[Alcarillo]

Gárwine continued walking through the stalls and staring at all the wonders. He had slipped his new dwarven (or so it was advertised) pocketknife into a pocket where it would be safe jangling against his coins. He had little left to spend, so he just looked at the many precious items for sale with a hungry stare. It soon seemed to him that the races would begin soon. He stopped at a stall selling little flutes and harps to ask if the races had begun yet.

"Excuse me, sir?" he said. The stall-keeper turned around. He was a pleasant old man, smiling at everyone.

"Ah, yes, sir, what can I do for yah?" The old man's hands ran across the table, showing off his collection of little flutes. "Here for a flute? A harp? I've even got a few fiddles in, straight out of Gondor."

"Um, no thank you, sir, not at the moment," said Gárwine, though he would've liked a little flute to learn to play on. "What I really wanted to know was when the races would start."

"Ah, the races! They've begun already! I think the first race should be ending about now, or the second race beginning. I've got a lot of money riding on that one horse out of the Westfold, you know, the grey one, . . ." he snapped his fingers trying to remember the horse's name, but Gárwine was already away.

"Thank you, sir!" he called as he hurried away through the crowds. Garwine would tell Léof about how the races went back at the inn.

"Now, come back after the races!" he could hear the old man say behind him. "I've got a flute with your name on it!"

Gárwine hurried away, following the flow of the crowd towards the racetrack. He moved past the stalls and pavilions, and soon he entered the crowds at the racetrack. If Gárwine wanted to bet, now was the last time he could. He felt the few coins in his pocket, and decided right there he would gamble half of what money he had. What harm could come of it?

The racers were already lined up at the starting line. Gárwine pushed his way through the crowds to reach the fence, where he could get a good look at the horses. The grey horse the stall-keeper had mentioned stood near the end. He was a fine horse, but Gárwine thought his rider was too heavy to let the horse gallop at its quickest. Gárwine's eyes moved slowly down the line. Now, that horse looks a little like my Herefola! Except maybe a little smaller. Gárwine thought this omen was enough for him, and drawing five pennies from his pocket, made his way to the betting tables under a great white and red pavilion.

"Just five pennies? Tsk, tsk. I see where just dipping our toes into the betting pool today..." said the thin man at a table spread with piles of coins and papers. "And on which horse?"

"That one," said Gárwine pointing behind him, "The one that's a browny, chestnutty color, a little smaller than the others next to it."

The thin man stood to get a better look. "Ah, now I see it. It looks like the rider's a little young though. And he's obviously putting too much of his weight on one leg, like he's hurt. Are you sure you're betting on that one?"

"Yes, sir." said Gárwine, confident as ever.

"Okay, then."

Once the process of betting was finished, Gárwine ambled back to the fence. The race would start any moment, and Gárwine wanted to see how his rider would fare. Doubts formed in his head. A rider with a hurt foot? A small horse? How small? Gárwine leaned over the fence to get a view past the waving hands of the other spectators. The horse seemed small indeed squeezed between two great chargers. And sure enough, the rider was leaning too heavily on one foot and not the other. And he was rather young, too, barely a man. The face looked so much like Léof's, but he couldn't tell for sure, with the other riders getting in the way…