If Fréa was leary about the mighty burghurs of Bree, they also had reservations about him. As mayor of Bree and the successful founder of the merchant guild, Barnaby Greenbush was proud of his well-earned position and wealth and had no intention of stirring up trouble. Trouble was bad for business, and he wanted no part of that. He would have to be very careful indeed.
Barnaby wrinkled his nose distastefully as Fréa approached the table; the latter was wearing the same bedraggled, travel-stained cloak that he'd had on since the beginning of the journey. The mayor quickly scanned the contents of Fréa's safe conduct letter with its request for all to render aid in bringing the escaped criminals to justice. The papers were signed and sealed by one of the commanders of the Riders of Rohan, a scrawled signature that the Breelander had never seen before, certainly no one with whom he had trading ties.
After weighing the pros and cons, the Mayor made an expeditious decision. He would make some semblance of respecting the letters and do what he could to help, but without any real effort or exertion; he would certainly not involve his own assistants in a chase which would likely end in bloodshed.
Barnaby furled his brow and pretended to listen intently as Fréa spelled out his tangled tale, describing Brytta and asking if anyone could render aid or had heard rumors of a band of Rohirrim advancing into Breeland. Most of those seated about the table shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads, indicating they had no knowledge of any travellers from Rohan in recent days.
Reluctant to send Fréa away without any show of help, Barnaby turned about and addressed the soldier, "Some two or three days ago, I saw a traveller in the marketplace who seems to fit your description of Brytta. He was doing a bit of business with a vendor, buying a horse or two. I stood next to him but, whether or not he is from Rohan, I can not say."
Fréa's eyes lit up as he heard this piece of news, "This fellow, is he still in Bree? Where can I find him?"
The mayor shrugged his shoulders, "I've no idea, but I know he was staying at a campsite in the far north of Chetwood, out beyond Archet." Whether or not the gentleman was still there, and whomever he might actually be, Baranby was pleased to have invented a scenario that would send Fréa scrambling beyond the borders of the city. If the soldier wanted to pick a fight, let him do so outside the city's dyke and hedge where he could cause less damage to their own citizens.
Fréa muttered a terse thanks and goodbye, and headed outside; he swung himself up in his saddle and clattered down the street heading for the North Gate.
[ August 30, 2003: Message edited by: Dain Ironfoot ]
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