The King's Players RPG

[Mnemosyne]

Yavannie 24, F.A. 21

A sudden gust of wind brought the sound of two faint bell-strokes to Brinn's ears, as she walked alongside the painted waggon. That was good, then--she was a terrible judge of distance when it came to big cities nestled in the mountains, but surely they were close if they could hear the bells of Minas Anor. The lands of the Pelennor smelled ripe with harvest--fruit from the orchards, bleached barleycorn, punctuated with whiffs of the Anduin itself. Behind and before them were the carts of merchants and farmers for the markets in the first few circles of the City, laden with casks of wine and oil from the Emyn Arnen. Every so often they were passed by one of these, for they were in no real hurry, and the mules that pulled their carts were not meant for speed. A few of the folk stared at the lettering on the sides, recently repainted in the style of letters that Gondor seemed to favor--

The King's Players!

Tales of Joy!

Tales of Woe!

Tales of Derring-Do!

feat. the Finest Dwarven-made Mechanicals you ever did see, so true-to-life you'll jump out of your seat

Not that that last bit was entirely true, but Father wasn't there to see it and Asta hadn't complained yet. It drew more people, anyhow.

"Hear that, Rollan?" she called up to the man driving the first cart.

"Loud and clear, my love," Rollan called back. "Maybe we'll actually have time to settle before we rehearse tonight!"

"Ah, wouldn't that be a lovely change of pace?"

"'Course, now that I've said something, and knowing our luck--"

"Don't say anything further, then!" said Brinn, laughing. "I'd like this to be a peaceful run, thanks, maybe pull in enough money that we can take a holiday for a couple of weeks."

"Well, Cormare always brings in plenty, from all over. Don't reckon those merchants that just passed us could make a profit on silk otherwise. Have you got everything ready to get in the city?"

"I think so," said Brinn. She looked down at her dress, which was rather more respectable than most of their costumes--just right to make the first impression. And she had run over in her mind the exact location of the inn-yard where they would be staying, and the innkeeper's name, and the official she always spoke to when they needed that particular market square that was right along one of the main streets, and she had the papers...

The papers.

They were still in the cart. "Half a minute!" she cried, and climbed up the steps in back of the cart to get inside. There, sitting on the trunk where the papers were, squished among racks of costumes and crates of props, was a maiden of about twelve years, reading over a script.

"Seri, dear," said Brinn, "why don't you come outside? The light's much better out there."

It took the child a moment to realize she was being spoken to. She put down the script and looked up. "Do you think I'll make a good Frodo the Warrior Halfling?"

"Well, the audience loved you last year--I don't see why not."

"I'm taller this year."

"The better to charge the gates of the Dark Tower with, then. Do stand up; I need to get our papers out of that chest."

Sereth complied, and Brinn opened the chest. On top were the papers they had procured last year, authorizing and easing their return to the White City to perform for the Ring-Day festival. "Thank you," said Brinn. "Now, come outside and take the air with me."

Sereth did so, leaving the script behind, and immediately began launching into a dramatic recitation of her cues and lines. So passed the next half-hour, until they reached the great and majestic mithril gates of Minas Anor.

Brinn made a full courtesy to the guard on duty and presented her papers. "I am Mistress Celebrindal," she said, "of the King's Players, requesting admittance to the City to prepare and perform our annual play for the Cormare celebration."

The guard looked through the papers, and nodded. "You may enter," he said.

"Thank you." Brinn nodded and waved at Rollan, who started the line of carts on their way into the city.

"You should have a fine attendance this year," said the guard, as the waggons passed through. "The preparations for Cormare this year have been twice as splendid as any year I can recall, on account of the King's special guests."

"I am sorry," said Brinn, "but we are a travelling group and were not aware of any special guests. Who might these be?"

"Why, the pheriannath, of course! I am certain you'll see them some time while you are here, for the people love to see them--the lord Samwise, and his wife, and his daughter, who is a lady in waiting to our beloved Queen. And since it has been many years since we have had those people to whom we owe so much in our midst, everyone wants to make the celebration this year especially grand. Your show, no doubt, will be a boon to our City."

Brinn thanked him for his kind words--he was a younger sort and not half as dour as so many of Gondor's men were--but she could not help but feel a little troubled. Halflings belonged in the Breelands, or beyond, in the Shire, not in Gondor! What in heaven's name could they be doing here?

[Boromir88]

When Branor heard the familiar, and welcoming, ringing of the Minas Anor bell-strokes he jumped out of the cart. This was the fifth year he would visit Minas Anor, and he has yet to get tired of the place. This was the premier stage and there was always something new to do in the growing and lively city. He was hoping he would have time to explore the city more than in years past. Branor did not mind promoting the play or searching for patrons (since it gave him a chance to showcase to people his talents), but he wanted time to experience the city. After all, this performance was going to be about him, about Minas Anor. King Elessar is the star of the story, the Return of the King, and it was up to Branor to get the character right.

There already seems to be a buzz around Minas Anor about the King's Players performance, which brightened Branor up even more. Now he wouldn't have to spend too much time selling seats, if this was true. Also, he over-heard the guard telling Brinn the Lord Samwise would be attending the show. Samwise? This name sounded familiar. Samwise? It couldn't be Frodo's hobbit servant, Sam, could it? Sam died, and was unbelievably daft. No way could a servant become a Lord. This had to be a different Samwise, or Aldarion was going to need to re-write the script.

Branor had had his disputes with Aldarion in the past, however he had to admit Aldarion's talents as a writer. Aldarion knew how to appeal to a crowd by knowing when the script needed tension, drama, action, or romance. Branor was just of the opinion Aldarion could take a few pointers from him when it came to acting. He appreciated Aldarion leaving the Dol Amroth troupe to join theirs, but Aldarion needed to just focus on the writing.

Then around the same time Aldarion joined the King's Players, Branor had an opportunity to defect to the Swan Players. Once Branor realized he loved to (and could) act, it had been his dream to get on the big stage. Branor judged he would not come across another troupe as prestigious as the Swan Players. However, he could not abandon Brinn (and indeed he never told her he could have left), as surely joining the King's Players biggest rivals would leave behind bitter dregs. Branor could not do that, and in truth, he realized the King's Players were rising in fame. In what other troupe could you witness mechanical monsters and an actor of Branor's caliber?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian could - and would - become anything. He was an actor, a master of fakery, of shams and chicanery. And today he was pretending he was entering Minas Anor with a different agenda.

How long had he been with the troupe? It didn't matter. Brinn would replace him as soon as she found someone who could act better than him, and he could not let that happen. When the time came, he would be the best confounded Eowyn the Shieldmaiden that had ever existed. These southerners... no matter how often he came to Minas Anor he could not get over their dour, self-righteous expressions, and there was something wilder and more concerning about the straw heads. He'd heard they sold their horses to the Black Riders during the War, and then holed up in some mountain to wait for the slaughter to end. Some bravery, that. And he was supposed to believe some lady princess of them had the brass to withstand the onslaught of the leader of the enemy? When the king and the prince and all were the type to hide away in a cave, Therian was supposed to believe that some thin pretty thing put away her apron and did what the men could not? Women could do many things, certainly, and far better than Therian could, but he would defy any man to show him a woman that could take him in a fight. Not that he would ever fight a woman, because that would be entirely inappropriate.

Warrior maidens. Therian shook his head.

No. He would enter the city with a showman's smile on his lips, because today he would be playing King Elessar! Of course, not really. In truth he would be playing Aldarion's completely unbelievable version of the yellow haired one. Dernhelm. Who would even call themselves that? Undoubtedly the story was at least partly fabricated. After all, what else would there be to keep the young women interested, if there were no strong female leads? Even if the Shieldmaiden was on the Pelennor, and even if she did kill the Witchking, it was probably by slitting his throat while he was busy attacking someone else. No doubt it was anticlimactic, if it even happened, and all that weaponry and banter and Black Breath was added later, to make it sound more dramatic. But still, on the stage, he would cry, "No man am I!"

But today, entering Minas Anor, he would act his best part, to keep himself from regretting his decision to join this troupe where he was so hated that he was required, through his natural lack of facial hair, to play a girl. He would tell himself all day that he was to be the King.

I am the King! he shouted in his mind, in the direction of the bells. And I have returned!

[Nerwen]

"Will this accursed crowd never be quiet?" Asta muttered, not quite under her breath. She had been working since dawn repairing and oiling Smaug's jaw-joints, which had a tendency to seize up at the worst possible moments. Now she had quite the worst headache anyone had ever had, she was sure of that. She wondered how long it was until those frightful bells sounded the next hour, and how she would stand hearing them at close quarters.

Still, the Great Gate of Minas Anor was always something to see, and so she clambered over the gear to the front of the second waggon– a slow and careful procedure, as so much space in this waggon was devoted to her various puppets and mechanical props. Some could be packed away in boxes, but others were too large and complex of shape and had to be stacked on the floor and seats, cushioned as well as she could manage against the jolting of the cart. Smaug, of course, had pride of place, taking up most of the front half of the waggon, even with his wings of metal rods and silk tightly folded. Asta patted his muzzle affectionately, noting that the gold-painted scales were flaking a little around his nostrils.

She climbed onto the driver's seat beside the stocky, dark-haired young man who held the reins, bidding him a curt "good morning". She was in no mood for either the prompter's awkward courtship or for hearing the latest version of that play he was always scribbling at.

Coldan blushed, as usual, and greeted her eagerly, but as the vast gates of steel and mithril swung slowly open to reveal the marble streets of the white city gleaming in the morning sun, he fell silent in wonder. Asta too watched with an odd tightness in her throat, and for a moment her aching head was forgotten.

[Formendacil]

Amdír son of Amrod looked out from the walls of Minas Anor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the King's Players returning. For the last few years, their visits to the Gondorian royal city had been the highlight of his days, now that his wife had passed on and his children grown and starting families of their own. Ever since Lord Hallas, who had been his master privately until he had been taken into his service as the Master of Revels, had taken an interest in the performing arts, and in the King's Players in particular, Amdír had been involved with the Players when they were in town. As a master carpenter, he had constructed their stage and sets, and done and number of simple, but important handy tasks necessary for their performances in the city.

With Cormarë looming near, Amdír had already begun thinking about this year's stage, and had inspected the pieces that remained in storage on Lord Hallas's estate to see what he already had to work with, though he would make no decisions until Brinn--Amdír never called her Celebrindal--came and told him what she wanted. The Players did not tend to need an elaborate set, apart from a way to decently disguise the mechanical nature of Smaug and its operators, because of the nomadic nature of their shows, but the audience for drama was simple enough in Minas Anor (unlike the more discerning nobles of Dol Amroth) that a grander stage helped command more attention from the public, and so more revenues, and Amdír felt that the Players enjoyed having their illusions aided by a backdrop and stage. Well, some of them, anyway...

Whatever the Players normally wanted, Amdír had the feeling that this year they would build grander than ever. Lord Cirdacil, who had only recently been appointed the new Master of Revels, on the single occasion he had had words with Amdír, had intimated that he intended to invite King Elessar himself and his guests of honour, the pheriannath, to attend the play at opening night. Whether Lord Cirdacil had issued such an invitation yet, or even intended to, was unknown to his household carpenter, and thus any answer back from the Citadel could naturally not be guessed at.

Looking out from the walls of the City, Amdír hoped the invitation had been made, and accepted. Twenty years before, he had fought in the Battle of the Pelennor, and though over two decades of peace had passed since then, he could not forget his first sight of the City, surrounded by enemies. Minas Tirith, it had been called then, the Tower of the Guard, and Amdír still thought of it thus at times, a bulwark against the evil mountains that could still be discerned in the distant east, even if the mountains were only evil in memory now. Amdír could also remember clearly the despair that troubled his first stay in Minas Tirith, at the Houses of Healing, as everyone waited for word of the army that marched on the Black Gate. He had briefly met Master Meriadoc, who was also at the Houses of Healing, together with the now-Prince and Princess of Ithilien, and knew that Master Samwise was one of the three other perians who had saved the day in Mordor.

How they had done that, Amdír was not so clear, despite twenty years of ballads and some discussion the previous season, when the Players had brainstormed ideas for the coming season's plays. Hopefully, the visit of Master Samwise would motivate an accurate retelling of that not-so-distant history, and if Amdír was lucky, he might even get to thank some of those heroes in some small way for what they had done, for the joy they had given him, and all Minas Tirith, when word came back from the Field of Cormallen that Mordor was defeated and Sauron himself destroyed.

Meanwhile, however, Amdír caught sight of the distinctive bright waggons of the Players, and began to make his steady way down from the walls of the Fifth Circle to meet them at their place of lodging.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon was woken up by the sound of the bells. His eyes sprang open and he cursed himself for falling asleep in the cart exactly when they were approaching the city. He liked to see Minas Anor in the distance and watch as they approached it, until he could finally behold it in all its glory. He had been to Minas Anor quite a few times and he told himself that he should have gotten used to it by now. And yet, that first sight of the mighty city of Gondor was always something Harrenon still looked forward to, like a treat after a hard day’s work.

Harrenon leaped out of the cart. They were near the gate now. The city bells were ringing. They had arrived in time. It was easy to imagine that the bells were in welcome of the King’s Players. At least they should have been, Harrenon told himself grinning. They were the best theatre troupe in Middle-earth, weren’t they? And they were about to give their best performance so far. Surely they were the first ones to try a rendition of what had happened during the War of the Ring. Or, at least the first to give a reliable rendition.

“I wonder if the King himself will come to watch us,” Harrenon muttered, but he discovered that the thought of it did not bring him much joy. Actually, it terrified him. He was sure that if the King was among the spectators watching him, he would freeze on the spot and be unable to perform. Sometimes it happened like that with Harrenon. He was usually comfortable enough on the stage, enjoying the attention, despite his rather shy nature. But there were times during a performance when he suddenly found himself unable to say another word. Fortunately, it happened seldom enough for Harrenon to pretend to the other Players that he had forgotten his line. He still did not know whether they believed him or not.

But now was not the time for gloomy thoughts, Harrenon told himself firmly as the first cart of their group passed through the city gates. He was once more in Minas Anor, his favourite city in the whole wide world and he could not wait for the day of the performance. It was surely going to be a success for the King’s Players.

[Mnemosyne]

The waggons rolled onward, turning down the main thoroughfare in the First Circle to the inn where they would be staying. It had a large yard in its centre, where the Players had put on their first shows in Minas Anor, and it could house their carts comfortably.

Good publicity, too.

They pulled into the yard, and Brinn sought out the innkeeper.

"Good day, Master Ingold," she said. "Have you been holding our rooms for us, or are the crowds too big?"

"We're almost full!" said the innkeeper. "But--I've been holding out for you--you're good for our business, after all."

"That means you won't try to charge higher this year, then, right?"

"Actually..."

Brinn laughed. "The rates we agreed on last year, thank you very much." She waved in front of him the paper that they had signed a year prior.

"Too clever by half, you are."

Brinn handed him a purse. "We'll get the rest to you after the show, as always."

Once the carts had been arranged in a fashion that appealed to Brinn, the mules were taken to their stalls by a few enterprising stable lads eager for tips. She spoke briefly with her husband, and then the two of them passed the same message onto the entire troupe, in the carts or stretching their legs.

"We have a few hours to get ourselves settled. Call for rehearsal is at the ninth hour, in the yard; we want things running as smoothly as possible before the actual performance."

[Boromir88]

Branor agreed with Brinn's plan for the day to start dress rehearsal today, but was glad she was giving the troupe some free time. "Good plan, Brinn. I was thinking of saying the same thing myself. I had hoped for a chance to see the city some more, but we must not forget we are here to do a play. Well then, since you do not require my presense at the moment, I will take this time now to explore the city. And if I get the chance, I will try to find out how much interest and excitement there is for the show. Do not miss me too much, I'll be back before rehearsals"

He started to leave the rest of the players, but then he stopped to remind everyone not to start rehearsals without him. He could have sworn he heard more than a few grumbles, and sighs, of "We know."

Now Branor was about to leave, for real this time, when a friendly face approached. "Now here is a familiar face! It's good to see you again, Amdil!" Branor ignored the man's correction, for the man's name was Amdir, not Amdil. "You know the city well. I am going out as I desire to see what is new in Minas Anor. This glowing jewel of a city is always changing, is it not? What do you say about showing me around some? I would appreciate having a guide. I will even be able to get you a prime seat to our performance, The War of the Ring! Who can turn down that offer!?"

But again, before Amdir had any time to answer, Branor led him back to the troupe. "You all remember Amdir? He's going to guide me around Minas Anor. Does anyone want to come along?"

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon was relieved when they finally reached the inn. Maybe they would even have the chance to rest before starting rehearsals. That seemed likely at the moment, since Branor had expressed a desire to go for a walk through the city – which was even more relieving since Branor seemed in one of his pompous moods that made Harrenon feel quite put off most of the time. He shook his head with an exasperated sigh when he heard the man demand them not to start rehearsing without him.

“I wonder why we do not do that once,” he muttered to his fellow Players. “Just to see what he says afterwards.”

Yet when Branor told them that Amdir would be leading him through the city, Harrenon forgot his desire for some quiet time to himself. He had already had that in the wagon on the way to the city. Now he was in Minas Anor. He should take advantage of the opportunity to see as much of the city as possible. A walk would do him good. It would clear his head and help him get rid of the nervousness he sometimes felt when a performance was near. Yes, a walk would do him good, even if he was taking it with Branor – as a matter of fact, Harrenon did not dislike Branor; yes, he did find his manner exasperating, but usually endearingly so. He took a step forward.

“Well,” he began. “If you’re going, I think I will be joining you. If you have nothing against it, that is, and if I am not needed here, after all.”

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn sorted through the papers one last time, holding her back where it had gotten stiff from all the moving and shifting. Now that the carts were no longer being used to move things, it was better to organize things so that they were easier to hand--and less likely for her to trip over. She'd stopped by the main prop cart to talk to Asta and make sure that all the mechanicals were in working order, and that turned into a process of pulling out all the things they would need for the Grand Tale of the War of the Ring. Now it was just a matter of making sure everything was perfect, and--

She heard a creak on the footboard behind her. "Are you planning on eating anytime soon?"

Brinn turned around. It was her husband. "Not at the moment. Why, what time is it?"

"Past noon."

"Already? But there's so much--"

"You need to eat, Brinn, and relax. Plenty of work to do in the coming week."

"Yes, but our first rehearsal's tonight--"

"And we'll have more to polish things nice and good. Come and eat, the common room's not too far off."

"I'll be fine, if you'll just give me--"

"What about Sereth?"

Yes, Sereth--she was young, and growing. It would not do to give her a poor example. "Very well," she said. "Let's eat."

[Pitchwife]

The Lord Samwise, Coldan pondered while he went to check that the mules where well stabled and fed. Now who's he? Some lord of the halflings, apparently. Well, even quasi-mythical creatures had to have some sort of aristocracy, Coldan presumed; but he had always been under the impression that the ruler of the periannath was Prince Peregrin, the warlord who had led the halfling host to the Pelennor. Could it be that Peregrin had died, and his successor had come to Minas Anor to swear allegiance to the King? That would explain why the guard at the gate had made such a fuss about Samwise's presence.

Returning to the yard, he found that the other Players had been joined by Amdir, and Branor was talking the carpenter into showing him around the city and asking people to come along. Coldan wasn't averse to some sightseeing himself - this was his third visit to the capital of Gondor, but the beauty of the White City never failed to impress his poetic soul, even when it no longer filled him with that wide-eyed, speechless admiration he had felt on seeing it for the first time. And then, of course, the city's taverns were calling to him; according to his father, the wine merchant, it had been the Dúnedain of Gondor who had first introduced viticulture to Coldan's native country, and although Dorwinion had since perfected the art to produce the finest vintage in Middle-earth, the sweeter wines of Lebennin and Ithilien were not to be despised. Not too much, of course, as he needed a clear head for the rehearsal, but a beaker or two couldn't hurt, could they?

Nevertheless, he held back and waited whether Asta would decide to come along. Her company during their approach to the city gates had just been enjoyable enough to leave him craving for more. Not that she was likely to take much notice of him with Branor around, but he couldn't just let the two of them roam the city without him. If she chose to stay at the inn, on the other hand, he might have the luck to get a few undisturbed minutes alone with her - maybe even long enough to work up the courage and explain himself to her this time.

[Formendacil]

“Well,” said Harrenon. “If you’re going, I think I will be joining you. If you have nothing against it, that is, and if I am not needed here, after all.”

Amdír was not opposed to accompanying Branor and Harrenon about the city, since it seemed that Brinn did not intend to start discussing the construction of the set until rehearsal that evening. This was normal enough, though Amdír was guessing that it meant she did not foresee a larger than usual production. Well, he would see that evening one way or another. It was always exciting to watch the first rehearsal, when the play was fresh to his eyes and ears, and Amdír didn't mind waiting through it until they were ready to talk setpieces near the end.

Meanwhile, although Branor had essentially asked Amdír to show them around, the thespian from Dale had been to Minas Anor enough times over the past few years that he hardly needed Amdír or anyone else to lead him to his favourite haunts, and Branor's implacable energy drove him ahead of Amdír and Harrenon, as well as Therian, who had tagged along as well, perhaps guessing that Branor would be headed for a tavern. The erstwhile shieldmaiden expressed an interest in a tankard of ale, and as Amdír told him, Branor seemed to be headed in the direction of one of his favourite taverns, the Rohirric Unicorn, a small hole-in-the-wall up Lampwright's Street towards the Second Circle, which had an amazing brew of ale that Amdír agreed was justly renowned (he was the one who had first taken Branor there).

But as they rounded a bend in the Street, following the curve of the city circles, Amdír caught sight of a party sitting in front of the tavern, beneath the sign of the Rohirric Unicorn. Whether that was Branor's destination or not, the carpenter headed straight for it. He was certain that the small figure drinking lustily from a pint of the Unicorn's brew was a halfling, and could be none other than Master Samwise Gamgee.

[the phantom]

Aldarion didn't bother to peek out of his cart as the troop approached the white city. Not only had he traveled to Minas Anor several times in his youth, but he was also quite busy reading The King's Players' production "Dragon Hunter". Somehow this particular work had fallen through the cracks and escaped his attention over the past couple years. Through the first half of the script Aldarion had been unable to determine which supposed historical event it was based upon, but he was slowly piecing together that it was a ridiculous version of the tale of Fram and Scatha. Where did they get this stuff? I mean really- how do you get 'Hadda' for 'Scatha'? And he has a midget-dragon sidekick that tells jokes?

When the cart stopped at the gate Aldarion whipped out ink and a quill and began editing- a task impossible to attempt in a moving cart. Half listening to the exchange between Brinn and the guard, Aldarion stopped writing mid-stroke and called forward to Rollan, "Did that guard say 'Lord Samwise the pheriannath' is visiting?" Rollan turned part way around and nodded.

Lord Samwise? No... it couldn't be the Samwise from the War of the Ring. He was just a stupid servant. Perhaps Sam is just a common name up that way.... Yes, that must be it.

A short time later Aldarion was holed up in his room getting on with his work. He thought for a moment of doing a bit of touch-up on the "Tale of the Ring" script, but gave it up as a bad job. I've already looked at it plenty, and they're unwilling to budge on the remaining changes I would recommend. Why do they insist on playing Saruman and Denethor as comic roles when they provide opportunity for such perfect madness and horror? That Rollan... I'm sure he could play a fine straight role if he'd just try! Or if they'd just let me put Therian in one of those roles. I wonder why Brinn always insists that Therian be a lady? Therian doesn't contradict her, but I can tell he's unhappy about it. Bah! But for the usual farmers we always perform for here in Minas Anor I doubt it makes much of a difference.

[Nerwen]

Asta left the Common Room for the yard, a worried frown on her face. Brinn had begun the meal by announcing loudly that everything looked delicious and that she hoped she would not stuff herself, but had soon fallen into an abstracted daze and had barely touched what was on her plate, despite Rollan's coaxing. Asta sighed. That Rollan! He did his best, but he was only a man, and had no idea how much looking after her sister really required.

She heard a familiar step hurrying to join her.

"Asta! I zought– zat is, I vondered if– if you're not too busy–"

She turned. "Oh, thank you, Coldan, but I know my lines pretty well already–" seeing his crestfallen look, she added, "mind you, Aldarion does keep tinkering with the script; perhaps we should go over Mary the Elf's part once or twice before the rehearsal, to make sure there's no nasty surprises."

"Actually, I zought, I zought perhaps..." Coldan took a deep breath, and his cheeks flushed a dusky red, "...zat is... er... zat's exactly vat I vas about to suggest."

They quickly ran through Mary the Elf's lines, the prompter sitting on the back step of the wagon, and Asta pacing up and down in front of him. Acting was not really Asta's strong point, but what talent she had was quite equal to this minor rôle, and indeed she particularly enjoyed enacting the Elf-maid's tragic, self-sacrificial death. Poor Mary, always taken for granted by the rest of the Fellowship...

[Anguirel]

Unknown to any of the gallant troupe, their presence in the White City, and on this particular occasion of honour, too, had been long ordained at the very highest circles of the Court.

Some months earlier, it had all begun - as have begun other stories, both direr wars and higher romances than our own - with a jest, a coincidence, and a letter.

***

"Excellent news at last," the Lord Warden of the Exchequer, Cirdacil the Venerable, Lord of Burlach, expatiated to his close family as he mouthed his way through a prongful of excellent emulsified goldspinach.

For he was a man of precise, albeit frugal, taste.

Around his table sat a surprisingly young-looking and colourful company, when one considered the almost ostentatiously plain appearance of their host. Ecsichil, heir to the sloping city fief of Burlach, was a stolid gentleman with an evident weakness for scarlet drapery, in which he had enswathed his wife to the point of near total invisibility. On this taciturn lady's other side sat the second son, a bachelor, who always went by the by-name of Sador because of his unfortunate leg, born wizened; yet he was a handsome, dapper little man who seemed unable to restrain the gleam of manic intelligence in his every movement and word.

In between the two men in age were their sisters, graceful, tolerant and by some peculiarity, taller than their brothers; Aerwen, the elder, a diligent seeker after knowledge, was unmarried and likely to remain so, but Circilie, the whole family's favourite for the obviousness of her physical attractions and the calming nature of her conversation, was yet a new bride. This made her visit a rare occasion of family satisfaction, especially as she brought her new lord. Their union was already a success, as Circilie's figure was beginning to intimate; the man under question was the noblest and fairest in the room, Lord Amlach of Dol Amroth, an unlooked for catch for the new noble house of Burlach.

They were all delighted to see him; and he, though bored, was even more polite.

"What news, father?" Sador shot back. "The strife in Harondor?" Between them, the patriarch and his second son had done most of the talking so far.

"Closer, and more to my satisfaction, boy. I list little for your foreign adventures. No, it is this; the Master of the Revels, that wastrel Hallas, has resigned his responsibilities to spend more time hunting on his estate..."

Amlach, unnoticed, looked a little more interested. It always astonished him how little curiosity his father-in-law displayed about the humane arts; perhaps this new fascination was the signal of a sudden character change?

"...and I think I have persuaded our royal lord not to replace him. We are living in uncertain times," Cirdacil plodded on, oblivious to his son-in-law wincing at the sentiment and the cliche alike, "and, if the Reunited Kingdom is to be more than, let us say, a dream upon parchment, then, as I have always said, retrenchment must be the order of the day..."

Amlach watched the family's reaction, suppressing his disgust by running a hand through his wife's bright ringlets. Ecsichil was trying to catch a horsefly with his mouth, apparently. Amlach had never heard Lady Ecsichil express a view on anything. Sador was clever enough to be sychophantically attentive, Aerwen was above it all, and Circilie was playing with his own feet, in an admittedly rather adorable way. What a bunch of cultural Khandings he had on his hands here...

"If you reduce Gondor to a silent banking-house," he found himself shouting, "what remains to retrench?"

Before Circilie had laid down her palliative, soft hand on his arm, the old vulture had replied.

"Why, dividends, my boy."

***

"The man is a warrior, a prince and statesman! He should know better, much better, than a joke in such poor taste! If, indeed..."

Fragments of the Lord Cirdacil's white beard, efficiently if wildly rent, were filtering across his study. One got up Sador's sensitive nostrils, but he kept his cough quiet.

"I am certain His Majesty means no action not commensurate with the dignity and respect in which he holds you, honoured father..."

"...which is nothing! It can be none, no dignity, if he acts thus..."

The piece of paper uppermost on the desk looked surpassingly innocent. A centralised secretary hand and written with the utmost neatness,

To the Lord of Burlach,

The King Elessar, long esteeming your trusty and well beloved care of His Majesty's Exchequer, would like to confer upon you additional, signal and delightful favour.

Mindful of your lordship's long and proven role as an arbiter of taste, and of your late counsel given upon the setting forth from Court of the Lord Hallas, the King Elessar hereby raises you to the office of Master of the Revels with instant effect.

***

Sador had at last formulated the right soothing sentence.

"Father, you are right as always. The great conqueror of the Enemy, the heir of Elendil, would never trouble himself with a jest."

"But what, then, boy? What is the meaning..."

"The king says he is mindful of the counsel you gave him, father. He has appointed you to this post so that you may prove the rectitude of your view of it, once and for all."

Cirdacil was getting very old and he knew his second son was very clever, but he was instantly quick enough in the art of courtly administration to gather his son's meaning.

"You mean, my lad, that I, and not Lord Hallas, am to be the last Master of the Revels in Gondor? Through the...exceptional...quality of my offerings?"

"Precisely, beloved sire."

Cirdacil sat down, at last exhausted with the effort of shouting, at the desk which bore the hated missive, and picked it up.

"The letter avers that the next great Revel is to be a play - the very worst, morally, and the most extravagant kind among these fripperies - at Cormare, and in time for the visit of some obscure municipal dignitary, a halfling, no less, from furthest Eriador. By the Tree, for our state to be yoked to those penniless Arnorian maniacs and pint-size talking Druedain..."

"Father, father, be careful what you say!"

But Cirdacil's outburst was over. He had relaxed back into thought.

"Sador, were you following your brother-in-law's conversation at luncheon, when he began to rail regrettably on the deplorable subject of his provincial theatre?"

"I always follow conversation, father."

"What was the name of that rag-tag crew of mountebanks he mentioned that unfortunate friend has joined?"

"Apparently they have the affrontery to call themselves the King's players, father."

"See to it that they are hired!"

Cirdacil smiled, at last, with fully relished pleasure; but the moment was short, and his wrinkled face was tortured by worry as he glanced back at his departing son.

"...but whatever you do, don't pay the rascals in advance."

[Boromir88]

Branor got ahead of the others, as he fondly began recalling the best places in the city. When he spotted the sign with a white unicorn head, upon a green background and gold trim, he picked up the pace even more. It was one of Branor's favorite places in Minas Anor and he beckoned the others to follow him in.

The small tavern seemed busier, and thus more crowded, than what Branor remembered. When Amdir, Harrenon, and Therian caught up with Branor, Amdir perked up at the sight of someone he must have recognized. "I do believe, my friends, that is Master Samwise Gamgee."

The three players traded perturbed looks with eachother, all realizing there may be a serious issue with the script. "Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

It was a brief slience, but an awkward one, as Amdir looked perplexed by the question. "Uh, no...that is Samwise, Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom, the one and only Master Samwise. I hear he is excited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Branor's reaction went from perturbed to near frantic damage control. He pushed through the chairs and crowd as quickly as he could to get to where the hobbit was sitting. The hobbit's clothes were plain, but were certainly not attire a simple servant would be able to afford.

"Pardon me, but are you Samwise Gamgee, former servant to the gallant Frodo Baggins?"

"I am." said the hobbit smiling, mostly due to the awkward phrasing of Branor's question.

"Umm, you should be...dead?" Branor felt a sharp and rather painful jab to his ribs. It was from Therian's elbow who had now been next to him. Normally he would cause a huge fuss over someone hitting him (even if it was just an innocent knock trying to tell him to tone down), but Branor was too focused on Sam to care.

"I am sorry if it disappoints you that I am not." Samwise was still smiling though, probably due to Branor's complete ignorance. However, the hobbit did seem hurt when Branor followed up by saying "It does!" Branor suppressed another pained grunt as he felt a stomp on his foot, this one from Harrenon who was now on his right side.

"Er...I mean, it does, because you see...Master (it was weird for Branor to use that title for someone he thought was just a dumb servant to a great warrior) Samwise, I...and well my friends with me are part of the King's Players."

"You are!?" Samwise was suddenly more interested and invested in wanting to talk with Branor now. "Why this is what Gandalf would have called a chance meeting, I believe. My wife, Rosie and our daughter, Elanor, and I are greatly anticipating your rendition of the War of the Ring at the Cormare!" Branor gulped. "That's all Elanor has been talking about, these past weeks. She keeps telling me she wants to see the tales of Samwise the Brave acted out, instead of just hearing me tell them. I am not the greatest of story tellers, that was always Master Bilbo's specialty."

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords, and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

[Formendacil]

"Please tell us that is a different Samwise and not the servant Sam of the War of the Ring?" Branor asked.

Amdír paused. The brief silence was awkward, as Amdír tried to discern why the actor would not want to meet the very subject of their play, and then said slowly, "No... that must be Master Samwise, who was Frodo's loyal companion in the quest to Mount Doom. I hear he has been invited to watch your performance, along with his family."

Amdír was about to say something about how King Elessar had also allegedly been invited, but considering Branor's reaction, perhaps it was just as well that he didn't get that far. The actor was distraught, and pushed through the crowd to get at the Hobbit, with Therian and Harrenon following somewhat more timidly.

"Umm, shouldn't you be...dead?" As Therian elbowed Branor, Amdír figured out why the actor was so distraught. Clearly, the Players' script had a somewhat different ending than the veteran remembered. Fortunately, Master Samwise seemed to be taking it well--though Amdír was not listening to everything either he or the actors were saying.

"Eh, erm, the problem we have sir is...our script-writer, Aldarion has you dying when the ghastly Black Lords and their demonic King, attacked on Weathertop. I myself questioned our writer about the accuracy of the histories he had found, but he insisted you were Frodo's servant, and were trampled by the Black King's tusked and fell steed. That is why you see, Master Samwise, I thought you should be dead!"

The Hobbit seemed a little taken aback at Branor's somewhat frantic attempt at damage control, and Amdír decided to say something himself, before the actor decided that the Hobbit's pause was cause for further wild statements.

"I'm sure it will all reflect on you very well, Master Samwise," he said. "I was present in the crowd for King Elessar's return and coronation, and I well remember three other Hobbits standing with Lord Meriadoc. I'm sure it's well-known that you're... er... alive and well. Probably Branor is just misremembering the script--after all, the first rehearsal isn't until tonight."

Then Amdír had a stroke of genius.

"Perhaps you could give us your own account of events--just so that we can make sure there aren't any errors in the script. Little errors, I mean--I'm sure you don't actually die in it." The Players waited with baited breath for the Hobbit to make an answer.

"I reckon you have it right enough," said Master Samwise after a long draw on his pipe. "I was indeed Mr. Frodo's servant by all rights, what with tending his gardens with my gaffer from my tween years. We came to close enough to death in Mordor as it was. If Gandalf hadn't come and saved us on those giant eagles, the Black Rider probably would have had us, if the fires of Mt. Doom didn't get us first."

The hobbit drew on his pipe again.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian was relieved. "Our apologies for our friend Brandor's memory lapse, Master Samwise."

Sam took a sip from his pint, his small fist dwarfed by it. Was that the fist that brought down the Dark Lord? A fist so small that a pint of beer could crush it?

Sam smiled. "Well, I always said I was the simple one, really. Simple Sam, my gaffer always said, though Pip was the fool." He laughed to himself, and Therian wondered if there was some story there. "But far's I know, I didn't die."

"And," Therian added, "We are quite glad to learn it for ourselves first hand. It is not every day one meets a true hero."

"Ah, well," Sam said, "there were heroes of all shapes in those days. Any what stood against the big bad, that is, and that was not easy never mind how big or small or live or dead you might be. Dead was not so permanent then, you know. Even when King Elessar - he was Strider to us back then - came with the Dead Army, people ran with fear, but it turns out they were on our side, even if they were more on their own, if you follow me."

"I am sure we all do. Another drink?"

"Ah, yes, maybe just one more."

"A Dead Army? Ghosts? I had heard something of it," Therian lied, having never heard such a thing at all, "but I thought it must have been a mistake. Ghosts with swords? How could a ghost hold a sword?"

"Ah, well, you see, I never knew quite how that worked, but I think mostly folk saw them coming and just ran without staying to find it out themselves."

"I would fight gallantly!" Branor boasted.

"No doubt you would, Brandor," Sam said. "Some did. Princess Eowyn fought better'n most, and that Witch King was dead as they come!"

"Branor," Brandor corrected.

Therian elbowed him in the side. "Eowyn? The Shieldmaiden? She was truly there at the battle, amongst all the men? And truly fought the Dread Fell Rider of the Demon Black Dragon Beast? Tell me, is it true a witch cast a spell to give her the body of a man so she could fight and actually win?"

[Thinlómien]

Sereth didn't really feel like eating, but she tried to. Brinn would think something was wrong if she didn't eat, and Brinn had too much in her hands already so Sereth didn't want to add to her concerns.

The chicken was well prepared and delicious, but Sereth could not bring herself to enjoy the taste. She told herself she must be going crazy. What was wrong with her? She had been acting all her life and suddenly she felt nervous about it.

Of course, she always cared about how people liked her and how her performance was received, but it had always been a more pleasant sensation of anticipation. This year was different though. She didn't feel so comfortable with the role of Frodo anymore. It was a crucial role, but she would have swapped places with Therian any day, or with Asta, or anything... You're not old enough, she told herself, although another part of her kept asking why not?

Still, she could live with the situation. Any role that would take her to the stage was something to be happy about, and something as big as she now had should make her grateful. She needed to rehearse more. She wanted to make Frodo perfect - as heroic and as strong-willed and brave as he was in all the legends. And that would not work if she had this silly anxiety inside her.

And she could not eat either, she was chewing the same piece of chicken for more than a minute now. With effort, Sereth swallowed it and turned to Brinn, who was sitting next to her. She blurted out the foolish question that had been on her mind ever since they entered the city:

"Brinn - the Lord Samwise is not surely the Samwise?"

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan was right--Brinn did need the food. She ate quickly, though neatly--there was still so much to be done!

Sereth, meanwhile, was only picking at her food--and she of such a growing age, too! She hoped the girl was not getting stagestruck, so odd in someone who had lived the theatrical life the way Sereth had. She looked up at Brinn, and suddenly said: ""Brinn - the Lord Samwise is not surely the Samwise?"

Brinn creased her brow. It had been something she was trying not to think on. "I do not know," she said. "Surely I had heard that Frodo was left to make the final stages of the journey alone, and the loss of his servant had heightened the tension so much more! You must admit it made the play much more dramatic!"

Rollan spoke up from his food--he had a bit of a belly and took especial care to furnish it at mealtimes. "But I don't think we have much to worry about from him. You heard the guard himself--he's a lord, and not likely to care so much about common entertainment, especially on the First Circle! He'll probably be too caught up in all the ceremony in the Citadel to give us any trouble."

"Even lords need to laugh, Rollan," said Brinn. "And Sereth has a point, anyhow. Everyone here knows that this Lord Samwise is a guest here, and his family. We may have to change things a little, just so they won't be confused, whether he is the same Samwise or not. Pay it little heed, Seri." She smiled, only a little more confidently than she felt. "We'll make it work, whatever it is that happens."

They finished their meal in silence--Sereth only half cleaning her plate. Brinn frowned, but didn't say anything. On their way back to the carts, Brinn took Rollan aside and said, "Do you think we should ask Aldarion to change the script?"

"Depends. Can we make him the comical sidekick? Ah, yes--the rustic, country lad, always quick to see the joy in a situation with his native wit!"

"You're too tall, love."

"I'll walk on my knees!" cried Rollan, and he immediately suited the action to the word, eliciting a laugh and a quick swipe on the head from Brinn.

That brought to mind another question, though--if the Samwise in the play was an esquire, how was it that he was now a lord?

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon wondered whether he had ever had the misfortune to be in a more uncomfortable situation before and decided that it surely was not possible. Nothing could have been worse than what was happening now. They had been in Minas Anor for less than an hour and Branor had already insulted someone who appeared to be a very important person in the city– despite everything they had heard of him. He stepped on Branor’s foot quickly, but did not dare to admonish him in front of Lord Samwise. He told himself that he should be thankful; that at least Branor had had enough tact to tell Samwise “We thought you were dead” than “We thought you were nothing more than Frodo’s halfwit servant”. Why had they been lead to believe that anyway? What else had they got wrong?

Harrenon was grateful that Amdir had the presence of spirit to ask Samwise for an account of what had actually happened. It was better that they knew soon what other false knowledge they had than to present an erroneous version in front of Lord Samwise and his family and who knew what other important personages. He listened apprehensively to the conversation.

Harrenon had to roll his eyes at Therian’s question about Lady Eowyn. It sounded ridiculous even to him and he was not so sure where Therian had heard that one. He turned his attention to Samwise to hear what he had to say.

“Now really,” Samwise said slightly uncertainly. “I haven’t heard any of the sort. There were no witches then – unless you count Lady Galadriel and she was in Lorien at the time. I’m sure Lady Eowyn was very much herself when she felled the Nazgul. But I wasn’t there, of course. Master Merry would know more.”

“Master Mary?” Harrenon asked puzzled, wondering why Samwise was calling an elf-maiden master. An elf-maiden who, moreover, should have been dead long before the battle of Pelennor Fields.

“Yes, of course,” Sam replied fixing Harrenon with a questioning stare. “ Master Meriadoc Brandybuck. Surely he too is in your play, isn’t he?”

“He…” Harrenon repeated, his voice dry, desperately attempting to compose himself and not give away another blunder the Players had apparently made. “Why…yes…yes, of course he is…”

He could see panic in Branor and Therian’s eyes and he could not blame them. Harrenon tried not to imagine how the others would react when he told them that particular piece of news.

“If I tell them Mary the elf-maiden of Rivendell is actually Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire,” Harrenon thought, swallowing uncomfortably. “Brinn and Aldarion are going to kill me. as for Asta…well, Asta will surely feed my body to the mechanical dragon if I tell her she’s actually supposed to be playing Meriadoc the Hobbit who doesn’t even die when we thought she…well, he did.”

[Boromir88]

Branor's teeth grinded when Therian told Master Samwise that his name was Brandor. However, causing a scene in front the Lord and in the Rohirric Unicorn would be most rude and unprofessional. Branor knew what Therian was getting at, because on more than one occassion Therian had taken delight in provoking him. If that's the game Therian wanted to play, Branor knew precisely how to get back at him.

But there seemed to be more than just Samwise being alive that the King's Players have gotten wrong. As the hobbit began telling the troupe about the real Lady Eowyn, and Meriadoc Brandybuck increased panic crept in Branor's face. Branor thought they needed to keep composure though, because Sam's curiousity about the play was growing, "I must say these are some of the strangest questions about the War of the Ring that I have ever been asked. Of course the Lady Eowyn, was a lady and Master Merry was a he..."

Branor was sorely tempted to let Therian reply and hang himself by letting him boast to Master Samwise where he believed women truly belonged in society. However, since Amdir and Therian recovered for Branor's slip up well enough, Branor decided to in the very least, repay the favor.

"Yes, of course, we know that stuff. We have a firm grasp on the true events, but have met none of the real heroes we are to portray. So, we want to make sure we get their true personality and characters as close as possible. Why Harrenon is the dashing Elf Prince Legolas, as well as the dreadful Witch-King and my friend Therian, is interested in the Lady Eowyn, as he will be playing the Lady in our tale." But Branor, could not resist taking an underhanded swipe that he thought would get under Therian's skin. "Afterall, he is a strapping boy, is he not? I mean, with his youthful and adorable face, I thought he was perfect for the part. I, naturally, am to play the King Elessar." Branor proclaimed proudly.

"Is that so?" Sam replied. "Well, you may be interested to hear that the King has been invited to attend the performance too. I have no doubt, King Elessar would be most pleased to be portrayed by an actor as great and noble as yourself, Brandor." Branor ignored the mistake, mostly because it was clear to him, Sam had recognized his true gift. However, he did not catch the slightest of smirks that Sam gave Therian.

"Tell me about King Elessar some more, if you do not mind all these interruptions and questions. It would be the highest of honours if the King attended our humble play, and saw me in his role. I do not want to act as Branor would act, but truly want to transform into the wise and great King Elessar, on stage."

"I do not mind the interruption at all. It is not every day that you get to meet and talk with the actors who are playing as you, and your friends." Samwise raised his mug of ales and motioned for all four of them to sit. "Let me see, there is a lot I can say about King Elessar, or Aragorn as Mister Frodo and I called him, or Strider, as he was known in Bree.

'Indeed he did have many names, not as many as Gandalf, but still a handful. I do not want to keep you from your business too long, so I will tell you my first impression of the man. I will never forget that, at the Prancing Pony in Bree. He was the most dishevelled man I ever did see and was in desperate need of a bath." Wait, hold on? King Elessar, dirty? And smelly!? With all due respect, Master Samwise had to be wrong about the King.

'In fact, I told Mr. Frodo, that Strider had to be up to no good. He had done nothing but eye my master from a dark corner. I said he had to be a spy of the Enemy, and could not be trusted." Yes. Samwise, has to have someone confused with King Elessar. He was wrong and when Branor was just about to correct him..."I could not have been more wrong about him!" Ha, I knew it! "I am sure you know all the tales of his great and heroic deeds, so I will not go into all that, but Mr. Frodo and I owe him our lives. After Mr. Frodo defeated the Dark Lord, Gandalf had told us how Aragorn strove against the Dark Lord thru a palantir and then marched an army to Black Gates. It was all a diversion, to draw Sauron's Eye away from us, as you rightfully know."

That was it! It all made sense to Branor now. King Elessar's many names, his disgusting uncleanliness when the warrior Frodo, and his ignorant servant, first met him. Elessar was a secret double-spy! It was clear now, how Frodo was able to defeat the Dark Lord in single combat. No doubt, Frodo was a worthy champion, but that part of the tale always seemed fishy to Branor. Distracted Sauron by striving against him with the palantir. And Frodo obviously knew how to defeat the Dark Lord because Aragorn had given Frodo secret intel. Strider...no Aragorn! No Elessar! The secret double-spy-king, one of Sauron's most trusted spies, was really working for the greatest warrior in history, Master Frodo Baggins, and gave Frodo all the information he needed to defeat the Dark Lord in single combat! What this palantir thing the Master Samwise mentioned, Branor did not know, but he was sure to bring all of this new information to Aldarion's attention.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian liked this Samwise quite a lot. More than he had ever liked Branor, at any rate.

"Branor," he asked, "Can I buy you another drink?"

Get him drunk, was the idea. Drunk enough that later, at rehearsal, he would flub his lines. I am the Thing, and I have returned! The King, I mean, I am the King, and I... it... Brinn, yer so pretty, did I ever tell you yer so pretty?

Therian snickered into his mug. "So, Master Samwise, if you do not mind me asking, how..." Therian considered his phrasing carefully. Meriadoc might still be a girl, after all, but it did not seem quite right, somehow. "How would you describe Mary? As... manly?"

"Ah," Sam swigged. "More like hobbity, though taller'n most."

That was unhelpful. "But... Mary... was Mary... at times in touch... with a gentler side?"

Sam raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Always got on well with the wee ones. My own girl Elanor is a favorite of Merry's. Always going on about playing Nine and Riders with Merry and Pip..."

Therian was at a loss, and the others seemed equally perturbed. It would not do to admit to Master Sam that they had no idea at all who this Meriadoc person was. Therian changed the subject. "Prince Peregrin, we know quite a deal about, since he is so well famed hereabouts, but Gimli... would you say he and Legolas... Well, were they quite close? With each other, I mean?"

[Pitchwife]

For all that Coldan had meant to spend his precious time with Asta somewhat differently, he did not regret missing out on the taverns of Minas Anor for now. Rehearsing her part with her was one of the few occasions when he didn't have to worry what to say to her but could simply sit there, listen to her voice and watch her, and for once, he didn't mind her forgetting about his presence while his eyes drank the peculiar northern charm of her sharp-cut features in rapt admiration.

Right now, she was in the middle of her romantic dialogue with Boromir at Rauros, which wasn't exactly Coldan's favourite part of the play. Truth to be told, it was largely responsible for the silently smoldering grudge he harboured against Aldarion. He could forgive the playwright for being wildly more successful as a writer than himself, even though his plays, in Coldan's opinion, were routine hack work entirely devoid of poetic genius; but to write a love story between his own character and Asta's into the play and get to kiss her on stage every night! How dare he! The worst thing was, for all Coldan could tell, she might even enjoy it.

Fool, he scolded himself, you have only yourself to blame. He should have declared his feelings to her long ago; the Valar knew there had been occasions enough. Not that he had much hope of her reciprocating - not with men like Aldarion or Branor around - , but to simply let the state of things continue like that was intolerable. If only her mere presence had not that strange power to scatter the carefully chosen words in his head like so much chaff and reduce him to incoherent stammering!

Noticing a brief hesitation in her voice, he snapped out of his miserable thoughts and offered, "I vill cleave - "

"I will cleave to you, Boromir, and turn from the Twilight", she continued, and he sighed with relief as they came to the end of the love scene and Boromir's death. On they went through the rest of her part - Mary's brief captivity with the Orcs, her escape and meeting with the Walking Trees of Fangorn Forest, her ride with the Rohirrim, and finally her valiant fight against the Witch-King and her tragic self-sacrifice, which Asta mimed with gusto. Coldan relished that scene especially. Although his love didn't blind him to the limits of her talent as an actress in general, it was unmistakable that this was her favourite scene and she put her whole soul into it. Not for the first time he found himself thinking that she would make a far better shieldmaiden than that pathetic Therian.

When she had finished impaling herself on an imaginary Witch-King's imaginary sword, he applauded enthusiastically. "Splendid! You're almost perfect. Only one very minor zing - ze scene vere you convince ze Valking Trees to plant zemselves in Isengard could perhaps do viz a little more fine-tuning. Maybe ve should go zrough zat once more?"

"Thank you", she replied curtly, "but it must be nearing nine bells. Isn't it about time for Branor and the others to come back? They'll be late for the group rehearsal!"

[Boromir88]

Branor briefly contemplated Therian's offer. This was odd, Branor thought the whole time Therian was sincerely trying to provoke him. Maybe the elbow jabs and telling Master Samwise his name was Brandor were simple misunderstandings, and Therian was now trying to apologize. "I think I will, my boy, I am glad to see you have learned a lesson in apologies today."

Therian practically jumped out of his seat and quickly came back with a pint for Branor, and Master Samwise began telling the troupe about Legolas and Gimli. "Yes, I would say they were very close with eachother. They were as close as two people could get, I'd say just as close as Mr. Frodo and I. In those days, it was unheard of for an elf and a dwarf to have the friendship those two had."

When Branor finished his first pint, he saw Therian had taken the empty mug away and gave him a second. After the second one, Therian was still offering to buy him another drink. Only this time he asked if Branor could foot the bill and now being as drunk as he was, Branor had no problem doing, "Of course, my boy, of course" Branor emptied all the coins from one of his pockets and looked at the amount. "I will tell you....bring me 'nother pint right back, to this spot. Right in fron' of me. And how about you get another one for my new friend Masser Samwise. Tell you what too, since you..." he grabbed Therian's shoulder firmly, but in a friendly manner "yes you, have been such a kind friend lately...treat yourself to somethin'." Branor looked at the lump of coins in his hand again, as he slowly handed one coin at a time to Therian, until Branor had handed him all the coins. "Ther ya go, my boy, that shuld do it." He had handed Therian more than enough for three pints.

Soon it became clear to Amdir that it was nearing the hour when the players had to make it back to dress rehearsals. It was also clear, the trip might take a bit longer, as Branor was going to need to be half-carried back. "Thank you kindly for everything, Master Samwise. You have given us good details, that I do believe will make this a play to remember."

Branor managed to make it out of the tavern on his own, but it was soon clear he would need help walking back to the inn. Branor was hanging with one of his arms draped around Harrenon's shoulder, who seemed to be struggling keeping him up straight. Therian came over to lend his shoulder.

"I think I will take you all back with a different way, and hope the slower route will sober Branor up some." said Amdir, and Therian sniggered.

[Nerwen]

Naturally, Brinn and Rollan were both getting ready at a leisurely pace in their wagon and it was clear from their idle chatter that it had dawned on neither that anything was amiss.

Asta gritted her teeth. Often it seemed to her that she was the only member of the troupe who ever had her wits about her.

"...might work," Brinn was saying as she helped her husband into the long robe dyed and patched in many violent and clashing hues that he wore as Saruman, the Mad Magician, "if we can get Aldarion to agree to some more revisions–"

Rollan laughed and said that the problem with Aldarion was usually getting him to stop. He started to add something futher about Aldarion's endless "improvements" to the Boromir-and-Mary scene but broke off as he noticed Asta climbing in from the back step.

"It's the troupe– they're gone!" she announced. "I mean, they're still not back yet! No sign of them, and it's close-on nine bells already. Brinn, could something have happened to them? What if someone drugged their ale in the tavern and now they're being carted off to Rhûn to be sold as slaves! I've heard stories, you know... We have to do something!"

They both tried to calm her, Rollan quipping that a bit of slavery would do Branor a world of good, and Brinn pointing out how many of Asta's alarms had proved false in the past, adding that she was sure there was still plenty of time and that Asta was probably imagining it was later than it really was.

Brinn did not get very far with this argument, however, for even as she spoke the silvery clamour of bells began, chime after chime ringing in the ninth hour since dawn. The three of them looked at each other in dismay.

[Formendacil]

The bells started ringing for the ninth hour, and Amdír noted with mild alarm that they had not yet returned--indeed they were a few blocks away yet. Harrenon and Therian also noted the time, but Branor did not seem to grasp its significance.

"Do you think we can march at a faster pace?" asked Amdír, though Therian had already jerked Branor to move more speedily.

"We've already got the bad news that the play will need rewriting," he continued. "Let's not aggravate Brinn further by being later than need be."

"Bad newsh?" said Branor. "Rewriting the script is good! All Hail Elessaragorn Stridesalot, Spy-King of Arnor! Aldarion's going to love me!"

"So much for sobering him up," said Harrenon, even though Amdír thought they'd actually made progress since they left the Rohirric Unicorn. Branor's speech was hardly slurred anymore, though his walking was not yet steady.

As it turned out, they were only six minutes late when they finally reached the waggons... but Brinn already stood waiting.

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn flashed a brief "I told you so" look at Asta before turning on the latecomers. True, five minutes was not such a terrible thing, but when you had been given six hours you really ought to be able to show up at least a little early.

"What took you so long?" she said. "Where have you been?"

Branor swayed a little on the spot. Oh, not again...

"And what in the Enemy's name were you doing, drinking so early--and when we have work to do?"

"Brinn," said Branor. "Shumthing important I need to tell you--the King--"

Doesn't have enough lines, Brinn thought.

Brinn pinched the bridge of her nose. "We don't have time for that now," she said. "Therian, Harrenon, freshen him up a bit, if it can be managed. We start in a quarter of an hour."

Sighing, she walked over to greet Amdir and begin discussing with him the sets, and what exactly had happened.

[the phantom]

Aldarion glanced out of the window beside his writing desk, his attention swayed by the sound of crunching gravel and low murmuring.

"What took you so long?" he heard Brinn admonish. "Where have you been?"

Well finally they're back! Do they really have such little respect for rehearsals? Aldarion shoved aside his editing work and hopped out of the window to join the troop in the inn courtyard.

"Therian, Harrenon, freshen him up a bit, if it can be managed," ordered Brinn. "We start in a quarter of an hour."

Aldarion groaned, turned around, and walked back to his window and reached through it to grab the script on his desk. I may as well work on this travesty a bit while I wait. The dragon's death scene needs to be rewritten from the roots up I would say. I mean really- Fram throws a rock that knocks one of Scatha's teeth down his throat which then stabs through his stomach and causes him to bleed to death? Even if true, it's ridiculously anticlimactic.

[Formendacil]

For an older man to a younger woman of roughly the same social status, Amdír tended to be extremely deferential to Brinn. Whether it was because she was head of the company his master had assigned him to assist, or out of some reverence for her stage name and vast travel experience, the fact was that Brinn slightly awed the old carpenter. Consequently, since he had never before been involved in something that displeased her, being a reliable and punctual man, and not generally involved with Brinn except where the setpieces were concerned, and thus it was with a gulp in his throat that he responded when she called him over.

"We should probably discuss the sets tonight," she said, "since I remember it took a good week last year to get the old pieces out of storage, and back into the city, and that was without having to modify them drastically. First, though, what happened to Branor? He can be too heavy with his drinking, but he rarely gets like this before nightfall."

"He was, ah, overcome," said Amdír, fumbling for a precise way to put it. "Overcome by good fortune, I suppose you could say. Master Samwise Gamgee was at the Rohirric Unicorn, and let us speak with him for quite some time about his life and our play."

"Samwise Gamgee... the Halfling?" said Brinn. "Surely you don't mean the one in our play?"

"Yes," said Amdír, "Branor made the mistake of telling him he's dead, and the drinking started, I think, as an attempt to win Master Samwise's goodwill. I think that Branor had some idea of getting him to recount his memories of the War, so that he'd have material to give Aldarion, so that he could rework the play to not offend Master Samwise."

"Offend Master Samwise? Why should he care?"

"Apparently Master Samwise and his family are planning to attend the play," explained Amdír. "He said that his daughter has spoken of it frequently."

"So Branor drank too much because he was afraid because a Hobbit servant and his family might watch a play where he doesn't really appear?" Brinn was still confused, and Amdír realised that she did not know that the King was being invited.

"Well, he might have drank too much because Therian was encouraging him," admitted Amdír, wondering a second later if he should have said it, "but we were all anxious. Master Samwise isn't just some Hobbit servant--he and his family are the guests of King Elessar."

The dawn of comprehension appeared in Brinn's eyes.

"I should also mention that Lord Cirdacil--he's the new Master of Revels--mentioned to me that he was inviting King Elessar to this play, since he is so prominently figured in the tale it recounts."

Amdír let the import of his news sink in rather than press on with a further list of his own concerns about Master Samwise dying in the First Act--if he appeared at all.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"So then he says, he says 'Of course she was a lady the whole time! That was the point, wasn' it?' and I says to him, 'In her heart, sure, but I mean in her armor. There wasn' any witchery or anything? Are you sure?' and he says he cannot be sure because he wasn' there hisself, what with being in Mordor at the time and all, but he was pretty downright sure that she was always a woman the whole time, even when she got hit with the mace and had her arm broke."

"I was there too," Branor groaned, his head wobbling a little. He looked down to double check that he was, in fact, sitting on the edge of a wagon. "I know what the halfling said. He said the King was a secret spy!"

"Really, Bran, he said no such thing."

"He did!"

Therian considered this. At first he had been inclined to keep his drunken associate from making a fool of himself to the Boss. But as Brinn glanced toward them, Therian thought better of it. Let Branor tell her that King Elessar was mucking around with allegiances during the War. Let him tell her he needed new lines written. You thought I was on your side, Dark Lord, but who is the lord now, huh? Who is the lord now!

Yes, let him tell her that...

[the phantom]

Aldarion watched the exchange intently. Branor was obviously drunk, so his account could not be trusted. Was the whole thing a joke or a misunderstanding? The primary point thus far seemed to be that Samwise was not a simple servant but an important Hobbit that now ruled the Shire- AND Samwise and the King himself would be attending the performance! If these things were true, some serious rewriting was in order, and perhaps some recasting.

Aldarion quietly moved forward towards the conversation, not wanting to miss a word.

[Pitchwife]

When Asta had left him standing there and run away to alert Brinn and Rollan, Coldan had tried to make the best of the situation and sequestered himself in his room in order to spend what time he could working on the play he had been writing (or pretending to write) for the last three years: The Fall of King Bladorthin, a historical tragedy in five acts chronicling the last days of the greatest king of Dorwinion. One day, when it was completed, he hoped he would be able to convince Brinn to perform it, and it would earn him the fame he deserved and put that over-prolific scribbler Aldarion in his place. The only problem with that was he had to finish it first, and circumstances seemed always to conspire against his making any substantial progress with the composition, so that after three years, he still hadn't written down more than a few pages of prologue and the beginning of Act I.

This Yavannië afternoon, circumstances conspired as busily as ever, for he had scarcely chewed the end of his quill for a quarter of an hour when he heard agitated voices in the courtyard. At first he tried to ignore them, refusing to let himself be disturbed, but suddenly it dawned on him that Branor and his companions must have returned and the rehearsal was about to begin any moment. Cursing, he dropped the quill, making an ugly blot on the much corrected manuscript, and hurried to join the others.

He was quite surprised to find that rather than getting ready to rehearse, the troupe was gathered around Branor, who was to all appearances solidly plastered and babbling incoherent stuff about the King being a secret spy. Bewildered, he nudged Harrenon, who was standing next to him, and whispered: "Could you please enlighten me vat ze Udûn is going on here?"

[Mnemosyne]

The King? The King had been invited? Granted, Brinn understood the importance of courtesy invitations, but Amdir seemed to think that this was something more...

What was more, she trusted his judgment--he'd been a good worker for them, had a good head on his shoulders, and knew Minas Anor the way the players never would.

"How likely do you think it is that he would accept?" she said.

"We should plan, at any rate--Master Samwise seemed very interested in attending, and he has the King's ear."

There were butterflies in Brinn's stomach. Nervously, she swallowed and tamped them down. "We won't do anything until we have confirmation--surely, if the King himself, or even his royal guest, is attending, someone will want to ensure they have the prime seats. In the meantime, we rehearse as usual. Thank you for telling me this news, Amdir--Cirdacil, you say, is the man in charge of this? You'll have to tell me more about him."

Fifteen minutes later, Brinn stood in the inn-yard. The stage waggon's front was down, with all the set markings chalked in. Fortunately, at this point very little was there, although Asta would want to run the mechanicals, of course.

She cleared her throat and looked on at their audience--three cats and one small child. More would come, no doubt, as the show progressed. "My lords and ladies--" Strange, that some might actually be there this year! "--and people of Minas Anor, come and see the deeds of days past, come to life before your very eyes! We, the King's Players, will take you on a journey to the dark days of the War of the Ring, sharing with you the mighty deeds done, when all of Middle-earth lay under shadow, and the bravery of those who broke it. Watch and see, and let your minds now be drawn to earlier times and far-off lands, to the peaceful land called Shire, whence came the mighty warrior, Frodo the Halfling, and his companions!"

She withdrew to the side, clapping to encourage the invisible audience, as Sereth--looking all too nervous for Brinn's tastes--Coldan, and Amdir, stepped on the stage.

Then she walked back to find Aldarion and discuss with him what might have to happen if they needed to rewrite the script.

[Dimturiel]

“Could you please enlighten me vat ze Udun is going on here?”

Harrenon turned when Coldan nudged him and smiled wryly in answer to the latter’s question. Indeed, they seemed to have gotten themselves into a very fine mess. They had not even started the rehearsals yet – although they were quite behind schedule at the moment – nor did it seemed likely for them to start too soon if Branor did not sober up fast. And Branor’s state was not the most worrying thing. There was also the problem of what they had found out at the tavern. Harrenon sighed and shook his head,

“Branor got a little…over-enthusiastic with the drink,” he told Coldan. “Although, you could say this time it was not entirely his fault,” he added, casting Therian a pointed look. “And, well, there was also the unexpected encounter in the tavern…”

Harrenon paused, noticing that Aldarion had approached the group and was now listening attentively. Harrenon inspected him carefully, trying to determine his mood. Would he be too angry when Harrenon told him that most likely they would have to change a few important parts in the play? He took a deep breath and began, looking anywhere but at his fellow players:

“See, we ran into a Hobbit, and Amdir introduced him as Master Samwise and said he was Frodo’s companion. Apparently he is not dead. Nor is he the bumbling fool we believed he was…”

Harrenon paused, wondering whether it was safe to address the problem of Mary the Elf too, but then he decided that he should not be the only bearer of bad news. He would give Therian the chance of doing that. He had been at the tavern too, after all. Instead, Harrenon turned back to Coldan:

“So you see,” he finished. “You could say we are having a few…well, a few misfortunes.”

[Thinlómien]

"Stop!" Sereth shouted. "With this ring I command the very breath in your lungs!" Her clear voice echoed in the small street behind the inn and a few mongrel-looking dogs started barking and running around, scaring off the pigeons on the roof.

Not nearly commanding enough, Sereth thought, even the dogs don't take me seriously, they just create more racket. Now the smaller dog was chasing the bigger one, and they managed to knock over a bucket full of water near the backdoor of the kitchen.

"Stop!" bellowed a voice from the open window. "Blackie and Nosey, stop right now!" The smaller dog let out a small wail, but both dogs stopped on the tracks. The innkeeper's son - a burly and unfriendly-looking man in his mid-twenties - came out and started telling the dogs off their behaviour. Sereth slipped to the shadows and quietly started making her way to the courtyard, smiling. Now she knew exactly what tone to use.

She heard the silver chiming of the bells. Should be there already! she thought and started making her way to the courtyard hurriedly.

It proved more difficult than she had thought, because she found two dead ends before finally getting to the main street which led to the inn. She had always been bad with directions, but she was sure that this time it was really because she didn't concentrate. Brinn won't like me being late, she thought. She really didn't want to give Brinn any more worries than she already had because of the big show coming up, but she just kept failing today.

She arrived just in time to see Amdír, Therian, Branor and Harrenon appear. She listened to their story with growing agitation. Surely it wasn't the Samwise and sure he wasn't coming see them and sure not the King too! How could she ever do her role so that it would please two of Frodo the Great Warrior's friends and companions on that dangerous journey?

Also, Branor was drunk, which was not good. He would mess up the rehearsal in that state, and she really didn't like the unfocused look in his eyes. It brought very old memories of Stepdad, and they were not pleasant. Therian was not much better, there was something in his attitude that Sereth didn't like. Not that she liked him too much in general, but he seemed especially mean tonight. Old Amdír at least was making sense and Harrenon - well, Sereth preferred not to pay too much attention to him because recently being too close to the young man with wild black hair and bright eyes had become slightly uncomfortable.

She stopped involuntarily stealing glances at Harrenon's direction when Brinn's words drilled into hear head "...in the meantime, we rehearse as usual. Thank you for telling me this news, Amdir--Cirdacil, you say, is the man in charge of this? You'll have to tell me more about him." Thank Eru! Sereth thought and hurried to busy herself with the costumes and stage design.

Fifteen minutes later, Brinn was welcoming the audience which was of course non-existent at this point. At their cue, Sereth stepped on the stage with Amdír and Coldan. She turned at Coldan's direction and was supposed to introduce their mission to the servant, but when she looked at him she couldn't help but say instead: "Coldan, you have ink on your face."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian watched the rehearsal progress. He would not be needed until the Players got as far as the Misty Mountains, when he would don a cloak, be an orc, and die. Until then, he would serve a different purpose.

Sereth shot him an ugly look and Therian was reminded yet again that he was unwelcome in the company. Pity, because the girl was quite lovely, and in a few short years when she was marriageable, he had thought she might make a good match. Feisty, she was. She had seen the world, and knew of its troubles, and was still charming. Of course she wanted to spend her life as a director or some such, but she would grow out of that once it was time to get married and have children. All headstrong women did, after all. But she was young, so there was plenty of time for her to realize the error of her ways.

"Brinn," Therian said, "we've run into a bit of a problem."

"Yes, I've heard. The King is coming, and Samwise is not an idiot, and everything is going wrong."

"Yes..." He hesitated, "but what I was thinking was actually that there may be two characters named Mary. You see, Master Samwise told us that there is a hobbit named Mary, and the description did not sound much at all like our Mary. So it seems as though Merry the hobbit came along as far as Bree, where Mary the Elf lass joined them, and then Mary the Elf never made it as far as the final battle, which is why there was confusion about there being more than one..."

Brinn buried her face in her hands.

"Or there might just be one Merry and he is a he, and he is also only a couple feet tall, and he may or may not own the parts of the Shire that Samwise and Prince Peregrin do not? It was all pretty confusing, especially with Branor talking all about how our dinner companion was not really alive..."

[the phantom]

As Aldarion stood beside the stage dressed as King Butterbur, he heard Therian inform Brinn that there was possibly a huge problem with the "Mary the Elf" character. Unable to contain himself any longer, Aldarion stepped onto the stage right into the middle of Amdir, Coldan, and Sereth, who had been acting out an early scene from the Shire.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Aldarion insisted, not looking at anyone in particular. The actors froze and looked at Aldarion, perhaps wondering what they had done wrong. The players not featured in the scene looked up at Aldarion as well. He took a deep breath and spoke. "Should we really be rehearsing? Because from what I gather, we have one character in this thing that shouldn't be, we kill a character that should live and have more lines, our primary character is all wrong, and the actor that plays him is drunk!!"

A couple players slowly opened their mouths only to close them again. After a few seconds of silence, Aldarion spoke once more. "If these reports are true, then we essentially have a brand new production on our hands, and the sooner we get things sorted out the better. Personally I would prefer to perform some other tale- "The Fall of Smaug" or "The Halfling & The Trolls", or of course "The Children of Hurin" which I feel is our best to trot out for royalty. But really, any tale would suffice, so long as it is one that does not feature prominent members of our audience!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian leaned on the wagon. "Yes, well, that is wonderful and all, but it will not work."

Aldarion glared at him. "Why?"

"Master Samwise mentioned his daughter, who is a handmaiden to Queen Arwen, is coming and is especially excited to see the parts about her dear old pa."

[the phantom]

Aldarion threw up his hands in frustration. "Just perfect! Well then, if that is the case.... it seems we are stuck up a tree without an eagle."

[Mnemosyne]

"We still don't know everything!" said Brinn. "Even if Samwise and his family and the King himself are coming, they're coming to be entertained, not to be given a dry recitation of what they already know. I'd rather not do anything until we receive official notice of their attendance. Then, and only then, we'll work together on fixing things. In the meantime, it will be well for us to run through everything as it stands now, so, at the very least, we can figure out what will need to be changed and what will remain. Everyone, and I mean everyone, if you're not on-stage and something contradicts what you were directly told by this Samwise, you'll make a note of it and we'll investigate it tomorrow. We've learned things quickly before; surely it can't be too difficult to change the script around where it needs to be. Please," she said, gesturing to the players on-stage, "continue."

[Nerwen]

"Besides," said Asta fiercely, "I am most definitely not going to play a halfling!" She had not realised until this moment just how much the rôle of the Elf-maid meant to her. While she played various walk-on parts– she was now, for example, draped in a sheet as a Ringwraith– her only other speaking rôle was the much-less glamourous Gollum the She-orc.

"Not that I believe any of you are sober enough to remember what this Samwise person said– if you ever met him in the first place– and I refuse– refuse, do you hear me– to have our play butchered on the word of a gang of fool actors who are clearly to drunk to stand up straight!" The glare with which she finished also took in Amdír, whom she held responsible for the entire mess, and Aldarion.

"And no, Aldarion, we can't put on anything else– there isn't time, and none of the trolls are in working order, and the bear costume got moth-eaten so we can't do the battle scene in "Smaug". And as for "Children of Húrin"– look, you must know it won't do. I mean, really!"

It was not that she did not appreciate the playwright's attentions, but the part he had written her as his love-interest in that dismal epic crossed the line from flattering to downright disturbing. He claimed it was all historical fact, but Asta had her doubts.

"Now," she drew a fold of cloth across her face, "if we could manage to get on with the rehearsal? Sereth, I think it's your line."

[Pitchwife]

Hastily, Coldan put on Sam the servant's costume and a pair of furry socks that were supposed to look like hobbit feet while striving to digest what Harrenon had told him about their encounter with the mysterious Lord Samwise, who had quite inconveniently turned out to be not only Frodo the Ringbearer's esquire himself, but moreover neither dead nor the halfwit they had been going to present him as. Just like Aldarion to make a mess of his history! Who knew what else might be wrong with the script?

Nevertheless, it was high time for them to start rehearsing at last, so he stepped onto the stage together with Sereth and Amdír, and they began with the first scene, in which Frodo told his fellow-halflings Sam and Peregrin about the Ring and their quest to destroy the Dark Lord. Coldan had little to do in this scene except to nod in the right places, utter a few stupid interjections and cheer Captain Frodo, Lord of the Ring in the end, so he allowed his attention to stray just enough to overhear Therian saying to Brinn:

"Or there might just be one Merry and he is a he, and he is also only a couple feet tall, and he may or may not own the parts of the Shire that Samwise and Prince Peregrin do not? It was all pretty confusing, especially with Branor talking all about how our dinner companion was not really alive..."

What was that? Could it really be that Mary the heroic elf-maiden was in fact another halfling, and a male to boot? Thoughts started racing like mad in his brain, one precipitating the other like the gears of a clockwork, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out: "Zen - zen she - I mean he - vasn't in love viz Boromir at all?"

Luckily - for one look at Asta's irate face told him she was less than amused by this turn of things - his words were drowned in the following heated discussion between Aldarion and Brinn, the playwright advocating some thorough revision of the play while Brinn adamantly insisted on going on with the rehearsal.

"Besides," Asta protested, "I am most definitely not going to play a halfling!"

Of course, he thought, wincing with dismay. How silly to assume for a moment that she would take the threat to see her one showpiece role abolished, or changed into another furry-footed midget, lying down. He hid his blush behind a corner of his cloak, pretending to rub at the smudge of ink on his nose, and muttered to himself: "A nice pickle ve hev landed ourselves in!"

[Boromir88]

Branor slumped on the wagon, next to Therian, trying to remember when his cue to go on was, but all he could hear was Asta yelling.

"Whats she makin all that loud noise for? Ack! It hurts us!"

"I believe it has to do with you coming back stumbling drunk and demanding Brinn re-do your entire Elessar part."

"You seem to be enjoying yourself a bit much." said Branor. "You know, I call you Tragic Theri, because usually you are terribly depressing to be around. But Brinn, whysshee got her britches in a bunch for? She has a pretty name, it suits her pretty looks well, but I dun like her in this mood."

"Come on, Bran. Even you got to admit, So Brinn, Elessar is all wrong, who's your lord now! was not very tactful."

"But, b-but, you were there!? You heard Master Sammy, Elessar was the greatest spy-king...ever. Kings do not have that many names, and do not reek THAT badly. There is only one reason for him to be so dirty, he had to be undercover! This play can not go on when the history of its star is all wrong. Yes, wrong, wrong, wrong."

Branor lifted himself up and was going to march over to Brinn, but his head became light. He turned facing the wagon, "I better just...stay here and lie down -" he swooned a bit and then splatted face first on the wagon.

"Agggh, owwww." wailed Branor. "You wanna know something, Therian? You would serve much better as a king than that dreadful part you have now. How can you stand it? You are not going to get Aragorn, while I am here...duh, and you do not look at all kingly" (was this supposed to be Branor's idea of motivation?) "your face is far too young, but it is much easier to get older than it is younger, on stage. It's not like finding you a faux beard and giving you some silver highlights would be a troubling task. I can see it, you have the right attitude and passion to play a king, and that, my boy, is all that matters. What is make-up and costumes not for, if to make us look the very part we know we can act?"

Therian was perhaps about to make a reply, but Branor had passed out, face down on the wagon and legs hanging off the edge.

[Mnemosyne]

Therian came over to Brinn and touched her shoulder.

"Now what is it?"

"Er... uh, Branor's passed out backstage."

Brinn bit back a curse and pinched the bridge of her nose again. "All right. We don't rehearse any of the scenes that Elessar--oh, wait, he's in most every scene, isn't he?"

"I could understudy for him, for now."

"No, we need you--" to fill in random parts and then humiliate yourself playing a woman you disdain offstage--marvelous job, really "--well, the rehearsal's in shambles anyhow; we'll just do the scenes we can run safely without him--the Pelennor and the witch-dragon doesn't have him in it, does it?"

She looked back at the stage. Aldarion was currently attempting to inject nuance into King Butterbur. Everyone was looking expectantly at the place where Elessar was supposed to show up, and she realized it was Branor's cue.

"Branor's passed out backstage," she said, "so we'll just move along to the mines."

"Don't we need everyone who's fighting for that?" said Harrenon

"And the mechanics," said Asta. "I can't just do them on the spot, you know."

"What about the Sorceress?"

"Mechanics."

"All right, then! Saruman--and I know that that doesn't require anything fancy. Then, Asta, let's get together the things to run the Sorceress and her evil trees."

She heaved a big sigh, and Rollan, at least, was willing to take the upheaval in good stride, eliciting a chuckle or three from the few locals who had gathered in his portrayal of Saruman. Backstage, she ran over her lines quickly while Asta was getting the things in place for the trees.

Determined to make this rehearsal as right as possible, Brinn strode back onstage on her cue, right on top of one of the tree roots. Her foot caught, and with a wrench of pain, Brinn sprawled upon the floor.

[Nerwen]

Asta did not actually drop the tree she had been fitting into place, but she set it down very hastily indeed before dashing to her sister's side. Brinn was clutching her ankle and wincing. The tree next to her swayed violently back-and-forth; even as Asta got there it slipped from its controlling rods and fell across Brinn with a rustling crash. Asta pulled it off her, almost wailing when she saw the damage. The tree-prop was a hollow affair, too lightweight to hurt Brinn any more than she was already, but it had itself been crushed right out of shape, the wires and struts of its framework bent, snapped or protruding through rents in the fabric skin.

"I think– I think it's broken!" said Brinn.

"Broken? It's ruined!" said Asta. "At least, I don't think I can fix it in time for–"

"No, silly, I mean my ankle," gasped Brinn, white-faced with pain.

By this time the others had gathered around. Rollan prised his wife's fingers from her ankle, which indeed was swelling and discolouring rapidly. He said he did not think it was broken, though he was not sure, but that it looked pretty bad.

"Brinn, you are a clumsy goat sometimes," said Asta, more in sympathy than insult. "Objects just seem to jump out and– and bite you! Oh dear, oh dear, what are we going to do now?"

Brinn echoed her distress, concerned not for herself but for the fate of the performance, for she doubted her foot would be better in time.

"Oh, don't worry, we'll find some way..." Asta looked around her as if for inspiration, but saw only the gaping mouths of the Evil Trees, leering in mockery. "I've always heard there's very good healers in the White City. Or perhaps we could have the Sorceress sit down– she could be on a throne, you know... or maybe," she added with just a touch of malice, "Therian, you could take over the rôle?"

[the phantom]

Just what we need.... an injury!

Aldarion looked on in concern. The ankle did not look good, but worse than that was Aldarion's imaginings of what Brinn would do. He feared she would tell everyone off and try and tough things out and end up hurting herself worse. The show must go on, after all, and Brinn could be quite stubborn.

In an attempt to appease her sense of dedication, Aldarion offered, "Rollan or someone can take you to the healers immediately, or go and fetch them if you do not feel inclined to move, and the rest of us can continue rehearsals. You are important to our rehearsals, but it is far more important that you are functional come performance time."

[Pitchwife]

This production was clearly jinxed, Coldan thought while he anxiously watched Rollan examining Brinn's ankle. First the plot of their script had started falling to pieces, then their lead actor had passed out in a drunken stupor, and now the backbone of the troupe, the one person who could be counted on to keep their crumbling act together, had managed to incapacitate herself. Could it come any worse?

Fortunately, most of Brinn's roles in the play were walk-on parts which could be taken by any of the other Players, except for the Sorceress of the Golden Wood; that, however, posed a major problem because of the crucial seduction scene, in which all of Frodo's companions were supposed to be on stage with her at the same time, leaving none of them able to stand in for her.

"Perhaps we could have the Sorceress sit down", Asta suggested, "she could be on a throne, you know... or maybe, Therian, you could take over the rôle?"

Therian didn't seem too enthusiastic about that proposal, but to Coldan, it was a stroke of genius. Yes, of course! Make him the Sorceress and let Asta play Éowyn the Shieldmaiden instead! Therian's sullen mien would do nicely for a six thousand year old hag, and this way Asta could get to play a heroine after all; killing the Witch-King herself should recompense her amply for not dying a tragical death.

This time, however, he managed to keep his thoughts to himself for the time being. There would be opportunity enough to bring them up the next day, or the day after that, when they had found out what else in the script needed to be changed. For now, Brinn's injury had to be dealt with. Aldarion was doing his best to convince her to be sensible and let herself be looked after, and for once, Coldan found himself agreeing with the playwright's common sense.

"I zink you should stay here and lie down, Brinn", he said. "You shouldn't valk on zat foot. Ve'd hev to take you to ze Houses of Healing in a vagon, and zat's uncomfortable on zese cobbled streets. Better for one of us to run and fetch a healer. I can go, Rollan, if you'd rather stay viz her. Amdír can give me directions, and I trust ze rest of you should be able to remember your lines vizout me by now."

[Thinlómien]

Oh no! Sereth thought. Poor Brinn! She walked over and sat next to the woman who had become both a big sister and a mother to her. "Are you sure it's broken?" she asked, wincing sympathetically.

"And anyway...." she added, hesitating a little, not quite sure how to say what she thought, maybe it was stupid or something... "Or, I mean, maybe it's just sprained. Or even if it's broken - I don't mean that it wouldn't hurt - but, Brinn couldn't the Sorceress walk with a crutch? She's supposed to be very old anyhow."

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn sighed and gingerly poked at the injured ankle, already swelling. Sprained or broken, it hurt.

"I can't put any weight on it," she said. "I'll either have to be carried to the Healers, or one of them brought here. We can decide what to do with the Sorceress after we know how things will look at the end of the week. In the meantime," and she nodded at Aldarion for his suggestion, "we can, at the very least, run the final scenes of single combat, and a few others as well."

Rollan helped her to stand up, then gently lifted her down from the stage as they decided what to do next.

[the phantom]

Aldarion nearly agreed to Coldan's offer to fetch a healer, but upon second thought Amdir seemed the better choice, as a local would surely be the swiftest, and might also know which healers to try and secure. But of course his character, Pippin the Hobbit Prince, played a major role in the various skirmishes the troop needed to walk through, and also had several lines in the confrontations in Rohan and Minas Tirith, where as Coldan's Gimli was not quite so important.

Not entirely decided, Aldarion spoke up and gave a summary of what could be done without Amdir. "Well, the orc attack on the Anduin would be problematic, but we can have the boat conversation between Mary and Boromir as well as Frodo and Aragorn's conversation on the bank- I can read Branor's part. We are split during the Rauros battle anyway- Boromir and Mary will miss Pippin in their battle scene, but we can at least say our lines- perhaps Sereth can read for Pippin from Rauros on, as the two never appear together after that."

"Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli can have their battle as well- I should be able to stand in for Branor for both lines and the fighting." Aldarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Branor's fighting after all is little except puffing up his chest, shouting, and taking a big swing. How I wish he would let me actually give him a choreographed sequence! "For the orcs that would've been Brinn we'll just have to pretend. Asta can do Mary's escape from the orcs with Sereth in as Pippin, and they can do the forest scenes as well. The fighting in Rohan should be pretty well fine, other than we'll be missing opponents every so often."

"The confrontation with Saruman we may wish to skip, as everyone has something to do besides Sereth, and we have two holes to fill- Branor and Amdir. Since the main cast is often apart during the battle of Minas Tirith most of those scenes should be fine, and the Mordor scenes will be pretty well unaffected."

"So," finished Aldarion, "Do we send Amdir?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan shrugged. "I hev younger legs, but if you zink I'll get lost, send Amdír. It's up to you."
The indifference was faked, of course. He would have given a lot for a chance to save the day by bringing a healer to Brinn in no time, thereby earning a grateful or (maybe, just maybe) even admiring glance from her sister, but of course Aldarion had to ruin that. (A small voice in the back of his head whispered to him that it made perfect sense to send a man on this errand who knew his way around the city, and that Aldarion was doing rather well at organizing things in this disastrous situation, but that didn't help.)

[Dimturiel]

“Just when I thought nothing else could go wrong,” Harrenon muttered when Brinn broke her ankle. He could not understand why nothing went right for them that day. It was not usually like this. Yes, they had their misfortunes, but they usually did not tumble down on them all at once.

Aldarion suggested sending Amdir for a healer. which was a sane choice, as far as Harrenon was concerned and he quickly stated his agreement with the plan. He would have liked to accompany him, but it seemed that Aldarion wanted for them to continue the rehearsals and it also seemed that he could not be spared.

Harrenon looked worriedly at Coldan when the latter suggested that he should go instead. He slowly shook his head. He hoped that the others would not agree with this, or at least that they would send him with Amdir. He was, after all, the one that knew the city best, wasn’t he? What if Coldan got lost?

Harrenon ran a weary head over his face. It seemed as if days had passed since they had first arrived in Minas Tirith, not mere hours. He looked around.

“Shouldn’t we wake Branor?” he asked. “It is not fair that he should sleep through all this mess.”

[Boromir88]

There was crashing, banging, painful wailing, and commotion. Branor rolled over as the amount of noise was even enough to stir him awake. He was concentrating on the heavy pounding in his head until he felt a sharp pain in his shin. Branor grunted. Then another kick, almost in the same exact spot as the previous one, and Branor grunted again.

It was Therian. "Get up, Bran" with yet another kick.

"I am up, I'm up." grumbled Branor.

"No. You are still lying down and I can not lift you, now UP." another kick.

"You kick me again you better be well out of arms reach by the time I get up."

"So, you say you are still not up?" Branor knew then he made a mistake and talked himself into another kick from Therian. It wouldn't have been so bad had Therian not managed to hit nearly the exact same spot with every kick.

But Branor was finally awake and off the wagon. And Therian promised no more abuse unless upon Branor's request to get his senses back. Therian updated him that the commotion he heard was from Brinn injuring her ankle. They were debating on whether someone should take her to the healers or to bring a healer to her.

The brief rest had sobered Branor up for the most part, and thanks to Therian he had forgotten about the splitting headache for the time being. He saw a crowd huddled around Brinn and some seemed to be shock to find Branor was actually awake and no longer babbling nonsense about spies and filthy kings. "Now Brinn, if you needed me for rehearsals, you could have just splashed water on me, you did not have to go getting yourself injured!"

"You don't need a healer for that Brinn. Why, you remember the time when my knee popped out of place? And why I said, you would have to saw off my leg before I left the play?" For some reason, Brinn did not remember it happening as Branor described. "But then Rollan just set everything back in place, grabbed two poles, some bandages and made a nifty splint for me? A healer aint gonna be able to do much more for ya, whether it's broken or sprained. I am sure Amdir's got some spare pieces of wood from the set, and Rollan can do the same thing for you in no time, or perhaps use one of the staves for a crutch. No sense in wasting time going to the healers."

Branor looked to Rollan, or Aldarion to find out if they agreed. A healer would not be able to immediately fix up Brinn's ankle. Better to just get it wrapped up in a home-made splint and continue with rehearsals.

[Mnemosyne]

"Bones can set wrong," Brinn retorted, in no mood for Branor's posturing. "Amdir, please run and get a healer; there are plenty of scenes that you can run without me, or him, in the meanwhile."

[Formendacil]

Amdír practically sprang into action once Brinn gave her assent to Aldarion's plan. In large groups like the Players he was not prone to lead when problems arose, but would follow orders once given regardless of the difficulty. It was the legacy of his time as a soldier, of twenty years service to great lords, but more than anything else, it was the result of having two older sisters and an older brother. The brother had died in the War, and one of the sisters had died from a winter ailment two years back, having passed her sixty-fifth year. His last sister still lived in Lamedon with her husband and children.

Funny that he should be thinking of his siblings, Amdír thought as he struck out down the streets. The last time he'd met one of them had been his now-deceased sister, who had also moved to Minas Anor in the years following the War. Her eldest daughter had since taken over the family household, and Amdír was invited over to dinner once a fortnight. He and his brother-in-law were both widowers now, and easier in each other's company than they had been in most years past.

It was Brinn's request for a healer that had Amdír thinking of his family, for they had not summoned one for his sister until it was too late to help her. Since then, he had not had cause to think of healers.

It was too far up the city to fetch help from the great Houses of Healing in the sixth circle. That was probably where Coldan would have gone, or been directed had he asked for directions, but Amdír knew that one of the healers from that house lived not far away, still in the first circle, with her great-aunt Ioreth, who had once been a healer there. She had been one of those who cared for him in the House during the War. She must have been quite ancient now--as old as they said King Elessar war, but of course the King was a very different case with his Elven blood and northern lineage--like a great Númenórean of old--though, it was said, he was also a great healer. Perhaps healers were simply better at taking care of themselves?

In any case, it was no more than a ten minute trot for Amdír to reach the healer's house. Mistress Inbeth came to the door shortly after he began pounding on it, moving with a quickness that surprised one, when you considered her years. She was nearly sixty, the grand-daughter of Ioreth's eldest sister (and theirs had been a large family), a large, grandmotherly woman whose steely-grey hair did not betray her age so well as the laughlines that crinkled her face.

"Amdír the carpenter, of Master Hallas' household, isn't it?" she asked. "What can I do for you?"

"There's a young lass with a broken ankle who could use your assistance, Mistress Inbeth," said Amdír. "She's one of the King's Players, just arrived in the city."

[Pitchwife]

"So", Coldan said brusquely, when Amdír had left, "are ve going to go on viz ze rehearsal, or what?" He wanted at least something positive to happen at the end of this day, after all the bad luck that seemed to dog them since they had entered the city.

"I guess I can stand in for Amdír, if need be", he added, trying to sound not quite as grumpy as before. "He forgets his cues so often, I probably know most of Peregrin's lines by heart by now." In fact, Amdír's memory wasn't nearly that bad, but Coldan's responsibility for prompting had indeed acquainted him so well with the other Players' parts that most of the time he hardly needed to consult the script anymore.

[the phantom]

Aldarion turned to address Coldan. "Frodo shares fewer scenes with Pippin so I thought Sereth would be the obvious replacement choice, but now that you're volunteering..."

Aldarion looked directly at Brinn (as did nearly everyone else), hoping for her to make a swift decision, but she was momentarily occupied, speaking with Rollan about her ankle. A few feet to her right stood Sereth, still looking generally at Aldarion after his last comment. Aldarion widened his eyes briefly to gain her attention, and then gave a small gesture towards her followed by the smallest of shrugs and a questioning glance, asking her wordlessly, "Do you want the role?"

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan moved Brinn farther away from the stage, where the Players were--slowly--beginning to pick up the shattered remains of the rehearsal. It would not do to distract them even further once Amdir returned with the healer.

"So," said Rollan, "what are we to do if you can't heal in time? Even now, with all of this hacking and hewing of the script we're like to do..."

Brinn buried her face in her hands. "Cancel the show?"

Rollan grinned. "Think we can't run this thing without you even for a week, eh? I'd love to prove you wrong and take you down a notch or three."

"You're right, we need the money too much anyhow. I should trust you more--all of you--but then I look at that lot over there, and--"

"Don't be hard on yourself, or on them. The main thing is, we all love the theater, and we all love making people happy."

"But we won't be able to make anyone happy at this rate!"

"Well, if nothing else, I can always leer and make bawdy jokes."

"Not with the King present!"

"What, he's married, isn't he? And given how gorgeous the Queen looks, even on a coin, he'd be mad not to--"

Brinn was spared her husband's further ministrations by the arrival of Amdir and the healer. Rollan waved to catch their attention.

"Are you the lass with the broken ankle?" said the healer.

"Lass, hardly. Broken ankle? I hope not, but probably. The name is Celebrindal."

"I am called Inbeth. Will you show me the injury?"

After a few minutes of fussing and poking, Inbeth informed Brinn that her ankle was not broken, but it was badly sprained, and she would have to put no weight on it for at least a week. Brinn took the news with a sort of grim resignation. "Could I at least have crutches?"

"There may be a few pair in the Houses, but they would not be to your height, and we try to reserve them for those who need them more--broken legs and amputees. Were you thinking of going far in them?"

Brinn opened her mouth to reply, but Rollan interrupted. "No, she wasn't," and he gave her a very fixed look.

"That is well. I can look, but I cannot guarantee anything."

"Would Inbeth need to trouble herself with that?" said Amdir mildly.

Brinn thought a moment. Oh, right--he was a carpenter.

"No, of course not," said Rollan, and he clapped Amdir on the back a little too heartily. "We do have a carpenter, after all. Thanks for your time, my lady." He reached into a purse to pay her.

"And you needn't trouble yourself on getting the crutches done tonight," said Brinn. "There'll be plenty of work to do sitting, at least for a few days; I'd hate for Aldarion to get so much control of the script that he makes it all dry and tasteless. We'll have to send people out to learn more of the true course of events--or at least, what people here are likely to believe. But I don't trust everyone to report things accurately. Perhaps we should have them ask about in pairs?"

[Anguirel]

This state affair was proving quite as tiresome, Lord Cirdacil thought, as he had ever prognosticated.

For diligent, serious-minded public servants like him, all this standing up for no particular reason was the absolute limit. The only figures seated at the evening levee, upon a verandah facing north and west, were the Queen of Gondor, her ladies, and a couple of very odd looking individuals indeed. It was, Cirdacil mused gloomily, probably only fair that this Consul Samwise and his rubicund wife should be honoured and permitted to sit beside their golden-headed daughter in the Queen's suite. And even he had to admit that the pherrian Lady Elanor was as amiable as she was, in her minute way, exquisite; she had once done him the kindness to have a delicious buttery crumpet brought to him as he toiled late at the Exchequer.

Still, it galled him slightly that her oafish looking progenitors could lounge at their ease on either side of Queen Arwen. They spoilt the presentation of the thing, whoever they were and whatever they did, and they seemed to have a slipshod view of protocol, especially that interminable wife - Lady Rosa, was she? - , who was telling one of her long anecdotes about Master Samwize's rural accomplishments, again. The Queen listened with more than simple politeness, with a real appearance of fascination. It was hard to have anything against her, though her way of looking at Cirdacil with a fraction of a smile always unnerved him. Best not to pay any attention to those stories one heard, about her practising sorcery and riding to battle and what-have-you. Still.

Most of all, he wanted to sit down; his age was knotting in his legs like a family of Haradrim serpents. At that very moment, a long shadow crossed his vision and a firm, almost unsteadying hand impacted on his shoulder. He realised he was suddenly in conversation with his sovereign but was not left time adequately to bow.

"Come, my good lord of Burlach, and sit beside me opposite our beloved friends. I would have some speech with you, and I believe they too desire your acquaintance."

The shocked gratitude Cirdacil felt at the King's observant act rushed through him as he sat down, but soon dissipated in the air, into the rising fume of those dratted northern smoking-pipes the King had insisted on introducing at court. Their smell made Cirdacil feel older and tetchier. The more fashionable young knights had all adopted them; the King, the pherian Consul, and, rather shockingly to Cirdacil, the Lady Rosa were all indulging with enthusiasm. At least the Queen and the Lady Elanor appeared to share his aversion.

"Sam, this is Cirdacil," the King opened cheerfully, and Cirdacil grimaced a little involuntarily at the lapsed formalities. Sometimes the King could go too far in his insistence on "not standing upon ceremony". The Lord Denethor never would have...

"He's my latest Master of the Revels, Sam, in charge of arranging this play that you and Rosie are so curious about..."

Master Samwise turned his jowly face towards Cirdacil, who was busy failing to smile. The Halfling's formal clothes looked improvised, almost as if he had just flung them on after a quick round in some low tavern, or something.

"Oh," the honoured guest asked cheerfully, "do you act as well?"

The King laughed with a laugh like song, Cirdacil choked, and Queen Arwen and Elanor - clearly the forces for decency here - had at least the grace to blush. The Mayor's wife looked a bit puzzled, sensing her fellow had dropped a clanger somehow, but Sam continued unabashed.

"As it happens, you see, Master Cirdacil," (the lord of the sloping fief of Burlach winced), "as it happens, on the day after the Lord of the Ring was no kind of Lord, afore the coronation, or perhaps after, for if you take my meaning my thoughts were a little muddled like at the time, what with Mister Frodo barely out of bed and all, I took myself a rest with Legolas, the Elf that is of course..."

You mean the lord Legolas, procurator of Ithilien and prince of Eryn Lasgalen, Cirdacil thought irritably. The pherrianathic flow continued.

"...and we settled in a house what went by the Rohirric Unicorn, nice enough place, so I thought I'd do it the courtesy of a return visit on this occasion, wouldn't seem right not to, if you take my meaning..."

He'd taken it twice, now. Did these creatures ever finish their sentences?

"...and I came across some of the King's own Players, as chance would have it! Brandor and Therian, they were called, and another fella who was a sort o' quiet type. Friends of yours?"

"I think one of them," Cirdacil answered as chillily as he could, "may have been a carpenter, some time in my employ."

The vagabond actors, boozing mid-Circle with the guests from Eriador! Somehow, the troupe would pay for this embarrassment, Cirdacil silently swore...

[Nerwen]

The rehearsal was not going well. Branor was now relatively sober, but he still insisted on playing King Elessar in the light of what he now claimed to know about him; that is, as a sinister, disreputable figure given to cryptic mutterings and to slinking around in the background of scenes, including those in which his character was not actually supposed to be present. This last became too much to ignore in the climatic love scene between Mary the Elf and Boromir.

"Boromir, on either road I shall go with you and our doom shall be– no!" Asta cried, pulling out of Aldarion's embrace. "No, I can't do this! Not with him staring at us the whole time. –Branor," she appealed to the actor, who was currently peering from behind one of the artificial trees, "can't you see you're spoiling the atmosphere? This is supposed to be a tender romantic moment!"

Branor airily told them to carry on, as Strider the Spy was just gathering intelligence as usual.

"Oh, how I wish we had sawed your leg off when we had the chance!" said Asta.

Coldan gave her an astonished look which surprised her in turn. She had thought it no secret that she found Branor annoying; at least, no secret to anyone except Branor himself, for whom the idea that any girl could not be in love with him was quite beyond his mental horizon.

Asta marched over to where her injured sister sat, talking to Rollan.

"We'll have to send people out to learn more of the true course of events--or at least, what people here are likely to believe," Brinn was saying. "But I don't trust everyone to report things accurately. Perhaps we should have them ask about in pairs?"

"Whatever we do, we'd better do it sooner rather than later," said Asta. "At least we need to clear up this nonsense Branor has somehow got into his head about the King Elessar! Imagine if the King really does attend? Why, we'll find ourselves clapped in irons and thrown in a dungeon. Or," she added, her imagination running wild under the influence of the historical epics Aldarion was always trying to foist on the troupe, "or maybe– maybe they'll cast us off that rock up in the Citadel!" She had no idea what the penalty was for slandering Gondor's ruler so badly, but it had to be something fairly spectacular.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon felt worried. He did not possess Asta’s sometimes worrying imagination, so he really was not afraid of being clapped in irons or thrown from the Citadel. But he was still uneasy, thinking that if they really were getting some of the play – or, with their luck, most of it – wrong there were bound to be consequences. If they somehow offended the King – or even his guests from the Shire – things would most likely not go well for them.

“I am more afraid that they would never allow us to perform in Gondor ever again,” Harrenon said in answer to Asta’s panicked words. “Or never allow us to set foot here again, for any reasons.”

Not that it was any better. Harrenon was from Gondor after all. He might have been on the road with the Players most of the time, but if somehow after many years he decided to retire, he wanted the chance to go back to his home in Lossanarch. If they could manage to get information about the real events, perhaps they would be able to avoid any trouble. Harrenon walked towards Coldan:

“So, what do you say?” he asked him. “How about you trying your luck with me in the city?”

[the phantom]

Aldarion nodded his head in private agreement with the way things were turning. If we are going to attempt to climb this cliff, we should indeed invest considerable time and effort into gathering more information. And certainly there are a few members that should not be allowed out alone, as they are likely to edit any information they collect to fit their own devices.

While everyone was busy speaking to one another, Aldarion stepped up beside Asta and spoke in a low voice while looking straight ahead at the seated Brinn and Rolan. "You're quite right about Branor's antics ruining that last scene, but perhaps we should not be too eager to disprove his new information. At least this version of Aragorn doesn't strut about the stage speaking unnecessarily slowly and posing during battles. Just before, in that encounter with the orcs on the Anduin, this new backstabbing Aragorn actually looked like he was trying to be lethal. No doubt there are flaws in Branor's information, but I like this version as a starting point compared to the old character."

Still looking straight ahead, Aldarion continued in a whisper as the other conversations seemed to lull simultaneously. "If need be Brinn can put her foot down on his wandering about during inappropriate scenes. And as far as getting clapped in irons- I imagine you can escape unscathed by simply blaming the whole thing on the playwright."

[Mnemosyne]

"Sooner rather than later, I agree," said Brinn. "But let's sleep on all this first before our imaginations get away from us." The sun was getting lower, but still hadn't set yet. The rehearsal was sputtering to a halt.

"But first thing tomorrow, let's set out in pairs to discover the truth of the matter. Not me, unfortunately, but someone should stay to guard the carts anyhow.

"Therian and Branor, see what you can learn about the pheriannath--all of them. Harrenon and Coldan, why don't you do the same thing about the men of Gondor--also, all of them." She hoped that was sufficient code language for "the King" without getting Branor's ire up--she'd have to speak to one of them later to make sure they knew. "Asta, look after Sereth for me, and both of you, see what else you can learn of the marvels and the villains--we may have to ditch the Sorceress, but I'd rather not ditch her woods after all the work you've put into them. Rollan, love, why don't you go with Aldarion, and learn whatever you can of--" she paused in thought "--any of the characters I haven't already mentioned?"

"Amdir, I don't think we can spare you, since those sets take time, plus I really should keep off my feet as much as possible. But anyone who needs advice for the City should talk to him."

"That doesn't seem entirely fair!" said Rollan. "Why don't I get to stay behind and cosset you?"

"You don't know the sets, Rollan," said Brinn, a little more harshly than she meant it. "And I can take care of myself perfectly well, as long as someone brings me my meals--which you can do for breakfast and the daymeal. At any rate, you have all day today to pamper me, and plenty of time once this whole thing has blown over. Till then..." she grimaced and squeezed his hand. "We'll all have to work hard if we want to pull this off.

"And remember, if you find something that we've done right, well, that's one less thing we have to change."

So saying, Brinn--warily--stood up, her husband supporting her. Taking a few deep breaths, she told herself that they could--and would--make this work.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian elbowed Branor.

"What?!" said Branor.

"Shh," said Therian. "Over here."

As Brinn continued discussing assignments, the two slipped away to the back side of one of their wagons.

"We're supposed to find out about the halflings, right?" said Therian.

"Yes."

"And people are extra chatty when they aren't sober, right?"

Branor looked mildly concerned, as though perhaps this was an accusation.

Therian continued. "And people usually haven't been drinking first thing in the morning when Brinn wants us to go talk to them, right?"

Branor's eyes lit with understanding.

"So I think," Therian finished, "That instead of waiting for morning to go find out about hobbits, we should go find a nice bar full of talkative folk."

"Now?" asked Branor.

"Yes. Now. Let the rest wait until morning."

[Boromir88]

Branor caught on to Therian's plan and he was feeling irked about Brinn not letting him investigate the King. Elessar was his character, his responsibility, he would have to try to talk to Coldan and Harrenon to make sure they knew what to investigate.

"I must ask, what would the great Detective Elessar do in this situation?"

Therian knew exactly what to say to get Branor to agree. "He surely would not rest until he had completed a full and proper investigation. And the best stories come from adventurers in the taverns, when they are nice and...talkative."

"How right you are!" Branor was begining to think Therian was not as hopeless as he always thought since Therian joined the troupe. "I'm in!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As the others settled down for the night, Therian and Branor made their preparations. Therian's preparations were as simple as digging some coin from his pack. When he met Branor by the furthest wagon, he found his companion clad head to toe in black, crouching halfway under the wagon, peering out between the spokes of the wheel.

"You look like an idiot," Therian whispered without ceremony. "Let's get out of here."

[Boromir88]

Branor pretended not to hear Therians slight, and continued babbling about what spy gear he had forgotten and needed to go back to get:

"A pipe! Yes, yes, I need a pipe. And Master Samwise talked about how Elessar was unclean when he was undercover. I need mud!" It looked like Therian was contemplating knocking Branor into the mud, purely out of annoyance. "No! Wait! Hold the mud. That was Elessar's cover. A true spy needs his own cover! The cover always starts with an alias -"

"Yeah, great Bran. How about you tell on the way back to the Rohirric Unicorn." They could not be held up by Branor's distracted mind any longer.

"Back to the Unicorn! Great plan! They are already familiar with Branor from earlier today, but would not know Cottontree, Rick Cottontree. So, here is what we should do. I have a seat in the corn -"

"You know, I just figured we would start by talking to people, and making friendly conversation buying them some drinks if necessary."

Branor started to object. "But that would not - "

"Listen, Bran..."

"Rick" Bran corrected.

"Bran, didn't you just say that a spy had to find his own method? Sneaking around in the corner is not your thing, and you know it. You worked Lord Samwise for information magnificiently today, and you did it by getting him comfortable and chatty. That is your method, easy but effective."

"I did play that dumb hobbit like a fiddle today, didn't I?" Branor chuckled. "Very well, we do it this way, Rick Cottontree's way."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The Unicorn was bustling when they entered. The bar was lined with men on stools. The corner tables were taken.

"Mead, if you've got it!" called Therian over the noise. A pretty barmaid served it in pints. "Haven't you got any half pints? Hobbit sized ones?"

She smiled the kind of smile that assured him they'd be well tended all night, and said, looking him up and down, "Are you, perchance... hobbit sized?"

"I'm proportional," he said, and began to say something else when Branor interrupted.

Branor stuck out his hand. "I'm Rick. Rick Cottontree. We're here to find out about hobbits."

[Boromir88]

"You want to find out about hobbits?" the bar-maid was confused. It was a very general question.

"Yes. Three hobbits specifically. My friend Therian, and I, are not from around here but have always loved the story the Quest of the Ring. I have been told the people of Minas Anor are very familiar with the three hobbits, and the mightiest hobbit of them all, Frodo Baggins."

"Oh yes, indeed, that is a very familiar tale to us, although I'm curious why you only want to know only about three of them? There were four and all were great, in their own manner."

Branor was able to recover much better now, then he had in the morning. "It was by blind fortune we ran into the Lord Samwise earlier today. He told us a lot, but not about the other hobbits on the quest with him, and as you can tell from my friend requesting a hobbit-sized pint he loves those little, curly-haired men."

"Is that so?" The bar-maid giggled under her breath and Therian elbowed Branor in the side. "So, you said you met Master Samwise. I take it then you want to hear about Masters Frodo and Meriadoc, and the Lord Peregrin?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian gulped his mead and watched as Branor did the same.

"Will you fellows be needing more mead, then?"

Therian responded before Branor could. "I'd like the stoutest ale you have, but Rick, here... he would be happiest with a fruity drink. Something sweet, and smooth. Have you anything a man of delicate tastes would enjoy?"

"We've a plum brandy, I believe. It's my favorite."

Therian choked on the last of his mead. This was not going properly. "I suppose what we'd like to know, but only if it does not interrupt your work... and now that I think of it, what is a lovely young thing such as yourself doing working amongst drinking men this late at night?"

The girl raised an eyebrow as she filled their mugs. "Do you mean to suggest a lass should not earn her own wages? I am told that Master Samwise's wife, the lovely Lady Rosie, was a barmaid. Do you mean to insult the friends of the King?"

A large man lumbered over. "Is some'n insultin' the King?" he bellowed.

The girl sighed and shook her head playfully. "Now Olog, is nothing of the type. I was just telling Rick and his friend that the halflings in the Shire treat their women with more respect than the men of their parts seem to do."

Olog banged his giant mug on the counter, silencing the bar. "You mean to tell me these boys are treatin' you badly, Antian?"

Rick's friend? Rick's friend! Therian was torn between introducing himself properly, expressing his irritation, and running flat out away from this troll of a man. This problem could be solved fairly easily, Therian thought. It would certainly show Branor.

"I was just suggesting that Miss Antian here was uncommon pretty, and that I hoped she had a papa or a brother or a husband to make sure nobody would bother her. Rick here was the one saying-"

Olog grabbed Therian by the shirt, yelling into his face, "I AM HER HUSBAND."

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon and Coldan left early the next morning, as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible so as to avoid another encounter with Branor, who had been giving them detailed advice as to what they should find out about King Elessar. Harrenon barely restrained himself from pointing out that actually their mission was to disprove Branor’s wild notions about the King and not confirm them.

“You know, Coldan,” he told his companion as they were slowly walking through the city streets, “There’s quite a lot of pressure on us two. I mean – asking about the Pherianath is one thing. It is quite another to pry in the life of a King. My King, actually, I should say.” he added as an afterthought.

Coldan did not look too troubled about that and Harrenon told himself firmly that now was not the time to feel uncomfortable. There surely was no law against asking for information about the King and anyway, it was the alternative was to go along with Branor’s ideas about Elessar, which were getting more and more ridiculous and would have perhaps been mistaken as purposeful ridicule.

“Vere to?” Coldan inquired. “As a Gondorian, do you know vere to look?”

Harrenon shrugged his shoulders and halted, looking around helplessly. Only then had he realised that he actually had no idea where to start looking.

“To tell you the truth,” he replied, “Lossanarch is quite different from Minas Tirith and I don’t really know my way around as well as expected.” He stood for a while pondering what options they had, then said the first thing that came in his mind. “How about looking for armouries or smithies? You know, places where you can get swords and the like. Soldiers go to such places even in times of peace, or so I’m told. Who knows? Maybe we might even run into some of the Citadel Guards, if we’re lucky.”

He looked expectantly at Coldan, waiting for his comfirmation.

[Boromir88]

Branor's eyes darted from the exit to the large man about to pound Therian's face in. He could just quietly leave. Therian got himself in this mess, with his mouth, had he just let Branor do the talking, they would still have the pretty bar lady talking about the hobbits.

Then a thought came to him, what would the King do in this situation? Would the King run and leave his companion behind to face certain death alone? No. Branor had to step in.

"Friend" he said to Olog, giving the man a friendly slap on the shoulder.

"Get your hand off me!" Olog barked. "I don't know you!"

"Sorry. Sorry. I just mean to tell you you don't want to do this and you look like a reasonable man, we can surely work out this misunderstanding." Branor was about as tall as Olog, but not nearly as solid. He tried to buff out the chest as much as possible.

"What mis understanding? This fetcher insulted my wife and me, and now I am going to squash him!" Olog squeezed Therian tighter.

"Therian meant no insult, I assure you. We are not from Minas Anor and I believe it is just a minor miscommunication, since we are not used to your proper speech habits in Gondor. I am not saying you are wrong to feel insulted by my friend's poor manners. I am merely saying it was not his intent to offend and this place was built on laws and customs, yes? I am sure we can come to an agreement resolving this matter, that fits your City's laws. It hardly seems just this boy loses his adorable face, simply because he was looking out for your lady's safety, but did not know she was in your very capable...hands."

Olog looked mostly confused by Branor's exhaustive speech. But it seemed to work as he loosened the grip on Therian and then shoved him away. Olog was probably only using half his strength, and still managed to send Therian into one of the bar stools. "Fine. What's your offer?"

In truth, Branor did not think that far ahead. He only wanted the very large man to let Therian go, because even if Branor wanted to, he knew he would not stand a chance against this troll. And who knows if he had any other dumb bruisers in the tavern. Branor motioned for Therian to slowly move behind him. "My offer? Your wife was the one disrespected, so my offer is to her."

Antian gave Olog a look saying it was ok, let Branor make his offer.

"How can a pretty lady like you be happy with your life, waking up to a dumb oaf like that everyday?"

There was a loud crack, which was no doubt Olog breaking something, but Branor was not curious to find out what it was. Something hit Branor in the back of the leg, but at least they both escaped, in one piece.

When they were both assured they were well away from Olog and the Rohirric Unicorn. Branor panted "I don't think I make a very good spy. I am just going back to regular King Elessar. That is enough action for me!"

[Formendacil]

Amdír poked his head into the barn that sat at the back of Lord Hallas' estate. He had risen with the dawn to travel out there with one of Lord Cirdacil's waggons. It was nice to get out of the city. The estate was nestled under the shadow of Mindolluin in the western part of the Pelennor. Normally, Lord Hallas was nowhere near his estate, preferring to dwell at his fashionable city house in the fifth circle, only venturing out to the country when he had a party of fashionable young lords and ladies to accompany him. His lively interest in the theatre and eagerness to have a good time had made him an excellent Master of Revels, though perhaps one a bit too loose with the royal purse, and Amdír missed his involvement--even if Lord Hallas had a tendency to look right through the actors he was hiring, save when they were onstage.

The setpieces that had been kept in storage were mostly created, back when the Players had first come to Minas Anor, for their production of Bard the Dragonslayer or The Battle of the Five Armies, but because the set included a corner of a house (to represent Laketown) and a generic mountain/stone backdrop to represent the Lonely Mountain, it could serve a number of stories. The mountain backdrop, especially, would serve well in scenes with either the Misty Mountains, the Ephel Dúath, or even Mt. Doom itself.

Amdír was less certain that they would use the house-corner. Most of the War of the Ring story took place out of doors--either Elessar's Fellowship was travelling in the wilds, or they were fighting battles in fortresses. Probably, Brinn was going to need or want a section of battlement. If they had any indoor scenes, they were probably going to convey it by means of furniture, rather than backdrops. Finding that furniture--such as a throne to use for Denethor--would also be Amdír's task. Although the Players had some basic furniture to use while travelling, their patronage in Minas Anor meant that they could borrow some fancier things. Amdír wondered if Lord Cirdacil would have such a chair they could borrow, and whether he even wanted to ask. It might be better just to ask Lord Hallas, who would probably be more congenial about it, even though he was no longer formally connected with the Players at all.

Having laded the waggon with the first half of the mountain backdrops--a task that required the assistance of a couple of Hallas' men--Amdír started back towards Minas Anor.

[Anguirel]

A sound of rows of ceremonial bells on bridles mingled with the repeated reports of hoofbeats to interrupt the noises of dawn in the First Circle. Some streets were still dead calm, others were filling up during this season of festival with stallholders and swarming hawkers, but the sight of the six riders going by affected the quiet and the active alike. Housewifes, discreetly attending to hanging up their linen, stared glumly from high windows or loitered in their doorways. Rowdy toughs outside warehouses let their jaws slack the better to concentrate on staring. Any Guards of the Citadel were an unusual sight so far down in the city; and not a universally welcome one, either.

The small but formal calvacade rode two abreast, Guards leading and Guards at the rear. Three of these four horses rode black stallions, which were becoming once again prized, now that they were not associated invariably with Mordor; especially by the haughty and somewhat menacing officers of the Guard. One of the lead riders rode a big roan instead, not so flashy a statement but looking a more formidable animal even than its companions.

It was clearly an escort; in between the two dark pairs a couple of unarmoured men, one very old and one scarcely come to manhood at all, were ensconsed. Their bearing made them rather obviously commanders, rather than prisoners, of this little detachment. Lords nearly always travelled by litter; these nobles must be in a hurry, and the folk of Minas Anor knew well enough to get out of their way and watch their path from the side of the cobbles.

"Where did you say the ragamuffins were stewing themselves?" the Lord Cirdacil barked at his son.

"The Inn of Ingold, close enough to the city gates themselves, father," Sador spoke softly in answer.

"I've a good mind to thrust the pack of 'em back through them," the old man expostulated. "How far are we from this Ingold's place, captain?"

"A negligible distance, my lord," the officer on the roan answered with a tone so obedient it was almost insolent. Cirdacil did not exactly like the Tower Guard officers as a rule; they were all better born than him, and they tended to intimate that they knew it. Still, it was worth dragging a few around with him to keep up appearances in...disciplinary cases like these. They had, now, indeed arrived at the inn.

Without needing to be commanded (and again, Cirdacil thought grumpily, that was a little too consciously meticulous) the lead captain rode up from the formation and rapped on the door.

"Open up, open up at once for the Master of the Revels!"

Even in this reassuringly powerful context, Cirdacil could not help but recoil a little at the mention of his latest title. It was all just so irritating.

Beside him, Sador looked cheerful and interested; as if he was excited at the prospect of laying eyes on the famous King's Players, rather than already anticipating his plan to cast their production into rank disarray...

[Nerwen]

Asta woke from a confused dream in which King Elessar cut all the trees down and they fell on the yelling Sorceress, to find that the blows of the axe continued: a loud knocking somewhere outside. Below that, she could make out the sound of horses moving around, and the light jingling of bells.

"What is it?" she asked Sereth, who was peering out the window, silhouetted against the faint dawn light.

"I don't know," the girl told her. 'There's a whole lot of men on horses, and someone was shouting to open up. I think they're guards, Asta!"

Asta joined her at the window, which overlooked the street. Sure enough, the street outside the inn was almost blocked by a small group of riders, four of them in the distinctive black-and-silver livery of the Guards of the Citadel.

"Oh my goodness!" said Asta. "This must have something to do with Branor!"

[the phantom]

Did he say "Master of Revels"? Aldarion rose from his desk and stuck his head out of his window. By the arched entrance to the courtyard he could see several horses topped with armored men. Soldiers! By the Valar- I hope this has nothing to do with Branor!

Soon after he had retired to his room the previous night Aldarion had heard the window in the room next to him grind open. Curious as to what Branor was up to, Aldarion had peeked and caught a glimpse of Branor slipping out, dressed all in black, sneaking from tree to tree. So- gathering his information in the style of the new spy-king, eh? We'll see how this ends.

Aldarion's mind immediately recalled that moment, and he berated himself. Why didn't you stop him, or go after him? You should've known something awful would happen. He probably tried to sneak into the seventh circle and got caught attempting to climb in the Queen's window! The King probably thinks we're spies!

For a moment Aldarion considered checking on the other players, but there was little hope that the entire troop could evade arrest if it came down to it, and Aldarion felt he could be of more use out of prison than in it, as he was more likely than the others to be able to forge useful contacts in the city, or if need be he could travel back to Dol Amroth and explain the situation to the Prince.

Aldarion rushed to his door and sprinted down the hall as silently as he could towards the common room. There was a low fire burning in the fireplace, a couple tables of breakfasting travelers, and a man asleep in a padded chair by the fire. Aldarion lowered himself into a chair next to the sleeping man and turned it slightly so that he could see the doorway to the hall. If the soldiers go to our rooms, I will see them pass by.

[Mnemosyne]

There was a commotion outside, enough to awake Brinn. She pushed her husband awake. "Is it dawn already? Or past? We're losing time!--go out and see what the matter is!"

Rollan sighed. His wife was feeling her confinement already. He rolled out of bed and blearily stepped out of the cart--they'd gotten a room at the inn, but since Brinn's injury decided it would be better to stay with the carts so she wouldn't have to move nearly as much. "There's talk of the Master of the Revels," he said. "And some guards. I think they're here for us, and not for good, either."

Brinn groaned. "Well, someone will have to go out and meet them. They'd better not have started charging for the right to make folk smile! Tell them--tell them that we're not official, we never have been, and if they're going to make a fuss about it we'll move out to the Pelennor where he can't say anything about it." In recent years Minas Anor had grown too small to house everyone who came for the festivities. "And if it gets to be too much trouble, bring them to me."

Rollan frowned in thought. When had he become that "someone"? "But don't you need help getting dressed?"

"I'll be fine, go! Would you rather have Branor be our spokesman?"

She had a point there. Still, before leaving, he went through the trunk and pulled out one of Brinn's overdresses. "There," he said. "Now you won't hurt yourself even more for your stubbornness."

He dressed himself hastily, ignoring Brinn as she told him to put more care into his appearance for the Master of the Revels, and stepped outside. There were horsemen outside the inn, and a very pompous-looking mule of a man standing just inside.

Rollan bowed. "My lord?" he said. "Is there aught we can do for you?"

[Pitchwife]

Still yawning, for he hadn't slept that well, Coldan trudged along through the streets, doing his best to keep up with Harrenon's brisk stride. The fresh morning air and the gleams of early sunlight on the upper stories of the buildings around them contrasted sharply with his muddled brain and the gloomy mood he had carried over from yesterday.

It could have been worse, he reminded himself. At least Brinn had shown sense enough to team Aldarion up with Rollan and keep him safely away from Asta for most of the day. (Remembering how the two of them had intimately whispered together last evening sent renewed pangs of jealousy through his heart.)

At first, he had relied on Harrenon to come up with an idea as to where to start their research, but it soon became apparent that the young Gondorian was about as much out of his depth as himself.

“How about looking for armouries or smithies?" Harrenon finally suggested. "You know, places where you can get swords and the like. Soldiers go to such places even in times of peace, or so I’m told. Who knows? Maybe we might even run into some of the Citadel Guards, if we’re lucky.”

"Sounds good to me", Coldan replied, "if you know how to find such a place."

Harrenon didn't, so they agreed to just stroll on and enquire for directions on the way. Their first stop was Lamedon Square Market, which was already filling with a busy crowd eager to get hold of the best goods while they were fresh; two or three city guards were patrolling among the market-goers, but none of them looked old enough to remember much about the war.

"Lots of people to ask for the vay", Coldan observed. "Let's start zere!" He pointed to a bakery that sat right in the middle of the square, at the intersection of two crossing roads. Harrenon had been in such a hurry to set out that he had had to forego breakfast, and his stomach was complaining rather loudly. He bought some delicious-smelling golden rolls from the owner, a well-rounded woman with a friendly face, and asked politely: "Vould you know, good mistress, vere to buy a good blade in zis city?"

[Anguirel]

Lord Cirdacil waved the two guard officers at the front aside, craning forward to get a better view of the fellow who had opened the door.

"Who is this fool?" he asked no one in particular, examining Rollan with impersonal disapproval. "I was under the impression these charlatans answered to a woman, one Mistress Celebrindal."

"If what I remember from Amlach is correct, father," Sador put in, speaking in his usual measured way, "this will be her husband, Master Rollan. He is a comedian, I gather, of some note."

Sador's honeyed accent sounded genuinely impressed to encounter such a renowned personage. But his father knew him well and understood that the main import of his explanation had been a slight. When, accordingly, he addressed Rollan directly for the first time his curt voice had lost none of its asperity.

"I have business with your consort, not you, sir. I want her, and that carpenter attached to the Revels purse - Amdir? yes, him, as soon as they can be found."

"Although," Sador added in an assuaging manner, "it will be good to have you present as well, Master Rollan, indeed. I think we have certain subjects to discuss that will interest you all. Finally, if your playwright, Master Aldarion, is at liberty from his intellectual pursuits, I have a letter for him that I would be grateful if you would deliver."

"So do I," said the leader of the guards, who had dismounted quietly from his roan horse, and, no sooner had Sador put his letter to Aldarion into Rollan's hand than the guard followed suit. Sador looked very taken aback by this, but his father had lost interest in this side-issue.

"Well, hurry up then," Cirdacil barked out anew. "Chop chop, my man, fetch the wifey, the carpenter and anyone else with an interest in the future of this...troupe. My escort is hungry; we shall wait here and tuck into a hearty breakfast."

The previously dour and wordless officers exchanged grins at last...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian woke with the rough edge of a cobble stone digging into his hip. His head was on Branor's shoulder in the most undignified of ways. The two of them were crammed into the space between two decorative archways. It was chilly; he could tell by his breath coming from him in bursts of white.

"Bran, Bran, get up."

Branor woke up with a moan. "What?"

They were in some corner of the city, and Therian could not remember how they had ended up there. He smelled fresh bread, which meant it was morning, and besides that, it was getting light.

"Get up, you fool, Brinn is going to kill us."

Some motion caught Therian's vision off to the side somewhere. A boy, perhaps?

"Where are we?" Bran grumbled.

"Olog... chased us... but then I don't remember..."

They hauled themselves to their feet and stumbled toward an intersection, following the smell of bread. A large sign pointed their way, emblazoned with the words, "Lamedon Square Market (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=17232): This Way!"

[Pitchwife]

The baker was just about to answer Coldan's question when a young boy came running at the top of his speed, stopped himself abruptly right in front of them, waving his arms for balance, and shouted: "Mistress Fea - Mistress Fea - there's two men over there - they've been fighting - and someone's going to kill them!"

The woman turned to him and took him gently by the shoulders. "Easy, boy, easy", she said in a voice that managed to sound sober and comforting at the same time. "One thing at a time. Where are they? Did you see them fight? Was somebody threatening them?"

"Over there, ma'am, near Saucepan Alley", the boy panted, pointing into the direction he had come from. "They were alone, but one of them has a black eye, and he said to the other one: 'Brinn is going to kill us'."

"Vat?" and "What?", Coldan and Harrenon cried out simultaneously, staring at each other in alarm. When Coldan's eyes followed the boy's pointing finger, he saw two all too familiar figures emerging from an alleyway into the market square, making for the bakery with a stiff gait that looked like they had spent the night lying on hard ground.

"Merciful Valar!" he groaned. "Can't zose two be trusted to stay out of trouble for a few hours at least?"

[Mnemosyne]

"Chop chop, my man, fetch the wifey, the carpenter and anyone else with an interest in the future of this...troupe. My escort is hungry; we shall wait here and tuck into a hearty breakfast."

Oh, dear. That did not sound good. Rollan bowed. "My lord, Mistress Celebrindal is indisposed at the moment; having turned her ankle yesterday. The Healer has said it is a bad turn, and she is not to put her weight on it for a week. So, unless you wish to be treated to the farce of her being borne here on my back, or unless you wish to see an honest woman to be lamed for the rest of her life, we shall have to entertain you at our carts, which can be seen within."

He sighed. He was not as good at mollifying those with blood on their minds as Brinn was. And this man clearly it on his.

"If you will meet us in the courtyard after your sup, I am certain that I shall be able to find those you would like to speak with and gather them there. We have sent many of our troupe out, you see, to better research the historical accuracy of our plays. Enjoy your meal, my lord, and I hope to see you within."

He gave his best, most elaborate bow, and turned to leave.

[Anguirel]

For a moment, Rollan would be very startled indeed; it seemed his talk of turned ankles and lameness had had a very dramatic effect indeed on the old Master of the Revels and his young son, who went purple and pallid respectively.

Remarkably, though, it would become apparent in some way that he had said something more helpful than disastrous. As he was in the process of hurrying off, a new intonation in the nobleman's words brought him up short. The Lord Cirdacil's reply, though still crotchety in its substance, was much more reasonable sounding in its delivery.

"Injured, eh. Well, that's dashed unfortunate. All this clambering over stages, trouble bound to happen, isn't it. Well, we shall meet later then, sirrah, in the courtyard, if you will it so. Gather as many as your men as you can, especially those I have mentioned; I want them neatly turned out, ready to listen to a serious matter. And do deliver all this correspondence to this scribbler of yours as quick as you can; he does seem to be a popular fellow."

Lord Cirdacil shot his son Sador a quizzical look, and if Rollan followed the glance with any attention he would note the young nobleman, still mounted unlike his father, sitting in an awkward posture, slightly unbalanced in the saddle by his left, malformed leg. The moment soon passed, and the old lord flashed his dark, tempestuous eyes back to the player.

"As for Mistress Celebrindal, if there is any more trouble, sir, consider yourself free to apply to me for the use of our family physician up at the House. You are soon to be in my employ, even if none of us particularly relish that fact, and I suppose I had better see you whole in limb if I can. Until soon, then."

Cirdacil gave a sharp nod in Rollan's direction to indicate their speech was now over, and the player free to depart. In the background the guards had already got the ostlers to deal with their horses, and were bustling the unfortunate Ingold about to deal with their handsome meal...

[Boromir88]

"Vere have you two been and vat exactly have you been doing?" Coldan asked when Branor and Therian walked into the bakery.

"Glad to see both of you as well" shot back Branor. He was stiff, tired, and thus in no mood to banter or feel like he had to answer to anyone.

"I make no offense," replied Coldan. "but you have made a fine mess of things vith your antics so far."

"Do not concern yourself with us," Branor muttered "we decided it was better to investigate at night than in the morning. Mornings everyone is busy with daily duties and is in no mood for friendly chat with strangers. Besides we found out a good deal about the hobbits yesterday, aint that right?" He looked to Therian for support, but it was clear Therian, like Branor, did not remember last night's events.

Coldan and Harrenon looked at Therian's bruised eye and wondered how much investigating the two really could have done, but did not protest further.

Branor's stomach was grumbling and when he saw the lady attending her goods, he tapped Therian's arm. The misses's face looked worn, like any person who runs a store typically does, but there was still a fair and vibrant beauty to her. Branor could tell she took great care to make her goods and give her customers the best. If Therian really wanted to know how to properly address a lady than Branor was going to show him.

"Hello Misses" he smiled and leaned forward onto the counter. His tone softened to a near whisper "I am in desperate need of nourishment and have heard high remarks about your wares and ability to satisfy what I need."

The Mistress firmly placed her hand on the counter, expressing just tell me what you want and go about your business.

"But I have not been in here before and do not know what you have. I am feeling something sweet and filling. Can I see your finest sweet buns, honey?" Branor cleared his throat. "Pardon me, that was supposed to come out as, can I see your finest honey buns...sweetie? Ahem. No. Do your buns have honey drizzled on top?"

[Nerwen]

"What are we going to do, Rollan?" said Asta, joining her brother-in-law as he left the hall. She had overheard the latter part of his conversation with the old lord, but that was all.

Rollan said he did not know, pointing out that, for that matter, they did not know what the Master of Revels wanted of them yet anyway. He asked if all the others had left already.

"Yes, except Sereth, of course. But it's worse than you think– Branor's bed hasn't been slept in and neither has–"

"Well, aren't you the nosy one?" Rollan broke in, amused in spite of their situation.

Asta flushed slightly, making up her mind not to ask Rollan about those two letters he carried, much as they intrigued her. "The door happened to be ajar, Rollan. As I was saying, he and Therian must have been out all night, and who knows what they've managed to get themselves into? Oh, I'm sure those horrid lords and their guards are just toying with us, and we're all to be thrown in a dungeon after they've had their breakfast!" She wondered what being in a dungeon was like, and how long it would take her to starve in one. Not long, she decided, what with her sensitive nostrils and her already-meagre frame. And what would happen to her equipment if she went to prison? To her eagles, and her walking trees? To Smaug?

But it seemed Rollan was doubtful now whether the Master of Revels would have come just to see them arrested, and anyway he had other things on his mind. "What about Aldarion? He left with Amdir, I suppose?"

"Oh, Aldarion? Well... I'm not sure," Asta lied. From her vantage point on the stairs, she had clearly seen the playwright's tall figure slipping furtively into the Common Room. It was all too plain that he had meant to lie low and let the rest of the troupe take whatever trouble was coming to them. Asta was quite shocked and hurt. She had been– not exactly in love with him– in fact, not even remotely in love with him, she decided– but she had certainly thought he cared for her. She could not, however, quite bring herself to tell tales on him yet.

And after all, she thought, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the guards now trooping in for their breakfast, much good Aldarion's stealth and cowardice would do him now!

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea crossed her arms over her chest and shared a look with Captain Form. "Now, young man," she began, though Branor could easily have been her age for all she knew, "it looks from your bruises that you have been fighting. And that is not looked kindly upon in the King's City, or in my market."

Therian gulped and stuttered, "Your market?"

"Yes, boy, mine, as far as that sort of thing goes. You are not from around here, so I would not expect you to know it, but in these parts we have ways of behaving. I take it the two of you are the cause of my shop boy scooting his tush back into my kitchen faster than I've ever seen him move, all the while yelling of murders and ruffians?"

Therian looked at Branor. Murderers? But they were just actors! A puzzle piece of memory locked into place and Therian saw for a moment the flash of Olog's bear shaped body as he lumbered after them down the road. How, he wondered, had they escaped? They had not had that much to drink, had they? And for the sake of it all, why had they slept on the ground? "I... um... well, by 'kill' we meant our Boss... and not really kill so much as be very upset with us... in a way that might mean she will not be our boss any more?"

Fea humphed and found a sweet sticky roll for Branor and charged him double her normal price, to make up for Erchan's loss of productivity, and because the fool had to learn one way or another, and maybe an empty pocket would enforce the idea of a mouth that had no words coming out of it.

"And," Fea said, "In the mean time, you've had me neglecting another patron. If you will excuse me..."

[Formendacil]

Amdír made good time returning from Lord Hallas's estate, and was slowing climbing up into the city from the Great Gate before morning had truly passed. It helped that Lord Hallas's estate was close to the city, no more than a league or two. It also helped that days were long, and one could get a lot done when the sun rose early.

Normally, Amdír would have avoided going through Lamedon Square Market (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=17232) with a laden waggon, but even though it was coming busy as the morning wore on, he didn't fancy trying to take the waggon, which was more cumbersome than most carts he drove, down one of the back ways, and decided to continue slowly up Lampwright's Street, even if it meant braving the impatience of the crowds.

He was passing through the Market, irritating the occasional seller or buyer of goods and wares when he caught sight of Branor and Therian looking rather worse for the wear next to a well-kept baker's stall. A large man wearing the uniform of a Tower Guard loomed nearby.

"Branor! Therian!" called Amdír. "Hello, there!"

Instead of immediately catching the two actors' attention, Amdír's salutation was noticed by the Guard.

"Good morning, good yeoman!" returned Captain Formy jovially. "Are you responsible for these impertinent ragamuffins?"

Amdír's natural respect for those in authority caused him to overlook the jovial diminishment of the two actors.

"No, sir, though I know them. They are members of the King's Players, staying at Ingold's Inn."

"Good King Elessar has players? What do they play at? Are they a troop of gamblers that play at the games of dice said to be prevalent in the cold of winter in the King's northern homeland?"

"No sir, they are an acting troupe--from Dale. It is from King Bard II that they take their name. They are here to put on a performance as a part of the Cormarë revels."

"Best see they take a break from their own revels, if they wish to entertain anyone else," suggested the captain with a mock-stern glance at the actors.

[Dimturiel]

“That’s it,” Harrenon said after the problem with Therian and Branor seemed more or less solved with the arrival of Amdir. “If I had any doubts until now, I don’t anymore. First we find out we might have faulty information, then Brinn breaks her ankle and now this. There’s no doubt about it. We’re cursed. This play is cursed. We’re not meant to do it. We can’t put up a performance about what happened in the War of the Ring. It’s wrong. We’re…we’re meddling with something that’s too…too grand for us and we can’t do that. We’re receiving all sorts of signs that we can’t do it. This play is doomed. I’m sure it is!”

It was not often that Harrenon lost control like this in public, but when he did, his outbursts where usually memorable and quite embarrassing in hindsight. After he was finally done he was aware of a sudden silence around him and realised that many had stopped whatever they were doing to listen to him curiously. Coldan looked quite uncomfortable at the turn of events. Harrenon bit his lips, realising that the only thing he had done was to draw even more attention to the Players.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly to Coldan. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m really sorry. Now can we please find that blasted armoury before I say something else that might cause trouble?”

[the phantom]

Aldarion tensed as a handful of troops entered the common room, but he soon relaxed, noting that they were not holding their weapons at the ready nor did they appear to be searching for anyone in particular. His suspicions were confirmed when they seated themselves around a table near the bar and called for food and drink.

Though he could not be certain, Aldarion assumed these were some of the guards that had accompanied the Master of Revels, for to his understanding it would not be a common thing to spot two different packs of Citidel Guards in the lowest level of the city. They're sitting down, at ease. Perhaps this indicates that the Revels Master is conducting lengthy business here, and that the business does not require the services of guards? That's promising.

No longer inclined to fear the worst (that Branor had brought the King's wrath down upon them) Aldarion made his way from the common room, intending to check the player's block of rooms and the cart for the Revels Master, Brinn, and the others. But immediately upon entering the hall he spotted Asta and Rollan at the bottom of the stair to his right. Neither looked particularly panicked, which quelled Aldarion's fears to the point that he felt nearly happy.

"Well, I'm relieved to see that you have not been arrested," said Aldarion as he approached. "Now, where is the Master of Revels, and what does he want?"

[Pitchwife]

"Zat will be for the best, I zink", Coldan agreed, dragging Harrenon away from the bakery before the huge captain of the guard who had shown up in the least convenient moment could think of inquiring what legitimate interest two civilians, whose friends had just caused rumours of fighting and murder, could have in finding an armoury. As for Branor and Therian, Amdír could probably be relied on to take the two goodfornothings back to the inn without much further mayhem, and once there, Brinn would have a word or two with them that would hopefully put some reason into their heads, if reason could bear to dwell there.

He clapped his companion on the shoulder reassuringly. "Don't take it to heart too much", he said, trying to sound more confident than he actually felt. "Not all is lost yet. It doesn't look to good for us right now, I'll give you zat, but ve'll make it yet - and if I hev to rewrite that dratted script myself." A mere day ago, he wouldn't have had the slightest doubt in his ability to do that - after all, correcting another man's mistakes couldn't be as hard as composing from scratch, could it?, and he had often irritated Brinn by improvising what he thought improvements to his lines on stage. Since the news that the King himself was going to attend their performance, however, the stakes had been raised considerably, and under that pressure, he was beginning to feel ever so slightly less certain of his own abilities. If he was quite honest with himself, he knew that he would never finish a revision in the time allotted to them. But at the very least he, for one, would carry out the assignment Brinn had given him without making a fool of himself.

A sign saying 'Blacksmiths' Road' rekindled his hopes. Following it, they soon heard the clear 'ping-ping' of hammer on anvil, and at the second intersection, where it was crossed by Anvil Road, they found a workshop with a sign of crossed swords over its door sitting right on the corner.

Inside, the smith was hammering away at a glowing blade while his apprentice was taking care of the furnace in the background. Two grizzled men were sitting on a bench near the anvil, and now or then one or the other commented on the work in progress; both had the hardened look of veteran soldiers, but neither bothered to look around at the goods displayed, which made Coldan think they had to be friends of the smith's. The only regular customer was a tall, dark-haired man in a strange livery, similar to that which the Guards of the Citadel wore, but all in white; he was examining some knives and daggers to one side of the room.

"Good morning, Master Armourer!" Coldan greeted the smith. "How's business?"

The smith briefly looked up, nodded to him and continued with his work. "Can't complain; my customers know I make excellent blades and are willing to pay the appropriate price. What more can a man ask?"

"I'm sure of zat! But still, zere can't be zat much demand for your goods in zese days of peace. Must hev been different during ze Var."

"You can say that aloud!" The smith plunged the finished blade in a barrel to quench it, and a cloud of steam welled up. "I was apprenticed to Master Findring then, and him me and the other lads worked day and night to keep the guards and soldiers supplied. Still, as I said, I can't complain; the One Enemy's gone, and the King pardoned the Easterlings and Southrons as fought for him, but not all of them are content with his rule, and he and his knights are busy enough keeping them at peace."

"Like you'd need to tell him that", one of the veterans said with a glowering look in Coldan's direction. "The guards are getting lax in their duty, if they let former Orc-friends into the city nowadays."

Coldan's eyes narrowed. "Vat do you mean by zis?"

"You know full well what I mean", the man growled back at him. "Last time I saw a face like yours around these parts was in the War, at the other end of my halberd. Aren't the plains of Rhûn wide enough for you, that you must molest people in the King's own city?"

That did it. In his head, Coldan knew he should better keep quiet, but he just couldn't contain himself, and all the frustration pent up inside him erupted and burst out at this gross insult.

"Nobody calls me zat!" he yelled, shaking with rage. "No Orc-friend Easterling I am, but a free man of Dorvinion! A thousand years and more ve vithstood the Shadow all alone, while Mother Gondor had forgotten and forsaken us! If one of my foremothers long ago was raped by a Vainrider and bequeathed his features to me, who is to blame? Must I zerefore stand here and be insulted by a brutish oaf who quaffs our vine but spurns the folk as make it?"

[Boromir88]

Branor, despite that disaster, was grinning when he walked back to Therian. "And that, my boy, is what women will do to you. They will take your money and leave you on the side standing helpless. And that misses, not all that interesting anyway, certainly not as pretty as Brinn. Oh my, uhm, you did not hear me say that." In truth, he was just trying to save face, even though he guessed Therian knew Branor had that blow up in his face.

He was not bothered by being charged extra, since it was probably the best sticky bun he could remember having. "Mmm, that was quite tasty. I would go back and ask for another, if I was assured she would not hike up the price on me again. Still, she woefully undercharges for her sticky buns."

"What do you expect from, you know, from a shop being owned by...a her." Therian said. He still seemed focused to figure out how every lady he's met in Minas Anor defies traditional logic.

The large guard-Captain was not enjoying their conversation as he always was shooting suspicious glances, as if he was looking for a reason to throw the two out.

"Branor! Therian!" called Amdír. "Hello, there!"

Amdir was engaged in conversation with Captain Formy, and was slowly looking more stern towards Branor and Therian. When the two approached Amdir and he saw their faces a look of exasperation, what had these two whippers been up to? And how did they get Captain Formy so riled?

"I suppose I need to take you both back to the Inn, after your adventures last night?" Amdir gave them a hard look.

Branor was lost, how did it seem like everyone knew what happened last night except for Branor and Therian? Not that he would apologize for any trouble making he caused, as it most likely was not his fault. It would still help to know why he needed to apologize? All he did was save Therian from getting squashed. Unless Olog finally caught up to them? He could have sworn, while Olog had the clear advantage in strength, they more than made up for by outwitting the lame half-wit.

"Thanks, Amdir, but that will not be necessary." said Branor. "I am going to continue following Brinn's orders by investigating the hobbits. You can tell her this if you see fit. Therian, you coming?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian somehow found the generosity not to laugh at Branor. It helped that he was rather busy feeling concerned about his behavior over the night. This Captain Formy seemed to know much of everything, and he had mentioned nothing, nor tried to arrest them. This Mistress Fea looked as though she knew everything, and she had said the market was practically hers. Surely if they'd done anything too awful, she would have known, but instead she just repeated her shop boy's words. Really, anything they'd done could not have been that bad.

He thought about what they'd done, or what he couldn't remember them doing, and realized unfortunately what he knew they had not done: learned anything of value about the hobbits, except that Master Sam's wife used to serve beer for a living. He was not sure what value that was, except that probably Sam liked his brew, which Therian already knew from meeting him.

If they went back now, war would all but break out. Best to go back with definitive proof of something, anyway. And besides, they might find out what they'd done in the night.

Therian looked at this Mistress Fea, watching as she deftly sliced a loaf of bread for a patron, wrapped it, and tucked his coin into her apron band. She was a pear shaped woman. He wondered if she had children, or a husband. Ugh, he thought. Olog. How could that pretty young thing at the tavern be married to an oaf like Olog? The man lumbered. Any man whose locomotion so closely resembled that of a bear or a boar should not be married to such a delicate specimen of femininity. This Fea, however, crushed his thoughts without doing a single thing. She was no delicate flower, no elanor on a hillside. She was no single willow in a vale, wistfully blown about by the breeze. This Mistress Fea was a mighty oak, he thought, or perhaps more of a maple. He watched as she pulled a small bag of bite sized muffins from some hidden place and gave one each to a handful of small children. They bounced and ran away squealing. Sturdy, she was, but sweet. And like autumn leaves burnished gold and red, she had an undeniable beauty even if he thought of her as a tree.

Branor snapped his fingers in Therian's face.

"What?" Therian snapped.

"You coming or not?"

Therian looked back at Fea. Here was a woman completely at home in the body of a woman. She wore no men's garb like they said Eowyn wore into battle. She did not stand here selling things dressed as a fellow, clad in a fellow's trousers, her breasts bound flat, her hair hidden away. She did not flaunt herself, surely, yet she wore serviceable skirts and petticoats, and sturdy boots, and a blouse and a shawl and over it all, an apron. She dressed as Therian's own mother had dressed before she died: for practicality. But there was something to the flare of her skirt that admitted her womanhood, drawing the eye from her pinched waist around the curves of her hips and out. She was no Queen Evenstar, of course, but she dressed as a woman though she did the mannish work of selling things in a public place.

Nor did she disguise her voice, as they say Eowyn did. In fact, this Mistress Fea appeared to pretend to be nothing except what she was: a woman that baked and sold her baked goods. A woman that was used to being obeyed. A woman that was not unnecessarily crude or vicious to men. He had known some women like that: ones that behaved as though venom from their lips would somehow change the world. Well, as his mother always said, you catch more flies with honey. Or was that sugar? And what was it that you didn't catch them with, vinegar? Milk? Milk made no sense. He couldn't remember flies ever going to milk.

But the point was the same. There was something to this baker lady that caught his attention.

Branor hit him in the arm. "I'm leaving."

"Huh?"

Amdír asked, "Are you drunk?"

"No," Therian said. "Not drunk. Leaving. Going. Branor, where are we going?"

[Boromir88]

"No," Therian said. "Not drunk. Leaving. Going. Branor, where are we going?"

"We are going to do what Brinn sent us off to do." Branor yelled back. He was already quite a few paces ahead of a trailing Therian.

"What was that again?"

Branor stopped and waited for Therian to catch up, just so he could hit him in the chest. Therian did not look happy, but Branor was more shocked when Therian did not attempt to strike back. Seriously, what was wrong with this boy today?

"Ever since waking up this morning, you have been acting weird. Particularly back there at Mistress Fea's. I thought we got away from Olog, but it appears he's knocked the wits out of you!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian tried to clear his mind. "I was just thinking, it seems weird that a girl as pretty as Miss Antian to be married to a man so... so..."

"Ugly?"

"Yeah. Ugly." They walked out of the market and away from the others. "Why do all the pretty ones pick jerks and ugly guys?"

[Boromir88]

"Not to mention Olog wouldn't be able to spell dog for you if you spotted him the d and g."

Therian did laugh at that one, for it was most likely true. Good he has not gone completely cracked, thought Branor, although he might be cracking.

"Anyway, I couldn't tell you. I gave up trying to figure out what they want years ago. Its always changing too. One minute they want excitment, the next minute it's laziness. They want a helping hand and then they want you to stay away. You may have seen how much Brinn changes from day to day, and I doubt that Miss Fea is going to know what she wants tomorrow, or if it will be the same thing she wanted yesterday. So, are you saying you have an eye for that pretty lady barmaid from last night? You hound." Branor was suppressing a huge smirk. "Shall we go back? I would like to go back and try to put the missing pieces of last night together, and hopefully find more things about our four hobbits, before going back to the Inn."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Go back? Ah, well, the day crowd would be different, certainly. No doubt Antian would not even be working first thing in the morning. But would, actually, they be open in the morning? No harm in looking.

But how had they managed to walk this far? Ah, well, they had run for a time. Olog was big and drunk, but he was fast. Therian's feet hurt, which he was sure said something for distance and speed.

When they arrived at the Unicorn, the door was closed, the sign was missing, and everything was shut tight.

"Like I thought," said Therian, "Not open until later."

A voice cackled from behind them. "Back for more, I reckon, boys be back for more and who is to know after it all who knows why and what for? Boys and their girls, I say and all of it all swirling like wind and dirt on roads with twisties and blows and..."

The voice fell away into a fit of giggles and Therian shared a concerned look with Branor. The speaker was an ancient looking man. It was to be expected that they had not noticed him, because until they looked close, he looked like nothing more than a pile of rags on the ground.

"Sir, are you... are you quite all right?"

The man's face was as cracked and wrinkled as unoiled leather left out in the field in the summer for too long. Liver spots decorated the skin that was not taken over by tiny blue veins. "All right? But are we ever all right, all of us anyway, or right? What is right, and can we have it, can we have it all? If it were all, and it were right, you wouldn't be here would you, all chasing after the whiff of a damsel?"

"What do you know, old man?" asked Branor.

"Hehehe, what any of us knows and what I know is what the wind knows, what happens when the dark takes away the vision and it's all smell and sound and you, the two of you, hehehe..."

"Bran, he's sick in the head, he's got to be, just leave him."

"Rick Bran Rick Bran Rick's the man and so is Bran." The wizened body stretched and crackled, and then sat up straight. He looked around. He looked up at Therian and Branor and asked, quite lucidly, "Have you seen my wife? I seem to have misplaced her."

[Mnemosyne]

"He wants to talk to Brinn, is what he wants," said Rollan, "and anyone else who is... ahem... 'interested in the future of this troupe.'" He gave his best impression of the old lord. "Oh, and--he asked for your presence in particular, and asked me to give these to you." He handed him a set of papers. "Anyhow, he was surprisingly sympathetic to Brinn's injury, so as soon as his guard's done eating, they'll meet with all of us in the courtyard.

"And I had better tell Brinn all this myself, and help her make herself presentable. If I know her, I know she's going to want to argue this thing out--whatever it is--at her best. I don't think this Master of the Revels is nearly as friendly towards us as Hallas. If anyone wants to find Amdir, he's been asked to come to the meeting as well."

[Dimturiel]

After Coldan’s outburst, it seemed that things were going to turn ugly. The old veteran looked none to pleased for being insulted – although Harrenon admitted that he had been the one who started with the insults since no one liked being called an orc-friend. He got up and headed towards Coldan, taking an aggressive stance, his intentions quite clear. Harrenon tried to consider their solutions. They could have run, but that would have made things much worse. Therian and Branor had already caused some trouble in the city. If things continued like that, the Players might soon be forced to leave Minas Tirith for being a nuisance. Therefore Harrenon did the only thing he could think of, and stepped in front of Coldan to face the old veteran, his mind all the while telling him that he was a fool and that if the veteran decided he did not want to resolve the conflict peacefully, he would be the one to suffer first.

“I think you should wait,” Harrenon began, secretly congratulating himself on his acting abilities, because he managed to appear confident and firm while in reality he was ready to bolt. “See, I apologise for my friend here, but you must admit that being called an orc-friend and an Easterling out of the blue is not a very pleasant experience. I am sure you would not be too pleased yourself, Sir, if someone did that to you.”

“Why the blazes would someone say that to me?” the veteran retorted. “I’m a Gondorian, just like you, by the looks of it, although judging from the company you keep, I wouldn’t have said it.”

Harrenon felt Coldan stir impatiently behind him and muttered a desperate “Wait” under his breath. He turned again to the old soldier.

“He has explained to you that he is not what you think he is,” he pointed out.

“Aye, but he also called me a brutish oaf!” the soldier replied. “I who have been fighting to defend this city before you were even born. I’m not the one to suffer insults quietly.”

“No, I can see that,” Harrenon admitted. “But what if he were to apologise to you? Would that be enough?”

Harrenon knew Coldan would be far from happy with him after that, but it was the only thing he could think of. The soldier did not answer and then another voice sounded in the smithy.

“I think we should deal with this fairly,” spoke the young man who had been until then surveying the scene without saying anything. “Since you were both wrong, I think you should both apologise to each other. Yes, you too, soldier.”

“But…but, master Bergil, Sir…” the veteran spluttered indignantly.

“I said you too,” Bergil repeated more firmly. “And you first, since you started it.”

Under Bergil’s watchful eyes, the old soldier muttered a reluctant “I’m sorry.” Bergil now turned to Coldan looking at him expectantly. Harrenon cast his now surly companion an apologetic look, trying to get him to understand that there had been no other choice.

[Boromir88]

"Quiet Therian." snapped Branor. "He called me Rick. He might know something from last night." Branor had all but forgotten the spy business with Rick Cottontree, but it was slowly coming back to him.

"Old man, my friend and I are trying to find out what happened to us last night. There are a lot of parts missing, but you do remember seeing me, yes? We do not know where your wife is, but if you can help us with our memory, we might be able to help you find your wife."

"Yes. Yes." said the old man who was sounding more lucid. "You were the one asking about hobbits last night and Rick's friend there was fancying the barmaid."

"That's right!" Branor's hopes were raising that they may figure out this talk of murderers, killers, and brigands. "Can you remember how we got these bruises?"

"Bruises. I know nothing about how you got those bruises." Branor sighed and was about to tell Therian that he was right, this man was going to be of no use, but then...

"I can tell you about the hobbits you seek." said the old man.

Branor perked up and rushed to take a seat next to the man. "You can!? You mean the four hobbits on the quest of Mount Doom!?"

"Those would be the ones: Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took."

Therian and Branor were still unsure how much they could rely on this man's sanity, or lack there of, so Branor decided to first ask about Peregrin Took. He was well known in Minas Anor, and so far they had not encountered any disastrous inaccuracies in Peregrin's history. At least, not anything like the Samwise debacle.

"Peregrin Took, or Pippin as his friends called him." remembered the old man. "He was well loved in these parts, and deserved every bit of it. A courageous lad, in going against his Lord's orders to save Lord Faramir's life. And he was quite a champion to boot too, uncomparable to the devilish creature Master Merry slew, but Lord Peregrin had the same heroic spirit when he killed the mighty war troll."

The mention of troll prompted Therian to make another snarky comment about how can the lumbering, ugly troll Olog ever catch the fancy of a delicate woman, and mumbled something about wondering if Miss Fea would fancy Olog. Branor didn't catch it all, but the old man did.

"Olog and a misses? hehehe, that Olog was going to make mincemeat out of you boys, hehe."

[Pitchwife]

Coldan stood with his fist clenched, unwilling to apologize to anybody for defending his honour and his country's. He realized Harrenon and the young stranger had spared him a nasty brawl in which he would probably have got worsted, but it still irked his pride to give in and humble himself. It was the liveried man's eyes, fixed on him unwaveringly, that made him yield at last.

He drew a deep breath and turned to the veteran. "Let it not be said zat ve of Dorvinion hev no courtesy. I accept your apology for vat you said in error and beg your pardon for zose words I spoke in anger."

The whiteclad man nodded his approval. "Well said! You really must forgive my countryman's rudeness. We Men of Gondor, who long thought of ourselves as the last and only bulwark standing against the Shadow, should have learned by now that many other people fought their own fight against it no less valiantly, but some of our older folk still see an enemy in every man born east of Emyn Muil." He offered his hand to be shook. "I am Bergil son of Beregond, of Prince Faramir's White Company, and if I can do anything to make you feel more welcome in the City, I will do it gladly."

Coldan took his hand. "Zank you, sir, you're too kind. You hev done enough already." He felt Harrenon nudge him in the ribs none too gently and turned to his companion with a frown, but Harrenon was already addressing Bergil himself.

"Truly you have, sir, but if you're of the Steward's Guard, there's indeed a favour you could do us for which we would be very grateful, if you're willing. You see, my short-tempered friend Coldan here and I, Harrenon of Lossarnach, are members of The King's Players, and our troupe is putting up a play about the War of the Ring for the Cormare revels. Now it has come to our knowledge that some of our sources may have not been entirely reliable, and we don't want to offend any exalted persons that might be attending. If you could spare maybe half an hour, sir, and tell us what you know about the War and the lords and ladies involved in it?" Coldan had never heard such a long and eloquent speech off stage from him before.

Bergil smiled at them. "That I can, and will. I was too young then to fight myself, being but a boy of ten, but I was in the City during the Siege and afterwards, running errands for the healers up in the Houses when my Lord Faramir and my Lady Éowyn were treated there, and that perian, Meriadoc, who stood by my Lady in her fight against the Witch-King; I also got to know the other perian, Peregrin, quite well, and much that I did not witness myself I have since been told by my father, who heard it from the Steward. Let me just finish my dealings with the armourer first."

He collected the knife he had inspected earlier from its shelf. "This is an excellent hunting-knife, Master Angbor; it will make a lovely gift for my youngest nephew. What do you ask for it?"

"Castar and a tharni for you, sir", said the smith, obviously proud of his handiwork but also embarrassed by the scene his friend's rude behaviour had caused. Bergil handed him some coins, tucked the knife into his belt and turned back to the two actors.

"You are lucky - I am on leave, and they will not expect me at Uncle Iorlas's before nine bells. I know a decent tavern not far from here where we can sit down and discuss all you wish to know at leisure over some bread and cheese and a mug of ale or two - or a cup of wine for you, my good Dorwinian. Come!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Olog and a misses? Hehehe, that Olog was going to make mincemeat out of you boys, hehe." The ancient man was back to his laughter. "Mincemeat meat pies, filled with fruit and eagle eyes!"

Therian sucked a deep breath in and wondered if they should perhaps just slip away unnoticed. Bran seemed to have the same idea. Just as they began to back away, the old man spoke again. "Mighty dry in these parts, is it not? Of course the rain is north on the plains, and west with the horse folk, and of course up north in the Shire, but still, the city seems a bit too dry..."

"Uh," Therian began.

The old man cut him off and lay on the cobblestones to look up at the sky even as he pressed his ear to the ground. "The rain should come, and come much quicker, before the land gets any sicker."

"Bran, we should... maybe... fetch that Captain Formy fellow?"

The pile of rags twitched and sat upright again. "The hobbits are nice boys. Young, of course, but you're all young, you are. That Merry is especially clever, and Frodo seemed a little rash, but then it all worked out in the way that it does."

"It?"

"Of course it. It does. It always is."

"Beg pardon, but what is... it?"

"Life! Or Death, or baby's breath. All the same, ever onward. Old Man's speaking in cruel whispers again, I can hear him even from here, talking of evil things crawling in the dirt. Even with the King, there are still dark places where the sun will never shine, where hands will crawl, where halflings feel swords across their necks. Best keep the halflings out of the holes."

"Sir... Might we... might we help you in some way?"

"Therian, shut it. What did you mean about the halflings and the swords? And don't they live in holes?"

"Smials! Naked walk and naked lie, clothesless hobbits under sky. Ah, look!" The old man stood suddenly, quite spry, and pointed upward. Therian and Bran could see dark silver clouds moving fast on the wind. "I have found her."

With that, the old man tottered off down the road and before the boys could gather themselves to follow, he was quite definitely gone.

Therian swore.

[Formendacil]

Since it was clear that Branor and Therian had no intention of returning to the Inn, Amdír bid Captain Formy a good day, and continued on without them. He unhitched the horses from his cart once he reached the inn, and tethered them, before going inside to fetch help in hauling down the first setpieces. As he did so, he could not help but notice six handsome steeds already tethered. From their glossy coats and fine tack, it was clear to Amdír that someone of importance was present, and had a fearful premonition that it might be the new Master of Revels, the Lord Cirdacil.

A bit fearful, for he had not yet determined the measure of the lord, Amdír entered the Inn, hoping he was wrong, and wishing he was still carting his way across the Pelennor.

[the phantom]

Aldarion lowered himself onto the steps and broke the seal on the first of his letters. He looked to be pleasantly surprised as he read, and then his face showed great surprise indeed and morphed into a wide smile. But quite swiftly his grin was replaced by a look of confusion, and upon finishing the letter he quickly folded it and slipped it beneath his shirt into some inner pocket.

His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned his sharp glance to the second letter. With a swift motion he broke the seal and opened it. The suspicion displayed by his countenance was immediately displaced as Aldarion broke into the largest smile any of the players had seen from him since he had joined their group. His smile never completely faded as he continued, but it was tempered by ripples of puzzlement.

After reaching the end Aldarion hastily pocketed the letter and rose to his feet, still smiling just a bit.

[Mnemosyne]

Within the courtyard, Rollan and Amdir--the former explaining to the latter, as briefly and as best he could, what had transpired thus far--had gotten the stage back open, to yield a little more space to the usually cramped waggon. There were now a few chairs, stools, and other props scattered there, and in one of them was seated Brinn, her dress smart and her hair neatly pinned up. There was a very thin smile on her face, which not even the best efforts of her husband had managed to broaden. Asta was there as well, and Sereth, both of whom Brinn had sternly warned not to overreact to anything, and Aldarion as well, who had this peculiar look on his face, as if he were trying and utterly failing to keep a smile from it at all times. She hoped it was for their good, too.

After too long a wait, the Lord Cirdacil rode into the courtyard. "Pardon me for not rising, my lord," said Brinn. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

[Anguirel]

Presumably with the help of the inn's long-suffering ostlers and grooms, all six of the guards and nobles who constituted the visitors from the Citadel had got themselves mounted up again as they entered the courtyard. They had broken their fast with expansive satisfaction, and from dawn it had now become almost noon.

From his saddleback, the Lord Cirdacil surveyed the company who had been trooped out to receive him. Clearly, they were still badly under strength; if this Rollan was to be believed, for reasons relating to their "historical research".

Here, at last, was Miz Celebrindal, suppressing her pain with a surprising amount of proud dignity from her chair. Flanking her was Rollan and another female player, whose rudimentimary visual similarity to Celebrindal made it easy enough for Cirdacil to guess she was her sister, even without Sador's perennial helpful whisperings. At either side of this family arrangement stood a child, gripping the sister's hand and looking solemn, and a thin, good looking fellow in respectable clothing. That, Cirdacil thought, will be Amlach's friend. They share the supercilious confidence in their faces, their certainty that they are the best at their frivolous artistry...

Keeping a respectful distance from these five players was the company's carpenter, and Cirdacil's only direct servant here, Amdir.

"Pardon me for not rising, my lord," the mistress of the King's Players began. "I am unable at this time. Will you please take a seat, and tell us what it is you have come here to say?"

"I am seated already," Cirdacil answered briskly, tapping his saddle, "but I shall descend a little if you would rather; since we need to talk about things of importance, no courtesy should be wanting."

Waving one of the subordinate guards to dismount too, the lord got out of his saddle without any great elegance, though he was, after all, a very old man. The chosen soldier supported his arm, and steered him to the most comfortable of the chairs facing the threadbare company. In the background, the young lord and the other three guards, including their leader, still hovered a little awkwardly from their horseback position.

"Well, first," Cirdacil, putting aside further preamble, started, "you may have heard about the circumstances you are performing in this year; the visit of the Perian consul, and of the Court itself. I must immediately stress that none of this is in the least exaggerated. This year, you are all the King's Players indeed. Forget about Bard the Northerner, or whoever your previous patrons may have been; you're about to have to live up to your name's most high-vaunting expectations."

Cirdacil paused to glare at his escort, apparently to ensure all their expressions were suitably solemn, then went on.

"I am, as you perhaps know, the Lord Warden of the Exchequer as well as, more recently, Master of the Revels, so I know with particular accuracy how much gold we can offer you for a successful performance. I am able to extend forty golden castar to be shared among your company, on top of your usual takings, if your performance is pleasing. Furthermore, you will be ratified as the official theatrical company of this city, licensed to play when the King sends for you, and rewarded on each separate occasion."

He had been speaking in a glum monotone while he announced these arrangements, but as he changed tack, he perked up a bit.

"Of course, you may not be pleasing to his majesty and his majesty's guests. And if you are not, it is otiose to add that your play's run will be over. I myself will almost certainly lose my office and responsibility for the Revels." He spoke here in an impassioned tone, perhaps mistakable for panic, though it was, in fact, anticipation. "If you fail, indeed, there may not be any plays in Minas Anor anymore."

Cirdacil now rose to his feet in a peremptory and powerful motion, leaving the guard who had helped him assume his place lagging paces behind.

"And in this regard, you have made a pretty deplorable start. Hardly had your, ah, rehearsing begun, when rumours from the very most exalted of places reached me that many of you were drinking all over town, dragging the city into disrepute before honoured guests in the name of your supposedly sacred art."

Perhaps surprisingly, at this pitch of anger he laid his eyes on the stalwart, loyally attentive carpenter.

"You, Amdil, no Amdir. I was under the impression you were a sensible fellow. Yet you led three other of these poltroons to a low drinking-hole, where they brought shame upon us all, in front of the Perian consul, no less." He snorted with decision.

"I am disappointed with you, sirrah, and I dispense with your services forthwith. Perhaps this company will still adopt you amongst them, if they don't think you more trouble than gain."

He breathed anew, in a more relaxed rhythm, as if with the sense of a task well done, before turning his head back in the direction of the pocket of riders.

"Now, Sador, come forward!"

The young lord trotted nervously up to a level with where his father and the guard were sitting. Cirdacil continued to speak, at last in a rather satisfied tone of voice.

"I gather you've been having certain difficulties with your script, Mistress Celebrindal, Master...Aldarion? yes, that was it, Aldarion. Anyway, I've decided that while this business arangement is forced to endure between us, I might as well loan you my son, Sador. I can spare him for the next fortnight, if I must; I am not a judge of artistic merit, proud indeed not to be such, but my second son is a noted scholar and thinker, and may be able to assist you if you fall into any egregious lapses of taste or decorum."

Cirdacil got up and now stamped back to his horse (again leaving the guard trailing and gawping at the old man's vigour,) while his son lingered.

"It will be an honour to assist," the young man added to his father's last speech. Then, after setting his mouth in a thin frame that proceeds many an ordeal, he dismounted, and shuffled himself forward on his bad leg towards Brinn, putting out his hand.

"Sador of Burlach, Mistress Celebrindal; I am greatly looking forward to our dramatic partnership. I have some small acquaintance with your playwright, by repute," and here he directed a look at Aldarion that almost had awe in it, such was its shy admiration, "and will be, well, quite thrilled to serve any of you in any capacity."

[the phantom]

How did this man come to be Master of Revels? thought Aldarion. This business of not clearly knowing the name of Amdir- surely if he had done his homework in speaking to the previous Master of Revels he would know Amdir better than that. And so far as being unsure of MY name- well, if he was truly a fan of theater he wouldn't have to cast about for my name. And if he in fact knows my name but simply wished to appear as if he didn't know it- then it was a very low as well as feeble means of promoting his importance while perhaps attempting to impress upon me the low status I possess in his eyes.

Aldarion tried not to roll his eyes. He seems like one of those ambitious political sorts I always hated back in Dol Amroth. But, well, it won't solve anything to treat him poorly or react negatively. The payoff he is offering is considerable, and the patronage of the King himself, well- that is precisely the sort of thing I dreamed of when I joined this group!

Aldarion was pleased when Sador took over the conversation. He was considerably more pleasant than his father. "Thank you for your generous words, sir, and thank you in advance for all the support I am sure you will give us," said Aldarion, and stepped forward and handed Sador a letter.

[Nerwen]

"Asta, can you please let go now? It hurts," said Sereth in an agonised whisper.

It was only then that Asta realised that under the strain of her valiant struggle to obey Brinn's orders and not say anything whatever at any point in this extraordinary meeting, she had been slowly tightening her grasp to the point of all but crushing the girl's hand.

She tried to keep her hastily muttered apologies out of the ears of the Master of Revels' son, but to no avail, judging from the quick, amused look he gave her.

Asta bristled at what she took to be the first sign of Sador's belittling aristocratic ways.

She really did not at all like the fact that they would have to deal with a noble at such close quarters– particularly not one who was sure to interfere with everything they did, and maybe force all kinds of unwelcome changes to the script. Who knew what would please a "noted scholar and thinker"? As if people like that ever went to plays in the first place! And then, the young lord was badly lame, and, by the way he dragged his leg, suffered from something much more lasting than a sprained ankle. That added a wholly different kind of awkwardness to the situation.

Asta just stopped herself from grimacing. Things were going to be very tricky in the days to come, very tricky indeed. True, they were not being marched off to prison, or likely to be, and instead had been offered a chance at success beyond any but her wildest daydreams– if all went well. There was the rub. Asta had already begun to imagine all the things that might not go well. With her naturally suspicious mind, she guessed there was much more to Lord Burlach's fair offer than appeared on the surface.

She was troubled, too, by this mysterious business of Aldarion's. Asta had always known, in a vague sort way of, that the playwright had what Brinn called "connections", but it was a different matter to see the proof before her eyes that he was not in truth one of them, but belonged in some measure to the remote world of lords and captains. And then, what could be in those letters? She would have to find out, whatever else might befall.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon and Coldan were now heading back to the inn, after a very intriguing talk with Bergil. Their new acquaintance had proven himself very helpful, asking few questions and readily accepting to give them whatever information they required. He told them many things about King Elessar, of whom he spoke very highly. He fondly recalled the first time he had seen the King in the Houses of Healing, just after the battle on the Fields of Pelennor was over. As a matter of fact, Bergil spoke about the King with a sort of reverence that seemed much more than the formal respect a subject is taught to have for his lord. Harrenon guessed there was a story behind that too, but he said nothing about it. Bergil also told them quite a lot about Eowyn and gave them some information about Boromir and Denethor too. All in all, they had done what Brinn had sent them to do. They had found whatever information they could about the Men that had been involved in the War of the Ring and it had come from a very reliable source.

“We did well, I should say,” Harrenon commented to Coldan. “I think we have all we need, don’t you?”

Coldan nodded to confirm this.

“Of course,” he added. “Ve vill have to change half the script, now.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Harrenon admitted. “Even more, if what the others find also does not match with what we already had.”

The two arrived at the inn without any incidents. Therian and Branor had not yet returned, but all the others were there together with Amdir.

“It’s good that you are all here,” Harrenon said in greeting. “We have quite a lot to tell you. We seemed to have a rotten luck when we first did research for this play. I am sorry to say this, but most of what we have thought was true is actually wrong.”

[Thinlómien]

Sereth listened to the old man with a serious face while secretly regretting she had childishly taken Asta's hand, for the woman was squeezing her fingers numb. "Asta, can you please let go now? It hurts," she whispered rather urgently. The woman let go and whispered an apology at Sereth's direction, which the newly arrived young noble smiled at.

Sereth didn't get it though. She definitely didn't like the old nobleman - all nobles are like that, Aelin would've said but she had been gone for years now - and what on earth was he doing making his son interfere with their play on top op everything else? Sereth was sure the man would ruin Brinn and Aldarion's work - as if there hadn't been enough trouble already.

"I don't get it," she said to Asta in a voice that was intended to be a whisper. "What's happening? Why was that old self-important... piece of nobility blackmailing us?"

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn thanked Cirdacil for his time, and turned over his statements in her head as he left. Oh, he was a politician, that was for sure, and though what he said was mostly harmless--only raising the stakes from what she had all but concluded from the news of the previous night might be the case--there had to be something going on behind it all. Did that Sador have something to do with it? Or the letters Aldarion had received? And what about firing Amdir--whose name he couldn't even get right? She pinched the bridge of the nose--she did not understand politicking!

"I don't get it," Sereth said, in what Brinn normally called a stage whisper. "What's happening? Why was that old self-important... piece of nobility blackmailing us?"

Blackmail? They were already like to get in trouble if they messed this up. "I don't get it either," said Brinn quietly. "But things aren't as bad as you might think! Why, if we can pull this off, we'll have such money--and a steadier income, though I hope His Grace will think it fit that we travel, as well. And if we're booted out by those who think they're too good for us? Why, there are still so many other cities in Gondor, not to mention the Northlands, and we could even perform at the Pelennor, for that isn't part of Minas Anor, is it?" She thought a moment. "In fact, if we decide that the Revel-Master's terms aren't acceptable, we could move outside the City now. That wouldn't stop us from the King's displeasure, but it'd keep us out of Cirdacil's reach." Of course, he had already planted one of his own among them, and Brinn knew what that meant, but perhaps he could be reasoned with? He was young...

She sounded a good deal more confident than she felt, but... well, that might be all that was holding them together at this point. She hoped the others came back soon, and that they had been fruitful in their research.

[Nerwen]

Asta felt like slapping the silly child– who was not such a child, if it came to that. Certainly she was old enough to know better. What a thing to blurt out in their present company!

"What are you talking about, Sereth?" she said, in her own, intentional, stage whisper. "I'm sure good Lord Burlach only means to spur us to do our best. He is the Master of Revels, after all." That was for Sador's benefit: he could hardly have failed to pick up Sereth's words, spoken as they were in the penetrating little voice that always carried so clearly to the back row of the audience.

When she risked a glance at the young nobleman she saw that he was smiling again, but somehow that did not reassure her at all. There was something inward and ambiguous about that smile. This Sador– Asta frowned, trying to recall where she had heard the name before– this Sador might be less haughty than his sire, but he would definitely bear watching.

She had a more immediate concern, anyway. "Brinn," she said quietly, "what about Amdĺr? Whatever happened, exactly, I have to say it was much more likely our lot were the ones who behaved badly– don't you agree?"

[Anguirel]

The sound of the hooves of Lord Cirdacil's escort taking off back to the Citadel could still be heard outside, though young Sador lingered yet in front of the players. Having introduced himself, he inclined his head to the whole company in a small bow, before backing to his own horse and clambering back on it.

He was no longer the only centre of commotion, as the two returning actors, Coldan and Harrenon, had rushed through and were explaining themselves before their leader.

"Well, gentles all, I have no wish to intrude amongst you," he said, giving Asta in particular a polite, assured look, "so I shall just go and settle with Ingold a permanent stall for this brute, and fix myself up a room, too, where I can lodge here without disturbing the rhythms you have already set in place. We shall see each other at your next rehearsal, which I am intensely looking forward to..."

With a thin but inclusive smile, he turned his mount and left the players, for the moment, to themselves again.

[Boromir88]

Branor was pondering and muttering about the old man. What did that riddle even mean? Therian was thinking about something too, but it wasn't about the hobbits.

"I suppose we should head back now." said Branor.

"Go back? Where?"

"To The Risen Loaf of course!" exclaimed Branor. Therian was suddenly more alert. Did Branor really want to go back to Mistress Fea's shop? No. It turns out he was having fun with Therian's distracted mind "Back to the Inn. Where did you think I meant? Yes. We will be back in Ingolds Inn. Back to see Brinn. To tell her all about our hobbitin'."

"I like the crazy man's riddles better." grumbled Therian.

"Yeah." he laughed "Me too."

On their heavy walk back to the Inn, the two players went over exactly what they discovered about the four hobbits. Yes four, as Merriadoc the hobbit, was Lord Merry, and not Lady Mary the Elf. It was mostly Branor talking and Therian agreeing though.

"Do you think we should tell her most of this is coming from a basket case?" asked Therian.

"Erm, not exactly." Branor was uncomfortable out right lying to Brinn, but thought partial truths were harmless enough. "I think we tell her this came from an older gentlemen, who we feel had an astute long-term memory. Nothing with the other business about his missing wife."

"Ok." said Therian. He had continued walking as they were now back to the Inn, but Branor grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled him back. There were unfamiliar people talking to Brinn and company and from the looks of things it was serious.

"Who do you suppose they are and what do they want with our troupe?" Branor whispered. He was concerned it may have something to do with their fight with Olog, since one of the men looked of the important sort.

[Formendacil]

Amdír was not normally given to drinking midday, but he had also never been fired before, and at his age the new experience seemed to call for some sort of celebration. That being the case, as soon as Lord Cirdacil had withdrawn, Amdír made his way to the inn's tavern, and sat down to breakfast: a pint of ale.

It might be thought that since Amdír was normally deeply respectful to anyone with superior authority that he would take Lord Cirdacil's decision with the same unconcerned deference as he would a direction from Brinn or a direction to move along from the Tower Guard; however, this was not the case. The truth is that Amdír's deference to those in authority was the result of a deep-seated belief that because they held great powers, they had a responsibility to those under their power to be just.

Lord Cirdacil's abrupt termination of Amdír's service with the Master of Revels was not, in any way the carpenter could see it, just, and coming so swiftly upon his assumption of the office, Cirdacil's reputation was ruined forever in Amdír's mind, whereas Lord Hallas, who had proved himself a good man, if frivolous, over the course of several years, would probably have been forgiven the matter.

Amdír supposed that if he were to sue for justice from King Elessar that he would find the matter redressed, such was his faith in the essential goodness of those in power (and it did not escape the carpenter's memory at this time that Cirdacil of Burlach was said to be of lowly birth), but he was not so blissfully trustful of royal justice that he did not know that Cirdacil was a powerful man, and that if he were forced to take the carpenter back into his service, he would find other ways to make Amdír and the Players suffer.

No, Amdír would leave the matter be, and now that he was no longer in Cirdacil's direct service, he would probably never have to deal with the man again (Amdír no longer thought of his as "Lord"). He was undoubtedly going to get an earful from his brother-in-law and children about losing a position with the offices of the Tower, but no hard times would come of it. Amdír had become a servant of the Master of Revels because he had already worked several years in Lord Hallas's household, and although he had ceased working there for the duration of Cormarë, he was expected to resume his duties once the play was over. Financially, Amdír did not need the Tower's money, but the insult of firing him rankled, and it was an honest vassal's grudge that he nursed as he sat alone in the tavern, as well as a slowly diminishing tankard of ale.

[Thinlómien]

Brinn answered to her concerns while Asta dismissed them as silly - well she didn't say so but it was quite clearly in her tone. When the woman turned and started talking with her sister, Sereth stuck her tongue out at her. She knew it was childish but she felt justified in doing it.

It was not that she didn't like Asta - she did, she had adored Asta and her dragon when she had first joined the King's Players, but lately the woman had also started to irritate her. She seemed to forget Sereth was now already 12 - almost woman grown - and not a mere nine year old girl like when she and old Aelin had joined the troupe. Also, Sereth did not understand why all the men liked her so much, it was not that Asta was not pretty but she was not a stunning beauty. And even now she was flirting with the newcomer. Maybe she thought no one would notice but Sereth did.

The newcomer, however - without forgetting to smile at Asta but that went without saying - excused himself and hurried away. Now what is he up to? Sereth wondered. Nothing good I think! Since nobody seemed to be needing her, and half of the troupe was missing anyway, Sereth decided to slip away for a moment to follow the stranger, but stealthily.

[Mnemosyne]

"I agree," Brinn told Asta, "but we did give them time off, and I daresay the troupe behaved no worse than a Guardsman on leave." She sighed. "Poor Amdir. If we pull this off, I suspect that the Master of Revels will forget he ever fired him, but if we don't... It is a good thing we all have a say in the script; otherwise I'd fear much more for this Sador fellow." She mused for a moment, and an idea suddenly came to her. "You know, there have been official revelries up in the Citadel for years, ones that the King himself must surely have approved! Mightn't there be an official account of the way things happened? If only we had a way of getting up there..."

Rollan, in the meantime, had followed Amdir to the common room, and, genially, insisted on paying for the man's drink, and a meal for both of them to match. "After all," he said, "you're on our pay for now. And maybe just as well, for I'd hate to work for a lord who won't let his men drink on their time off." He paused. They oughtn't get in more trouble with this Burlach for drinking, but drinking--so long as it didn't interfere with work or the performance--was part and parcel of being a Player in the city. "One moment," he said. "I have an idea." Rollan got up and sought out Master Ingold.

"I have an idea," he told the innkeeper, "and let me see if it works for you. Can you offer your ale here at a reduced rate for us Players?" He held up a hand to forestall any cynical response. "If you do, I promise you we'll make sure the Players only drink here, and we'll empty the bar after the performance as well. Oh, and--if any one of us, myself included, gets drunk before that time? Kindly dump a bucket of cold water on his head, and send him back to the waggons. We'll deal with him there." It took some haggling, but Ingold consented, and Rollan returned to the table a very happy man. Brinn would be proud of him for that kind of thinking. "So," he said, clapping Amdir on the back, as if he were one of his old friends from Dale, "how does it feel to be your own man?"

[Formendacil]

"So, how does it feel to be your own man?"

Amdír would have preferred to purchase his own "breakfast," since being dismissed from his job had made him touchy to demonstrate that he needed no charity--and certainly didn't need King Elessar's gold after it had passed through Cirdacil's tainted hands--but he accepted Rollan's offer in the spirit in which it was intended, and while he felt it was unnecessary, he was grateful for the friendship it indicated. Besides, Rollan was right about being Amdír's new "master," insofar as employment went, and he wasn't about to gainsay him.

"I am not sure how I feel," he admitted. "I am still in the partial employment of Lord Hallas, and will be expected back in his household once Cormarë has passed, so I do not know that I truly am my own man. But I am wroth with Cirdacil of Burlach, and want to see the Players succeed now more than before, if only to demonstrate his poor judgment."

[the phantom]

Now that words had been exchanged, in person and in writing, Aldarion was prepared to set to work researching the facts of the Ring drama. After a quick visit to his room to change, groom, and jot down a few notes, Aldarion made his way to the common room.

He approached the table where Rollan and Amdir were sitting, but did not sit. "Rollan- while in Minas Anor I had planned to pay a visit to a couple of old captain friends my father made during the war. Now that we are tasked with correcting our production, I thought that I should still proceed with my social agenda, only now coupling it with my investigations. It is quite possible they could offer a useful tidbit or two."

[Anguirel]

It seemed that Sador had been perfectly honest about his next few activities; they were so humdrum that if his discreet pursuer watched her quarry carefully, she would soon detect that they bored even him. He tracked down the much-harrassed Ingold, still unrested since his startling encounter with the Guards of the Citadel and fresh from a wearying negotiation with Rollan. Both the innkeeper and the lordling, then, seemed tired as they exchanged routine sentences. Sador did not bother to haggle over the price either of the stable or his new room. His father might be a professional money man, but either this son was less interested, or, for the moment, he was occupied by even more important concerns.

Having surrendered the stallion's bridle to Ingold and received his key in exchange, a large thing of plain, undecorative pewter, he began, just as he had announced he would, to trace his way to the lodging. He leaned often against the wall as he moved his inelegant, slightly painful way along. Sereth would notice that he was carring a satchel-like carrier at his shoulder, most likely for clothes. It did weigh him down, but also balanced the motion of his bad leg a little. For some reason he did not, as many invalids did, make use of a stick; he didn't even carry a sword, only a dagger in a finely enamelled hilt.

Sador had paid for the largest unoccupied room on the ground floor, anticipating that he would find the stairs beyond him. He now unlocked it, flung his pack as far as he could inside - it fell with a soft fthlumpf, confirming the idea that it contained only clothes or maybe papers - and followed it in. A larger crumpling sound and a bouncing spring would indicate that he had thrown himself on his bed, fully dressed even to his boots, to pause and think.

He had left his door ajar...

[Nerwen]

Binn said, "You know, there have been official revelries up in the Citadel for years, ones that the King himself must surely have approved! Mightn't there be an official account of the way things happened? If only we had a way of getting up there..."

"We-ell, I suppose I could go," said Asta doubtfully. "But they don't allow just anyone up there, I believe... Brinn, do you think this Lord Sador would write me some kind of letter or something, so the Tower Guards would let me through? Is it worth asking him? Only, we have to have some reason– after all, he's meant to be here to tell us how things are done; we can't just say we don't trust him."

Asta realised that her sister had not quite said that anyway, but she assumed Brinn must share her suspicion that the terrible old Lord Burlach was, for some reason, setting them up for failure.

[Pitchwife]

“We have quite a lot to tell you", Harrenon said. "We seemed to have a rotten luck when we first did research for this play. I am sorry to say this, but most of what we have thought was true is actually wrong.”

That was no exaggeration. Their conversation with Bergil had been long and fruitful - so much so that Coldan had had to borrow quill and paper from the tavern's landlord to take down some notes - and little of what he had told them matched the way they had been about to represent their main characters.

"He's right", Coldan told Brinn. "Ve met an officer of the Steward's White Company who was an errand boy for the Houses of Healing during ze last days of the War and came to know some of ze Ringbearer's companions - most notably ze halflings Peregrin (who, it seems, vasn't a prince after all) and Meriadoc. According to our officer, it vas ze latter who helped ze Lady Éowyn slay ze Vitch-King; and he vas quite sure neither of zem ever mentioned an elven maid named Mary as a member of zeir Fellowship." He looked at Asta unhappily and bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Asta; I really am, but zat's ze plain truth."

"This is all very well", Brinn put in before her sister could throw another tantrum about refusing to play a halfling, "but didn't I tell you to gather information about the Men of Gondor? All of them?"

"I vas getting to zat", Coldan hastened to assure her, grateful to change the subject. "He had some very interesting things to say about the King, vich bear to be quoted literally." He leafed through the sheaf of notes he had brought with him and, having found the pertinent lines, proceeded to read. "Quote: 'Rugged and tanned he looked when I first saw him, like one long vont to sleep rough and valk abroad in every veather, and yet noble and kingly, stern of countenance but kind in his demeanor, jesting viz ze halflings even ven he vas veary from battle. Only much later did it become known to us zat he had long fought ze Shadow in many lands, even here in Gondor, under many names and guises', unquote, emphasis mine." He tucked the papers back under his arm. "Much as I hate to admit it, it looks like Branor's spy-king idea has a grain of truth in it - although our informant vas quite adamant zat ze King never had any secret traffic viz ze Enemy; he seemed to consider ze mere suggestion blasphemy." He cleared his throat. "Zere's a lot more, about Boromir and ze lord Denethor, and Prince Faramir and ze Lady Éowyn, but it's a long story, and I'd like somezing to oil my throat for ze telling."

[Galadriel55]

Two young men smiled affectionately as Thiliel sprinted across the yard into the inn as fast as her skirt would allow her. It was now safe to leave the girl and go their own way.

Thiliel ran inside and almost knocked over the innkeeper. Immediately she flung her arms around him. “Uncle! I’m so glad to see you!” her joy radiated from her face. “I’m so happy that I could come! Mother didn’t want to send me, but our new neighbours said that they were visiting Minas Anor too, so we convinced her to let me come with them.” Thiliel took a quick look through the door that she left ajar. “Oh, I think they’ve left already! It’s too bad I couldn’t introduce them to you!” The girl hugged Ingold once more, oblivious to the inn’s customers eyeing her queerly.

The man smiled back at his niece. “It’s good to see you too, lassie. Right now I am very busy, as you can see, and I don’t have the time to speak with you.” Thiliel saw the truth in his words: he was referring to one of these lengthy talks that they used to have. “It’s all right, Uncle,” she reassured him, “I can also help you with something, maybe?” Ingold pretended to consider his answer. “You are probably tired from the road. For today you can walk around, see the city, or rest a little in your room, if you want to.” Thiliel just started to walk away, when Ingold added, “Oh, darling, I forgot – before you go, can you please take some food over to a woman outside by the carts?” Thiliel nodded enthusiastically. The man handed her a tray with a mug of water and a dish of steaming potatoes. “Her name is Celebrindal. She has black hair. You’ll recognize her all right. If she wants something else, tell me. Will you?” Thiliel nodded again, and then scuttled off.

She has noticed the wagons in the courtyard when she just came, and wondered about them, but the excitement of seeing her dear uncle again, almost five years from their last parting, completely wiped out everything else. Now again her curiosity shot up. When she reached the carts, she found not one, but four people, who were discussing something amongst each other.

“Good day, sirs and ladies! I am Thiliel, I just came here today, and I’m helping my Uncle Ingold. He asked me to deliver this to Mistress Celebrindal.” With these words the girl carefully handed the tray over to the dark haired woman who was sitting on a chair, and curtseyed. “If there is anything you want, please tell me, and I’ll fetch it for you.” She smiled at the group, continuously wondering about them.

[Mnemosyne]

"That's the spirit!" Rollan told Amdir. "You just wait, we'll make this such a success that that Lord Burlach will want you back in a heartbeat! And then--if you like--you can have the pleasure of telling him 'no'!"

[Mnemosyne]

"Asking Sador is worth a try at least," Brinn had told Asta. "We can't say he can't be trusted, you're right. But we'll find out how much he can be, by what he tells us. And there has to be another way to learn, if that doesn't work."

Then, after much musing and some waiting, Harrenon and Coldan had returned, and with much welcome news.

Well, welcome insofar as it meant progress! Even if it sounded as if a lot of work came with that progress. Brinn itched to snatch the papers right from under Coldan's hand, but she tucked her hands away. "Well done, both of you," she said. "Please, feel free to take the noon meal in the common room; Rollan and Amdir should be there."

Amdir--right! "Oh," she said. "We were paid a visit this morning by the new Master of the Revels. After much posturing, rewarding, and possible threatening, he had the courtesy to send us a minder, one Sador, who will be working with Aldarion on the script. And there is other news that perhaps Amdir would rather tell you himself. But let's go over your full report after you have eaten."

Just then she saw a sweet-looking maiden approach with a steaming tray. “Good day, sirs and ladies!" she said. "I am Thiliel, I just came here today, and I’m helping my Uncle Ingold. He asked me to deliver this to Mistress Celebrindal.”

"I am she," said Brinn. "Thank you, Miss Thiliel. As you can see," she said, pointing to her bound foot, "I turned my ankle yesterday, and have been told to keep off it for at least a week, so I'm dependent on the service of others. It was very kind for your uncle to think to send someone to look after me, and if I should need anything, I'll get someone to fetch you straightaway." She fished around in her purse, produced a small coin, and pressed it in Thiliel's hand.

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel thanked Mistress Celebrindal for the coin, curtseyed again, and went off. She could now go to the market to get herself a sweet! Or maybe a new pretty ribbon to tie her hair with. She'd wear it on the festival. Or maybe not. Uncle Ingold was right - I am tired! After all, we've been up and walking with the sun. I should go to my room now, and perhaps have a nap. I'll go to the market tomorrow...

The girl bounded into the common room; even though she was weary she couldn't resist. She slowed down to avoid knocking the tables over and gave a wave to her uncle. He winked at her but continued on with his work. Thiliel looked around her, taking in as much of her surroundings as she could. How comfortble and inviting the inn looked! She aways thought that. Especially when it's filled with people, and they are all enjoying a delicious lunch, or dinner, or whenever they are all gathered here for whatever they want. Lunch time is a wonderful time, she thought, even though lunch had just started, and the inn wasn't yet packed like it would be about half an hour later. No, it's not a lunch - it's a feast! In the highest tower of a castle! And they are all lords and ladies of different lands! And Uncle Ingold is the King! And I'm the royal princess!

Letting her imagination run wild with each lord's story, she picked up her skirt and danced her way to the hallway. She was spinning faster and faster, laughing at her game, when, about ten feet into the hallway, all of a sudden she collided with a girl around her own age.

"I'm terribly sorry!" she apologized sincerely to the girl, helping her to steady herself, even though Thiliel was quite dizzy, "I didn't see you! I was playing that this is a palace, and I'm the princess, and I was dancing and not looking around. I like playing these making-up games! Do you want to play with me? You can be the princess too! We'll both be princesses! Oh, I forgot to introduce myself - I'm Thiliel. The landlord here is my Uncle Ingold. What is your name?"

[Pitchwife]

Entering the common room, Coldan bumped into Aldarion, who, it seemed, was just about to leave.

"Vatch your steps, man!" he exclaimed, more puzzled than irritated; he had assumed that the playwright would be long gone, carrying out the assignment Brinn had given him. "Vat are you doing here anyvay? Shouldn't you be researching in ze city?"

"Watch your own", Aldarion retorted. "Things haven't gone quite as planned here. We've had a surprise visit from the most high and mighty Lord Cirdacil, newly appointed Master of the Revels; Rollan and Amdír are in there, they can tell you all about it, if Brinn hasn't already. If you'll excuse me now, I have work to do."

"Vell, good luck zen! You'll need it if you vant to match vat ve've gathered zis morning." With these encouraging words, he turned away from Aldarion to scan the inside of the common room, which was getting quite crowded with guests for nuncheon; a warm, delicious smell wafted out of the open hatch from the kitchen. He spied Amdír and Rollan, already busy with their meals, and made a beeline for their table, narrowly evading a collision with Ingold, who was darting about the room taking orders.

"If you please, Master Ingold", he said, grabbing the innkeepers sleeve before he could move on, "I'd like a dish of zose yummy oven potatoes you sent to Mistress Celebrindal, and - has ze new vine from Emyn Arnen come in yet? Excellent, I'll hev a flagon of zat to wash 'em down, please, zank you very much." They had only had a light meal with Bergil, and these heady southern wines needed a solid foundation.

Nodding a greeting to his two friends, he dumped himself into a chair and his sheaf of notes on the table in front of Rollan. "So, I gather it's been an eventful morning for all of us. Vat's that I hear about ze new Master of ze Revels? Zinks he can boss us around, does he? And he sent us vat - a minder? A chaperon? A censor, more likely. How dare he!" The idea that some pompous aristocrat presumed to interfere with the Players' artistic freedom outraged him - although, he suddenly found himself thinking, maybe it offered new perspectives. Perhaps he should have a word with this - Sador? Was that the name Brinn had mentioned? - who was going to 'work with Aldarion on the script'; if he could convince the man, this could be his chance to get some of the changes to the dialogue he had always wanted to make implemented.

"Not zat some of us couldn't do viz a chaperon", he went on, his mood a good deal mellowed. "Vere are our two miscreants, by ze vay? Sleeping off zeir hangover, I guess?" He turned to Amdír, a dismal suspicion suddenly flaring up in him. What could Brinn have meant with 'news that perhaps Amdír would rather tell you himself'? "Zey did come back to ze inn with you, didn't zey?"

[Thinlómien]

The new man surely was boring - he just got a room and went in there. Sereth followed him quietly, and found herself thinking about his limping. It was weird he did not lean on any stick. Sereth's first thought was that the man was faking his limp, but then she thought that if you were faking being lame, it would make much more sense to have a stick (basic theatre, Sereth, basic theatre! the lame and the old are recognised just because of the stick!). Proud of her thinking, she followed the man until he went to his room.

There was a soft thump - maybe some baggage falling on the floor - and then another, louder thump, combined with the creaking of the bed. Okay, so he just went to bed. How uninteresting, Sereth thought. She noticed, though, that the man had forgotten his door ajar. Poor him! He needs to get up and limp here to get it closed. It must be very hard for him. So, quickly, she pushed the door closed and retreated.

She was walking back to the direction of the common room when something bumped into her.

"I'm terribly sorry!" the something said in a girl's voice. "I didn't see you! I was playing that this is a palace, and I'm the princess, and I was dancing and not looking around. I like playing these making-up games! Do you want to play with me? You can be the princess too! We'll both be princesses! Oh, I forgot to introduce myself - I'm Thiliel. The landlord here is my Uncle Ingold. What is your name?"

Sereth was left quite speechless. The stranger was a girl of her age or maybe a bit older, dressed in bright-coloured clothes and looking very happy. But - playing making-up games? Princesses? Dancing around?

"I'm Seri," Sereth said after a silence that was a tad too long to be comfortable. "Or Sereth, actually, Seri is just a nickname. I am an actress of The King's Players."

[Anguirel]

Sador sat up on the broad but lumpy bed as he heard the none-too-distant noise of human collision and childish prattle, alerting him to the fact he'd left his new chamber's door open. At that moment a draught infiltrated too, disordering some of his papers; just as Sador was irritably raising himself up after them, the door clicked shut at last. Probably another breeze.

To his extreme annoyance, Sador couldn't find the note he'd been writing at all. He was a young fellow who thought a lot - perhaps even too much, and while talking to himself sometimes eased the incumbent pressure, he usually found writing to himself rather clearer. But of the latest scribbled instruction he found no sign, and frustrating though it was, he was forced to get another shred of spare parchment out of his pack, ink up his quill, and get it down again.

The original had wafted far beyond the doorframe, an unprepossessing scrap with a list of figures, expenses of some kind perhaps, mostly bedaubing it, but between them a single sentence, written at such speed as to be hardly comprehensible except for two clear capital As at the beginning of spidery names, and another, ordinal number interspersed among the words, Third. Sador had no thought for this lost marginalium and neither, most likely, would anybody else.

He opened the pack's last buckle and sprawled its contents upon his bed. There were no changes of clothes after all, just papers, papers, papers, some of them even full manuscript books without binding. Sador was interested in none of these for the present, and only ceased his rummage when he reached a curved wooden object; one of those very Eriador pipes, popular at court, which so irritated his father. When he'd retrieved a pouch of leaf, also, he filled and lit it. At least his temporary stay in this brutish hole would allow him to indulge the weakness and calm his nerves beyond that stern paternal gaze...

His father had, as was his wont, just made things a little bit harder. After the impetuous dismissal of the loyal company carpenter who would have, Sador suspected, answered to his official employer with some degree of reliability, the rest of the troupe, too, would be bound to feel bad feeling against him, Sador, as Cirdacil's son. Probably Aldarion would be intrigued enough to be reasonable, but the rest? Alas, Sador thought, if he was to be of any use to his father's plans, let alone his own, he would soon have to get up, walk about and be as, well, as damned winning as he could...

Whatever state things were in, for instance, by the next rehearsal, he would be absolutely obliged, he mused grimly, to enjoy it. After the respite of this pipe, he would have to set a smile on his face and energy in his limbs, and force them to stay where they were.

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel's eyes widened. An actress! Thiliel has seen a play just once in her life; she hasn't seen any actors, though. The people on stage were real people, who lived for real, laughed for real, and cried for real. 'Actors' was just a word in Thiliel's world for a very long time. And, how could this confused girl be... an actress?

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Seri! I've never met a real actress before! How do you act? And who are the King's players? Do you mean that you play making-up games for King Elessar?" Think before you open your big mouth! Thiliel scolded herself immediately. That question was too absurd to be true, and it could have offended Sereth. "Please forgive me if my question was impolite, not to say rude," Thiliel tried to correct her mistake. Then a sudden idea came to her mind. "Say - are these your wagons outside in the yard? And do you know Mistress Celebrindal? Is she also an actress?" Thiliel's previous curiosity returned to her in full measure, and was getting quite out of her controll.

[Nerwen]

Asta paused at the doorway into the common room and directed a look black as thunder at Coldan. In her heart she knew it was not the prompter's fault that Mary was a hobbit and not an Elf, but she felt like punishing someone.

Coldan, however, avoided her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in his conversation with Rollan and Amdĺr. She was sure he had seen her, though.

She moved on, down the passageway. This part of the inn being short on windows, it was rather dim here even in the daytime; she might have walked right into Sereth, if the chattering of the girl's companion had not given warning.

Her eyes adjusting, Asta recognised the second girl as Master Ingold's niece, whatever her name was. Asta had already put her down as an overly flighty and excitable tyoe, and now she seemed much more interested in pumping Sereth for theatrical knowledge than in helping out her uncle. But that was Master Ingold's affair; for her part, Asta thought it would do Sereth good to have a friend near her own age. The child had been dreadfully moody lately.

The newcomer's door was closed, and there was no answer to her tentative knock. She did not repeat it. On second thoughts, perhaps it would seem too forward of her, rapping on the door of a strange young man's room. Both the girls had turned to watch her, as it was. No, she would have to wait until such time as Lord Sador condescended to leave his room and mingle with the company.

As she retreated, Asta caught sight of something white, lying there in the dark passageway. She bent to pick it up. It was a scrap of paper.

[Formendacil]

He turned to Amdír, a dismal suspicion suddenly flaring up in him. What could Brinn have meant with 'news that perhaps Amdír would rather tell you himself'? "Zey did come back to ze inn with you, didn't zey?"

"No," said Amdír, a bit more curtly than he might otherwise have done. "They did not want to return, and I was more concerned with the setpieces than them."

"Go easy on Amdír," said Rollan, "he's having a rough day. Lord Cirdacil has already given him grief for not keeping a tighter rein on those two, and has fired him for his troubles."

[Thinlómien]

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Seri! I've never met a real actress before! How do you act? And who are the King's players? Do you mean that you play making-up games for King Elessar? Please forgive me if my question was impolite, not to say rude."

Sereth could not help smiling. The older girl's childish manner made her feel relaxed, and she was happy to demonstrate her professional knowledge. However, when she was just about to reply, she noticed Asta who walked past them and knocked on the newcomer's bedroom door. What did she want of him? Had the glances been that serious between them? Feeling slightly disgusted, Sereth was happy to hear the girl called Thiliel continue:

"Say - are these your wagons outside in the yard? And do you know Mistress Celebrindal? Is she also an actress?"

"Yes, they are ours. Mistress Celebrindal is my... friend and she is our director and manager, but does a fair bit of acting and writing too. We are now doing a play on the War of the Ring and yes, the King is coming to see it, if you meant that, and lots of other important people too - like the Lord Samvais of the Periannath! It makes me a little nervous, though - you see I play Frodo of the Nine Fingers."

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon had gone to join Coldan, Rollan and Amdir and was there just in time to hear Rollan’s last words. He frowned. That he had not expected.

“Fired him?” he repeated. “But how? He can’t fire Amdir just like that. And who is he going to replace him with anyway?”

Harrenon stopped abruptly when he saw the other three looking at him strangely. He shook his head and gave a shamefaced smile.

“I’m sorry, Amdir,” he said quickly. “It was tactless of me to ask about a replacement like this. But what happened, really? And isn’t there anything you could do? Isn’t there anything we could do for you?”

[Formendacil]

“I’m sorry, Amdír, it was tactless of me to ask about a replacement like this. But what happened, really? And isn’t there anything you could do? Isn’t there anything we could do for you?”

Amdír privately doubted that Cirdacil would replace him at all. The duties of a Master of Revels to those he was patronising were unclear. Amdír had originally been assigned to assist the Players because Lord Hallas, in his enthusiasm for the arts, had simply asked Brinn was she wanted help with for their run in Minas Anor. Since Brinn had said she wanted some fuller set pieces since they had a full stage in the city, Lord Hallas had given them a carpenter. It was also a bit of shrewd penny-pinching on his part, since it meant that he could now pay part of Amdír's salary out of the royal coffers. Unless Cirdacil also had a household carpenter he wanted to be released of the full burden of employing, Amdír doubted there would be a new carpenter from the Master of Revels.

"I will be fine," said Amdír. "I am not only in the service of the Master of Revels. But if you wish to help me be revenged on Cirdacil of Burlach, I would ask that we make our performance for the King every bit the success Cirdacil clearly wishes against."

[Galadriel55]

"The War of the Ring! Why, Uncle Ingold told me so many stories about it! He fought in the War, and was wounded, and that's why he was released from the army."

Thiliel was amazed. Sereth was playing one of the most important roles in one of her favourite tales ever! She heard it so many a time...

"But... how is that possible? Frodo of the Nine Fingers was a man... Well, a Perian. But you're a girl!" She took on a puzzled expression, trying to figure out how could this bit of common sense could work out.

[Pitchwife]

"Zat ve shall, Amdír, zat ve shall", Coldan assured the carpenter. "Zat conceited old niggard isn't vorthy of your service. A pox on him and ze horse he rode in on! Ve'll show him, never fear. Harrenon and I made good progress zis morning and found out a lot about ze King and ze ozer lords and ladies zat should help us get our script right, if zat chaperon Lord Vatsisname has encumbered us viz doesn't meddle too much."

Just at this moment he caught a glimpse of Asta suddenly appearing in the doorway only to shoot a look at him that, had it been an arrow, would have gone straight through him and nailed him to the back of his chair, and then just as suddenly she was gone again. Well, that had been predictable, and no use telling her again he had only reported the truth (she probably knew that well enough and just couldn't help herself blaming him anyway). He briefly considered going after her and talking to her, but right then his wine and potatoes arrived, and he decided to first let the matter cool down a little before he approached her again.

"To tell you ze truth", he continued, "zat was largely Harry's merit." He raised his cup of wine to the younger man. "You did very vell at ze armourer's. I don't know how I vould hev got out of zat smithy viz my hide whole if not for you, never mind I vouldn't hev zought of asking Bergil to tell us all zat stuff. Zat man was a gold mine!"

Over the meal, he briefly told Amdír and Rollan how they had come to meet Bergil and the gist of what they had gathered from him, while they in turn filled him in on the details of Lord Cirdacil's visit; but every now and then, his mind strayed away from the conversation. The image of Asta's brief appearance and the look she had given him kept popping up again and again before his inner eye, distracting him, nagging at him.

This had to stop. He had thought that before, but this time he felt he had to act on it.

Except he had no clue how to go about it.

Only when they had all scraped clean their plates did he remember that Brinn was still waiting for his and Harrenon's comprehensive report on their findings; and at the same time he suddenly had an idea.

"Harry", he said, "Brinn still vants us to report to her in full vat ve found out. Tell you vat, vy don't you go and give her all ze details? You deserve to reap ze glory. Take my notes along to help your memory. Besides, I'd like to hev a word viz Rollan and Amdir about a matter of no relevance to ze play zat would only bore you."

[Boromir88]

Branor and Therian found Brinn and she was not pleased with their dishevelled appearances. No doubt, whatever they had been up to was part of the reason for Amdir's firing.

"I know you told us to go out in the morning, but Therian and I figured we would do better if we went out at night." Branor said.

Brinn crossed her arms, it looked like she was searching for words to confront them over how they have done nothing but blatantly sabotage the play and get Amdir fired. Her expression relaxed slightly though when she discovered the boys had listened to her instructions, aside from the sneaking out business. Also, Branor has seemed to completely drop the notion that Aragorn was a double agent, another relief.

Therian first remembered to tell Brinn about the riddle their wisened informant gave about the four hobbits: Smials! Naked walk and naked lie, clothesless hobbits under sky.

Branor cut in because he had still not been able to figure out that riddle, and thought it was therefor inconsequential. "The Lord Samwise is definitely Frodo's servant Sam. He and his family are planning to attend the performance so Aldarion needs to begin a major re-write. Aldarion's got Mary the Elf all wrong. Mary the Elf should be Merry the Hobbit, as no records of an Elf Mary in the Fellowship exists.

Although, we may not have to scrap this completely. The Lord Samwise talked in detail on the quest, Sauron's servants had mistaken both he and Frodo as great elf warriors. In fact, Samwise was enamoured by the Elves, and blushed at the thought of being an elf warrior. My suggestion would be to make Samwise, Frodo's loyal elf-warrior as a tribute to the old Master, but scrap the whole idea of Mary the Elf. Make Merry the Hobbit instead. The Hobbit who slew the evil demon king."

Branor was trying to throw whatever wrenches he could into Aldarion's script. Therian elbowed him, reminding Branor that he had forgotten one thing. "Oh yes, since Merry is most definitely a hobbit, and like the other hobbits he was a strong champion, Therian is more than suitable for the part."

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan often played the bumbling fool, but he was rather shrewd. He'd seen looks like that before, on many a man's face (and, once a long time ago, his own!). Leave the beloved wife to handle all the play nonsense; this is real work! He ordered another round of drinks as Harrenon left--not enough, he hoped, to recreate last night's situation, but just enough to loosen Coldan's tongue a little more.

"Now," he said smoothly, "what's this matter of no relevance, Coldan?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan blushed. That happened to him all too easily; he hated it, but he just couldn't stop it.

"Vell, you see... you're a married man, Rollan, and you, Amdír, have been, so both of you should have some experience viz, er, viz vomen." He sighed deeply, exasperated with himself. "Oh, whom do I zink I'm fooling! It's about Asta, of course. I guess you've noticed how I feel about her. Manwë's teeth, I bet zere's nobody in the whole company who hasn't figured it out by now, including herself! But I heven't ze faintest how she feels about me. Most of ze time she barely seems to tolerate me, zen again she can be quite nice at times. Right now she's angry with me - vich is at least unambiguous, if not vat I'd vish for. I just don't know vat to make of her.

Yes, I know, you'll probably say I should just ask her. I've tried to, but somehow I never get around to it. It's a crying shame, really - I zought nothing of picking a fight with a veteran soldier who probably could have tied me into a knot, and boy, you should hev heard the speech I gave him! But ven it comes to Asta, my tongue is tied, my palms sweat, and I blush like a little girl. It's intolerable.

You know her quite vell, Rollan - after all, she's your sister-in-law. What do you zink, is zere a ghost of a chance that she might, you know, take a liking to me? Vat vould a man hev to be like for her to vant him?"

[Thinlómien]

"Why, it's very simple," Sereth said, smiling. She was feeling more and more comfortable with this discussion, enjoying it, even. "It is a play, you see. A woman can be a man and a man can be woman, it's all about the skill of the actress or actor, but costumes and make-up of course help too.

You see, the periannath are small. I'm the smallest of our group. So I play the perian. See?" She drew and imaginary sword from her belt and pointed it at Thiliel while gripping something invisible in her left hand: "I challenge thee, Sauron the Lord of All Evil! Let thee draw they sword and not hide behind thy black walls any longer! For the day has come when thou shall answer for all thy misdeeds against the Free Peoples - behold the One Ring in the hand of your enemy!"

[Nerwen]

"'When thou shalt answer', Sereth, and 'in the hand of thine enemy'!" Asta snapped. "Really, is it too much to ask that you get your lines– not to mention your grammar– right?" She swept past the girls without waiting for Sereth's response.

Obviously the child should have been practising, instead of gossiping with the other girl– but then, how much of the play was left intact by now anyway?

"Drat that Coldan!" Asta muttered. "Why did he have to be so good at asking questions?"

It was too dark there to read the lettering she could faintly see on the scrap of paper, so she went out into the courtyard. Therian and Branor had returned at last and were over at the wagons, busy making an excited report to her sister. Therian looked quite happy, for once. No doubt, Asta thought sourly, he had bribed someone-or-other to swear the Lady Éowyn was really a man.

She turned her attention to the writing on the paper– which quickly added to her frustration. Lord Sador might have been a noted scholar and thinker, but– if it was indeed his hand that had scrawled this– he was anything but an accomplished calligrapher. Only a single word, "Third" was at all clear, though there was one that looked very much like the name "Aldarion" and another that also began with "A", but then trailed off into a meaningless scribble. After some puzzling, Asta decided that she could make out the word "tomorrow" near the end of the sentence. The rest she had to give up as indecipherable.

It was maddening indeed, for if she had been correct in her reading of the name, it must have something to do with them. "Aldarion, Third, tomorrow," she repeated to herself, softly but aloud. "Whatever can it mean?"

[the phantom]

Aldarion strolled casually through the streets of the third circle. Though he had business to attend to, he could not help but allow himself an easier pace so as to enjoy the people and places of the great city. He had clothed himself in some of his finest and most martial looking attire, capped off by his beloved sword, a gift from his father, upon his hip.

He gripped the hilt fondly as he bent to inspect the wares of yet another street vendor. Though he seldom wore it, Aldarion cared for the blade regularly, and as often as he could find absolute privacy in his travels he would get it out and go through various routines with it. While doing so he often spoke aloud as if his father were there, for it had always been their tradition to spar whilst discussing all matters great and small. Though his father was no longer around to lend his voice to the conversation, Aldarion nonetheless left his solitary sessions feeling as if he had received fresh perspective on his current questions and concerns.

As he approached the gate to the fourth level Aldarion turned up a lane leading towards the towering inner wall. As he neared the end of the narrow way a young boy stood up quickly from the steps of a house ahead and dashed inside, calling excitedly to the occupants of the home.

"My, he's grown in the past year," thought Aldarion. "He may end up as tall as his father."

The boy's father was a soldier of Gondor named Bregolas. Bregolas and Aldarion's father had both saved the life of the other during the siege of Minas Tirith, and later they recovered together in the Houses of Healing, during which time they became good friends. Aldarion always visited when he had the chance, and today he not only had opportunity but additional motivation as well. Bregolas was likely to be helpful in working a few kinks out of the script.

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel didn't mind the sandy-haired woman leaving. She appeared to be another actress from the same group, but she was so different from Sereth, snappy and irritable.

"I, Sauron the Great, the Darkest of all Dark Lords, do not fear thy words!" Thiliel made up on the spot, to echo Sereth's lines. She stretched out her hand, as if preforming a powerful curse, and said in the most dramatic voice she could muster, "Never shall victory be yours. For the army of the West shall crumble against the very walls that thou speak of. Behold now the might of the Lord of all the Living and the Dead!"

Thiliel couldn't keep a straight face any longer. Sauron the Almighty burst out laughing and fell in a heap onto the floor, unable to contain himself. Thiliel just couldn't stop; she laughed so hard that tears streamed from her eyes.

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan only grinned. He'd love to welcome Coldan into his family!

"Well," he said, "here's three mites of advice for you, that my own pa told me when I first wanted to start courting Brinn: be confident, be patient, and be very, very stubborn. And I know they're all a lot easier said than done! But. You can't go around acting like you're terrified of her, just because you might take a shine to her. You've got to respect her"--he pounded his fist on the table, maybe a little too heavily--"but you've also got to show her she should respect you, and your intentions towards her. Oh," he added, "and flowers don't hurt either.

"As for Asta herself--well, it's right hard getting into a woman's mind, and I've given up trying. She seems to think you should know exactly what she's thinking, and whether what she says is truly what she means. I don't think Asta's one of the worst in that matter, but as soon as you think you know a woman..." He snapped his fingers in the air. "That's part of what makes married life such an adventure! But go ahead, give her a try. Why, even if the worst happens, you'll be no worse off than you are now--better, even, for you'll actually know a good deal more than you do now."

[Mnemosyne]

Well, Brinn thought to herself, that riddle, at least, is utterly useless. The last thing we need is an arrest on grounds of indecency!

"Thank you for your information," Brinn told Branor and Therian. "Though I have to wonder--Elf Warrior or not, why would the Lord Samwise and his family think it acceptable to see him portrayed as one when he most clearly was not? Especially if he was embarrassed by it?" She thought a moment. "Still, if the play is lacking action sequences, that's a good way to put them back in.

"So you've told me about Merry and Sam... but what about the other two? Did you learn anything more about them?"

She ignored, for the time being, Branor's clearly-fed advice concerning Merry and his suitable actor. She'd have to talk this over with Asta.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian explained what the old man had told them in his moments of lucidity. He finished with a summary. "So it seems that Peregrin, the one most famous in this city, didn't do a whole lot until he got here. Except for turning the White Wizard's home into a garden. Maybe a new place to use the witch's trees?"

Branor said, "And Frodo... well... it seems like he was always almost dying. Up until the very end. Therian is great at death scenes, by the way. Have you ever seen him moaning in pain? He's great. I could punch him for you, show you what I mean..."

[Boromir88]

Brinn raised one of her eyebrows, "That won't be necessary."

"You sure? It won't take long to show!" Branor was all too excited and Therian wondered if he was just looking for an excuse to punch him to show off to Brinn.

"I'm sure." replied Brinn.

"Suit yourself." shrugged Branor. "Oh, Frodo and Sam fought...and beat...Sauron's pet. Shelob I think was the creatures name? Yes Shelob. This is why the orcs thought Sam was a great elf-warrior, because Sauron loved his pet and the orcs made sacrifices to it. It must have been some monstrous deformed beast."

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon was still elated by the way things had gone earlier that day with Bergil. He felt even better when Coldan had sent him to give Brinn the rest of their account of what they had found out – even though he also recognised it as a pretext for the former to speak alone with the other two. He left to search for Brinn, being in such a good mood that he decided not to mention to Coldan that no one had called him Harry since he had been about seven years of age and that he would let few people get away with that.

He found Brinn talking to Therian and Branor. He was glad to see the two had finally returned to the inn. For a while he had been worried they would have to send a search party for them. He nodded to the two and addressed Brinn:

“When they finish with their report, perhaps you can find time to listen to the rest of mine, also. I have Coldan’s notes, too, so you can check them. There are still some things that Bergil told us, about Boromir and Denethor and he did talk quite a lot about Eowyn too.” Here Harrenon paused and cast a furtive glance in Therian’s direction. “I tried asking Bergil whether it was true that Eowyn had been given the body of the man to be able to defeat the Witchking. It seems that no. Actually, when he heard that, Bergil started laughing and asked about the person who had told us that. Apparently, he was very interested in whatever beverage he was consuming when he came up with such a rumour.”

[Pitchwife]

Rollan's advice had Coldan quite befuddled. Did Asta really expect him to read her mind? If he could do that, he wouldn't have had to ask for advice in the first place. And flowers? Seriously? It wasn't like he hadn't thought of that himself, but the one time he had tried to give her flowers she had looked at him as if he'd offered her a dead duck and all but flung the bouquet in his face. Maybe, he pondered, yarrow and tansy just happened not to be her favourite flowers; come to think of it, the roots and clots of soil still attached to the stalks might have had something to do with it, too.

Being patient was easy - what else had he been in the last three years? - , and he could be as stubborn as an ox if he had set his mind on something, like when he had defied his father by choosing to live with an acting troupe over the family business. Confidence, on the other hand, was his big deficiency, at least as far as women were concerned. And respect? He thought he respected Asta all right, but how was he supposed to make her respect him? Even when she was friendly with him, she never seemed to take him seriously.

In one point, however, Rollan was absolutely right. He didn't really have much to lose.

"Zank you for your open ear and your kind vords", he said, turning his cup and watching the wine swirl inside. "You hev given me a lot to zink about." Not that he hadn't already done more than enough thinking and too little acting up to now. And right then he remembered a thought that had quite lapsed from his mind since yesterday; time to do something about that while he was in Brinn's good books.

He emptied his cup in one draught and rose. "Last round is on me." He left a couple of coins on the table to pay for the drinks and his meal and strode out of the common room.

In the courtyard, he found not only Harrenon talking to Brinn but also Branor and Therian, who had finally returned from whatever they had been up to since he'd left them on Lamedon Square. All the better. Asta was there as well, standing a few steps apart from the group and apparently studying a crumpled piece of paper, from which she briefly looked up to glower at him. He felt that obnoxious blush rising in his cheeks again, but did his best to ignore it. Fighting the instinct to avoid her in her present mood, he walked up to her and said:

"Listen, I understand zat you're upset because you can't be a heroic elf-maiden, but it's not my fault she never existed, nor is it my fault zat Aldarion got zat wrong in the first place. Neverzeless, I'll try to make it up to you for zat. In ze meantime, can you please stop looking at me as if I hed just wrecked Smaug's gears with a sledgehammer."

So, that was out. Now he could only hope he hadn't angered her even more, but instead of waiting for a reply, he turned to join the little group around Brinn just in time to hear Harrenon say:

“I tried asking Bergil whether it was true that Eowyn had been given the body of the man to be able to defeat the Witchking. It seems that no. Actually, when he heard that, Bergil started laughing and asked about the person who had told us that. Apparently, he was very interested in whatever beverage he was consuming when he came up with such a rumour.”

Perfect. Just the opening he needed. "Indeed", he hastened to affirm, "and zat's vy it's plainly absurd zat Therian should play her; he doesn't vant ze role anyvay, and it's beyond me vy you keep casting him in it. I hev an idea, Brinn - vy can't Asta be Éowyn? She looks ze part, and besides ve both know she's going to be unbearable for ze rest of ze month if she's stuck viz Gollum the She-Orc as her only major role. She'd make a gorgeous shieldmaiden, and Therian vould do much better as a halfling hero or vatever you've got." Or at least no worse, he was going to say, but stopped himself in time. "Vat do you zink?"

[Nerwen]

"Will you do it, Asta? I know it's awful have to learn a new part at the last minute, but you must already know most of Lady Éowyn's lines."

Asta opened her mouth to say exactly what she thought about having to take on Therian's cast-off rôle, but Brinn's pleading look stopped her short.

"All right," she agreed reluctantly, realising she had no business making things any more difficult for her sister. "I suppose I can do it. It's not as if," she allowed a trace of bitterness back into her voice, "she has that many lines to learn, after all."

Unlike Mary, the Shieldmaiden only appeared in a few scenes; yet, now that she thought about it, Asta could dimly remember that Éowyn had once been a somewhat larger rôle, and Mary a smaller: they had changed places, somehow, over time. She frowned. That was really quite odd, wasn't it? How had it happened, exactly?

Brinn's sigh of relief was quite audible. "Oh, good. You'd better go and rehearse with Coldan. It was all his idea, by the way," she added, giving the prompter a grateful smile.

Avoiding Coldan's gaze, Asta concentrated on winding a tawny tendril of hair around her index finger. She was not at all pleased by this development, as she had planned to let Coldan stew in his own juice a little while longer– especially after the way he had spoken to her just now.

[Inziladun]

As Vëandur made his way down from the Sixth Circle of the City to the Fifth, he found himself hearing various snatches of conversations from townsfolk as they teemed through the streets.

".....so the King wouldn't let them...."

"......Revels is up to something....."

"......started a row in that inn, they did...."

".......King's Player's here! Let's hope this time they....."

Frowning slightly, Vëandur wondered, not for the first time, what those "King's Players" were. Some traveling group of clowns, from what he could gather.
Anyway, it mattered little to him, since his time in the City looked to be as brief as usual. The Captain was as anxious as the rest of the crew to be off and away from this place of tame townsmen and their wives and children.

Vëandur knew he should not be so quick to judge these people and their quiet lives full of small troubles and joys; it was not so long ago that great events had happened here: the armies of Mordor had besieged Minas Anor, then called Minas Tirith, and had been rescued (as usual, he thought with a grin), by the coming of the fleets of Pelargir.

That much he knew, anyway, from the tales of those who had returned to Pelargir itself and had brought what news they could. And the rest? He didn't know anything but wild rumors, but he was certain the true events had been just as glorious as the coming of King Elessar to Pelargir and the defeat of the Corsairs and the south-men.

As he approached the entrance to the Fifth Circle, he slackened his pace. A breeze was blowing, the beloved south-wind on which he could almost taste the salt. He had some bread in his pocket, and he sat down upon a stone bench in sight of the gate to eat it.

[the phantom]

Within half an hour of arriving Aldarion was already leaving the house of Bregolas. It turned out that Bregolas was up in the seventh circle doing some sort of important soldiering. His wife had beamed as she informed Aldarion of Bregolas's most recent promotion, but Aldarion was not surprised- Bregolas was a fine experienced campaigner and roughly ten years his senior, perfectly poised to be moving up.

After saying a brief hello to the three children that were in the house, Aldarion departed with an invitation to return the following afternoon to dine with the entire family, Bregolas included.

Quite soon Aldarion was through to the fourth level and heading for the fifth. His destination- the fine house of Lord Borondir.

Aldarion was not certain as to the specifics of Borondir's relation to the various families of Gondor, but knew that he was somehow connected with Hurin the Tall, Warden of the Keys, the Lord that had ruled Minas Tirith for a short time when the army marched against the Black Gate. Aldarion was also certain Borondor was some sort of relation to Prince Imrahil.

Aldarion's father had served under Borondir for a few years after the Ring War, assisting in mopping up the remaining hostiles in Harad. Also serving with them had been Borondir's only remaining son, Cirion, and he was great friends with Aldarion's father. Unfortunately the friendship was cut short thanks to a Haradrim arrow, and Borondir was left without family, having previously lost his wife and only daughter to an illness, and his two other sons in the siege of Minas Tirith.

Lord Borondir was getting old now and retired from any serious work, though he was open with counsel any time someone came seeking it. His passion these days was visiting children in the Houses of Healing, entertaining them with stories and the like. He was a kindly old man and missed his family very much, and Aldarion would not think of passing through Minas Tirith without seeing him. Borondir had always been enthusiastic about Aldarion's career, pointing out to Aldarion, "You are doing the closest thing possible to living the tales that I so love to tell!"

[Inziladun]

As Vëandur sat, a youngish-looking man came through the gate.

He looked to be near Vëandur's own age, and was girt with a sword. The man looked at Vëandur as he walked nearer.

"May I sit here?" he said.

"Of course, friend", said Vënadur. He stood and held out his right hand in salute. "Vëandur son of Falastur."

"Aldarion son of Galador", said the other, doing the same.

"Well, friend Aladrion", said Vëandur. "I know not your errand. But if time does not press you, perhaps we can take our ease for a moment."

Smiling, Aldarion said "I may spare a few minutes."

Both then sat.

"Well, you are from the coast-lands, I am thinking? I come from Pelargir, myself."

"Why do you think that?" asked Aldarion.

"I spoke no secret, I hope", said Vëandur. "Your speech betrays you. One on my ship is of the Anfalas, and the sound of your words is like to his."

"Your ship?" You are a sailor?"

"I am", said Vëandur, and the pride in his voice was unmistakable. "Like my father, who died in the action at Pelargir, I serve in the fleets."

"As the captain?", asked Aldarion, thinking of things he'd heard about sailors before. Few of them were especially pleasant.

"Captain? Nay", said Vëandur with a laugh. "The helmsman am I, and I consider it a great honor. Captain I may yet be though, one day, when I am proven. My errand I have just completed was to my captain in the circles above. He is at council with others of his rank. Do you come from the coast, as I thought, Aldarion? A soldier you are, I deem. Though, as I, I think you are too young to have fought in the War".

"I am from Dol Amroth. My father fought, in the conflict", Aldarion said guardedly.

"And with valour and prowess I doubt not. In these days of peace, I wonder if we shall have such a chance to prove ourselves in battle."

"I'm not a soldier", said Aldarion. "I act with the King's Players."

Vëandur gaped at him with astonishment. "Your pardon!" he said. "I meant no offense. It's just that....well....you have the look of a valiant man, and with the blood or warriors in your veins, I thought you must be a fighter in the service of the King."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Aldarion, and Vëandur thought he struggled to conceal some emotion.

"No, forgive me, friend Aladrion. But tell me then what manner of folk are the King's Players?"

Aldarion began to speak, and Vëandur did not interrupt him.

When he had finished, Vëandur said slowly "Ah! Well, I had that wrong too! So you are re-enacting the events of the war. I can see the good of it, I guess; people need to be reminded. Still, though...." and he hesitated. "it seems a waste. Great service you could give to the Crown, as did your father. You have also the noble blood of Dol Amroth, which works in you. Why choose you a life such as this?"

"Because I wanted to," said Aldarion with a shrug. I have loved acting as you have loved the ships. Each man must choose his own calling."

"That is true," said Vëandur. Still, though. I think on what my own father said to me when I was young: 'Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for Gondor,' is what he would say. I have lived my life with that in my heart."

Aldarion said nothing, but looked as if he wanted to leave. Vëandur stood, and bowed before him.

"Your pardon, for my forward words," he said. "My blood runs hot at whiles, and my tongue is freer than it should be. I will leave you now to your errand. I would very much like to see your play and your version of the great events of the War, but I fear my ship shall leave soon. If I see you not again, may you fare well, and free".

Bowing again, Vëandur began to walk away.

[Pitchwife]

Coldan couldn't believe his luck. Not only had Brinn accepted his proposal without much discussion, she had indeed ordered him and Asta off to another private rehearsal, the second one within two days!

He hurried to collect his copy of the script from his room, dreading that Asta might disregard her sister's instruction and sneak away while he was gone, but to his relief she was still there on his return. He found them a quiet nook near the inn's stable, separated from Brinn and the others by the mass of the Players' wagons, sat down on a mounting block and looked at Asta, who was playing with a strand of her hair in a way that he didn't know whether to interpret as thoughtful or nervous, or both. Her expression wasn't half as angry anymore - rather, she looked puzzled, and not at all happy with this turn of things. Something was clearly bothering her.

"Vat's amiss now?" he asked softly. "I zought you vould be pleased if I got you another heroine role for ze one you hev lost. True, Éovyn's is not as large as Mary's vas, but who knows? After vat ve hev learned, and vat ve may still learn, much of ze play will hev to be rewritten. Maybe ve can convince Aldarion to give you more lines. And you get ze glory of slaying ze Vitch-King yourself instead of only assisting."

"Maybe", she nodded, without brightening up noticeably; but she let go of her hair and seemed to pull herself together. "All right, where do we start? In Edoras, where I meet the future King, isn't it?"

Only a day ago, he would have plunged into the rehearsal without further ado, but something in him had changed since then, beginning when he had talked to Rollan, for the first time openly admitting his feelings for Asta to anybody, and he wasn't going to be as easy and accomodating today.

"Eager to be done viz it?" he asked, looking at her face inquiringly. "Come on, it can't be zat bad to be alone viz me for a vile, can it? Or are you still cross viz me?" He couldn't keep a note of bitterness from seeping into his voice. "Did you enjoy Aldarion snogging you so much zat you von't forgive me for spoiling your fun? You two can still do zat offstage, if you vant to; but zen do me a favour and go someplace vere I von't hev to vatch."

Too late, he snapped his mouth shut. Judging from the heat he felt in his cheeks, his face was as red as a carrot, and he had a distinct feeling he shouldn't have said that.

[Nerwen]

If one of the cart-horses had suddenly started calling her names, Asta could hardly have been more astonished. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she found her voice.

"Why, how dare you! You...you..." she rifled her memory for the perfect insult, the one that would shrivel Coldan where he stood. Oh yes: that was it. "You Easterling!"

Coldan sprang to his feet as though the mounting block had just turned red-hot. They stood glaring at each other. From Coldan's expression, Asta might just as well have struck him across the face (which had in fact been her first impulse).

[the phantom]

But before Vëandur had taken more than a step, Aldarion said, "Before you leave, I wish to ask you a question... About your chosen profession. I always ask sailors this, and none of them have ever given me a satisfactory answer."

Vëandur stepped back towards Aldarion slowly, not certain what to expect.

"I'll be straight to the point," continued Aldarion. "What is the supposed attraction of the sea? To me, the sea is merely a bunch of water- an overgrown washing basin." Vëandur's jaw dropped, but Aldarion pressed on without pause.

"The primary difference between the two is that the sea can drown a man more easily, or get him eaten by one of the violent creatures contained within its depths. To go sailing about on it seems to be entirely pointless and serves only to tempt destruction. And please don't speak to me of the beauty of the sea. Water is formless, simply filling whatever hole it is tossed into. Only in union with rock and earth does water gain definition and become interesting, like the great Rauros. Out in the middle of the sea it is simply flat as far as the eye can see- so very dull and monotonous. The only logical reason for having ships is to counter enemy ships, or to gather food. This whole idea of sailing for the sake of it, and tales of the "allure of the sea".... It has always seemed rather absurd to me."

[Inziladun]

Vëandur looked at Aldarion, and his face was unusually thoughtful. He had never been asked, nor had he ever even considered the question he had just been asked.

"Why the Sea?" he said slowly. "Why does it call to me, and so many others? I know not the answer. I have heard it said that in its voice we hear the sound of far off ages, and indeed that it alone speaks with the same voice as it did when Númenor still rose above the waves, and even longer ago, when Men like Tuor and Túrin walked the world." He paused for a moment.

"All my life have I lived with the Sea, and by it, with the fish it gives us. I respect it, for such a man who does not is a fool. But I do not fear it. If the Sea wants my life, I shall freely give it, as the Sea has given to me and those of my kin for so long." He looked at Aldarion closely.

"I wonder that one who was born in Dol Amroth should speak so. I know not how one who hears the voice of the Sea can be unmoved and not enchanted by it. But if such is the case with you, perhaps you do well to avoid it". He turned again to go.

[Thinlómien]

The girl was on the floor, laughing so hard that she was crying. Sereth felt her annoyance at Asta flow away as it was replaced by helpless mirth. Thiliel's laugh was contagious. They laughed for what seemed like minutes until Thiliel finally got up. Sereth's eyes were moist too and she wiped them. She sighed. "I'm afraid I have to go now, though," she said. "Our rehearsals must be continuing soon. See you!"

She went out of the door, and found Branor and Therian, and of course Harrenon of all the actors, grouped around Brinn. "Brinn," she said, keeping her eyes steadily on the leader of their troupe. "What's up? Are we rehearsing? And I met the innkeeper's niece, her name is Thiliel and she said we should ask the innkeeper about the war because he has lots of stories about it."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Therian gaped at Branor and wondered if it would be imprudent at this juncture to kill him in his sleep. When had they discussed him quitting the role of Eowyn, his only role in the entirety of the show? They had not. When had Therian given Branor permission to convince their boss to reassign his part? He had not.

And so they stood there as others approached, and Therian now, instead of having a role he did not like, which may someday be promoted to a role of brilliance - because nobody denied he had the talent for a greater role... Now Therian had no role. No part. No lines to memorize, no scenes to rehearse.

He had known long enough that Brinn did not like him much and would look for any excuse to can him, and as he pondered traveling back to Bree alone and disgraced, he took a moment to seriously consider constructing a terrible accident by which Branor would be incapacitated. His friend, the idiot, seemed completely unaware he had just lost Therian the only job he had.

Therian could think of no way to broach the subject to Brinn without reminding her that she could now guiltlessly pretend the change in roles was Therian's official resignation. He knew that she would be well within her rights to send him off now without further ado, considering the situation done and final.

So instead of talking, instead of contributing to the discussion, he stood like a lump, considering myriad ways to seek revenge on his idiot best friend for possibly ruining his life and career.

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel was sorry that Sereth had to leave. She was a nice girl. But she needs to practice, Thiliel reminded herself, Frodo of the Nine Fingers is a big role, after all! I must not distract her too much while she stays. Or Frodo will by mistake burn Minas Anor instead of Barad-dur!

Thiliel giggled to herself. She walked aimlessly down the hall and back. Making a decision, she ran over to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. Her room was the last one in the hall. Its windors faced the back; it was the smallest room in the inn, but it was hardly ever occupied by anyone except for Thiliel.

Despite the bright sunshine and high noon, she felt very sleepy. She walked in, closing the door behind her. She pulled off her dress and climbed under the thin blanket. She yawned. Soon her eyes closed, and her breathing became level.

[Pitchwife]

Coldan stared at Asta, hardly believing he had heard right. He felt all blood drain from his face, and it took him all the restraint he could muster not to slap her.

"Is zis vat you zink of me?" His fist were clenched so hard his fingernails bit into his palms, but for all the storm raging inside him, his voice was cold as a blade. "Count yourself lucky zat I am not so. An Easterling vould beat you up and maybe rape you on the spot for such an insult." He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "How dare I! Yes indeed! How dare I speak to you like a man viz feelings zat can be hurt, not just some pet to be humoured, scorned or neglected at your vim!" All of a sudden a huge, grey hole gaped where his heart had been. "But as you vish. If I'm not good enough for you, flirt viz your pure-blooded Númenórean all you vant. I'm zrough viz you."

He threw the script down before her feet and strode off, only turning back to toss over his shoulder: "Find someone else to rehearse viz. You can ask Therian, he should know ze lines. Or, vell, you know who."

[the phantom]

The light was failing, cut off by the mass of Mindolluin. Aldarion walked briskly through the final gate into the first circle and turned towards the inn, anxious to report his progress to Brinn.

Aldarion had opened up entirely to Lord Borondir, telling him of the plight of the players, and he had been invited to return before noon the following day. Borondir would have gladly told all he could remember of the War of the Ring that very day, but he suggested and Aldarion had agreed that it would be better to give Borondir time to find some of his old journals and letters to refresh his memory. No doubt Borondir was reviewing notes even now.

And after his appointment with Borondir there was still his afternoon dinner with Bregolas and his family, where Aldarion hoped to discover yet more information. "Brinn ought to be thrilled when I report this to her," thought Aldarion. "It is possible that tomorrow will put us well on our way to curing our illness of information."

But Aldarion was looking forward to tomorrow night even more than the day, and the reason why- well, Aldarion was keeping that to himself for the time being.

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn thought over the mass of changes that Harrenon, Branor, and Therian had brought her--and the recasting decision she'd made, on the second. It only made sense, really--Therian was wasted on his current role, and it had been sheer stubbornness (and frustration at his woeful attitude towards women) that had kept him in it quite as long. And this meant Asta would be less hurt (she hoped) at the loss of Mary, who quite clearly now would have to go, and...

She stopped herself before making any further plans. It was clear she still had only half the story, and she needed all of it before they decided what to do next. It was so awful, being pent up like this!...

Rollan would tell her that, at this rate, it was a good thing that Amdir had not yet made her crutches. But Brinn chafed so much in her seat that it was tempting to disregard even those. She couldn't begrudge Amdir for taking the day off, though.

Just when she was about to consider trying to stand on one foot, Rollan came in the cart. "I made a deal that I think you'd be quite proud of," he said.

"Oh?"

"Talked the innkeeper into giving us a cheap rate on ale, as long as we can make sure no one drinks anywhere else. Should help keep talk down, I hope."

Brinn smiled widely and pulled him down for a kiss. "You're a marvel," she said. "How is everyone else?"

"Amdir's taking it well enough. Coldan wanted love advice--for our dear Asta--and I did what I could. You've seen the rest, I think?"

Brinn nodded. "He's finally speaking up then, is he? Well, that would certainly explain why he was so eager to secure her that part..."

"She could do worse than him, that's for sure."

Brinn nodded. "Yes, but will she see it that way? Asta's never been very forthcoming on her affections, I hope... Well, I hope nothing drastic happens. Nothing ruins a performance so much as when its actors fight. Unless they're particularly good actors, which..." Honestly, Brinn didn't know if any of them were good enough to hide that sort of thing on the stage. "Remind me again why we left Dale?"

"Well, as I recall, there was a dragon involved..."

[Anguirel]

Sador had spent the afternoon still kept to himself, although he remained with part of his concentration attentive to the frenetic movements of the various Players past and around his room. At one point he had heard a tentative knock, and half risen to his feet, before listening to someone retreating far too quickly for him to arrest their departure. Almost certainly then, whoever in this company had come to talk was as nervous about him as he was cautious about their band, conceivably more so. He had shrugged and settled back down to his desk, though sometimes he let himself be entertained by the goings-on of the young Player-maid and Ingold's barely older relative. Perhaps that had been it after all; not a matter of trepidation, but a childish prank.

He mulled them over singly, doubly, as an ensemble, what he thought he had detected so far. Celebrindal - Brinn, as he had already overheard enough to gather she was really called - with her oddly impressive mien, added to rather than reduced by her present injury. An effect, he thought wryly, unlike that of his own. Rollan, the coarse comedian whose geniality Sador suspected could hide a streak of temper and bad nature. Well, they would see about that.

Asta, Brinn's sister and lieutenant, and the child, presumably the company's main Player-Perian, she had gripped onto so hard and corrected so sharply; Sador saw them as amusingly similar specimens, a similarity unbeknownst, probably, to each other; and he had caught the same essential look from both, wary, hostile, as regarded his twisted leg a little repulsed, and when it came to his superior standing and his intentions towards them, prepared for the worst. Amdir, that intelligent and steady pair of hands whom his father had forced into opposition to gratify a whim...

And then at last he thought of Aldarion; that fair-featured, raven-haired apogee of the elegant stage figure, whose light, easy courtesy seemed to demonstrate a mercurial but vigilant intelligence. He would repay inspection; he would get that inspection. For Aldarion seemed to lead a pleasant life; no doubt many would like to inhabit it. As he laid down yet another of his strange, ever-blotted and reworked screeds of manuscript, stuffed it into the secrecy of his satchel, and dragged himself up out of the room to mix among the others at last, Sador wondered if even he yearned sincerely after the player-scribbler's destiny.

He tried not to attend to the increasingly uncomfortable answer to that question. The light was dying now; time to prove the tongue - despite his regrets and doubts - yet mightier than the pen...

[the phantom]

As Aldarion approached the player's set up in the courtyard he heard the voices of Brinn and Rollan within the largest of the carts. Just as Aldarion reached the cart, Rollan emerged. Aldarion hailed him immediately.

"Before you go, you may want to hear my report to Brinn," said Aldarion. "I lined up what could prove to be some extremely informative appointments tomorrow." Rollan nodded and motioned for Aldarion to step inside.

Aldarion briefly detailed his encounter with Bregolas's family and Lord Borondir, making it clear to Brinn how likely it was that Bregolas could help fill in some details, and how extremely helpful Borondir could be with not only the story, but perhaps in other ways as well given his influence.

[Anguirel]

Barely had the word 'influence' escaped Aldarion's mouth when young Sador of Burlach hobbled up through the courtyard and attached himself to the party by the cart, where Rollan was just seeing Alarion out of the tent after his report. He nodded pleasantly to Rollan and to the playwright.

"Good evening, gentles. I have managed to make myself very snug indeed in this fine house, and now I am ready for a little business, if that would be congenial to any of you. Master Rollan, I hope that Brinn's leg is a little improved? She must remember there is always my own leech to call upon, should any worsening occur; but surely by now the sinews must be knitting again, I should think..."

It would appear that Sador, not unnaturally given the various inconveniences of his existence, added medicine to his other interests. But he seemed to have finished his meditation on that subject, turning now, instead, to Aldarion with a particularly contented light in his eyes.

"And now, Master Aldarion, what think you of your script? I would be very interested to have a look at it; business, as I have said, before pleasure...", and he tapped the leather bag of papers at his own side.

"But if its state of preparation is still too dubious, then perhaps we could go over some of these historical questions that are troubling you together? I have read the official accounts, and perhaps they will be of at least some use in the corroboration of your company's story. Besides, sir, we have more familiar matters to talk of, and friends in common, whether during our work or afterwards, over one of these excellently priced beverages of our honoured host..."

Now he half turned back to Rollan, and his next smile encompassed both men.

"Only, of course, if I am not interrupting anything..."

[Formendacil]

Amdír had taken the day off, but that didn't mean that he wasn't working on Brinn's crutches. For years, ever since he'd first started as a carpenter in Minas Tirith, when he moved his family to the city after the war, Amdír had found solace in troubled moments by spending time alone, working on some small project with his hands. Were his wife still alive, she would have said this habit went back much further, for she remembered the early years of their marriage when he would retreat to the stables, and she would find him there whittling something out of a block of wood if there was nothing that needed fixing.

No longer employed by the Master of Revels, Amdír did not resort to the King's storehouse for the lumber he needed, but since any good carpenter tends to hoard leftover scraps of wood, he did not feel the absence.

Amdír was glad Rollan had given Coldan advice, because he was not sure he had any. His own dear wife had sought him as much--even more--than he had sought her, and even watching his own children wed had not given him much insight into the mysteries of winning another's love. Asta could be a hard woman to read at the best of times, and Amdír's private consideration was that Coldan might have done better to pine for a less... temperamental? stubborn? woman. But love was fickle that way, and one brother's sweetheart baffled the other.

It was pleasant to think of young lovers and their problems after a vexing morning. Even though Amdír was not troubled about his livelihood, he was unsettled by Cirdacil's actions, and was glad to seek solace in the steady labour of his hands and the methodical, untroubled musings about the younger generation's joys and woes.

As evening drew near, he had finished the crutches. They were a little long, but he would wait to measure them against Brinn before cutting off the excess and shodding them in leather.

[Nerwen]

At first Asta had felt nothing but the glow of victory. Ha! She had shown him! He would never dare speak to her like that again!

As the moments passed, this feeling of satisfaction slowly ebbed, leaving behind it a strange feeling of emptiness.

Asta picked up the script Coldan had flung down in his fury. It seemed she would have to to learn her lines all by herself. Well, that should be easy enough: she practically knew the part already. Only, somehow she found it hard to concentrate. The image of Coldan's retreating back kept coming before her mind's eye. There was just too much noise and general distraction in the courtyard, that was the problem. She decided to go to her room.

Once there, however, Asta sat on her bed with the script on her lap, staring straight ahead and biting her lip.

It was not her fault, none of it was. Coldan had no business being insulted. Why, Dorwinion was practically in Rhûn! Asta had seen maps, and she knew. She had not meant to be cruel, not really. She had never meant to be cruel. True, it had always been fun to tease him by pretending to misunderstand his blushes and stammered compliments, or by getting him to run useless errands for her all the time, or... or by flirting with Aldarion right in front of him, but– it had been all just a game. Surely he knew that? Besides, who could blame her when Aldarion was so handsome and charming? Sometimes she thought she might actually be in love with him. Wasn't she?

With sudden cold clarity, Asta knew finally and definitely that she was not, and that it was just as well, for the man of Dol Amroth was surely just amusing himself with her, too. And now Coldan would never forgive her. Being called an Easterling was the one thing he would never forgive anyone.

Asta blinked, and sniffed, and blinked again, and to her own surprise gave way to a storm of weeping.

[Pitchwife]

Coldan sat in the common room, unseeing eyes staring into the dark ruby of his third cup of Emyn Arnen Southside, his mood darker than the wine. How could a few words, a few moments have shattered so easily everything he had cared for these last three years? Even his love for theatre, his dedication to the Players, his dreams of becoming a playwright himself had to a good extent been kindled by his falling in love with Asta, back when he had first seen the troupe perform in Dale. Without her, everything else was void and ashes.

You can't go around acting like you're terrified of her, he repeated to himself with a mirthless grimace. Show her she should respect you, and your intentions towards her. A bright success that had been. How could he have been such a fool as to hope that she might care for him, that he might ever be more to her than a useful member of the troupe, amusing to play with at times, but mostly a nuisance? Instead, it had turned out that he was little better than an Orc in her eyes. (He stubbornly ignored that little voice in his head that kept suggesting it need never have come to that if he hadn't let his pent-up jealousy run rampant, if he had been more explicit to her about his love much earlier instead of flying around her ears with nary a warning after three years of timidity and vague allusions.)

He took another gulp, but no amount of wine could fill the emptiness inside him.

[Anguirel]

In response to a steady nod from Rollan, Aldarion smiled his agreement, and together he and Sador left, heading back to the inn's main room. But soon the nobleman was in for a couple of surprises that complicated his friendly offer.

"Master Ingold, by your leave," he remarked suddenly, "did Mistress Celebrindal's husband not arrange a lower charge than what you have just demanded for this ale?"

But the innkeeper, surely remembering with little fondness the food and drink that had been requisitioned on credit that morning, stuck stubbornly to the bare terms of his agreement with Rollan - which was that the cheaper prices were for the King's Players themselves only, and not anyone, noble or not, who merely chose to mingle with them.

"Of course," Aldarion interjected, "if I bought you a drink, we could resolve this nonsense for the time being."

Sador's expression seemed complicated, as if he automatically wanted to protest, to claim his right as the true patron here even to buy Aldarion's drink, let alone be in the player's debt. But he was also of the blood of Burlach, and his financial good sense emerged strongest; he assented to the playwright's proposal without a precise word of protest. Soon they were well seated, with a generous pint each.

"Please don't apologise," Aldarion cut in before Sador could try to, in a tone of warning. "I owed you that politeness anyway, because I'm going to have to disappoint you again, Lord Sador...there is no way I can show the precise pages of the script to anyone outside of our troupe, at this stage. Brinn - Mistress Celebrindal, I mean - would certainly not approve."

This greater setback, coming from a man he was already regarding as a relatively helpful ally, stung Sador more sharply, but again he responded with a reasonable nod; though he could not resist a silky rejoinder,

"You are a man of nice manners, Master Aldarion, as to when you do, and when you do not, await Brinn's approval..."

But he spoke laughingly, as if to insist there was no substantial rift between them at all. Soon they were speaking on much more friendly terms again. While Aldarion had made it clear he would not show his material directly, he was willing to talk about much of what it involved; and Sador for his part spoke openly, expansively and with interest about the received accounts he had learnt over many years of reading about the War of the Ring. Most of the official matter, it seemed, was composed of either chronicles of military action, or highly stylised lays of grand deeds, loves, laments. Humble though it might in some ways be, Sador emphasised, the play of this Cormare would be the first attempt in Minas Anor to combine both of these traditions.

All the same, as they talked, both men were conscious of leaving more delicate subjects for another time, when they would not be so easily overheard. At last, though, - perhaps aided by Aldarion's drink, for it was proverbial that nobles were but ill-used to ale, on the whole - Sador began to tread the line from the professional to the more personal.

"What do you think of them as a rule, then, Aldarion," he asked, "the troupe, I mean? Any particular friends, wits, folk of quality? What about that rather striking girl with her machinery...has she bewitched your fancy now and then...?"

[the phantom]

"What do you think of them as a rule, then, Aldarion," Sador asked, "the troupe, I mean? Any particular friends, wits, folk of quality? What about that rather striking girl with her machinery...has she bewitched your fancy now and then...?"

Aldarion paused to consider what sort of answer he should give. Complete honesty was out of the question- he hardly knew Sador. But the man was pleasant and appeared to have good tastes, and also seemed willing to help, and so Aldarion thought it would be an acceptable gamble to let out one or two little tidbits for Sador to think about.

"The King's Players... They are... a work in progress," began Aldarion. "I do not believe that any of the members are without talent. Our regular leading man Branor- though one could hardly tell from watching most of our performances, he is capable of playing about any sort of character. The problem is he nearly always gets a ridiculous idea of what a character is. I can tell the rest of the troop is often with me in thinking he is over the top, but for some reason they won't help me get him under control. I still do not understand the dynamics that exist between them, I think."

Sador made no sign of interrupting, so Aldarion continued. "The Therian situation is odd as well. I think he could flourish under the right circumstances, but his personality and attitudes don't help him at all. If you haven't noticed a particular flaw of his, rest assured you soon will." Aldarion sighed. "Therian has yet to learn that half of theater is politics behind the curtain." Aldarion had learned that lesson all too well.

"Now Sereth- I think she probably has more talent than anyone when it comes to playing roles. Some members of the troop are rather protective of her, so I have not had much opportunity to work with her one on one, but I've done what I can with her lines and roles. I am quite interested in her future."

"And the mechanically inclined girl?" prodded Sador.

Aldarion took a drink to gain a moment for thought. Why does Sador wish to learn my opinion of Asta so badly? His original question was directed at her to be certain, and I was getting there eventually, but it seems he couldn't wait? Hmmm... I ought to be guarded on this subject until I know more.

"Yes, Asta," said Aldarion. "She speaks of her father's technical brilliance, and credits him with much of the equipment that we use, but she sells herself short in doing so. Some of the things I have witnessed her rigging up- I can tell you that she would have been more than welcome in The Swan Players' company with her skills."

[Boromir88]

This was too much for Branor. Amdir had been fired, Brinn was appreciative of the information the troupe brought back but stressed about working in the new changes, and Asta and Coldan were in a torrid argument.

He tapped Therian on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper "Those two just need to release the tension...with eachother, already, don't you think?" Branor gave a wily grin. Therian grunted. Branor was taken aback, usually a suggestion like that one would get amusement from Therian. He must be overwhelmed by the drama too, thought Branor.

"So...Therian, I need a few drinks, before I lose my mind. What do you say we go see Ingold?" Branor went to wrap his arm around Therian's shoulders and lead him to the innkeeper, but Therian pushed him away.

"Get your hands off me!" Therian warned.

Branor was concerned for his friend, but his expression wasn't showing concern. It was the same blank and dumb look. The one he always gave when someone was obviously angry with him. Therian gave a disgusted sigh, shook his head furiously, and stormed away, making sure he rammed Branor with his shoulder on the way out.

"Fine! Go off then!" Branor was fuming, he did not know what he did to upset Therian, but he was sure he did not deserve it. "You spoiled, good for nothing, pompous - you know who you remind me of right now? My mother. That's right. When it was that time for her...so what, is it that time of the month for you!?" However Therian had vanished before Branor had finished the tirade, and he sincerely hoped Therian had not heard the last part. "I need a drink." He yelled back to Brinn and thundered into the common room.

"Inkeep! Your strongest mead, whatever will numb my senses!" he slumped onto one of the stools. Branor was not thinking about the reduced prices for the troupe players and left Ingold enough covering the regular costs. Normally Ingold would not cheat one of his lodgers, but he could sense he would have to carefully watch Branor's drinking.

"And this is Branor, our leading man I was telling you about." said a voice from behind him. Branor looked over his shoulder and saw Aldarion and another man standing behind him. His mood picked up slightly with Aldarion calling him the leading man. However, after Aldarion introduced him to Sador, he was still in no mood for idle conversation with anyone, and went back to drinking Ingold's ale.

"Something troubling you, Branor?" asked Aldarion. Conversation was now unavoidable and Branor's thoughts first went to Therian. What was his problem today? The entire morning he was acting queer and now he was fussing. No doubt about something petty and insignificant. But, he said nothing to Aldarion and Sador about Therian. "Coldan and Asta. Coldan's throwing fits about the script and your abilities to accurately retell a tale as large as this one. Something to do with Mary the Elf role. I did not hear the full tirade, but it was a firestorm."

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn was left alone again as Rollan and Aldarion stepped outside. She could hear the voice of Sador, and his recommendation for the leech--oh, that was good of him! Still can't quite be trusted, she reminded herself, but perhaps he could help

And now, if she could just speak to Sador and see if he could get them some information on the official celebrations, or even a way to get into wherever any official accounts were! Plenty of time for that, though, as there was much mulling and musing to be done on what they'd acquired already.

Branor and Therian's information was apocryphal at best, but had a peculiar sort of charm to it that would, if used properly, translate better onstage than a lot of the hard facts they had received so far... The King was the most important member of their audience come Cormare, but it would do little good to make him, and no one else, happy!

Harrenon and Coldan, in turn, had stumbled upon a gold mine in that Bergil, which was good. And Aldarion, ever the pragmatist, had eschewed immediate gains in favor of greater ones tomorrow.

She could think of ways to make the great changes in the battles, already. That was the easy part, really, for so many here had been present for it. But how to lead up to those times, and get the audience feeling for all those characters beforehand? The King, and this Samwise, had been there for all of it!

That, and the information that they needed most desperately--the hobbits--was still scanty at best. She would hate to have to talk to Master Samwise himself, especially after hearing those trickles of rumors of what the Players had actually said to him, but they might have no choice...

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Brinn said. Amdir stepped inside, carrying two shaped planks of wood. Brinn's face broke into a wide smile. "Are those my crutches?"

"I need to cut them to your height first," said Amdir. "But then, they will be."

"You're a marvel, Amdir; thank you so much." Abruptly she remembered that the man had lost his position. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"If you could stand up, I'll be able to mark the crutches."

That was not entirely what Brinn meant, but she took the point and--carefully--rose. Amdir held the crutches to her side, and with a piece of charcoal, made two precise marks where he would need to cut them. "Shouldn't take me much longer now," he said, and turned to leave.

[Anguirel]

Sador's easy and relaxed attendance on Aldarion's answers was, as so often, a disingenuous attitude, belying the frustration he really felt as he took them in.

Surely this (fairly) renowned player and writer could intuit that Sador had no real interest in the mechanistic side of the fair Asta's accomplishments? That he was merely enquiring, in as polite a manner as he could, whether or not there was any substantial attraction between this fine-featured hero of the stage and his relatively delicate looking colleague? Whether there were or not, it would seriously affect Sador's calculations, and quite soon he would have to call it either way. Aldarion's strait-laced, strictly artistic reply told him very little, for this player could be either concealing genuine and deeply-held feelings, or by his indifferent, cold answer inadvertently revealing, by omission, that Asta left him wholly unmoved. The only way to research this further within the bounds of good conduct would be to show that sort of interest in Asta himself, and that, he was sure, would involve its own problems.

But all he said was, "Ah, Aldarion, the Swan Players! Much have I grieved never to have seen them, though in our well beloved Amlach's accounts they live fresh and stark as the brightest of morns. You must, please, tell me much of them in the coming days...unless to recall such times bores or troubles you, of course..."

It was at this point that Branor made his peculiar, stulted entrance to their assembly. Curiously unresponsive, the lead actor fitted neither the positive nor the negative aspects of Aldarion's assessment; howbeit he had theatrical troubles on his mind, like the rest of the company. And if this Branor had drunk so heavily in the presence of the main guest from Eriador, Consul Samwise, Sador found himself thinking reluctantly, perhaps his father had been right to take some action, though it was still imprudent to punish Amdir merely because he was the easiest culprit to reach...

Still, it was as best to remain pleasant, and the dullard's information was at least consistent, and amusing. "Quite a damsel, this Asta," Sador persisted. "It seems her very glances and speeches leave turmoil in this company's wake...let us hope they are as impressive to the audience!"

[the phantom]

Aldarion did not mind Branor's intrusion in the least. He could tell that there was more to Sador's questioning than met the ear, but besides being unsure of Sador's intentions Aldarion thought their present location wholly unsuited for potentially prickly conversations. Considering how likely it was that Sador could catch Aldarion in a more private venue at a later time, Aldarion wondered if there was some sort of pressing deadline he was not privy to.

But Aldarion's attention suddenly turned to Branor. "Wait- did you say Coldan is blaming me for the inaccuracy of our tale, and for the inclusion of the Mary character?"

Branor nodded.

Fury bubbled up within Aldarion. He wanted to break something. Looking from Branor to Sador he launched into a tirade. "Mary was already in the script when I joined the troop, as was nearly everything else!! All I've really done is punch up lines here and there and added some drama and romance to the existing scenes and characters!! I'M THE ONE THAT SAID FROM THE BEGINNING THAT IT IS CONSIDERED SUICIDAL IN THEATER CIRCLES TO PERFORM RECENT HISTORY UNLESS YOUR WRITER WAS AN IMPORTANT FIRST-HAND WITNESS!!!!! Why of all people would that idiot-boy Coldan lay it at my feet?! He plainly hasn't listened to a word I've said in the past year!! Or perhaps he's just too thick to understand!"

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel took the tray from Ingold in her usual flamboyant mood. The nap had restored all her former energy, and then some. She took care to concertrate while going around the tables, so that she woudn't spill anything.

Everything went fine, until she was almost past the last table, where three men were engaged in a conversation. All of a sudden, one of them started shouting at the other two. It made Thiliel jump, so that she almost knocked the tray over. She carefully backed away from the table set out to the wagons at a fast pace. Ingold would be able to sort it out.

Just as she reached the wagons, Thiliel saw another man coming out of one, holding two wooden crutches. She nodded to him with a "Good evening, sir!" and proceeded inside. She found Mistress Celebrindal carefully lowering herself down on a chair. Thiliel put the tray down on the floor and ran over to help. When Celebrindal was seated, she picked up the food and handed in over to the woman.

"Good evening, Mistress Celebrindal! I've brought your supper! How do you like it here, in Minas Anor?" Thiliel added after a pause, "I think it is the best place in all of Middle Earth, except for my home in Lebennin, that is. I do enjoy helping my Uncle, even though it means that I have less time than other lasses to play. There usually isn't any trouble in the inn greater than a broken pot, and I can clean that up quick. Today, though, there seems to be something queer. There was a man yelling at someone. I don't know why; I left quickly. I think he was talking about theatre, though. What do you think?"

Too late did Thiliel realise her blunder. I'm saying all this about a man who is probably Mistress Celebrindal's employee!

[Pitchwife]

Coldan stirred from his dejection, irritated by he knew not what that chafed his senses like some annoying insect buzzing around his head on a hot summer day. It took him a while to recognize Aldarion's voice reaching him from a few tables away - the very last thing he would have wanted to hear now. Looking up, he saw the playwright sitting and talking with a fair-haired young man in fine clothes whom he hadn't seen around the inn before; probably some aquaintance from the city - or, the thought shot through his head, could that be the chaperon Lord Whatsisname had installed to supervise the Players? If so, Aldarion had surely been quick to cotton up to the powers that be. Just as was to be expected.

Neither of them was looking his way, and it seemed they hadn't noticed him yet, which was just as well; he wasn't in the mood for any conversation, least of all with Aldarion. He turned his attention back to his cup of wine, only glancing up briefly from time to time with a glowering look. But after a while, the duo was joined by Branor, and their talk became a little more lively. It was evening by now, and the common room was rapidly filling, so he didn't understand much of what was said, but he thought he heard his own name mentioned, and 'Mary the Elf', and Asta's. Then Aldarion suddenly became quite agitated and shouted: "I'M THE ONE THAT SAID FROM THE BEGINNING THAT IT IS CONSIDERED SUICIDAL IN THEATER CIRCLES TO PERFORM RECENT HISTORY UNLESS YOUR WRITER WAS AN IMPORTANT FIRST-HAND WITNESS!!!!!"

Some heads turned at that unexpected outburst, and Coldan saw the young serving-maid who seemed to be Ingold's niece or something start up and hurry away. Most of Aldarion's following words were drowned in the buzz of other voices, but he clearly caught "that idiot-boy Coldan" and "too thick to understand".

Maybe it was the wine that did it, maybe the grudge of jealousy that had boiled under a closed lid for too long; probably both, but at any rate he decided at this point that he had had about as much of this man as he could stand. He rose up, stepped over to the other table and stood defiantly in front of Aldarion.

"So you zink I'm too zick to see zrough vat you've been up to viz zat Mary role? Maybe you should explain zen. But keep it simple, so I understand."

[Mnemosyne]

Trouble. Brinn bit back a curse. If it weren't for the ache in her foot she'd already have been on her feet, at least to learn what exactly was the matter. She breathed slowly, through her nose, and counted to ten in her mind. Then she smiled.

"Thank you, Miss Thiliel," she said. "If you don't mind, do you think you could return to the common room? If any sort of violence breaks out, get your uncle to stop it, and send the fighters to me, one at a time. Otherwise, just let me know what happens when you pick up this tray." She took a bite of the food and forced herself to taste it before swallowing. "This is quite good," she said.

Now, could she stay as calm as she sounded, without quite knowing what was going on? She hoped that Rollan--if indeed he was there--would make things better, if they really were a problem, and not worse.

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan, in the meantime, had gone to Smaug's cart in search of his sister-in-law. He'd remembered the nervousness of Coldan that morning, and wondered if he'd managed to get up the nerve to talk to Asta. There was only one way to find out, after all, and if he hadn't--well, at least Asta would be on the alert. Maybe he'd even be able to get his own thoughts on the matter in, though she could be remarkably stubborn in that sort of way. "Better two than one," he told himself, "especially when one, at least, has some experience in the matter."

He mounted the steps of the cart and knocked on the door. "Asta?" he said. "Are you there?"

[Anguirel]

Though physically rather alarmed (especially when he considered the uncontained and as yet uninvolved strength of the inebriated Branor yet to be added to the equation), in truth Sador could barely quantify his good luck. An emergent fight! And over just the right pretext...

He knew what his father would want him to do now; to take the sort of action which he had promised when he had persuaded Lord Cirdacil to leave him here; to crack down on the first hint of misbehaviour. He could slip out, gather a posse of Guards, have all the players in the common room arrested indiscriminately and held indefinitely for questioning. That would waste so much of their time that it would certainly imperil the production...

...but, of course, he wasn't going to do that. It wasn't his style. He was the clever one, the subtle one. It would be crass to dismantle all the connections, all the credibility he was only just beginning to amass, and it would work entirely counter to his own personal aims, quite separate from his doddery old sire's.

Besides, he was in much too good a mood to be a spoilsport now. What his line of questioning had failed to confirm (and in a way he worried Aldarion might have found intrusive, as well) had just been made quite crystalline in clarity. This spat might purport to be some absurd artistic difference, about "the role of Mary the Elf" (most definitely, in any case, a ludicrous historical solecism), but it was obviously really about the actress who played her. Aldarion - the sly dog - whatever the discretion of his answers, was regarded by at least one lovesick rival as seriously involved with the girl Asta. And as a matter of fact Sador was inclined to agree with that odd looking Easterling fellow here. "Added some drama and romance", my foot...

Anyway, whether or not these rumours were true - whether or not his suspicions about Aldarion's lovelife while a member of the Swan Players were misguided - this information would strengthen Sador's hand in his second-most deeply held desire - to wed the Lady Gloredhel of Dol Amroth, his brother-in-law Amlach's sister.

For now, he was happy to play the peacemaker. It was more likely to get him good words among the Players than kicking up a fuss; it might even persuade old Ingold to treat him with a little more respect and friendliness.

"Gentles, gentles," he cried out, getting to his shivering feet and stuttering from involuntary, if quite helpful, cowardice, "this is no time for harsh words. Nothing has been said against any man's honour here that cannot be speedily retracted. Think of the play; think of your art, your characters; think of the Fellowship of the Ring, and try to emulate them a little more closely..."

Even, perhaps, unto breaking...

***

Up at the Treasury

"That's an awful bad cough you've got there, my lord," a soft voice murmured in the gloom. "You shouldn't stay up working so late."

Cirdacil glanced up in surprise. It was Lady Elanor; she was certainly a sweet girl, more polite than the rest of her curious people as far as he had seen, and this was not the first time she had thought to come to see him on a mercy-visit. It was late now, yes; sometimes he allowed himself to be quite lost in his figures, especially since offloading all that distracting Revels business onto his boy. And his cough was becoming pretty atrocious.

"Look here," Elanor went on, "I've brought you a nice cup of cophir. You know, that funny drink the traders from Rhun sell."

"I know it well," Cirdacil replied ruefully. "I used to trade in it myself, my sweet demoiselle. In Pelargir, where I was born, they have a saying about it that goes just so...

Cophir, that makes the politician wise
And see all things thorough his half-closed eyes."

"Well, Lord Cirdacil, perhaps you ought to close your eyes fully a bit more often."

They laughed quietly together. When Cirdacil broke the ensuing comfortable silence, after gulping at his cophir, he looked thoughtful.

"Lady Elanor, this play is looking really very rocky, you know. It might not come together at all, from what I've learnt so far and from what my son tells me, too. Those rogues are causing no end of trouble down at the Inn of Ingold. Do you think your mother and father would mind terribly if we just hired the usual bard? He could sing of Samwise the Brave and all that, very easily, and so cheaply, too..."

"Oh," Elanor said sharply, then articulated, "I'm sure there's no need to worry, my lord. I'm certain mamma and papa will be quite happy with whatever the Players turn out."

"Maybe," the unwilling Master of the Revels commented doubtfully, before hacking out a gruesome cough.

"Talking of which, I ought to be getting back to them now. Good night, my lord. Have a good sleep soon." Cirdacil's eyes had already returned to the Gondor Pipe Rolls, so he did not see the extraordinarily sly expression on Elanor's face as she departed...

[Pitchwife]

Coldan barely raised an eyebrow at the young nobleman's intervention. He couldn't have cared less for play, art or Fellowship right now.

"You mind your own business", he growled, then added as an afterthought, "my lord. Aldarion, I'm listening."

[Boromir88]

Think of your art, think of your characters. Branor did not fully understand why this person was with the Kings' Players, but the young man was right. Aragorn carried a big sword, but he also walked with peaceful words. Now was the time for stern and swift justice, truths only a King could bring.

Branor got up from his stool and walked towards Coldan and Aldarion, slowly (so he did not get light headed), but confidently.

"Fellas," in typical fashion, Branor was puffing out his chest. "You are making all of this trouble because you, Coldan, fancy the Lady Asta? And you, Aldarion, have had your pride wounded? Coldan, fighting Aldarion is not going to make Asta fancy you. Aldarion, knocking out Coldan is not going to fix the script and prove your undoubted writing talents." He caught Thiliel in the room out of the corner of his eye. "However, if both of you insist your honors have been questioned, than take it outside the City walls. For if you come back this matter better be resolved, or I will see to it you are both gone. Brinn started this troupe without either of you, we can get by without either of you."

Branor did not wait for a response from Coldan or Aldarion, nor wait to see how they would react. Frankly, he did not care if they put eachother in the Houses of Healing. He was just hoping they did not start fighting in front of the young Thiliel. Her uncle owns the Inn, and Ingold can easily decide to throw the players out. Then who in the City would take them? Branor would be dead before he let two knuckleheads ruin this chance.

Once Branor was sure he was out of the common room, and out of everyone's sight, he exhaled and relaxed. He needed to talk to Brinn and hopefully she was alone.

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon had retired for a while, having left Brinn the notes Coldan had made of Bergil’s account and telling her that he would probably be in his cart, if he was needed for anything. He doubted he would be soon. There would have to be decisions taken soon concerning the changes that had to be made in the play and Harrenon was by now familiar with the style of his fellow Players. First they were going to argue for what would seem like hours on end at which point they would finally grow tired of sniping at each other and start trying to find a solution. Harrenon was not one to snipe much, so he thought that he might as well skip that part.

He stood for some time trying to relax, enjoying the time spent alone. It was not that he did not like the company of the other Players. Yet sometimes being constantly on the road at close quarters with a small group of people could be very trying. There was little time to oneself and no chance of much proper rest.

In the end, however, Harrenon grew restless. He was curious to see how the other Players were dealing with all that had happened. Perhaps he judged them wrongly and they were actually not going to have a long and wearisome argument after all this time. He thought that there would be no harm in going to the inn’s common room, at least to have a look at how things were proceeding. If he stumbled over something he did not like, he could always go back to the wagons.

As he was about to enter the common room, he spotted Brannor getting out and by the look on the other’s face, Harrenon judged that something was not exactly quite right. Harrenon sighed. So much for no arguments.

Harrenon walked in and saw that Aldarion and Coldan were staring daggers at each other. The man Cirdacil had saddled them with – Sador, his name was, if Harrenon remembered correctly – was looking quite uncomfortable. So there had been sniping then, and by the looks of it, it had been quite serious.

Not wanting to interfere– what would have been the point anyway, since he had no idea what had actually transpired there? – Harrenon found a table at a safe distance and sat down. He told himself to steer clear of whatever trouble was brewing. Unless, of course, Coldan and Aldarion did not decide to try and kill each other, that was.

Looking around Harrenon spotted the young inkeeper’s niece – Thiliel, that was her name, and turned to her:

“I say,” he asked, “Do you have any idea what went on here? These two look like they're about to jump at each other’s throats.”

[the phantom]

"So you zink I'm too zick to see zrough vat you've been up to viz zat Mary role?" questioned Coldan. "Maybe you should explain zen. But keep it simple, so I understand."

Aldarion glared at Coldan. Of course Coldan had brought up Mary the Elf- Asta. It had always been a bit too obvious that Coldan had some sort of crush on her, and so naturally he would dislike Aldarion's scenes with her (which were admittedly quite enjoyable), but that ought not to have any bearing on the issue at hand- Coldan blaming Aldarion for all of the inaccuracies in the play.

But just as he was about to reply, Branor stepped in to play peacemaker. Though Aldarion was no less frustrated and angry after the speech, it did at the least keep him from shouting when he turned to address Coldan, and the idea of punching the Easterling also subsided into a colder sort of fury.

"Asta has nothing to do with my complaint, Coldan," began Aldarion. Coldan showed every sign of interrupting, but Aldarion held up a hand and continued. "I was informed that you essentially placed the blame for the script and story problems at my feet while I was away, and I will not stand for that. I did not invent these roles, nor did I invent the overall plot, and if you'll recall I am the one that suggested we do an entirely different drama before it was evident that we were stuck."

"I was a great actor once, working with the greatest company in the history of Gondor!" exclaimed Aldarion, suddenly becoming more passionate. "I had it all, and by the Valar I will rise again! But how can I impress the nobles and royals of Minas Tirith if our production is laughable?! No, Coldan, no! If it is this play that we must perform, I want it fixed- more badly than anyone! And I'll not let you lumber about behind my back saying that I am the cause of its flaws!"

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel nodded to Mistress Celebrindal, and with a quick "Right away" she sprinted back to the inn. She came in to see that a fourth man was trying to quiet down the fight that sprang up between the other three. However, it looked like his arguents were not heeded. This time, Thiliel clearly recognized one of the men as an actor that she has seen earlier this day. She didn't recall him there when the fight started.

“I say,” said a man's voice, “Do you have any idea what went on here? These two look like they're about to jump at each other’s throats.”

Thiliel turned around. It was another actor. "I don't know for sure, sir. The man who is shouting right now suddenly yelled something about theatre, history, and witnesses, and I think the other ones yelled back. I'm not certain. You see, I had to deliver supper to Mistress Celebrindal." Thiliel was confident that the actor would understand, because he was around when she met Celebrindal. "She said that I should tell the men to go to her cart one at a time. What do you think this means? Will they be fired?"

But this couldn't be. The actors had to stay together. Otherwise, how will they manage to do the play? Thiliel's expression reflected some of her concern.

[Pitchwife]

Fighting Aldarion is not going to make Asta fancy you, Branor had said. Coldan wasn't too drunk nor too enraged not to recognize truth when it bit him, even when it hurt as much as this. He even recognized Aldarion's right to complain about being slandered in his absence, and his zeal to correct the errors in the play. But that was beside the point; the play was the last thing on Coldan's mind now.

"I don't give an Orc's fart for your ambitions", he replied. "You didn't invent Mary, I'll give you zat; but it vouldn't be half as difficult to get rid of her now if you hadn't blown up her part so much at Éowyn's expense, only to include a love story between her and your own character. All for purely dramatic reasons, I suppose." He snorted contemptuously. "Tell zat to your granny. And yes, you suggested ve perform Children of Húrin instead of ze Var of ze Ring. Guess who as Nienor and Túrin. Do you really zink I am too daft to see vat's going on here?" The last sentence had come out as a yell, but the wrath in his voice died down again as quickly as it had flared up. "Not zat it matters anymore. If she really wants you, let her have you. But tell me one zing, Aldarion!" He leaned forward to place one hand on the back of Aldarion's chair, the other on the table, and brought his face close to the playwright's, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "Do you at least love her truly, or are you just toying viz her as if she vere some strumpet from ze city? Answer me, Aldarion, or ze play can go to ze fires of Mount Doom for all I care."

[Dimturiel]

"She said that I should tell the men to go to her cart one at a time. What do you think this means? Will they be fired?"

So Brinn was thinking of taking drastic measures if she wanted to do that, Harrenon thought. He had to admit that he could not help but admire the way Brinn dealt with the troupe. That took a lot of patience since they were all difficult enough, Harrenon included.

“Oh, I’m sure she won’t fire anyone,” Harrenon told Thiliel reassuringly. “She wouldn’t do this to any of us, no matter how much we misbehaved. And at any rate, she can’t fire any of us now, with the play so close. I’m sure she just wants to teach some sense into them and ask them to put aside whatever differences they might have until the play is over, that’s all.”

Yet observing from afar Coldan and Aldarion’s current interactions, Harrenon could not help wondering uneasily what it would take for those two to agree to put aside whatever differences they might have. However Brinn intended to deal with the problem, Harrenon wished her luck.

[Nerwen]

Asta had, in fact, taken refuge in the wagon. She kept Smaug and her other mechanical charges in good order, but there were always last minute repairs and adjustments to be made. Besides, it was calming to lose herself in the painstaking work of her hands. Just the company of her beloved puppets was calming, too. Demanding they might be in their own way, but she understood their needs, their innermost workings.

"What's wrong with people, Smaug?" she asked the dragon-puppet aloud, as she polished the great fangs that fringed his gaping mouth. One of Smaug's huge rolling crimson eyes had slipped a little in its socket. It gave him an unfocussed look that seemed oddly gentle. Asta rather liked that, but she knew her duty, and had the errant orb back in place with a few deft twists of one of her special tools, a long blade-like implement with a hooked end.

It was at that moment that she heard Rollan's knock. She did not feel ready to talk to anyone yet, and had to resist a childish impulse to keep silent and hope he would go away.

She opened the door. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to see how you were getting on, Asta... thought you'd still be rehearsing. With Coldan."

"Oh no," Asta said quickly. "We're– we're finished."

Rollan was looking at her in such a curious way that Asta wondered if he could tell she had been crying. Her complexion always did tend to stay blotchy after tears.

"Asta, has something–" he broke off, startled as she was by the roar of anger that had erupted from the direction of the Common Room.

Asta clambered out of the cart as fast as she could and dashed inside, not waiting to see what Rollan would do. That had been Aldarion's voice; then Coldan's had followed it, equally enraged. They were murdering each other! Or, at least, her sense of realism corrected her, Aldarion was murdering Coldan, anyway.

The noise had partly subsided by the time she reached the hall, where she almost ran into Branor. The actor was a trifle unsteady on his feet and showed other signs of having partaken a little too well of Ingold's hospitality.

"Not to worry your pretty little head about it," he told her in his most lordly fashion. "Coldan and Aldarion had words– over you, and who can blame 'em," he winked roguishly, "who can blame 'em, indeed? But not to worry, I took care of it. Not a peep out of 'em now."

His words might have been more convincing if Coldan's voice had not at that moment shouted,
"Do you really zink I am too daft to see vat's going on here?"

Asta paused on the Common Room threshold. Coldan, she saw, was now bent over Aldarion's chair, in a way that, to her raging imagination, looked positively sinister, as did the expression on the playwrights upturned face.

She darted into the room, weaving between tables until she reached them, "Stop it," she cried. "Stop it now, you fools! What do you think you're doing?" They both jumped and stared at her. It was only then that she realised she had brought the hooked blade with her and was now holding it before her like a weapon.

[the phantom]

Aldarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Coldan gave his answer. Coldan was not even remotely addressing the issue at hand, or at least from Aldarion's perspective, but instead ranted entirely about Asta. "How is it any of his business what Asta does on stage anyway?" thought Aldarion. "How would she feel if I gave into Coldan's whims and took her out of any romantic lead part to suit his jealousy? I doubt she'd be pleased."

Then Coldan surprised him, leaning in close, and demanding that Aldarion choose between "I love Asta" and "she's a strumpet I'm toying with". Aldarion was outraged. "What a thing to ask someone!" he thought, as Coldan's gaze continued unbroken, awaiting an answer. "I mean really, relationships between people are changeable things, with room for growth. I ought to ask him the same question of Brinn and Sereth just to make my point!"

But before Aldarion could speak- "Stop it! Stop it now, you fools! What do you think you're doing?" The loud interruption caused Aldarion to rise partway out of his chair. It was Asta, and what was more she was brandishing a weapon.

Instinctively Aldarion darted clear from his seat and his hand flew to his hilt, but barely he restrained himself from actually drawing the blade. His eyes flickered back and forth between Coldan and Asta. Perhaps more had happened in his absence than he knew? The naked steel in Asta's hands certainly suggested it.

[Boromir88]

Branor found Brinn at one of the wagons. She was alone and did not seem thrilled, or shocked, when Branor approached. Surely he had something to do with the trouble in the other room.

"I suppose you have a part to play in causing this ruckus, and why young Thiliel came running in here yelling trouble?" She was now looking stern.

"Aldarion and Coldan are arguing about Mary the Elf, but it has more to do with the actress playing her. So why don't you just go ask Asta?" Branor shot back. "What makes you think I have anything to do with her, or care who your sister toys with?"

"You tell me, Bran." Brinn was holding firm. "All I know is anytime news of trouble my players are causing reaches me, your name has been right in the center of it."

There was a long silence. Branor was clearly suppressing something but just when it looked like he would dodge answering, the frustration which had been building up came out. "First Therian, and now you? Speak clearly!" There was another pause, as Branor realized Speak clearly was one of his lines. He did not want to shout at Brinn, he simply wanted to understand why everyone's anger has been directed towards him. "I mean, it would be much easier if I knew why you and Therian are angry with me. For I honestly can not tell you what it is I have done to offend you. Yes, Therian and I snuck out to the Rohirric Unicorn last night. We did so believing we could learn more about the hobbits you told us to investigate. Then some dumb brute started making trouble with Therian. So, I stepped in to protect him, and I may have insulted the oaf's intelligence, but would you rather I had let him squash one of our better actors into dust? The trouble that's going on in there? As I told you, I am not the cause. I tried to calm the hot tempers down. If they don't, do not come blaming me. Your sister is the cause of that trouble."

[Anguirel]

"I was a great actor once, working with the greatest company in the history of Gondor! I had it all, and by the Valar I will rise again!"

It was a noteworthy outburst, Sador thought, from the sitting position in the corner back to which he had retreated after his abortive appeal to the players' sense of dramatic integrity. Surprisingly one of them, the ox-headed sot, no less, had apparently taken his advice to heart, but only as an exercise in self-aggrandizement, followed by a none-too-valiant retreat. Ah well, it was something of a relief to have one fewer overexcited, uncouth brawlers in proximity to him...but now it was Aldarion's turn to perform, it would seem, and he was declaiming with a passion which had been quite absent from his tone while they merely bandied the girl's name...

Had Amlach not said it was in the role of Ar-Pharazon, Sador reflected, that Aldarion had been 'discovered' by the world at large? There was something a little like the golden king in his tone now, or even, perhaps, more sinisterly hubristic, in his dark vow to "rise again". Even more intriguing to Sador was the unmodulated respect, almost yearning, with which Aldarion referred to the Swan Players as "the greatest company in the history of Gondor"; it contrasted easily enough with the touchy playwright's reference to his current troupe as a "work in progress".

He speaks of the Swans as an Elf does of the Hither Shore...it is even as I hoped. He longs to return to his true peers, and we shall test yet what he shall and shall not do to fulfil that wish...

The Variag gentleman, or whatever he was, was now honouring Master Aldarion with some even more intemperate language about the bodily functions of yrch. Wonder how he got to know so much about them, eh? But much as before, Sador found himself impressed despite himself with the pithiness of that foreigner's rhetoric. The fella sure knew how to frame a dichotomy, and seemed to have left Aldarion so speechless that he was trying to catch words out of the air by opening and closing his mouth. It struck Sador, quite pleasingly, that at this unfortunate moment the handsome player resembled no one so much as his slow-witted elder half-brother, Lord Ecsichil, trying to make conversation on a bad day and ending up catching flies in his tonsils...

But the smart young nobleman's cogitations were interrupted by the unexpected apparition of cold steel, which caused him to seek strictly temporary sanctuary beneath the table.

[Pitchwife]

"Stop it now, you fools! What do you think you're doing?"

Coldan started up and froze, transfixed by Asta's voice. His mouth fell open when he saw her rushing towards them, brandishing a crooked blade like a scimitar, her long hair waving in her wake, her eyes glaring with fury. Never had she looked more like a shieldmaiden than in this moment, and a glorious sight it was, even though she had broken his heart today and was now storming at him as if she meant to slay him.

Only when she had reached their table did he recognize the blade in her hand as one of the tools she used for the maintenance and repair of her automata; he had often enough run and fetched things for her when she was working to know most of them from sight. And what he had first taken for the red blaze of rage in her eyes looked more like - no, that couldn't be, could it?

Next to him, Aldarion had sprung up from his chair and stood poised like a wolf facing a pack of hounds, his eyes darting to and fro between Coldan and Asta, his hand at the hilt of his sword. Was the man mad now? Obviously Asta's warrior-like entry had not failed to impress him, either - but surely he wouldn't draw that thing now and risk wounding Asta?

"Let zat sword go, man!" Coldan hissed. "Can't you see it's just a tool?"

Only after that did he think of answering Asta's question, if indeed it had been meant as one.

"If you hev to know", he said, turning to her, "I vas just asking Aldarion vether he loves you."

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel was relieved when the actor assured her that the play will go on, and even more so when the sandy-haired woman rushed into the common room and over to the fighters' table. "Stop it now, you fools! What do you think you're doing?" her short command seemed to accomplish what other more elaborate arguments failed to do. Thiliel noticed that the woman was holding some piece of metal as though she would poke out the eyes of any who disobeyed her. One of the men rose and his hand jerked to his sword, but he stopped the movement.

The other man, who Thiliel met at the carts, scowled at the one with the weapon. Looking straight at the woman, he said in a hollow voice, "If you hev to know, I vas just asking Aldarion vether he loves you." So the one with the blade must be called Aldarion!

"Please forgive me for interrupting, good sirs, but I have a message for you," Thiliel said, stepping forward. She didn't want to get into the thick of it, but at the man's reply the woman's look turned from angry to dangerous, "Mistress Celebrindal asked me to tell you to please go see her at the wagons. She wants to have a private conversation with you, one on one. If you could please- "

Turing to the lady, Thiliel asked, "May I help you somehow?" her feelings toward the woman weren't exactly warm, but peace at the inn was more important.

[the phantom]

Aldarion took his hand off the hilt. Asta was upset, but it did not look like violent rage, and Coldan was quite right about her blade- it was actually a tool (though still dangerous). Then Aldarion's eyes widened in disbelief as Coldan turned and informed Asta that he had just asked Aldarion about his love for her. "What is wrong with this man?!" thought Aldarion. "This is not how things such as this are handled!"

And then Thiliel, a young girl that he had seen about at the inn, stepped in to relay a message from Brinn- a summons to a one on one meeting for each of them. "Well," thought Aldarion, "This may not be too bad. Seeing as Coldan slandering me behind my back was the start of all this nonsense, and now he's going on about love and such when we ought to be putting our full efforts into the show rather than introducing discomfort and awkwardness. Brinn should be able to clamp down on this nonsense."

"Fine!" said Aldarion aloud. "I'll go pay Mistress Celebrindal a visit immediately." As he passed by Asta, he stopped and inclined his head briefly, and spoke so that it was difficult for anyone other than Asta to hear. "Sorry if we upset you. My only concern this day is preparing for our production, but Coldan insists on unfairly insulting my writing and demanding that I declare you my 'true love' or 'some strumpet from ze city'. I will make sure Brinn knows you shoulder no blame in this matter."

Aldarion backed away, inclining his head yet again, and stepped through the common room door.

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn sighed heavily. This was exactly why she disliked being injured.

"Your pardon, Branor," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I had merely assumed--Thiliel did not give me much information to go on. Still, we had better get this settled now and not let it rankle.

"First of all, there was the part where you ran into Samwise, and, from my understanding, blurted out he was supposed to be dead?... A little tact would be helpful, you know! But more importantly, showing up back to the rehearsal drunk, passing out? All of this behaviour is highly unprofessional, especially when we have less than week to completely change our script! And on top of that, word got out to this Lord Burlach, who as a result has formed a very low opinion of our group, and--"

She sighed again. "It is just very stressful. And yes, Therian may have caused trouble--in fact, thank you for letting me know, for I shall have to speak to him about that--but there are ways to withdraw, politely, when you're in over your head, and not make things worse. You, quite frankly, may not know how to do that, and we can ill afford to make any more enemies right now."

Brinn paused. "I'm sorry. That came out poorly. At any rate, given that all I knew up to this point was that there was shouting going on within the common room, I assumed you were at the root of it, and if what you're telling me is correct, that was a wrong assumption to make.

"Since, however, you weren't in the thick of this particular scuffle, perhaps you can tell me, to the best of your ability, what happened?"

[Boromir88]

"I will certainly do the best of my abilities. Where to begin?" Wonderful. This meant Branor was going to start re-enacting the whole scene, complete with dramatic gestures, different voices, and probably props.

"The drama of the day, capped off by Therian being cross with me, which I still can not figure out, was too much for me, so I went into the common room for relaxing Branor time." Brinn could not stop her eyes from rolling, because even if Branor was trying to cover up, she knew this meant he was planning to get drunk again. It did not matter though, as Branor was now really getting into the re-enactment and started jumping to different spots, signalling he was playing different people.

'Aldarion asks "Something troubling you, Branor?"'
What was truly bothering me was Therian running off, but I tell him "Coldan and Asta, because Coldan is unhappy with your script, especially Asta's role as Mary the Elf."
Aldarion objects with great indignation, his honor has been questioned. Why of all people would that idiot-boy Coldan lay it at my feet? Can he be that thick!!!!?"'

'Coldan overhears and is furious. He demands an explanation. Enter the young man Sador. He makes a desperate plea for the two actors to let their cooler heads prevail. "Think of your art, think of your characters. Think of the Fellowship!"
But Coldan is furious, he doesn't give a mumak's waste about the play right now. Asta and Aldarion have wounded him. "You mind your own business!"
This is when I feel it is my duty to intervene. The brave Sador can make passionate appeals to your emotions, but he did not know the two actors like I did. He did not know they needed to hear the hard truths.'

Now was the time for Branor's monologue of his performance for Brinn. It was time to look granduer and kingly! "You are making all of this trouble because you, Coldan, fancy the Lady Asta? And you, Aldarion, have had your pride wounded? Coldan, fighting Aldarion is not going to make Asta fancy you. Aldarion, knocking out Coldan is not going to fix the script and prove your undoubted writing talents. If both of you insist your honors have been questioned, than take it outside my City's walls. For if you come back this matter better be resolved, or I will see to it you are both gone. Mistress Celebrindal started this troupe without either of you, we can get by without either of you."
'And thus, knowing my swift judgement settled the dispute, I exit.'

Branor could not tell if his dramatic rendition amused Brinn, but sifting out Branor's obvious showmanship she at least got the facts, whether she knew it yet or not. "Ok. Thanks Branor."

"No, it is I whom bows to you." he knealt on one knee.

"It is not necessary to be in character anymore. Really."

"Right." he cleared his throat, hardly believing he could be this embarassing in front of a lady, especially. Why must she have a pretty face? "That was to the best of my ability. My advice is I liked it better when there weren't so many egos in our small, but lovely, band of performers. The performance is a joke to everyone, they only care about their power, their position, and how to acquire more of it. Sometimes, I think it is a joke, even to you. Do you want this to be the best performance you have ever put on?'

It was rhetorical, and Brinn was not going to bother to respond, but Branor briefly paused to make sure Brinn knew he was being sincere. "Then you have to start making the best use of the talent available. Therian's is going to waste, because you are sticking him in a role he hates. All for what, your amusement? Teaching the boy a lesson? You are wasting talent and not teaching him anything, other than to be miserable and bitter towards you. I am trying to say, you may not agree with my tact and methods, but we have a long history together, one you can always rely on. And I hope it is still enough for you to trust me. I have probably said to much now. I will retire."

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn thanked her old friend for his advice, but did not say anything more. Now was the time to weigh things over, and think before doing. But she'd make sure, whenever she did come to a decision, to let Branor know. First, though, she'd have to hear from Aldarion and Coldan--and Asta, too, by the sounds of it. Ugh, how she hated spats, especially at a time like this.

"It's not a joke, Branor," she said finally. Seemed wrong not to respond to him after he truly had performed to the best of his ability--though, really, he was hardly one to talk about egos! "But it is an entertainment, and was never meant to be anything more. I don't do this because it's art, or because the King wants it, or because we need to advance ourselves. I do it because it makes people happy--not the lords and ladies, but the people like us, like the ones from back--" well, home wasn't quite the right word anymore "--in Dale. And if it stops making people happy..." because nobody here is happy "...well, I guess charity begins at home, doesn't it? Thank you for your words, Branor. It sounds as if there are some disputes in need of resolving, and not just on the short term, if we can manage it. You've already alerted me to one, so thank you for that. But I'll deal with tonight's problems first. If you see any of those involved, please--politely--ask them to speak to me, and make sure they know I'll be kind about it. Good night."

Branor left, and Brinn was left to muse on his advice about Therian.

[Anguirel]

Sador had used the opportunity of the struggle to crawl several tables away, planning to get up again only when he was sure no spying eyes would impair the dignity of his position. As he went about this way of escape, he happened to be directly below the retreating Aldarion's irritable whisper to Asta...

"My only concern this day is preparing for our production, but Coldan insists on unfairly insulting my writing and demanding that I declare you my 'true love' or 'some strumpet from ze city'. I will make sure Brinn knows you shoulder no blame in this matter."

Sador's view on this snippet was twofold. It was, evidently, the case that this justly well regarded player was an artist first and a lover a long way second. At the same time, he couldn't help noticing, being no novice in sweetened remarks to the ladies himself, that Aldarion had carefully avoided committing himself - and not only to Sador, a relative stranger, but to Coldan and Asta, the love object, and the rival, themselves. Sador now suspected this supposedly dedicated actor was acting a little too neatly here, and trying to have things both ways, retaining credit with his prettiest colleague while at heart still hoping to win the Lady Gloredhel's affection.

By now Sador had wormed away to another corner, some yards behind where Coldan and Asta stood framed by the threshold (and rather a pleasing tableau they made too, in their way, he thought). While they lingered, thus distracted, he got back up, brushed the dust off his tunic, hobbled a couple of paces forward and coughed lightly, until both had turned round.

He now nodded politely, and turned to the Wainriding character in particular.

"Master Coldan, I believe? I have already met Asta, but I fear you and I have not been properly introduced. I am Sador of Burlach - for do let us dispense with that cumbersome 'my lord' you were courteous enough to employ earlier. In my view the honour of a player stands as high as many a prince."

Sador bowed his fair head lightly and continued.

"I have the good of this play on my conscience, all the more so because of some of my father's unnecessarily harsh speeches and measures. I would entreat you to set your mind at more ease, for the sake of your peace as well as the play's success, about Aldarion. The truth is, I know him a little by repute - why, we are almost relatives by marriage, after a fashion - and the name of Aldarion is already often spoken of in connection with a lady of Dol Amroth."

Now he turned quickly to Asta.

"I am sure, taking that fact into account, Mistress Asta, none of his actions towards you have been impertinent or remiss? The fellow is a man of honour..."

Unlike me, Sador thought, keeping his ironical smile tucked behind his concerned frown. You may think to have them both, Aldarion, but I shall leave you yet with neither...

[Nerwen]

"Remiss? Oh no– believe me, this has all been a... a misunderstanding..." said Asta, but she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. So Aldarion had been just stringing her along all this time! So he did think of her as a plaything! She almost wished she had skewered him.

She turned to the prompter, staring at a point immediately over his head. "Coldan? Coldan– I– may have said– um, one or two things earlier that I didn't really mean. I'm..." If there was one thing Asta hated, it was admitting she had been wrong, and she had to swallow several times before she could go on. "I'm sorry. Now," she added, before Coldan could speak– there was no telling what he would say, and the last thing they needed was another scene with Lord Sador as witness, "Thilien?"

"Thiliel," corrected, Master Ingold's officious little neice, who was still waiting around for an answer.

"Thiliel, please tell Brinn– er, the Lady Celebrindal– I'm coming."

The girl bobbed a quick curtsey and bustled away, full of the importance of her errand. Asta had found her annoying before, but now she was almost inclined to envy the childisheagerness that made even the drudgery of a maid's work new and exciting. She sighed. It would not last, of course.

Turning back to the two men, she noticed Lord Sador looking at her once again with that odd, private smile of his. She was sure he had noticed her slip with the name– but was it only that?

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel skipped over to the kitchen before going outside, and quickly wrapped some cookies in a clean white cloth. Mistress Celebrindal wouldn't mind some, I reckon. She then hurried to deliver the message to the woman.

Before she entered, she heard two people speaking. The conversation ceased when she knocked and tentatively stepped inside. The dark-haired man talking to Celebrindal was the very one that left the common room after Thiliel reported Celebrindal's request. She noticed that he was still wearing his blade.

"I am sorry to interrupt," she begun a bit shyly: that man was making her feel ill at ease, "Mistress Asta - that is her name, I believe - said that she is coming soon. Her and Master Coldan and some other man were talking. They aren't fighting anymore. Oh, and I brought you these." Thiliel handed the cookies to Mistress Celebrindal. "May I take your tray, if you are finished your supper?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan wasn't sure whether to trust his ears. Had Asta really just apologized to him? He couldn't recall her ever doing that before, not on one of those occasions when she had sent him on some laborious errand which had turned out to have been completely futile on his return because she had had the thing she'd sent him to bring to her within reach all along; and it was rather obvious that it cost her no little effort to swallow her pride that much.

He cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. "Vell, Asta, I - I may hev spoken a few rash vords myself." He hesitated to say more in front of Lord Sador - somehow, he didn't trust that fellow as far as he could throw him, in spite of all his honeyed words and ingratiating manners - , and besides, he didn't really know what to say in the first place. Asta's tell-tale blush when the sweet-tongued nobleman had mentioned Aldarion's 'connection with a lady of Dol Amroth', whatever that was supposed to imply, had not escaped him; and what could Sador have meant by 'almost relatives by marriage'? All that hinting and circumlocution made his head swim, especially as the wine was beginning to get the better of him. He needed some quiet to sober up and sort it all out.

"It's been a long day, and I vould like to take some rest", he said to both of them. "I've got to zink some zings over. Please tell Br - Mistress Celebrindal to send ze girl for me ven she vants me, Asta; I'll be in my room. If you'll excuse me now", he concluded, nodding to Sador, and made a point of adding, "my lord."

On his way to the door he passed Harrenon, who had seated himself in a safe distance from the quarrel earlier, and bowed to whisper to him: "Harry my friend, if you vould do me a favour, keep an eye on Asta and zat limping fellow for me, vill you? Zat man is up to somezing, and if it's any good, I'm a Variag." He squeezed Harrenon's shoulder thankfully. "And if you ever fall in love viz a voman, tek an advice from me and - vell, just better don't."

[the phantom]

"So, Aldarion- I heard tell of an altercation in the common room involving you and Coldan," began Brinn. For a split second Aldarion wondered how Brinn had found out so quickly, but then he remembered Branor's departure. He probably came straight to Brinn. Can't say I blame him either.

"I want to hear from you exactly what happened," continued Brinn, "The full story- anything you believe to be relevant."

Aldarion smiled slightly. "If you ask Coldan the same thing, you will doubtless hear something a bit different, as he and I clearly disagree on what precisely is relevant given the current predicament of this troop."

Brinn nodded. "Everyone sees things in a different light. But please- right now I just need your version. It's getting late."

"All right," said Aldarion. "The incident was entirely a result of Coldan needlessly speaking ill of me in my absence. When I went to the common room upon my return I was informed by Branor that Coldan had essentially blamed the entire plight of the troop on me. Doing such a thing is entirely unfair and serves no positive purpose even if it were true! We already have more than enough on our hands without useless backbiting!"

Aldarion took a deep breath and made a point of quieting his voice. "When I asked him about it, all Coldan wanted to do was discuss Asta, and demanded that I either declare my undying love for her or label her as some sort of harlot. I mean really- is this the time to be starting a battle between troop members? We have the opportunity of a lifetime here, and I really don't need Coldan making things any more difficult."

[Mnemosyne]

"It is an opportunity of a lifetime," said Brinn, "and I have no doubt that you will rise to the occasion. Provided," she added with a wry smile, "that everyone else does as well. I don't want this to weigh you down, Aldarion, even if your role in this is not as reasonable as you make it out to be. I will speak with Coldan, learn his side of the tale, and, at the very least, try my best to keep this from distracting us from the work that we all need to be doing." She stifled a yawn. It really was getting late. Surely, if Coldan was as temperamental as Branor and Aldarion had made him out to be, it would be best to wait till morning when he had cooled off?

"Now," she said, "we had better start discussing the changes that we plan on making--tomorrow evening, perhaps? If the inn hasn't burnt to the ground by then, that is. I'll try to get everyone else to keep asking questions and gather information tomorrow. I'm hoping that someone can learn how the official festivities are usually run." She yawned again. "Thank you for coming and speaking with me, Aldarion. If you could find my husband on the way out, I shall need his help for me to retire for the night."

A few minutes later, Rollan came in. As he assisted Brinn he explained to her how he'd followed Asta to the common room and seen her dramatics, but Brinn couldn't keep the information in her head for long. "I don't understand it," said Rollan. "One moment Coldan's ready to declare his love for her, the next--"

"Rollan, love," said Brinn, "kindly stop talking before you implicate yourself in this matter and force me to get violent."

Rollan wrinkled his nose. Why, his wife hadn't a violent bone in her body, and he couldn't even recall her yelling, except on stage. Maybe that was why his advice on Asta had gone sour?

Women could be so very strange at times.

[Mnemosyne]

The next morning saw a smartly dressed child making her way down to the First Circle. She looked far too small to be wandering off on her own, so she must have slipped her parents. Only the streets were so deserted...

The child made her way into the common room of Ingold's inn, and patiently waited to be noticed.

[the phantom]

Aldarion rose early in preparation for his big day. He hoped to have an opportunity for a brief nap in the early evening, but it was no guarantee. Thankfully he had slept quite well during the night. He had worried that his frustrations from the day in combination with his anticipation would keep him awake, but in fact he had dropped off nearly immediately.

Fully dressed and geared up, a bulging bag of notes slung on his back, Aldarion crept quietly from his room and exited the Inn. It would take a bit of time to get up to Lord Borondir's home, and Aldarion was anxious to get started on his work.

[Formendacil]

Amdír hoped to get the balance of the set pieces in storage on Lord Hallas's estate in a single trip, though it had taken three to get them out there last season. As the original plan had been to haul all the set pieces in the day before, he felt as though he were a day behind, and there was a lot of fresh construction and redressing to be done before the stage would be ready.

With this in mind, he rose early, and headed down to Ingold's Inn, to see if he could drum any of the Players into assisting with the task.

[Pitchwife]

Born and raised in a wine-growing country, Coldan had thought himself immunized against the less pleasant side effects of excessive drinking by life-long training, but the hangover he awoke with on his second morning in Minas Anor was a stinker the likes of which hadn't plagued him since the aftermath of his fifteenth birthday. Fending off the walls that pressed against his maltreated skull with groans and curses, he dragged himself out of bed and to the wash-stand, where he filled the basin with cold water from a jar and plunged his head right in.

Gasping and sputtering, he jerked his head back up and shook and blinked the water out of his hair and eyes. The memory of yesterday's various altercations all came back to him now, starting from that ill-fated rehearsal with Asta in the afternoon. That had not at all gone as he'd meant it to, and looking back on it now, he had to admit to himself that he bore a good part of the blame for that; calling her out on her flirting with Aldarion hadn't exactly been the most tactful way to prepare for a declaration of his love. And that quarrel with Aldarion himself in the common room - thinking of it made him wince now. He had behaved like a drunken boar, and that in front of that Lord Sador, who was under orders to supervise them on behalf of their none-too-friendly employer. What had he thought he was doing?

After all, what business was it of his whether Aldarion had been playing fair with Asta or not? He was done with her, wasn't he? At least he had told her so, after she had called him a name that used to cause blood feuds where he came from, and still did at times. If Sador's rumours turned out to be true and Aldarion really had only used her to amuse himself, didn't it serve her right?

But then she had apologized to him - a rare thing for her to do under any circumstances, and to him of all people. And - and she had been crying before that. He clearly remembered seeing the traces around her eyes. And that had been even before Sador had told them about that 'lady of Dol Amroth', so -

He stared at the wall in shock when the pieces began to come together in his head.

"You, my friend", he told his image in the small mirror on the wall, "may vell be ze dumbest fool valking Middle-earth."

After that, it took him a while to gather enough courage to venture into the common room in order to look for some pickles and salted herring and find out whether there was anybody left in the company whom he hadn't offended yet.

[Formendacil]

Amdír had not been present for the dramatic events of the evening before. He had popped into the inn long enough to give Brinn her crutches, and then quickly trimmed and shod them in leather before heading home. Consequently, when he returned the following morning, he had nothing about Coldan in his mind other than the fact that the man was younger than he, and unlikely to be involved in reworking the script at the inn--and so, possibly available.

"Coldan," he called out to the man of Dorwinion as he entered the Common Room, "if I promise you a fine lunch at Lord Hallas's estate, can I have your assistance for the morning and the earlier part of the afternoon?"

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon got up early the next day. He usually did when they were so near to a performance as they were now, since he was usually to nervous to sleep much. And the Valar knew that he had reasons enough to be nervous now. Usually he would have been able to tell himself that things were bound to go smoothly in the end since they were all talented enough to avoid making fools of themselves. Now, however, he thought that if things went on as they had begun, they would be lucky if they did not get thrown out of the city even before they had a chance to perform the play.

The trouble that kept coming to them was actually the main reason why Harrenon had decided to follow Coldan’s instructions and keep an eye on Sador for a while. He himself did not really think that the new arrival was up to anything harmful, but he knew he would better have proof of that before he imparted his opinion to Coldan.

Frankly, Harrenon was slightly exasperated with the latter’s behaviour during the past few days. He had his own explanations for it, which had almost been confirmed the night before when Coldan had mumbled to him some nonsense about how he should never fall in love with a woman. Of course, there was also the fact that Coldan had asked him to keep an eye not only on Sador, but on Asta also. Yet Harrenon had no intention of doing that. He cared too much for his hide to risk annoying Asta.

Harrenon headed for the common room. Sador was not there yet. Good. That meant he had some time to eat before he started his new mission. Harrenon shook his head when the thought entered his mind. If I’m not careful, I’ll be turning into Branor soon, he told himself. The entire idea was absurd, he knew that. He also knew spying had never been a talent of his. He was bound draw attention to himself. And what was he going to do if anyone noticed his behaviour and challenged him about him? Of course, he could always plead curiosity, everyone knew he was not lacking in it, but would he be believed this time? The entire situation was absurd, but it was too late for him to turn back now.

“One day, Harry,” Harrenon told himself. “You’ll land into hot water. And then – maybe then – you’ll hopefully learn that it is fine to simply say no sometimes.”

[Anguirel]

Sador of Burlach had two awakenings this day. At dawn, hurriedly dressed, he limped a bleary way some steps to a prearranged corner, a couple of small, pale letters in his hand, where he encountered a Guard Captain on a roan horse.

The young man eyed the older soldier curiously for a long moment. This captain again; a free agent, an unpredictable one; he did not know his name, only that he had passed a mysterious dispatch to Aldarion. Still, he was, for the moment, the only tool at hand.

"These," Sador spat out curtly, "this to my father, that to the elder of my sisters. And now, I'm going straight back to bed."

***

Cirdacil - already at his desk - received and read the letter without any surprise, nodding automatically at several points, the very model of an industrious old gentleman in the process of confirming his worldview. Then he set the message down and took up the quill and account book again.

Lady Aerwen read her communication an hour or two later, on her way into the Tower's great library, where she delighted to spend her days in profound reading; the old and superannuated Guard who served as porter, a mild and owlish man who was particularly fond of this sweet, plain, ageing maid, passed it to her. She left the seal unbroken until well within the library. Finding her usual seat, she took down a History of the Isen Campaigns. Only now did she lay the letter between the tome's pages, and read it quickly as if swallowing an unpleasant errand. But there was unwonted, if suppressed, excitement in her eyes, too.

***

Sador might have got back to bed, but not to sleep; the arrangements here were hardly luxuriant, anyway. And he was as harried by as much worry by any of the players, albeit of another sort. Were not things going rather too conveniently? Today was all-important; everything was to be won; and he could not help experiencing some forboding about it. Besides, soon he would face her again (and rest assured, he was not here thinking of his sister, nor of any among the company). He had passed an uncertain night, and it was not to be redeemed even by the sweet afterslumber of a lazy morning...

[Formendacil]

Coldan had agreed to join Amdír, and the older man thought that he noticed an element of relief in his agreement, as though he were glad to get away from the others. Perhaps it meant nothing, but Amdír noticed that Coldan was alone until he came up and asked him to join.

As they rode out of the city and around the great wall, Amdír remembered that Coldan had asked for advice the day before about how to win Asta's love. At the time he had been glad that Rollan had answered, but he wondered now if something had gone awry. He was not sure, however, if he should ask Coldan about it, or if he should let the poor man enjoy the chance to forget about whatever was troubling him.

He decided on the latter--though if the opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction of Coldan's troubles arose, he planned to do so.

"They tell me, Coldan, that Dorwinion is a hilly land beside a great sea. Is it much like Gondor, then? You've travelled to Dol Amroth and through Emyn Arnen. Do the shores of Belegaer remind you of the shores of Rhûn?"

[Anguirel]

It was a more unkempt looking Sador of Burlach than the previous day's who now stumbled jerkily into the inn's central meeting place; already his decision to pack papers, not a change of costume, was beginning to tell, in creases and rumples amidst fine silk and satin; neither had he bothered to provide himself with a comb, and his long white-gold hair was in a disorder of errant strands. It seemed like a kind of fellow-feeling in him that made him take in and approach young Harrenon first, who had something of the same scattiness about his appearance.

"Morning, good sir. I do not think we have yet met? I am known as Sador; would you like to take breakfast with me? I already owe your company much," he said with a wryly laughing expression, "for last night your playwright purchased my drink and provided my entertainment, too...

"What do they call you, who are you to play, and would you rather eat bacon or eggs or both?"

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor tucked into her third plate of food and relished the opportunity to swing her legs back and forth from the chair. It was a habit she'd had to break herself of when she'd entered the Queen's service, even though Pippin had assured her that he continued to "get away with it" when he was South.

She was rather pleased with herself--here she was, on her own Mad Adventure Bent, and all for a perfectly decent cause, too! Of course, she had her own interests, too... Drat, the Court must have been rubbing off on her!

The lass who had given her breakfast--Thiliel, her name was, and she seemed pleasant enough--had been only too happy, once she learned who Elanor was, to let her know that, yes, the King's Players were at the inn, within the courtyard, and that she would let the mistress of the troupe know that Elanor wished to speak with her when she brought her her breakfast. That seemed a little odd to Elanor, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it, so she let it lie.

For now, though, Elanor was in no hurry, so she continued to eat her breakfast, and watch the other people who were eating, idly trying to guess what sort of people they were from their appearances and their mannerisms.

[Nerwen]

Worn out by the hard work and turmoil of the day before, Asta had risen somewhat later than usual, to find that Coldan had already left with Amdír, and that Aldarion was nowhere to be seen. She was not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Perhaps both.

The Common Room was still quite crowded; so much so, in fact, that Asta was unable to attract the attention of the flighty little maid, and had to resign herself to waiting.

She caught sight of Lord Sador's fair head. The young nobleman was, for some reason, chatting away to Harrenon, of all people. Asta could not imagine why; Harry was such a dull youth, with never a word to say for himself, that she could barely remember he existed much of the time.

As for Sador himself, she felt she had misjudged him. He really had been quite charming to her the previous evening. Although– here Asta frowned, and narrowed her pale eyes– he had managed to evade all her attempts to find out anything more about his plans, his connection with Aldarion, or Aldarion's with the unnamed lady of Dol Amroth, with the same ease with which Asta could manipulate a tool.

She still had the mysterious note under her pillow. Perhaps she should show it to someone? But who? Brinn? Rollan?

While she pondered, her gaze lighted on a very pretty girl-child sitting near by. Strange that such a little thing should be left to breakfast by herself– but then no doubt whoever had charge of her had not gone far. Certainly no child alone could have accounted for so many empty dishes.

The little girl looked up, meeting her eyes with unchild-like coolness, one golden brow delicately arched in enquiry. Goodness, thought Asta, but these city children were bold! That is, if the little girl was from the city. There was something in the cast of her features that seemed vaguely foreign– not just to Minas Anor, but to anywhere else Asta had been on her travels. She had, Asta decided, almost the face of an adult in miniature.

"Good morning, dear," said Asta brightly. She had not really had all that much to do with the little ones, but she knew this was how one was supposed to talk to them. "Where are your Mummy and Daddy?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan had agreed to Amdír's invitation gratefully enough, relieved to disentangle himself for a while from the quagmire of stress and hurt feelings back at the inn; hopefully, that would help him to see things with fresh eyes on his return and maybe make some amends for the upheaval he had caused.

Only when they had passed the gates did he remember that he had been supposed to see Brinn the night before, but if she had sent for him, he had soundly slept through the summons, having fallen asleep immediately after going to bed (or rather, after luckily hitting the bed in the right moment when it happened to wheel his way). There was a small chance - well, about the chance of daisies growing in Mordor, if he knew her - that she had forgotten about it as well, but if she had not, he was in no particular hurry to face her.

His head still aching with a vengeance, he wasn't feeling very talkative, but after a while, when they were out of the city and turned south, following the gradual westward curve of the great wall, the carpenter broke the silence.

"They tell me, Coldan, that Dorwinion is a hilly land beside a great sea. Is it much like Gondor, then? You've travelled to Dol Amroth and through Emyn Arnen. Do the shores of Belegaer remind you of the shores of Rhûn?"

Blinking against the morning sun that was just climbing over the tops of Ephel Dúath, Coldan let his eyes drift over the green fields, gardens and pastures that gently rolled down towards the Great River.

"Yes - and no", he mused. "Our sea is landbound on all sides, so ze tides are veaker zan zose of ze Belegaer, zough it can still get stormy enough when the strong east vinds blow unbroken across ze plains of Rhûn. But the land is much alike, in parts at least. My family hails from Dol Bychin on ze vest coast, between ze River Celduin and ze southern mountains; it's warm and mild zere, although ve're farther north, much like your Ithilien and Belfalas viz zeir olive groves and vineyards, and zere are neat, busy ports at Nerevar and Burias - pretty towns, if nothing near as splendid as Dol Amroth and Pelargir. Ze veather is cooler up north around Celduin's mouth, vere my uncle Gwithold lives, but ze soil is dark and fat zere, and corn grows on it in abundance, and sugar-beets, even sweet galenas or pipeweed, as they call it up in Dale; ve hev learned to smoke it from zem, and grow it for trade as vell as for our own use."

He smiled at Amdír. "I hope I'm not boring you, but to tell ze truth, it gladdens my heart to speak of my home country; it vas good of you to ask me about it."

The smile vanished, overshadowed by a frown. "It's not ze land zat feels foreign to me here, it's ze people. I feel at home among ze Dale folk - zey're of a kind much alike to my own countrymen. But you Gondorians, I don't know vat's wrong viz you. 'High Men' you style yourselves and look down upon us whom you call 'Middle Men' as if heving an Elven Queen and a zree zousand year old city somehow made you better zan ze rest of ze vorld."

He blushed, suddenly remembering whom he was talking to. "Beg your pardon, Amdír, I meant no offence - I've met good, decent men among your people, men like you or Harry or zat officer at ze armoury yesterday. But most of zem seem to me more like your former boss, Lord Cirdacil - haughty and selfish; or glib and cunning like zat son of his who has moved in viz us, pursuing the Valar may know vich hidden plans. Even our own Aldarion seems to care little about anyzing other zan his art and his personal fame." He silently cursed himself for going down this particular lane of thought.

"But it's rude of me to complain to you about your compatriots. Let's speak of somezing else. Vy don't you tell me a bit about zat Lord Hallas whose estate ve're heading for?"

[Anguirel]

After the day's first industrious session at the Exchequer - roughly from dawn to the time when lesser worker rose in the first place - it was the custom of its Lord Warden to pause, and travel a little while out of the Citadel to find brisk and temperate refreshment at the house of his elder son, Ecsichil, heir of Burlach.

It was a more comfortable place, truth be told, than the traditional outposts of the ancient aristocracy of Anarion's kingdom, up on the Citadel above the rows of more mercantile grandeur. Perhaps, Cirdacil thought wryly, his eldest child's house spoke to his own frankly commercial blood. But now, by one of the quirks of economic irony that were the one element of financiery that still threw him occasionally, the wider, lower, mansions of the Sixth Circle were finding more favour with the younger nobility, like Ecsichil and his wife. Here they could be ostentatious and showy; could work, live and above all entertain beyond the reach of the gerontocracy's eye, or even the duties of Court. Nevertheless, Cirdacil always got a hearty welcome at his son's house in the morning, and he was almost always too busy to interrupt the Sixth Circle's rhythm by night.

He rode on one of the staider Treasury transportations now, an old white mule that not only knew its place, but was rather proud of it; and up here, so far from any precinct that lacked privilege, let alone savoured of danger, he took with him only a single Guardsman, and him not always.

He was very fortunate that he had chosen so to do today, though. For, hardly had the pair of them left the Citadel half a mile behind them, when Cirdacil coughed phantasmagorically, shuddering so violently from his saddle that had it not been for his Guard's firm and timely grasp, he would have impacted hard upon the cobbles.

"Are you not well, my lord?" this mere soldier (albeit of the Tower) now gasped out, against all protocol.

Cirdacil did not answer. He did not seem to be aware of the danger he had been preserved from, of the Guard's sudden and pressing touch, a grip which quite possibly would even have caused pain to a man of smaller will-power than the old Lord Warden.

"Do you see that man?"

"I'm sorry, my lord?"

"The very young fellow."

The Guard of the Citadel was puzzled. No one especially juvenile was near them; two bearded and middle-aged fellows in rich clothing were having a patently boring colloquy outside one of their houses; well, that woman in a higher window could be youngish, but his lordship hardly meant her...there was a sailor who looked more dead tired than any age especially...

...and there could be no doubt about it, it was at the sailor that Cirdacil was now staring, rather wildly, as he began, even, to gesticulate in a species of high over-excitement.

"Stars above, those eyes! His eyes...soldier, bring...that sailor...over here...I want a look at him...oh...tell him it's about the new ship money surcharges or something, and who I am. Tell him who I am, for certain; Cirdacil of Pelargir."

The Guard hesitated to fulfil his instruction, as the old man had obviously lost it at last; the crowning indignity that he seemed to have forgotten his very identity as Lord of Burlach, had just yelled out his old commoner's name...soon he would be telling the whole city about his career in the flax markets, or something...still, Lord Cirdacil was known to have a temper on him, to look after his own but to be a bad one to cross, so after a shortish pause the soldier did ride over to the sailor after all, hoping the Lord Warden wouldn't fall off his mule while his command was carried out...

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor's face broke into a wide smile when the lady with the sandy hair stopped by and asked her the question--and in a different dialect at that! Was she from the countryside? Or even beyond? "They're in the Guest-House in the Sixth Circle just outside the Citadel. Well, Mum certainly is; Dad might be out in the gardens at the Houses of Healing right now. He can't stand not having anything to do."

She let the woman muddle in confusion only a moment. "Oh, but where are my manners?" She reached across the table and clasped her hand for a moment, relishing the fact that here she could indulge in Shire customs that often perplexed outlanders. "Elanor Gamgee, at your service. Who might you be?"

[Formendacil]

"But it's rude of me to complain to you about your compatriots. Let's speak of somezing else. Vy don't you tell me a bit about zat Lord Hallas whose estate ve're heading for?"

Amdír thought about it for a moment.

"Lord Hallas is the sort of lord who you would not have seen in Minas Anor before the time of Elessar. Do not mistake me, he is a good man, but he is not a serious minded lord. He has a thousand interests, and as many friends. That is how he became the Master of Revels, when no other lord in the court wanted the task, and that is how he lost it, once he made it successful. He is an easy master to please, because he has wealth and does not fear to lose it--but he will not be impoverished any time soon, for he has good men as his stewards, and he inherited vast properties in Ithilien that are only these past few years being reclaimed.

"I do not know why there is a special sort of pride that seems to affect many Gondorians. Perhaps it is a just pride in the fight we made against Sauron that has become twisted, so that we no longer recognise that there were others who fought him as well.

"But perhaps it is more than that... perhaps it is the pride of Númenor haunting us yet--but I think it is not Gondor's purity that makes for this arrogance, but the fact that the blood of Númenor has become mixed. The way I see it, if only Númenóreans had settled in Gondor, they might have recognised their allies as fair partners without fearing that they would usurp them--but that is not how our tale was written. Instead, the Men of Gondor today are equal parts Númenórean and Men who never left--Men who might have been akin, they say, to the Edain of the House of Haleth in ancient times, Men related to the Dead of Dunharrow and the Dunlendings, and the peoples of shadowy Minihiriath. The Númenóreans did not recognise them as kin, in the same way they recognised the Northmen of Dale and Rhovannion as kin, and so although they formed one realm, they did not form a realm of trust.

"Instead, the Númenóreans feared the local Men, who outnumbered them--they feared that they would not be true if Sauron returned, and when Sauron returned at least some of the Men--those we call the Dead of Dunharrorw--proved them right. In their turn, the local Men feared the Dúnedain who had come over the Sea--feared them because they were tall, and bright, and long-lived; because they built great cities and fortresses and knew much. They loved them--and they feared them.

"And that, I think is how, although the Dúnedain never outnumbered the rest, that all of Gondor came to think of itself as pure-blooded Númenórean. The Men who were did not trust those who were not, and those who were not wanted to be so, and in both cases only those who whose blood could be trusted--those who were family fostered a distrust of those who were different. That is why, when we first met the Northmen, and were ourselves strong, we distrusted them--we distrusted them so much that we rebelled against a great king who shared their blood. That is also why, when we were weak, and needed their aid, we found a way to call them kin--those of the House of Hador that never crossed the mountains we said---and so we gave them Calenardhon."

Amdír paused, and looked at Coldan directly. "I apologise for going on so," he said. "I have wondered at such things before, however, and it seems to me that we Gondorians put down those who are different in order to assert how 'Gondorian' we are--how Númenórean we think we are. You mention Cirdacil, and he is a good example. His name is High Elvish, and his title is great, but the Elvish of Minas Tirith is not his mother-tongue, for he hails from Pelargir, where they speak the Common Speech, and his birth is as low as yours or mine. Who knows what blood is in his ancestry? Perhaps he has the blood of Corsairs, as you have the blood of Wainriders.

"I think Dorwinion has the better way of responding to such ancestry--to ignore it. What does it matter if an enemy soldier fathered one of your ancestors? Lúthien the Fair was the ancestor of Ar-Pharazôn as well as Tar-Míriel after all, but her goodness did not lighten his darkness.

Amdír paused again.

"I should apologise again--I do not know how much of the history that is commonly told to our children in Gondor is told in Dorwinion. Though you were our east-march once, you have more kinship with Dale than with Gondor, and much has passed since our lands were sundered. If I am speaking too much of our admittedly overwhelming history, which truly does drench everything in Gondor with its taste, perhaps we should speak of something else. Did you find that Rollan gave you the advice you sought yesterday?"

[Inziladun]

Vëandur stood in the morning sun, not seeing it, and heedless of the keen breeze from the south that under ordinary circumstances would have cheered him, putting him in mind of the open Sea and its simple pleasures.
He was torn by indecision: he had set out for the Citadel very early (and with a head aching from drink in the bargain) to find the Captain, to warn him. Relentlessly, his mind played over and over the conversation with his ship's Second Officer in the Rohirric Unicorn the night before.

"You must see it, Vëandur", Níndoran had said. "The Captain has not been himself lately. Why think you he, and us besides, are kept here so long at this time? They have hard questions for him, I think."

"What madness is this?" hissed Vëandur. "The damage we sustained last month was done by the storm, not he."

"Have you forgotten that I myself was there?" said Nindoran, grasping Vëandur's shoulder. "He told you to turn the ship to hard port, when his own First Officer was shouting that we were in danger of broaching to port! We could have capsized. He would not listen to counsel, and the cost almost was our lives."

"One mistake! What means that?" said Vëandur heatedly. He felt dazed to be having a conversation like this at all, and was very grateful of the loud din of the other voices around them. He drained his third glass of mead.

"You know that it is not only 'one mistake'", replied Níndoran. "What of his ridiculous search of the ship for the so-called 'thief' of that basket of fruit he received from those men of the Harad we aided? Three days he looked! When he first spoke of it, I talked with the deckhands. In five minutes I had a confession from one of them that he'd eaten the lot. When I told the Captain, he drew blade against me, and told me never to say such a thing again."

"I heard he was drunk", said Vëandur more softly.

"He was. But not enough to have forgotten what I said. Yet the next day he stormed through all our quarters and raved about thieves and Orc-friends being against him. He is a danger to us all, and I tell you this: if he is not relieved of his command while we are here, we shall remove him. Forcibly, if the need arises." He looked Vëandur in the eyes. "And any who stand with the Captain will share his fate."

The debate had been interrupted by the arrival of four more of the ship's crew, who were already barely able to stand, and who had insisted on Vëandur and Níndoran joining them in earnest merriment.

Níndoran's words still rang in Vëandur's mind as he stood in the clear light. Níndoran was right: the Captain had been acting very strangely, and Vëandur had been having his own doubts before that night. Yet, Vëandur so admired the man, as a leader and a man of the Sea, that he wished to first try to help him in some way. Maybe the Captain just needed a rest. But what to do?

He was startled out of his dark thoughts by the sight of a guard, wearing the livery of the Tower, walking smartly toward him.

"Your name, Man of Gondor?" he said to Vëandur.

"Vëandur son of Falastur of the Fleets," he replied. What could this be about? Had they been overheard in that inn?

"You are wanted by Cirdacil of Pelagir. He wishes a word with you."

Pelargir? thought Vëandur. He looked over the guard's shoulder to see an old man sitting on a mule, looking back at him intently. Even from here, Vëandur could see the man was trembling. With anger? Fear? Vëandur steeled himself, and walked toward the old man, with the guard closely following.

[Dimturiel]

"What do they call you, who are you to play, and would you rather eat bacon or eggs or both?"

Harrenon wondered whether Sador ever paused to catch his breath before asking his endless string of questions. When the man had first approached him Harrenon had to admit to himself that he had felt slightly panicked, thinking that somehow Sador had overheard Coldan advising Harrenon the previous night to keep an eye on him and had now come to confront him about it. Yet it seemed not. And if Sador really wanted a conversation with him, so much the better. It was easier to keep an eye on someone when you were talking to them. Harrenon had, in truth, thought about approaching Sador too, yet he knew it would have taken him quite long before he managed to initiate a conversation.

“Should I answer your questions in the order they have been asked?” he asked grinning. “I’m called Harrenon, although recently my colleagues have taken to calling me Harry too. I do not know where that came from, nor do I know whether I should be pleased about it. See, I haven’t been called that since I was a child. I’m playing the part of Legolas in the performance, as well as that of the Witchking. Not very big parts, true, but I am quite satisfied with them. As for the matter of bacon and eggs, I think I will have both this morning. It has been a couple of very busy days and there are still more to come. I must confess, I will sleep easily once this particular performance is over. Now let’s eat.”

Food was brought to them. While they were eating, Harrenon took the chance to inspect his companion. He wondered again what was the real reason behind Sador being there, but he knew that he would never find the courage to ask. He decided to try another question instead:

“Tell me, if you do not think I am too bold to ask, what do you think of our little group so far? We interact with outsiders so seldom that we are sometimes curious to see how other people perceive us.”

[Anguirel]

Sador laughed freeheartedly at his new companion's tentative question, and paused, still smiling, to eat for a little before he was ready with his reply.

"How other people perceive you, eh? Always a matter of guesswork. If you listened to the word on the street, my dear Harrenon - I think I shall stick to your full name's grandeur - if you listened to the word on the street - and trust me, right now, people in this City of ours are talking about nothing else..."

The young man paused again, apparently hindered by a hilarious series of memories, and calmed his diaphragm with a slug of water. He went on just before Harrenon could prompt him.

"...well, then, you'd believe any number of things; that the King himself has only one concern, and that's seeing your august drama; that my father the Master of the Revels, bless him, would gladly chop up the lot of you and stew you in boiling oil...that you are the finest regiment of magicians, and at the same time the sorriest crew of rogues, that the Tower of the Sun ever looked on...

"...but I still have not answered your question, truly. What do I think? I think it's hard to judge when I've not even seen a rehearsal, and when your playwright, who I think is a truly brilliant artist, but a little touchy, will not even let me see his script. But we've talked about it a little, and I've kept my eyes open, and I have, after all, managed to form an opinion or two."

Sador made an expansive gesture of despair with his arms and rolled his eyes. "If you'd seen the boring, traditional dross we've had to put up with at stuffy Court functions for Cormare before, you would immediately understand, Harrenon, that you boys and girls are a gift...and the odder you may be to our ears, as I see it, the better. We've heard endless, droning odes of the King's love for the Queen, sat through thorny philosophical mysteries based on the epigrams of Mithrandir, and that's not even touching on the chanted military epics, which sometimes last for days in bare plainsong. By contrast, you lot have passion, engagement, romances, egregious Elves and so on, something for everyone. You're great. The people love you, and so will we...just the way you are."

Especially, Sador thought in the midst of his peroration, if we see as kingly an Aragorn, or such a highly-strung Boromir, as I was lucky enough to witness yesterday evening...

***

Sixth Circle

Lord Cirdacil narrowed his eyes as the nautical man - not quite as young as he'd looked - identified himself to the Guard. Neither of the names meant anything. But then, there was no reason they should. The real question was, of whom was Falastur the son...

Practical considerations were overwhelmed now by memories, all but lost images of a fraternal parting, illuminated through the mist of seven decades only by a pair of great, harshly shining eyes of grey - the same eyes that met his own, brown and pedestrian, now, with an unfamiliar trepidation about them.

They had taken different ways, means, and lives, barely for reasons of their choosing. When Beren was young, to go to sea meant easy money; his brother had come to the age of destiny a decade later, when the Corsairs were already something of a counter-dividend. Cirdacil had gone inland with a great mercantile house in a low circle of the Tower of the Guard, and never seen the broad-limbed Beren, hero of his childhood, champion of his maturity, ever again.

Through all these thoughts, he had left the Guard and the sailor alike hanging. Probably, by now, they were certain he was quite mad. He got down from the mule with the same surprising sprightliness that he could often still display, and coughed cursorily in the Guard's direction to intimate he should look after it.

"I have a single question for you, sailor," Cirdacil said, "as your place of birth I can already hear in your voice." His own, he noted with a mixture of satisfaction and nostalgia, had quite lost the seaward lilt.

"What was your grandsire's name?"

[Inziladun]

Vëandur stood tensely, trying to read the old man's eyes. The guard behind unnerved him: he did not like it when people stood so near when he could not see them.

Finally, the old man spoke.

"I have a single question for you, sailor," Cirdacil said, "as your place of birth I can already hear in your voice."

"What was your grandsire's name?"

It was not at all a question Vëandur had been expecting. He stood a moment, then carefully he said "I know not which grandsire you mean, my lord. My mother's father is Ardamir, a fisherman. Of my father's sire, I knew him not at all, only that his name was Beren".

[Pitchwife]

"If I am speaking too much of our admittedly overwhelming history, which truly does drench everything in Gondor with its taste, perhaps we should speak of something else. Did you find that Rollan gave you the advice you sought yesterday?"

Coldan winced; he would have preferred to avoid that topic a little longer. He wondered whether any of the other players had talked to Amdír about what had transpired at the common room the night before, but concluded it was unlikely - he hadn't seen the carpenter around after nuncheon yesterday, and nobody else from the troupe had been up and stirring before they had left this morning.

"You're a shrewd man, Amdír", he said, looking at his companion curiously. "If we hedn't set out so early, you vould probably hev been told a few stories about my deeds or misdeeds yesterday afternoon and evening, and none of zem too complimentary, I suppose." He sighed. "I don't know, Rollan's advice may hev been sound enough, but I'm afraid I hev made a rather poor job of putting it to practice. At least his vords gave me ze courage to speak my mind to Asta, vich in itself is a big step forward; unfortunately, my mind happened not to hev ze most appropriate zoughts in it at ze time."

He gave another, deeper sigh and decided he might as well have it all out and ease his heart without further circumlocutions.

"To give you ze long and short of it, ve hed a nasty quarrel. I complained about her flirting viz Aldarion, and she got all upset and called me an Easterling. Vat you may not know is zat vere I come from, zat is about ze vorst zing you can call a man, and it's not unusual for it to lead to a knife in ze insulter's entrails. Vich is, I guess, hard to understand for you, seeing zat many of us, like myself, do indeed hev Easterling blood somevere in our ancestry; but ve don't mention it, pretending to be pure Men of ze Vest - much like you Gondorians, in a vay; for ze peoples of Rhûn hev been our deadliest enemies for more zan a zousand years, and even now ze Dark Lord is gone and zey no longer vorship him, zere is still unrest and ever so often skirmishing and plundering along our eastern borders.

Anyvay", he resumed, "Asta knew exactly vat she vas saying; and I got into a cold rage and told her I vould none of her no more. I don't remember ever feeling so miserable in my whole life as in zat moment." He paused and shook his head about himself. "So I did ze logical zing and vent straight to ze common room and did my darnedest to get plastered senseless. Cue for Aldarion to turn up and complain to Branor and zat lordling, Sador, about how I hed unjustly blamed him for our trouble viz ze play; vereupon I took my anger and frustration out on him and challenged him on how he vas dealing viz Asta." He paused again, trying to make sense of the story he had just told. "Zis may sound crazy to you, but even zough I was mad at her, I still vanted to make sure zat if she preferred him to me, he vould treat her fairly.

Ze argument got heated, and ze only reason it didn't come to blows vas Asta herself showed up and stopped us. And zen ze strangest zing ever happened - she apologized to me for vat she hed said earlier; and I sort of did ze same, or at least I hope I did - my memory is a bit hazy zere. And - " He stopped himself just in time; he was not going to be so indiscreet as to mention her dried tears to anybody. "Vell, never mind. Anyvay, I hev no idea how she feels about me now, and about ze whole affair. I hardly know any longer how I feel myself."

He turned his head to look at Amdír. "I don't really know vy I'm telling you all zis, Amdír, except zat you'd hear most of it from others soon enough. Ve heven't talked zat much in ze past, alzough ve've known each other for zree years now, and I know much less about your own life beyond your dealings viz our company zan I'm beginning to zink I should like to. But zere is somezing in your face and talk zat inspires trust and confidence. Lord Cirdacil has lost a better man zan he vill ever know."

[Nerwen]

It took a moment for Asta to register what the "child" was saying.

"Oh! Then you're– Forgive me, I– I thought..." she stammered. The woman smiled, as if to say: it happens. Asta recovered her dignity as best she could. "I'm Asta of the King's Players."

Asta had never seen a real, in-the-flesh halfling before. She could not help darting a glance at Elanor's feet, which sure enough were bare of shoes but thickly covered with fur. So that part was true. She was a great deal smaller than Sereth, however, and though her complexion was much the same delicate brown, her curling hair was a deep golden colour. Either she was an exception then, or somebody back in the dim mists of the company's beginnings had been very wrong about what halflings were supposed to look like.

The tiny hand still clasped her own. Asta wondered what she was supposed to do with it.

[Anguirel]

"I know not which grandsire you mean, my lord. My mother's father is Ardamir, a fisherman. Of my father's sire, I knew him not at all, only that his name was Beren."

The old lord listened soberly to Vëandur's faltering, puzzled answer. At the last word, that short, evocative, high name, he made a firm, rapid, nod; but in words he did not reply for some further moments, as he turned away from the younger man, and began to look out upon the morning skyline. He stared into that part of the distance where the shine of the Anduin river was flowing, and seemed to murmur words addressed only to himself, or perhaps to an entity that heard with ears other than material ones. Almost, Vëandur and the guard would suspect in that moment, he was praying; not for something, surely, but for someone. But at last he turned again back to the sailor.

"I knew your grandsire - Beren - well enough," he said. "He was lost at sea, though I never heard any more exactly of the manner of his death. I hope he went peacefully to Osse's locker, and not by the harsher steel of some craven and misbegotten pirate."

He gave another of his brusque, business-like nods, this time to the guard, and abruptly remounted the mule. It seemed for far longer than an instant as if both were going to ride off (for the guard mounted his sturdy gelding too, now) and leave the seaman to wonder alone. But then the lord held up his wrinkled and slightly palsied, shaking hand in a halting gesture.

"Stay, my man. I must impart another word, after all, to the mariner."

It was with shining tears that threatened the timbre of his voice - that voice, too, on a sudden regaining the singsong Pelargir resonance - that he admitted to Vëandur, as if it cost him much, "He was my brother."

And he alighted to his feet again, and held out quivering arms in the most awkward looking of proffered embraces.

[Inziladun]

Vëandur had stood listening to the man named "Cirdacil" with increasing astonishment.
The name itself had stirred something within him when he had first heard it from the guard, but why that should be he did not know. He could not remember ever seeing this old man before, even in passing during previous excursions to the City.

At the words "He was my brother," it became clear. Vëandur had heard the name before, from his father long years ago, when Vëandur was only a small boy of five summers or so.

His father and he had been at the shore sitting upon the quay. Both had been in a fine mood, smelling the salt in the air and hearing the musical cries of the gulls. Falastur had been telling him a tale of his first time at sea with his own father.

"When can I go?" Vëandur had asked.

"Soon I shall take you with me, but your mother thinks your years are yet too few. Fear not, if the Sea runs in your blood you shall not be kept from it."

"I'll bet the Sea runs in the blood of all our family!" Vëandur had said, looking at his father with admiration.

"Not all," said Falastur. "My uncle Cirdacil felt not the call. He turned away from the Sea and went north long ago. It is many years since I have seen him."

"I don't understand why he would turn away from the Sea," said Vëandur.

"Neither do I, my son. You must remember though that it needs many men to serve the needs of Gondor, not sailors only. Judge him not."

The memory passed through Vëandur's mind in seconds. Now, seeing the name made into a living man in Minas Anor far from the Sea, Vëandur could tell the resemblance to his father in the old man's face, especially in the nose and mouth.

"It is joyous to find kin, especially where one does not look for it," said Vëandur.

He struggled for other words, but instead grasped the old man's arms and accepted his embrace.

After several moments, they parted, looking at one another.

"Alas, I can tell you little of Beren that you do not know," said Vëandur. "My father said that he set out on a voyage to the Anfalas one Spring day and never returned. It happened ere I was born."

[Anguirel]

"Vëandur, son of Falastur, of the Fleets," Cirdacil repeated now, in simple wonderment. "My old cheeks blush to admit it, but I had forgotten even the sound of my little nephew's name, till I saw those eyes of yours...and now I see I have a grand-nephew, and grown a brave pilot for his country! Well..."

He shook his head in simple disbelief. Even now, he did not look like a kindly old man, more like a difficult curmudgeon who had been hit on the head with a mattock and was just coming round.

"Well," he said again, "I intend to make it as glad a discovery as I can arrange, though my time is always short, and I'm sure in your active path of life, yours is, well, as much so. But I shall tell you now that you have four fine young cousins, and that we are a family of no small importance, by the grace of the late lamented Steward, and the favours, too, of the King now ruling. Yonder," he pointed further down the fine, broad street, to a long mansion of yellowish limestone, "stands the house of my elder son, Ecsichil, to where I was on my way...and I am sure he would be delighted..."

But Cirdacil cut himself off half way through his sentence, still gazing penetratingly at his new nephew; his eyes might be smaller and browner, but they had, after all, a similar force of will.

"Actually, a better plan has occurred to me. I must tell you, then, though as my near blood you need observe no more courtesies than you think fit, that I am more widely known as Cirdacil, Lord of Burlach, Lord Warden of the Exchequer, and...unfortunately...Master of the Revels, too, at the moment. My younger daughter is married to a lord from Dol Amroth, but I know she is visiting her brother at this house, this evening, for a party of which they think I know nothing. More fool them!

"All my children, your cousins, two boys and two girls," the old man's pride here seemed at the point of overweening, "will be gathered at once. Now, I shall be free from the toils of the Exchequer at midnight; if you too are at liberty then, shall we meet here shortly after that, and surprise the rest of the family together? Then I can introduce you properly."

Cirdacil waited for Vëandur's answer, simultaneously looking him up and down with such exactitude that the mariner might wonder if his distinguished uncle had genuinely proposed his scheme out of affection, if he wished to see this country cousin brought before his noble children only when he was in finer array, or if another reason altogether worked somehow upon the old man...

[Inziladun]

A party? With family he had never before seen, who did not know him? The thought made Vëandur smile nervously. Intruding on parties was something he had done a time or two before (mostly with friends from his ship, all drunk), but this was different. Yet, he did not see how he could refuse Cirdacil's offer. Anyway, the old man knew his own family better than Vëandur did, at any rate. And there was really no reason he could not go. As long as he left word with someone in the Second Circle quarters his crew had been allotted saying where he was going, it should be no problem.

Thinking of the crew brought crashing back the trouble with the captain, temporarily banished by the unexpected meeting.

Perhaps Cirdacil might have some influence that would help, he thought. And acceding to the old man's desire in what looked to be a minor matter surely would not hurt that chance. Also, Vëandur was curious about the unseen relatives, and wanted to meet them. He made up his mind.

"Lord Warden of the Exchequer and Master of Revels? How pressing your duties must be, my uncle. I would hear more of them, and of your life here when you have time. I am here in the City while my captain takes counsel, and know not when I shall have to leave." He paused, and bowed.

"Very well, Lord of Burlach (for so it seems fitting to call you in the public ear), I shall meet you in this place at midnight. I would have the chance to speak more with you, and meet those kin long sundered. May this be the beginning of new bonds between us!"

[Dimturiel]

“You're great. The people love you, and so will we...just the way you are."

Well, that was a relief, Harrenon thought. It could, of course, have been told only out of politeness, but right now Harrenon did not care whether Sador’s words were really honest or not. Any validation was good enough, at the moment. And, he had to admit that Sador had style and a way of making what he said seem very believable. No doubt a very useful talent.

Harrenon looked at his new acquaintance thoughtfully. There was something else Sador had said, something about the Master of the Revels not exactly having good intentions concerning them. Of course, he had heard those rumours many times, and the fact that Sador had now mentioned them to him confirmed in a way that there could be some truth there. How much, Harrenon still did not know, but he could of course try finding out.

“You know,” he said musingly, “I kind of think that even though your father might want to stew us in boiling oil as you so vividly put it – well, I believe that you would not exactly agree with him, would you?”

Now that’s dangerous ground you’re treading, Harry my lad, Harrenon told himself warningly. But he could not exactly take it back. And maybe, if he watched Sador carefully, he might learn from his reaction what exactly he had been put to do there. Then he would maybe find out whether he was really up to no good or not and perhaps he would no longer need to make a fool of himself by tailing Sador all over the place just to pacify Coldan.

[the phantom]

Aldarion's mind was racing as he made his way through the streets of the third circle. Lord Borondir had given him much to think about, and had promised much more the following day. During his service in the war Borondir had actually met several important characters central to the drama- King Eomer, Prince Faramir, and King Elessar himself. But while mere meetings were not a great help, Borondir had in fact spoken at length to Eomer while laying siege to a city in Near Harad, and Borondir had from him a first-hand account of quite a few important events, including quite a bit about the Lady Eowyn and Meriadoc the Halfling.

The next day it was promised that Aldarion would hear a great deal about King Elessar, and from Borondir's hints it seemed that perhaps Branor's spy-king ideas were not entirely without legs.

As Aldarion turned up the side lane towards the house of Bregolas, he was uncertain which feeling was the strongest at this point- fear or excitement. There was a fire burning within- the incredible opportunity, the prospect of doing something great! But at the same time the task was a bit overwhelming, even if he gathered all the necessary information. So much could still go wrong.

He was shaken from his thoughts by shouted greetings from Bregolas's youngest son, Arminas, who had evidently been keeping watch for him. "Aldarion!" the boy shouted, running forward to meet him. "Father and Mother are nearly done preparing for you! It's such a nice day they said we'd eat out behind the house." Arminas grasped Aldarion's hand and pulled him exuberantly towards the left side of the house where it bordered against the wall separating the third and fourth circles. "We can go around this way!" he said, grinning back at Aldarion. "We probably have enough time for me to show you father's new horse! He got him when he was promoted to captain this past spring."

Aldarion hastened to a jog to match the pace of Arminas. Though they could be an annoyance in the theater business, Aldarion generally liked children. They were so enthusiastic, imaginative, and full of promise, and worries did not seem so oppressing when happy children were around. It was easy to be optimistic.

As they rounded the back corner of the home they emerged into a small area behind the house enclosed by a stone wall and paved with large stones. Against the back wall there was a little pad of dirt-covered ground fenced in with well crafted wood. Within the enclosure stood a fine roan horse. "Father let me pick his name," said Arminas as they approached. "I called him Nahar. My friends said it wasn't very original, but I thought that it was the best name for a horse."

[Anguirel]

Sador seemed to take Harrenon's hesitant query in good heart. Really, given how underslept and relatively unkempt he felt and looked, he seemed, surprisingly, in quite the good mood this morning.

"Oh no Harrenon, you can rest assured, I have no wish to stew you in any substance so unpleasant. Why, that would ruin a good dish. I simply intend - with the permission of Brinn and of Master Aldarion, if it is forthcoming - to simmer you with spices, and leave you all tasting a little more exotic..."

He leant back in his chair now, well at ease, and seemed to bring his mind back to an earlier point in their conversation.

"Your roles, for instance - they seem admirable opportunities for an up and coming actor. The Lord of the Nazgul will be simple enough, for nothing captures the attention of the multitude like a villain does. The official accounts of that monstrous captain always seem, if you'll pardon the turn of phrase, a bit lifeless. He was a man of a kind until his destruction, a high king and a fair one untold years ago, legends say...if I were you, I'd try and eke out the human tragedy of it all, not just play the bogey-man to scare the infants."

It was apparent that Sador had thought about this kind of thing before; he spoke with real enthusiasm about the history and his conception of the character, in a manner that was a little reminiscent of Aldarion's, if much less serious.

"As for Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen, well, in its way that is a more mysterious part altogether. Have you ever seen or spoken with the Elder Folk? Perhaps in Dale you have even come across the hero of the Fellowship's people...I even heard a story you had performed at Thranduil's woodland court, and surely that cannot be true? Tell me about them, for I have long wondered. I was very young still at the coronation, when so many Elves graced our City, and have seen none since save the Queen herself, if we count her as such."

"Tell me, if you can, are the woodland folk are golden-headed, as I am," Sador ran a hand through his hair, of which he seemed very fond, "or dark, like most Men of Gondor, even the Elvish folk from Dol Amroth? No one ever seems to know the answer. I heard a tuppenny bard sing the other day that Legolas performed all his deeds out of knightly love for Itaril, a maiden of the Elfin court...it sounded a fanciful tale, but an entertaining one, perhaps even fit for the stage..."

Sador seemed to bring himself up short at this point. "I am sorry, I have talked too long and too excitedly for you to satisfy any of my queries yet. The truth is, it is a great pleasure, and a rare one, to chatter of such things; and however much I may enjoy doing so, my fate is depressingly preordained, to enter the royal service as my father did..."

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel's chat with the small lass was pleasant enough. The girl semed too small to be in the inn byherself, but Thiliel didn't enquire. After all, she herself has gone on adventures alone when she was this height. The girl had any right as she had to be in the common room.

What really seemed queer was the lass' family name. "Elanor Gamgee", she called herself. Gamgee is not a common name in Gondor, Thiliel mused, I'm not sure if it's a name at all! She picked up the tray that she was preparing for Mistress Celebrindal and set off to her cart. Only then did it hit her: Elanor could be a Hobbit! Thiliel almost dropped the tray with the thought. How could I be so slow! I should have asked her! Wow! A HOBBIT! But then she's no lass at all...I've been talking to a lady who could be twice as old as me! But she seemed to enjoy my chattering...

Thiliel paused before Celebrindal's door. Maybe she hasn't awakened yet. Coming to a decision, the girl knocked twice.

[Formendacil]

"Lord Cirdacil has lost a better man zan he vill ever know."

Amdír wasn't sure what to say. He was a humble enough man in stature that he was rarely flattered, and he tended to see his better qualities as simply doing what needed or ought to be done, rather than anything praiseworthy in itself. And then there was the troubling fact that, begrudgingly, Amdír privately agreed with Coldan about Cirdacil not being likely to ever know what a fool he was.

"You are kind to say so," he managed to say after a pause. Then, so as not to dwell on that thought so much, Amdír pointed ahead a low hedge running through the fields.

"That's the edge of Lord Hallas' lands. We're no more than half an hour from the loading up. I should thank you again for coming. It's difficult handling some of the pieces alone, and I don't have the same strength in my left arm as most men, thanks to the Easterlings."

[Dimturiel]

Harrenon had by now deduced that Sador was quite fond of talking – or, maybe, of hearing himself speak, Harrenon was not quite sure which. Nothing or relevance was said, however, at least not in Harrenon’s opinion. As a matter of fact, all that enthusiastic babble was giving him a headache.

Of course, that point about the Witchking’s history was quite interesting, or it would have been, had he not heard it already the day before from Bergil, who had also told him that the Witchking had not in fact killed Boromir, contrary to what the Players had believed – but then again, the Players had believed so many erroneous things, one more hardly mattered. Which of course meant that Harrenon’s time on stage as the Witchking – a favourite of his, which he most certainly did not portray as only a “bogey-man to scare the infants." as Sador thought he did. He actually preferred the role of the Witchking more than that of Legolas. Not because he was one that secretly had evil aspirations. It was only the fact that he had little to do as Legolas, only throw arrows at random and make silly noises for effect. He had actually tried once to talk to Aldarion and get him to give up the sound effects but, predictably, Aldarion would hear nothing of it, claiming that Harrenon had surely made a fool of himself while on stage in worse ways than that.

The rest of Sador’s speech, however, did not do anything but to amuse Harrenon. Well, well, who would have believed the son of none other than the Master of the Revels had such idealistic notions and such dreams! Still, Harrenon decided that it would do no harm to flatter his acquaintance a bit, now that he had the chance.

“Oh, I am sure you will do splendid in the Royal Court,” he said when Sador finally ended his speech. “You seem to have the making for things like that, or so I think. As for your questions – well, I regret to say I haven’t met too many Evles to be a good judge of them.” (As a matter of fact, Harrenon had never seen an Elf in his entire life, but he was not going to let Sador know that). “See,” he added, “There really was a performance in Thranduil’s halls, but you will have to ask Brinn – I mean, Mistress Celebrindal – for more details, since it was long before my time. Regarding that tale that bard of yours told about Legolas and his supposed beloved – well, yes, that would be fit for a play. But I am sure we could leave others to write it.”

At least Harrenon hoped that would be the case. The last thing he wanted to do was to portray a character that was mooning over some obscure Elven-maiden. Knightly-love, indeed! he thought disdainfully. Nothing made one act more absurdly than that and Harrenon wanted nothing to do with it. If he was to have romance in a play, why could it not for once be straight-forward and natural, without all the drama that made one forget about the real story?

Seeing Sador’s rather mortified look, Harrenon realised that he had inadvertently spoken the last words aloud. He smiled apologetically.

“I hold more with tales of adventure, you see,” he hastened to explain. “Nor do I find the type of relationships tuppenny bards usually love to sing of the most moving things that can be put in a tale. Why, what about friendship, then? I have found tales of friendship much more touching than all the love-stories put together. But that, of course, is just a quirky opinion of mine.”

He waved his hand carelessly, as if showing Sador that he should not pay much attention to his ramblings.

[Pitchwife]

"That's the edge of Lord Hallas' lands. We're no more than half an hour from the loading up. I should thank you again for coming. It's difficult handling some of the pieces alone, and I don't have the same strength in my left arm as most men, thanks to the Easterlings."

That last remark made Coldan raised an eyebrow. He had noticed occasionally that the carpenter moved somewhat stiffly at times, but to the extent that he had given thought to the matter at all, he had assumed it might be due to an accident at work. Stupid, he scolded himself. Of course Amdír would have been in the War, like any able-bodied man his age.

"So you were vounded in ze Var? And by Easterlings? And yet you spoke of ze fact that I hev zeir blood in my veins like it doesn't matter to you?"

Amdír shrugged. "Why should it? You're not the man who gave me that wound. And even if you have a tiny drop of the blood of his people in you, why should I blame you for what is beyond your power to change? A man should be judged by who he is and what he does, not by who his fathers were; or so I hold."

These words provided ample food for Coldan's mind to chew on for a while. "You're right, Amdír", he said at last. "I guess I might as vell stop being so touchy about it." Too bad he hadn't come to this insight about a day earlier, or he might just have laughed Asta's insult off, and everything that had happened afterwards might have gone a lot differently.

"But", he continued, eager to change the subject, "now you mention it, I vonder vy none of us seems to hev zought of asking you about your memories of ze Var! Vere you on ze Pelennor?"

"So I was", Amdír nodded, "and a gruesome thing to remember that is. I do not speak of it often, but if you feel my memories could help you people with the play, we can talk about it at more leisure over lunch, when our work is done."

They had now reached a junction where a smaller road forked off from the highway leading down to the Harlond and turned sharp west. Following it, they climbed up a spacious valley that nestled between two spreading roots of the Mindolluin massif, its floor a patchwork of green meadows, orchards with their trees laden with fruit, and corn-fields where farmhands were busy bringing in the last crops while they passed them by; on the upper slopes cattle were grazing. Near the head of the valley, where its rocky walls closed in, stood a stately manor built of the same white stone that Coldan had seen everywhere in the City, surrounded by a small village of stables, sheds and barns, as well as several houses of more modest size, less splendid but still neat and well-built; these, he surmised, would be the dwellings of the numerous servants and workers in Lord Hallas' employ.

In the middle of the wide courtyard in front of the white mansion Amdír reined in the mules, climbed off the driver's seat and greeted the servants who welcomed them, calling each by his name, with a familiarity that spoke of long acquaintance.

"Please see to it that the beasts are fed and watered, will you? I've brought a friend along today to help me with loading our sets, Coldan of Dorwinion, prompter and occasional actor with the King's Players; I had to bribe him with the promise of a fine lunch when we're done, so I depend on you to help me keep my word."

"Do not worry, Amdír", one of the men replied with a laugh. "Your friend shall have no reason to rue his coming hither. Everything will be ready when you are."

Amdír led the way to a barn that stood hidden behind the backside of the manor and opened the big creaking door. Coldan stepped in and stood, blinking to see in the twilight that filled the barn, between the familiar set pieces he had so often performed among and even more often hidden behind, always alert to provide the needed cue when one of his fellow-players faltered in their texts. The showpiece, the big mountain backdrop which could serve as Erebor as well as Amon Rûdh, Mindolluin, part of the Misty Mountains or Mount Doom - then lit from behind so it seemed to glow inside, and with smoke rising from the summit - was missing, for Amdír had already brought it to the inn the day before; but there was the street corner which nobody really knew what it had originally been supposed to represent but which would do nicely for any scene set within Minas Anor, and there the Mirkwood backdrop which could easily double as Lothlórien with a little change of lighting, and there the Tower of Isengard, shown in dramatic perspective to appear higher than it was and painted on both sides so it could change into Barad-dûr with a simple turnaround.

"All right", he said, rolling up his sleeves. "It's ze vork zat's never begun as takes longest to finish. Let's get started."

[Mnemosyne]

Elanor smiled, squeezed the hand, and let it go. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Asta," she said. She paused--the name sounded peculiar rolling off her tongue. "You're not from around here, are you? The Players, I mean. Oh, but that's terribly rude of me--let me start again. It's a pleasure to meet you, especially because you're with the King's Players. I know we're going to see you on Cormare and all, but I wanted to stop by and see you all in advance. I dearly love history, after all, and especially what folk are doing with it here--it's all so different back home, you see!" She took a sip of tea. "So, if any of you are agreeable, I'd love to hear a little of what you're doing, from the pony's mouth, as it were. What sort of things do you do with the Players?"

[Nerwen]

"In answer to your first question: we're from Dale– at least most of us are."

"I see," said Elanor, "so you're the King of Dale's Players!"

"Er– yes," said Asta, though she was rather hazy on that point. The troupe's name came from some long-ago, half-forgotten jest of Rollan's, which for all she could recall might have been about the King under the Mountain, or the King of the Wood Elves, or even wicked Butterbur's successor, the King of Bree. Brinn had cautioned them against saying too much of this in Minas Anor, where folk seemed to take these matters very seriously, and might ask awkward questions about their supposed royal patron. She moved on quickly, to a subject closer to her heart, "As for what I do– well, it's more a question of what don't I do– why, sometimes I think the whole company would fall to pieces if it weren't for me! Not that Bri– Celebrindal– doesn't work hard... but between acting roles and fixing everything and working the mechanicals– particularly the dragon–"

"The dragon...?" the halfling repeated. "But... isn't the play about the War of the Ring?"

"Yes, of course– so naturally we had to put in the Great Dragon of Mordor!"

"Oh," said Elanor, looking a little blank, "that dragon."

[Mnemosyne]

Rollan and Brinn took their breakfast together in the cart. Amdir had dropped the crutches off earlier, and after Brinn had done some test-stumping, she was reasonably confident that she could get around.

Still, there was something comforting about having breakfast in the comfort of one's own room (well, cart), and more comforting still being alone with her husband a little longer. Still, when Thiliel stopped by, she made sure to let her know that she would be dining in the common room, barring any further mishaps.

Thiliel was brimming with energy when she brought the food in, which was a blessing--Rollan was not much of a morning person, and Brinn's desire to discuss the subject of Coldan (and, when he wasn't proving particularly forthcoming, the mysterious Sador) was not mutual.

"You seem sunny today, miss," said Brinn. "Is there any good news from the inn?"

[Galadriel55]

"You seem sunny today, miss. Is there any good news from the inn?" Celebrindal enquired.

"It's a sunny day", was Thiliel's reply. She giggled. "Also," the lass added after a pause, "there's a girl in the common room who wanted to see you. She called herself Elanor, and she has a peculiar family name - what was it? Gam... Gamgee. Yes, Elanor Gamgee. She looks like a girl, but you know what I think? I think she's a hobbit!"

[Mnemosyne]

A hobbit? Brinn didn't know if that boded well or ill... That had to be Samwise's daughter, then, and who knew what she wanted. Hadn't someone said something about her being particularly interested in the performance? Of course, it might have been Lord Burlach who said it, in which case she could have come down to inform them of the royal party's cancellation of attendance, but that was just wishful thinking.

"Do you think, or do you know?" said Rollan. "We'd always heard hobbits looked distinct, and not just in height. Get a good look at her ears?"

"Rollan, be nice," said Brinn. "Did this Elanor ask for me by name, then, or just the King's Players? Either way, I guess you can send her here as soon as I--or she, if she is a hobbit, for they're said to have extraordinary appetites--is finished breakfasting."

[Galadriel55]

"To answer al the questions, I only think. I did not ask her. She has an Elven name, but "Gamgee" is just... queer. I didn't pay attention to her ears and her feet. That would be rude to do to a guest! And she didn't ask for you," Thiliel nodded at Celerindal, "just for the Lord or Lady that is in charge of the troop. I told her your name..." Thiliel didn't know if she has done something bad by giving out this information to Elanor. She was afraid that she made trouble for Celebrindal, and looked at her questioningly. Celebrindal didn't look as if she was mad, which greatly relieved Thiliel.

"Well, whichever way it goes, shuld I ask her to come in some fifteen minutes, when I pick up the tray? If she will be ready. I will bring her answer if she isn't."

Celebrindal nodded: "Thank you, dear. That would be great." Thiliel smiled and curtseyed before bouncing out of the cart and skipping all the way to the common room, full of the knowledge that this was an important task she just recieved. She found Elanor tucking another plate in.

"Good morning again, Miss Gamgee! I have delivered your request to Mistress Celebrindal - she is the one in charge of the troop. She will be happy to see you whenever you wish to come. But she still is having her breakfast, and she will be finished n fifteen minutes. I can show you the way when I go pick up her breakfast tray, or later, if you so wish. For now, can I do anything for you?"

"Some more of the biscuits please, if you don't mind it, Miss Thiliel," Elanor asked pleasantly. While getting the food, Thiliel snuck some glances at the feet of this guest. They were dangling above the ground, and were covered in hair! She is a hobbit! But what am I standing here, gaping at her - hobbits don't deserve their food to be deivered slower that other people! Thiliel brought the plate to Elanor.

[Mnemosyne]

At the fourth bell, there came a knock on the door to Brinn's cart. At her bidding, the door opened and in stepped Elanor. Brinn couldn't help take a look at her feet (unshod, though the golden hair that covered them was so thick she could not, in all justice, consider them "bare") before meeting her eyes and greeting her. She could already see why the Court would be charmed with her.

Elanor swept a curtsy in response. "Hullo, Mistress Celebrindal," she said. "I hope I'm not being too forward, nor too rude, in spending your time."

"Not at all," said Brinn, which was actually true--she was still not in a state to go out and research matters, and if Elanor was forthcoming, she might be able to do some research of her own. "Please, take a seat."

Elanor climbed up on one of the chairs. "Well, then, thank you for your time. It means a lot to me, you see--we don't have anything like this where I come from, but I'm so fond of the histories so I wanted to see what you were doing with them. How do you manage to fit the wealth of material into the time of a play? How long is your play, anyhow?"

"No longer than two hours," Brinn said cautiously, "though that's if everything goes well."

"Two hours?" Elanor was clearly trying her best not to look startled. "How do you choose what's important?"

That is a very good question, thought Brinn. "Well," she said. "Most of our material up to this point has come down to us by word of mouth, so we've assumed that what people thought was worth passing on was the most important. But," she added to Elanor's crestfallen look--what was worth passing on among the pheriannath, she wondered?--"since we're performing for such a different audience this year, we're right in the middle of researching more of the story. We're hoping that what we put on for Cormare is much more... balanced... than what we've done before, and we'll be asking that same question ourselves later on in the week."

"Oh," said Elanor. "Isn't that an awful lot of work in one week?"

Brinn bit her tongue. This Elanor seemed sweet enough, but she had a way of getting to the root of Brinn's problems, all unthinking, that was starting to set her teeth on edge. "The King's Players are very talented," she said.

"Ah," and the look the... child? Woman? gave her was so very knowing that images of the first night's rehearsal ran through her head all unbidden. "Well, if you need any help at all, I'd be glad to provide some. Who's playing my father?"

"We don't know yet," said Brinn. Considering that Coldan plays Gimli after Sam's been killed off, and now we can't kill Sam off... "But Frodo the Ring-bearer will probably still be played by Sereth, who has been acting all her life."

"That's good," said Elanor. "He is a very important fellow, after all, and it must take some great skill to bring out all the depths to him."

Brinn paused. "Did--do--" She hated all this uncertainty; legend said that Frodo had sailed away with the Elves, but legend had also said that Merry was an elf, and anyhow the whole incident had the tinges of myth to it. "Do you know him?" The question sounded stupid the instant it left her mouth.

Elanor just smiled sadly. "Only in books and the faintest memories. He left when I was not six months old. But I read his words all the time, and--" she looked down at her hands, where they lay nested in her lap. "I'd like to think I do."

"We still don't have much reliable information about him," said Brinn. "In fact, if there's anything you could tell us about him--or any of the other pheriannath--I'd much appreciate it."

Elanor's eyes lit up. "What would you like to know?"

[Pitchwife]

One by one, Amdír and Coldan heaved the set pieces out of the barn, carried them into the courtyard and stowed them on the wagon, packing them tightly in order to both make the best use of the space they had and secure them against damage during the transport. It wasn't that different from loading barrels of wine, and Coldan found he relished the work. He had never minded bodily labour in fresh air; working in the vineyards back at home had always been fun, much more so anyway than the endless dull lessons in book-keeping his father had tried to hammer into his head.

Nevertheless, when all was done and he wiped the sweat from his brow (for it was a fine, warm day and the bells of the City, faint in the distance, had already rung noon), he felt that he hadn't used some of those muscles for quite a while, and his stomach grumbled impatiently, reminding him of the lunch Amdír had promised him.

He wasn't disappointed. They took their meal with Hallas' men in the servants' quarters, but the food was good enough to satisfy a lord, and plenty - baked chicken and potatoes with fresh twigs of rosemary, apple pie, and sweet grapes and a rich, blue-veined cheese for dessert -, and furthermore seasoned with a lively conversation. Obviously rumours of the Players' forthcoming performance had spread far and wide around the City; their hosts were delighted to have two members of the troupe at their table and showered them with questions about the play, which Coldan tried to answer fully enough to avoid seeming impolite while leaving his listeners curious enough to entice one or the other into the City to pay for seeing it themselves. (It was a big help that he hardly knew anymore how the play would turn out in the end himself.)

When the servants went back to their work at last, Coldan and Amdír remained sitting for a short while, washing their lunch down with a light ale which made Coldan quite forget that he detested beer as a matter of principle. Now, while they enjoyed a little privacy, was the time for Coldan to remind his companion of his promise to tell him of his war memories.

"Well", Amdír began, a bit reluctantly as if it embarrassed him to talk about his own life, "I'm not sure I can tell you much that will be any help with the play, at least as far as concerns the deeds of the high and mighty. You must understand that war is quite a different thing for the common soldier than is told in heroic lays or shown on stage. Imagine yourself stuck in a seething mass of blades and bodies, hard enough pressed to distinguish friend from foe, your only concern to survive and deal more damage than you take, and most of all to avoid being struck down and trampled to death - such was the Battle of the Pelennor for me. The last thing I remember before that Easterling's axe hit me was somebody shouting The Corsairs of Umbar are coming! - and that would have been the last thing I ever heard, had not a comrade dragged me to safety at great danger to himself. Only later did I learn that it had been the King himself on those ships - or the Lord Aragorn, as he was then known - with reinforcements from Pelargir, and that both King Théoden of Rohan and the Witch-King had been slain even before that."

He took a deep draught from his tankard. "And so it happened that I didn't go with the army to the last battle before the Morannon where the Dark Lord was overcome, but spent those days when the fate of all Middle-earth was on a knife's edge bedridden in the Houses of Healing, only a few rooms away from Prince Faramir and the Lady Éowyn, and the perian Meriadoc."

That last name almost made Coldan choke on his ale. "V-vait a moment", he cried out, sputtering, "did - did you say Meriadoc? Ze halfling? You knew him?"

"That would be saying too much", Amdír conceded, "but we did meet briefly while both of us were in the care of the Healers, and even talked a word or two between two wounded veterans. A brave young man he seemed to me, his courage far greater than his height."

Coldan stared at him with his mouth hanging open. It took him a while to regain his voice. "Zen - zen you knew all along zat he was male, and a halfling? Zat zere never vas such a person as Mary ze Elf-maid of Rivendell?" He hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. "Nienna's mercy, Amdír, vy didn't you ever say a vord?"

"Why would I?" Amdír replied. "For one thing, it never occurred to me that this Mary character was supposed to be him. You see, he was introduced to me as Master Meriadoc, a halfling warrior of King Théoden's household - never a word of Elves or Rivendell. How should I have guessed that the two were meant to be the same person? In good sooth, I never made the connection until we met Master Samwise.

But even if I had thought of it, I'm not sure I would have felt called to speak out. I'm a carpenter, Coldan, not a playwright. I wouldn't ask you or Mistress Brinn for advice on how to make a good cupboard, nor would I presume to teach you what works in a play and what does not. Mary the Elf has been in the play as long as I have been working with your company - as you should remember, having been with them almost as long as myself and spent more time traveling with them - , and I did not feel that it behoved me to criticize anybody for putting her there."

Coldan shook his head, laughing silently to himself. "If zat isn't ze best joke ever! Ve had ze truth vizin arm's reach all ze time, but just never bothered to ask for it." He had a feeling he should be mad at Amdír - to think that all those hateful kissing scenes he had been forced to witness could have been avoided with a few words from the man! - , but he couldn't; he had come to like the carpenter too much during their conversation on their way here. "You're not at fault, Amdír - ze blame is on us for never asking you vat you did in ze Var. But now I zink about it, all zis makes me realize zat I hev indeed done Aldarion wrong in one respect - zis play vas a mess before he ever touched it."

He took another draught, still shaking his head, when a sudden shadow passed over his mind. "Vich reminds me, I suppose Brinn vill still vant a vord viz me ven ve get back, and I doubt her mood vill get much better from being kept vaiting. Ve should get going."

[Anguirel]

Sador's conversation with the young Player, though it had begun in quite an amiable fashion, had not quite recovered that agreeable note since Harrenon's blunt, half-conscious answer to the nobleman's romantic conceits. Yet despite little obvious common ground - excepting, perhaps, that of their young age - the pair had remained together as the morning continued, talking with ever less enthusiasm and consequence. It was an odd state, Sador thought, this extended, purposeless courtesy; and he realised it was felt much the same on Harrenon's side, too, and yet, little as the fellow seemed in truth to like him, he never quite left his side.

Once or twice Sador tried to stray on decisively, to where Asta at the other side of the room was talking with peculiar enthusiasm to a mere child...a golden-headed girl, nobly accoutred, familiar in appearance; the daughter of some courtier, Sador felt sure, though which, he could not recall. Before he had made any precise connection, anyway, both had slipped out of the common room, leaving Sador closeted with the inevitable, awkward, looming presence of Harrenon...did the youth just not have anything better to do?

Piqued into wanting to say anything to alleviate the frustration and tedium in the stuffy tavern air, Sador began to grow a little spikily indiscreet with Harrenon, just as he had done with Aldarion the night before.

"I'm still thinking about what you said, sir Harrenon, about the joys of friendship, and so on. Certainly, if you feel so strongly about that, then you are the right fellow to play Legolas, that fearless comrade of the noble Lord of Aglarond. And that is all very splendid and reassuring. But I am still surprised that a...fine young lad like you, sirrah, has never felt the strains of the sweeter passion...?"

It was unlikely to be a promising line of enquiry on either side. But it was, at that point, interrupted, by the figure of the publican, old Ingold himself, puffing his way into their spiritless conference.

"M'lud," he muttered to Sador with a new and grudging tone of deference, "a fine carriage has called by, and some great ladies within have sent a steward in grand livery to ask for you."

"A carriage?" Sador replied in some alarm. And ladies? They - she - had sought him out, it seemed certain, though goodness knows how they had tracked him to here. It was necessary to make certain, though.

"What sort of carriage, Master Ingold?"

"Festooned with blazons and such, m'lud. Swans, in the main, as far as I can see."

Well, that removed all doubt. Sador turned to Harrenon with an extroardinary look of agitation, and some anticipation too, on his face.

"You must excuse me now, I'm afraid, friend Harrenon. This is the barouche of my sister and sister-in-..."

The law was never spoken, as a gale of wild laughter broke it off, and a tall, most beautiful lady cannoned into Sador's hesitant back, throwing her arms about him. Their resemblance was entire, but wherever the brother was merely elegant, the sister (that much was clearer than anything else in the room's murk) was brightly radiant. It had been her laugh that shattered the cautious courtesies, and her voice, strident in sweetness, was of a piece with it.

"Well, brother, we find you playing with the Players, eh! And you will introduce us, I hope, among your artistic acquaintance?"

Framed in the very entrance to the Inn was the pompous, heavily frog-laced steward whose appearance had impressed Ingold, and at his side was another damsel. Less dazzling, more fine than the first, she surveyed the room with a thin, quiet smile and an equable stare. It would be clear to Harrenon that while Sador returned his sister's embrace with reasonable fondness, the young lord's eyes were already hovering inexorably over to this second arrival...

[Mnemosyne]

Brinn took the noon-tide meal in the common room, cautiously relishing her mobility. Rollan had left the cart during her prolonged interview with Elanor to do start work on pulling out those parts of the set that would be integrated with the pieces that Amdir and Coldan were retrieving from storage. He popped back in at nuncheon to give a brief update and ask Brinn what the hobbit lass had wanted.

"I don't know what she wanted, but she was actually most helpful," said Brinn. "She's quite familiar with her father's story, and told me a good deal about what actually happened--and, better still, what our characters are like. In fact," she said, sighing, "we might have to rewrite Frodo on top of everyone else. I think it could do Seri good if she met with her."

"Seri?" said Rollan. "Is Elanor coming back?"

"Not today," said Brinn, "but I'm afraid we won't be able to keep her away for long. The more I tell her about what we're doing, the more... interested... she becomes."

"All right," he said slowly. "Just remember, it's not her play. Does she have anyone in mind for a comical role?"

"No," she said, "not even Merry and Pippin, who she said were rather jollier than the rest. But when I started suggesting some slapstick, she looked positively horrified. And of course, she doesn't know how a play works, but--she's Lord Samwise's daughter, Rollan! What am I supposed to do?"

"You're asking the wrong person for that," said Rollan. "I'm almost thinking we should just leave town while we have a chance. This is looking like more trouble than it's worth."

Brinn fixed her husband with a look and he quickly studied his stew.

Later, when Amdir and Coldan came back with the wain full of set pieces, Coldan came straight up to Brinn and reminded her she had wanted to see him (Brinn hadn't forgotten). Rollan offered to help Amdir unload, and Brinn and Coldan retired to one of the carts so that Brinn could hear Coldan's side of the story--in private.

[Anguirel]

Some while since Sador at last evaded the vigilance of Harrenon, and departed from Ingold's Inn in the handsome barouche from Dol Amroth with a kinswoman on either side, the remaining noble lady of his family, Aerwen of Burlach, left the great royal library behind her with uncharacteristic pleasure.

A carriage, too, was at the service of her journey, though not such a grand, emblazoned affair as her married sister's vehicle; a lighter droshky, four wheeled and two-seated, decorated in much the same the sombre grey and dark blue in which Aerwen preferred to apparel herself, and without the flummery of a coat-of-arms. It was a fair-sized ride she had ahead of her now, from the Citadel to the Third Circle, but she was a sensible and careful lady and preferred a transport that, while fast enough for efficiency, was perfectly safe. As they left Minas Anor's castellar peak behind and began to negotiate between the tallest of the Sixth Circle merchant mansions - her elder brother Lord Ecsichil's not the least among them - Aerwen lowered a light grey muslin gause over half of her face to keep her large, overtired eyes from the dust. It was scarcely, the fairest observer would have admitted, a princess of beauty which this veil but slightly concealed.

The Healers, too, became long in their wake; with the Fifth Circle they left the school-houses and guild-halls, and through the Fourth little time was allowed for even the most cavalier evening glance among the bombast of the City's finest shops. Few of them, in any case, had ever boasted this generally reclusive and staid lady's custom.

At the Third Circle the droshky began to slow, its path more halting and deliberating; at last they paused altogether, behind a little crocodile of similar transports, in a crescent where several officers of the Guard were known to enjoy their residential pensions. Here the coachman got down to make a couple of enquiries; he was a devoted and skilful servant, and soon reattained his box with the knowledge his mistress had sent him out for at his command. With all its old verve, the manouevrable little carriage rounded the half-circle within the Circle and took a left and right; this left mistress and man in front of a modest lane to a respectable looking military billet. In this lane was pacing a lone man, young in looks but mature in bearing, serious-eyed, dark, as Numenorean to the spectacle, Aerwen thought a little unwillingly, as a lady of any breeding could wish to behold. At this point she herself, with dignity and precision, alighted on the cobbles.

"I believe," she asked with a caution that seemed really to be more about nerves than scepticism, "that you must be Galador's son, sir, late of the Swan Players? If you are he, then my younger brother has desired me to guide you. I am Aerwen, Lady of Burlach."

She really could not help the severity of the sound of her voice, and it had often caused her no little internal anguish...

[Pitchwife]

Back at the inn, Coldan lost no time waiting for Brinn to send for him but, having decided he had better get that talk done with, rather went to seek her out himself. He was pleasantly surprised to find her in the common room - a Brinn who was regaining her mobility thanks to Amdír's crutches might be a little more lenient and agreeable to deal with than a Brinn who was frustrated by being helplessly pent up in her wagon while her troupe ran amuck.

Moving on her crutches almost without need of support, she led him to the cart which had been her domicile and sickbed for the last two days. Once they were private, he thought it best to take the initiative and began to talk while Brinn was still lowering herself gingerly onto a chair.

"I - I suppose you vant to talk to me about vat happened in ze common room last night - and maybe other zings zat happened before zat, if Asta has spoken to you." Now he had begun it, explaining his behaviour was even harder than he had imagined it would be. "Rollan vill probably hev told you zat I asked him for advice on how to voo your sister yesterday. I vant you to know zat nothing of vat followed vas his fault. Ze only one to blame is myself."

He drew a deep breath and steeled himself for the reproach that would doubtlessly come. "I'm sorry to hev caused such an upheaval in ze company at a time ven ve all need to work together and can't really afford to quarrel. You don't deserve zat from me. I'll pull myself together from now on and von't let my feelings interfere viz ze play any more, zat's a promise."

[Thinlómien]

When Sereth woke up, she was horrified to find the sun already descending from her highest point. She jumped up from her bed and hurriedly dressed up. Surely, she told herself, somebody would have come for her if they had started rehearsing. Then again, Brinn is sick and Asta... well I don't know we seem to have some quarrell. The thought of Asta being mad at her did not make Sereth's morning any better.

Combing her hair Sereth admired the shadows under her eyes, visible even in the dim copper mirror of the room. It had not been such a good idea to rehearse lines until birds were singing and the pale hint of dawn was creeping to the horizon. Especially as the lines might still get changed, she told herself. She was vaguely aware that she was taking her newest role too seriously, but decided not to worry about it. What she should worry about though was coming up with some passable excuse for Brinn so that she wouldn't again scold her for straining her eyes in the dim candle light for hours and hours.

Sereth walked downstairs, hoping no one would notice it was the first time she appeared that day. On her way, she met the girl called Thiliel.

"Hi," she greeted the other girl with a smile. "Have they been looking for me?"

[Galadriel55]

Thiliel was planning of going upstairs to her room after lunch, when the inn was almost empty. The usual hubbub was strangely subdued at this time of day. Thiliel hop-skipped her way to the staircase, humming to herself, thinking of when she would go to the market to buy a new ribbon.

Halfway up the stairs Thiliel came across Sereth, the lass that she met yesterday. Thiliel noticed that Sereth looked as though she didn't sleep all night.

"Hi! Have they been looking for me?" Sereth asked. Her voice sounded cheerful enough, even if a little tired.

Assuming that "they" meant the rest of the troop, Thiliel didn't hesitate to give all the information that she knew. "No, I don't think they have. Two of them - two men - went away somewhere for the entire morning. I think they just came back - I saw one of them talk to Mistress Celebrindal. And she can walk on crutches now - she came to the common room for the meal! The other actors were somewhere around... I don't know much about what they were doing, but they weren't searching for anybody... Oh, I almost forgot! How silly of me! A perian came in today for breakfast - a rather large one, I should say. She called herself Elanor Gamgee, and she talked with Mistress Celebrindal for over half an hour.

"You've had a restless night, I see," Thiliel added after a pause, "Maybe I can help you with something? You didn't come down for breakfast or nuncheon; you'd like some food, won't you?" the girl smiled and winked.