[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...