it past the king of Far Harad,' came the answer.

Elessar nodded thoughtfully. 'Call him to the Hall of Kings,' he said. 'Bring the bodies of the two slain malefactors... No, wait.'

Faramir waited while his King turned over various thoughts, at last looking up with a nod.

'Send word to the delegation from Far Harad, to claim the bodies of their dead,' the King said. 'Say that they were killed in a tavern brawl, that there was an argument, and one of them pulled a knife on a guardsman who tried to intervene...'

Faramir nodded. It was essentially the truth, lacking a few details. 'And the ambassador?' he asked.

Elessar smiled, a grim smile, and the light of battle was in his eyes. 'I think a private word of warning to the ambassador will not go amiss. Let us see to it that the ambassador's peace mission is a resounding success,' he said.

'To the mutual benefit of Far Harad and Gondor,' Faramir said.

'With the help of the king of Far Harad, or failing that, in spite of him,' Elessar said and his Steward nodded in understanding and complete agreement.

****

The hobbits had all succumbed to sleep by the time Elessar returned to Pippin's room, much later. The three guardsmen who'd chased down Ingold were with him, two bearing bowls of steaming water and the third a stack of soft, folded cloths. The messenger lad who'd brought the fell news to Steward and King followed by the King's orders at their heels, bearing a few precious leaves folded into a cloth, and a number of healers and assistants, one of them supporting Eldil, brought up the rear of the procession.

The King entered Pippin's room and moved to the bedside, where he stood a moment looking down upon the slumbering occupants of the bed. Pippin lay in the middle, with Frodo on one side of him, close enough to share the plump, snowy pillow, their noses nearly touching, Pippin's face slightly wrinkled in concentration, Frodo's brows knit together even in sleep. Merry was snug against Pippin's back, one arm extended as if in protection over both cousins. Sam curled at Frodo's feet, where he'd fallen asleep on watch. Their breathing mingled in a soft chorus of susurrus, a gentle rhythm of rest.

The King extended an open palm to the messenger lad, who started, recalled to himself, and hastily unfolded the cloth, exposing the athelas leaves he bore. With a nod and reassuring smile, Elessar took up the leaves and breathed upon them, and crushed them, and all in the room straightened as a living freshness filled the air, sparkling as joy released in laughter. Elessar cast the leaves into the bowls, and taking one from its bearer, held it before the clustered faces of the cousins.

Sam stirred first, though he was not so close to the athelas as the others. 'By my word,' he muttered. 'Spring, at last? Seems I ought to be digging the beds...' and then he rubbed his eyes and was fully awake, and his heart was lighter than it had been since Ingold's ghastly death before his eyes.

Merry wakened, then, with a murmur of “bacon and eggs”, sitting up and withdrawing his arm, looking down on Frodo and Pippin. Frodo's face relaxed, and he sighed, and in the next moment his eyes, too, opened and he sat up and smiled. 'All's well again, is it, Strider?' he said. A shadow crossed his face, but it could not remain, not with the freshness of athelas in the air surrounding him.

The remedy was having its effect on the guardsmen, as well, lightening the pain in their hearts that they'd known since they'd been made to understand their mistake. They'd not forget their guilt, but it would leave them wiser. The healers and assistants, too, stood straighter, some of the memory of horror in this place of healing now fading, and Eldil felt himself strengthened, and the trembling of his body, wanting more of the powder, was eased for the moment.

Elessar gestured, and the crowd behind him eased out of the room, the guardsman bearing the steaming bowl still in their midst. He'd carry the bowl through the corridors of the Houses of Healing, letting the fragrance of athelas bless the halls that had recently known the ringing of steel, the splashing of blood spilled in battle.

At last Pippin's eyelids fluttered; he stretched and yawned, squinting at the bright sunshine outside the window. 'Morning, is it, Strider?' he said. 'I haven't slept so well in... in just ages. What's for breakfast?'

Merry laughed and hugged him close, and Frodo hugged them both, and Sam hopped up from the bed as if he'd go in search of breakfast at that moment.

But a good King is far-sighted, and knows the needs of his people, and takes steps to deal with those needs even before a word might be spoken. Breakfast was arriving, at that moment, on large trays: enough, even, for four very hungry hobbits, and one weary - but satisfied - ruler.