***

Chapter I V
Dealings

The shadows were stretching eastward, and Denethor wiped sweat from his brow, relieved that the abominable day was nearly done. After a swift ride from the edges of South Ithilien to the garrison at Poros, he had spent the rest of the sweltering day easing potential obstacles out of his way. It was not that he could relieve Ithrin of his command here (yet), but he had made certain that Ithrin knew that the Captain-General would be taking matters into his own hands for the next few days. And no, Ithrin's officers need not concern themselves about the men who would be accompanying them at all times and in all business--it was simply an effort on Denethor's part to learn of the company's routine, and cooperation was both appreciated and required. Naturally, this had inspired protests and much indignation, which had had to be ruthlessly quelled (the protests, at any rate). All in all, a most unpleasant afternoon, and as he stood now beneath one of the few trees to grace the grounds of Poros, idly plaiting a bit of string as he enjoyed what breeze could be found, suspicions hummed like insistent flies and bred in the back of his mind.

He was suspicious of the fact that thus far, he and his people had seen no signs of illicit wealth, nor (so far as could be determined in the work of but a few hours in one storeroom) had aught been found missing that could not be accounted for by requests for supplies. And yet, oddly, there was not enough coin in the company coffers. Ingar, the quartermaster, had requested loans to cover the expenses (none of which should have been beyond the means of a garrison like Poros), and that discrepancy had been the proof of wrong-doing that had brought Denethor hither. But even that might not have been remarked upon had not Erethras of South Ithilien earlier complained of a certain appalling laxity in Poros that left him and his men bearing the brunt of Haradrim attacks. When Denethor had stopped in his journey south from Cair Andros to speak with him, Erethras had still been spitting fire over the matter, as men were wont to say. A greying captain of Ecthelion's generation, and who had been in the company that had held the line while the last of Ithilien's people were forced over the river, Erethras, like many, was driven by that memory, and was not one to mince words where his command was concerned. "We lose too many these days, my lord, and not for want of caution. The Haradrim seem to know where we are. My men are nervous, and every patrol that comes back with gaps in its ranks makes it harder to send the next one out to slaughter. Assuming anyone comes back." That in a tone that bore witness to a captain's anguish for his dead.

"I have read your reports, and seen the tallies," Denethor had replied. "Why think you that the Haradrim cross Poros so easily?"

"I think the captain there is grown lax," Erethras had answered promptly. "Ever he waits to see whether a threat may not be exaggerated, or he mobilizes too slowly, and by then, it is too late. 'Tis up to South Ithilien, then, to stem the tide, and we pay for it. We pay twice over for one who cannot be troubled to be swift any longer." A reasonable assessment for one who had not the account sheets to hand, and Denethor had nodded thoughtfully. One night only had he and his company spent among the Ithilieners, but when they had set out again the next morning, it had been with another twenty soldiers as escort, loaned by Erethras, who had been only too willing to help see this matter to an end.

The Haradrim seem to know where we are. Denethor frowned, turning that acid comment over in his mind. Did that mean more than that the Haradrim had grown the craftier? Erethras was not one to exaggerate, and he ought to know how best to protect his men after so long in the field. And yet he could not. In addition to the escort loaned him, then, Denethor had left the man's hospitality with records of South Ithilien's recent activities, and once he had reached Poros, he had read over them as he had examined Poros' records of its schedules. And it had fairly leapt out at him--the patrols that were suffering the most from the Haradrim depredations were those that had regular contact with Poros' patrols. Others might encounter a roving company now and again, but those who worked closely with Poros' men were being whittled away by ambush every other week, it seemed. Poros' records showed, on the other hand, that the South Ithilien men either arrived late and in need of help or else departed on schedule and without mishap, only to be attacked on their return. Never are the two together when an attack occurs, Denethor thought grimly. That seemed uncommonly good luck for Poros, or else the Haradrim were uncommonly foolish, to waste the opportunity to rid themselves of twice the number of Gondorrim. I wonder who leads those patrols from Poros? The records did not give names, only company numbers and units, but someone must know. And once Denethor had names....

He jerked the string so hard to finish off the knot that it snapped, and he sighed softly, pocketing the shorter length, as he absently began again with the longer one. He did not want to believe it of any man, but clearly someone had sold the Ithilieners to the Haradrim. Is it Ithrin? I cannot imagine he would be ignorant of this; certainly one or two of the lieutenants must know, and whoever passes the information. That argued that at least a few among the rank and file must know that something was amiss, or at least unusual, for an officer could not be everywhere, and there were a number of patrols that cooperated with Ithilien. And why would a man betray his own? What profit is there in this trade? How is it linked to empty coffers? At the moment, there was but one man that Denethor could readily convict, and that was the quartermaster, Ingar. And for the moment, I cannot prove more than that he is a thief. The useless youngest son of a lord, he had not had the aptitude to lead men in battle or advise men in council, and so had been shuffled off to count beans at Poros--a respectable enough position, but not one that would gain him any great glory.

But apparently, notoriety will suffice! Had he been even a little more careful in his accounting, he might have found ways to hide the shortfall in the company coffers, but so far as Denethor and Ælric had been able to tell, the man had simply grown careless, convinced that no one would ever have cause to question him. Although that mistake might cost him dear, and perhaps help to expose others, Denethor found himself disgusted all the more. As one who never tolerated the lazy, Ingar was an affront to his sensibilities on any number of levels, and Denethor planned to be certain that the man's family disinherited him, assuming he survived a trial. It would humiliate the family, but Denethor was not particularly sympathetic--after all, Poros was a disgrace to the army, and reflected poorly on Denethor and (even worse) on Gondor. No one comes away from such affairs with clean hands, after all, he thought, remembering the conversation among his escort a few days earlier. I wonder if the hapless Anzîl is among those who know too much? He hoped not--not that he knew the lad in question, but morale was poor enough in the South, and he would not wish a traitor's acquaintance on any man. Stolen coins... and information.... Where is the link between them? What is being traded?

It was growing too dark to see very well, and his musings could go no further without facts. So Denethor turned from the east and began to make his way back towards the storehouses, where he would meet with his men. As he walked, he inspected his handiwork, the product of his unguided imagination. In another place and time, it might have been called Gordian; Denethor simply called it tangled and shoved it into a pocket in his trousers. This was not the time or place for private pursuits--if his hands craved occupation, then he could tie a hangman's knot as well as any man could. Happy are they who have naught but recalcitrant Rohirrim to deal with!

***

"Go another round, Eadwin?"

Aragorn shook his head, smiling slightly to himself as he stood near the northern wall and watched as Eadwin climbed painfully to his feet and faced his teacher once again. A few days ago, when he had asked Breca which of the Gondorrim lieutenants the Éorlingas looked to for help, the answer had been unequivocal: "You will want to meet Rothil, hlaford. Reliable sort, and he has a heart as well as a head." And indeed, he was, and he had--one of those easily likeable souls, with an open face and an easy nature, the young man had been quick to offer Aragorn his assistance once acquainted with both Aragorn and his mission. It had taken little coaxing after that to convince Rothil to take Eadwin under his guidance, and no one seemed to mind the arrangement, Eadwin least of all. For the man laughed often, and if he could be strict when necessary, his men did not fear to approach him. It was no wonder to Aragorn that the Rohirrim liked Rothil best of all the officers in Cair Andros--of all of them, he was nearest to their measure. And indeed, further questioning had revealed that the lieutenant had grown up in the shadow of Halifirien, hard upon the borders of Rohan, by the Mering. Unsurprisingly, he and his family had done much business with Rohirrim before, and he even spoke a little of their tongue, though brokenly. "I fear I have no gift for speaking, sir," Rothil had admitted when Aragorn had tried conversing with him in Rohirric. "But I understand it well enough, and so I hear twice as much as most others in Cair Andros. I do what I can to keep the peace, but this business about Hladred has ripped my patchwork wide. And," he had sighed heavily, "I know I do not hear all, and I cannot help in every case. The newest lieutenant on the roster has much to prove ere he can argue with his elders." That was true enough, though Aragorn might wish it otherwise. At the least, he knew now how the situation in Cair Andros had gone so long unremarked, and it was hardly Rothil's fault that Hladred's death had proved too volatile an issue for him to handle alone.

For as of yesterday, it had proved too volatile a matter for Aragorn to deal with, either. In the four days that he had been here, efforts to convince Breca and Falthir to speak to each other and not at cross-purposes had borne little fruit, though not for lack of trying. The latest meeting two days ago had been well-nigh disastrous, and yet it had at least shaken Falthir. I hope only that if he feels his back to a wall, he shall not seek to hold all the world at bay still. But I know not what else to do, other than let him flail, and push him towards Breca when he asks for help. For sometimes desperation works in favor of peace, he reminded himself, and tried not to fret unduly. That was difficult, considering the line that he walked--he dared not intervene to the point of rousing either resentment or dependency upon him, which meant that his best weapons were patience and discretion. And while he tried to prod Breca and Falthir to settle the larger issues between themselves, he and others like Rothil attempted to remedy the lesser problems. Like Eadwin, and a lot of unhappy stablehands. That, at least, seemed to have resolved itself neatly, doubtless due in part to Eadwin's puppy-like earnestness, for the Gondorrim had not the habit of kicking pups. This morning's challenge, though, was a bit stiffer, for Aragorn had in mind to change the impression that the Rohirrim were less than skilled warriors. Having watched men drilling in the yards for three days now, Aragorn supposed that he ought not to be surprised that the Rohirrim practiced separately from the others--they worked mostly from horseback, and so would cross to the west side of the river to drill.

After due consideration, he had decided that this was unacceptable, and had informed Breca that today, the Rohirrim would drill with one of the Gondorrim companies. "I hope that you have not practiced solely from the back of a horse," he had added.

"Standard practice, hlaford--we would not wish to be caught in a bind if unhorsed."

"Good. Then be prepared to prove that point," he had replied. "Incidentally, who would you say is your best swordsman...?"

The Gondorrim had been surprised to discover that they would be sharing their yard with the Rohirrim, but after some grumbling, they had made room enough. Rothil had come to join them as well, having naught to do until noon and a vested interest in improving Eadwin's form. As Aragorn watched, Eadwin blocked Rothil's attack, and, heartened by that success, pressed forward in a burst of energy. He was not bad with a blade, but he certainly had much still to learn, and Aragorn winced inwardly when the lieutenant, with a quick thrust, stepped in close, actually managing to get a foot between the other's legs. When Eadwin stepped back, his ankle caught against Rothil's, and once again, he went down. Rothil offered the sprawled lad a hand up from the ground, giving him an encouraging smile, though he said simply, "Again." With a sharp nod, Eadwin gamely took up his stance once more, though he was breathing hard and wincing a bit from the bruises. Aragorn could almost feel sorry for Eadwin, but that he had had his share of drubbings in the past. Everyone paid his dues on the practice grounds, lord or common-born soldier, Rohirrim or Gondorrim alike. For the moment, though, Eadwin and Rothil were the only mixed pair on the practice grounds, but that was about to change. Aragorn had been watching the Gondorrim for a few days now, and he thought he had the measure of his target. The object of his attention this morning, a man named Hirion, was a more than competent swordsman, and even now, he disarmed his opponent with a deft maneuver. The other man backed away, arms raised in surrender, which was what Aragorn had been waiting for. Moving quickly away from the wall, Aragorn caught Brything's arm on his way towards the Gondorrim pair. "Follow my lead," he muttered quickly. Then, addressing himself to Hirion, "Well played, sir. Perhaps you and your friend would care for a new opponent?"

Hirion stared at him blankly for a moment, clearly uncertain how to respond to a challenge by Denethor's aide... an aide who (as rumor had been quick to declare) hailed from Rohan himself, appearances notwithstanding. "Ehm... well, captain...I hardly think that would be fair... two of us against you...." I must remember to tell Halbarad of that courtesy the next time we spar, Aragorn thought wryly.

"Here's a fair fight then," Brything said suddenly, sensing his opening as he strolled forward. The two Gondorrim exchanged glances that told of their doubt on that score, but with a shrug, the other man acquiesced and Hirion nodded. Clearly, they had nothing to lose in this bout. Captain Ælric and the Rohirrim had challenged them, so whatever the Rohirrim got would be only what they deserved, after all.

"Fair match then, captain. Whenever you are ready," Hirion replied, as he and his friend closed ranks and Brything drifted a bit aside for space. A moment, the four of them stood still, and then it seemed they all moved at once. Leaving Brything to deal with Hirion himself, Aragorn took Hirion's companion. His opponent was a solid swordsman, if not a particularly inspired one, and Aragorn had no real difficulty holding his own, even as he kept half an eye on Brything. As he had expected, Hirion and Brything were well matched, the two of them already dueling quite ferociously. Of all the Rohirrim, Breca had said, Brything had the most experience. Had the two Gondorrim known the half of it, they might have been more wary of him. For Brything alone would have been a match for the pair of them--men who had survived a troll's attack on foot generally did not live by luck alone--which was why Aragorn let his opponent's practice blade slip past his guard to score solidly against his ribs.

"I yield!" he gasped, backing quickly out of the fight. His opponent, soul of courtesy, offered a cheeky salute, then turned to help Hirion as Aragorn withdrew into the circle of onlookers.

"Are you hurt, captain?" Rothil asked, appearing at his side suddenly.

"I shall be if Brything loses," he muttered in Rohirric, pressing a hand against his side and gritting his teeth in pain.

"And not you alone," the lieutenant replied, glancing around at the circle of men. Both companies had gathered to watch, and the Rohirrim were cheering Brything on, their voices rising en masse above the encouragement of the Gondorrim. "That looked a hard hit! Are you certain you are well?"

"Quite, thank you, Rothil," the Ranger replied, making a conscious effort to clasp his hands behind his back and ignore the ache in his side as he watched the fight unfold. Brything still held his own, and although it would have been wiser to eliminate his weaker opponent first, he ignored him in favor of Hirion. Clearly, his reasoning matched Aragorn's--the more impressively the fight favored the Gondorrim, the better the victory should Brything win the match. And even if he loses, he ought to disabuse the Gondorrim of the notion that the Rohirrim are playing at swords, Aragorn thought. It was not even his swordsmanship that impressed the Ranger, but his shield-work. Although it was a dying tradition in Rohan, there were still men who taught the art of defense (and offense) with a shield. It was an art that Aragorn could appreciate only from a distance, as his own shield-work was... 'average.' Elrohir and Glorfindel had taught him enough for their peace of mind, but both had known that he would not be able to rely upon one, for Rangers did not carry them. Rohan had reacquainted him with the use of one, but cavalry had not the same freedom of movement, nor the proper type of shield for this sort of display. For Brything's opponents, try though they might, could not find a gap in his defense. Indeed, Hirion's friend found himself ducking to avoid being bludgeoned or hit by the rim.

"Valar!" Rothil winced, watching as one of the Gondorrim staggered back, a bit dazed from the clash. "He could take a man's head off if he swung that shield hard enough!"

"Indeed, he could. Once, it was an art much practiced, and the old legends speak of women who were trained to fight solely with a shield. I tend to doubt that myself, but one who knows how to use a short shield is one not to be lightly opposed," Aragorn replied absently, following the fight. There were murmurings from the Gondorrim now, as men whispered and watched, wide-eyed, as the bout went on and on. Hirion was beginning to become frustrated, his attacks becoming more rushed as he sought an opening, and his friend could not seem to keep up with Brything, who ever managed to maneuver around him, putting him in Hirion's way. At last, though, Hirion swung too wide. In a heart beat, Brything was upon him. Swinging his shield wide and flat, he used the point to knock Hirion's out of position, then thrust his blunted blade against the other man's chest. Ere Hirion could even surrender, he turned towards the other man, whose expression said that he knew he was beaten. For a moment, they stood facing each other, and then the Gondorrim spread his arms wide--match conceded. The onlookers broke into a frenzy of applause (and a few groans as the newly indebted handed over their coins to eager collectors), but the chorus of Rohirrim voices was clear:

"Brything! Brything! Riddermark!"

Panting now, Brything raised his sword in salute, then lowered his shield, grinning at his exuberant countrymen as he wiped sweat from his brow. Hirion stood forward then, looking just as exhausted and a bit bewildered, as the Éorlingas grew silent. Aragorn tensed, knowing that what was said next would determine many things between these two companies. The Gondorrim looked his opponent up and down, frowning, 'til at last, Brything asked, in a deliberately off-hand tone, "Fair enough for you?"

Hirion gave a snort of disbelief, shaking his head. "Fair never entered into that," he replied, disgusted, arching a brow. And then, unexpectedly, he grinned. "Another round?" There was laughter at that, and Aragorn was relieved to note that it came from both sides of the circle. The crowd dissolved, breaking into pairs once more, but there were a few more mixed pairs, as Rohirrim and Gondorrim sought a challenge. Even Eadwin got an offer from one of the younger lads among the Gondorrim.

"Well, now, who would have thought it?" Rothil asked softly.

"Who indeed?" Breca asked, joining them. He eyed Aragorn up and down, then said, "And now that you have had your jest, hlaford, will you face a real match? None of this tussling as if you fought your mother."

"For one who has never seen me tussle with my mother, you have a bold tongue, Breca Althyrsson," Aragorn replied. "I...." He paused, lowering his sword as he noticed a lad threading his way through the men, looking straight at the three of them. Breca glanced back as well, and frowned as the esquire trotted up to him.

"Aye, lad, what is it?"

"Your pardon, captain, sir," the other said, nodding to Aragorn and then Rothil ere he faced Breca. "Captain Falthir wants a word with his liaison. He sent me to bring you back straight away, sir."

"Did he now?" Breca replied evenly, then cast a wry look back at Aragorn, though his eyes were serious. "Your pardon, hlaford mín. I suppose Rothil here shall have to entertain you."

"We shall speak later, Breca."

"Aye, hlaford. Let us go, lad."

"I wonder what that means," Rothil murmured worriedly.

"Answers we shall have in good time. For the moment, though... entertain me, if you will," the Ranger challenged, and Rothil grinned as he took up his blade.

***

Falthir gazed coolly at Breca, who seemed quite as unhappy as he, in his way. Bland blue eyes were wary now, and the Rider's posture was stiff as he sat before Cair Andros' captain. Their most recent... 'conversation'... still hung between them, and the air in the office seemed stale with old animosity. It had been three days since Falthir had acceded to the inevitable and named Breca the liaison for the Rohirrim. During their first, tension-fraught meeting, they had spent little time speaking of anything of consequence, both of them acutely aware of Captain Ælric standing over them, watching them rather as a nanny might watch a pair of errant children. They had spoken in circles that day, touching on issues without ever addressing them directly, feeling each other out, trying to determine, doubtless, how much of the other's willingness to negotiate hinged upon Ælric's intervention. Breca had seemed frustrated then, but he had carefully said nothing out of turn. The next meeting, one day later, had not gone quite so well, for Breca, with the usual lack of caution for which the Rohirrim were infamous in Cair Andros, had plunged headlong into a discussion of Hladred's death and its significance. Forewarned by his initial painful conversation with Captain Ælric, Falthir had managed to maintain a reasonable tone, for it was not as if they were in Rohan. It was not until he had learned precisely how much the Rohirrim wanted from him that shock had shattered his silence.

"You would want how much?" he had demanded, appalled.

"Hladred Héofsson was the only son of his father--Héof and his wife must be fairly compensated for such a loss, which we account worth twenty silver marks in the Riddermark. Hladred also left a wife with two young children behind, and the widow's fee is one gold mark, or two good horses, which she may choose for herself. I think you may assume she will take the gold rather than the horses in this case. As an officer in his own right, the price of his commission is another eighteen silver, and for injuries to his horse--"

"Injuries to a horse?!"

"--the fine is assessed at ten half-marks," Breca had finished smoothly, and cocked a pale brow at him. "The court fee is one silver mark. All of this is no more nor less than what custom dictates in the case of wrongful death in the given circumstances, as you shall find, should you apply to Aldburg for confirmation. Sir."

"Is this true?" Falthir had demanded sharply of Captain Ælric. "Can this even be done?"

"Unfortunately, yes," the man had replied. "'Tis rare, but it happens sometimes in Anórien that a Gondorrim must appear before an Éorling court. As for the fines, they are not unreasonable under the laws of the Mark. If Breca submits this to a proper high court, I do not doubt that the case would be accepted and a request submitted to the steward for your presence." Even given that Breca had spoken in terms of coins from Edoras' mint, Falthir, adding up the numbers, had quickly realized that the amount came to roughly half his yearly salary. And half of his salary belonged to his family, who used it to help maintain their demesne, or who invested it in his sisters' dowries. In Rohan, such a price would surely suffice to sustain a family for more than a year. And the cost would be all aside from the humiliation of such a case.

"I suppose that interest is due as well for the delay," he had replied sarcastically, seeking a moment to collect himself and to try to think of a way out of the snare.

"Well, if you wish, you could apply for remission of interest at the nearest townstead--Tostigsgrab, I believe--given that you were unable to be judged in a week's time before a lawful court," Breca had answered helpfully.

"I spoke not in earnest!"

"I did."

"I cannot pay such a fine!" And he could not ask his family for support in this. They were lesser nobility, and hard coin was harder to come by than cows, and his parents were not about to part with a herd of them for a case like this. Even were they, it would be a hardship, and possibly put his family in debt, unless one of his sisters managed to marry above her station. And my sisters are younger than I. Anith is barely seventeen!

"Then levvy coin from your people--from Cair Andros' garrison, since its men had a part in this. Such recourse is not unknown in the Mark."

"I cannot simply demand fees from men under my command!"

"Then apply to your lord, as is customary," had been Breca's comment, and while Falthir had choked over the prospect of involving Lord Denethor in this, Ælric had--thankfully!--intervened.

"You do but hear what would happen were you found guilty before a high court of the Mark. It would be a difficult case to settle, at that: there is little precedent for these circumstances, although Hladred is not the first Éorling to die in the service of Gondor, clearly: many have met their end in the south, princes no less than common Riders. Lord Túrin paid a wergild for Folcwine King's sons, though out of love, rather than punitively. In any case, you are not bound because you have not been made subject to judgment. It would be best if this could be settled without recourse to a formal accusation"--and Ælric had given Breca a significant look--"but if it cannot be, it were best you applied not to Tostigsgrab or Aldburg but to the ambassador at Minas Tirith. I suggest the two of you think now of ways to avoid such a lengthy, complicated, and... distasteful... set of proceedings."

Falthir had spent the next day doing just that, but it was difficult to plan against something he knew so little about. He had even asked Ælric's advice, and received a lecture on law and law-giving in Rohan, 'til Falthir had felt as if he were drowning in folk courts, high courts, king's courts, fines, fees, law by precedent and law as written, and the distinctions between a complaint and a formal accusation. "But what must I do to avoid such?" he had finally asked, and Ælric had given him a bland look.

"I should ask Breca, were I you," he had replied.

"Ask the one who would leave me destitute?"

"Ask the one who may choose not to, Falthir."

"This is blackmail!"

"Aye, perhaps," Ælric had replied, and smiled grimly at his discomfiture. "And it may spare you another interview with the Captain-General, among other griefs. Talk to him. And remember that he is Rohirrim." So saying, Denethor's aide had left him to ponder that remark well into the night.

And so, after another sleepless night, here they sat, staring at each other, trying to gauge the other's mood. Breca, clearly, was attempting to discern Falthir's motives, and not without reason. Falthir's esquire had dragged him straight from either the stables or the practice grounds, to judge by his sweaty garb. Probably the practice yard, Falthir decided, noting that dust, rather than straw, clung to him. It was futile to hope that the exercise had worn the worst of the man's resentment away, since it had never done so before. And while he sat there trying to decide how best to broach the topic, Breca, in a curiously fastidious gesture, pushed his braids neatly behind his ears, so that they did not hang down in his face, and asked bluntly, "What so urgent, captain, that you would want my objectionable self in your office this day?"

"'Objectionable,' yes, well... we shall not discuss that part," Falthir replied with a thin, humorless smile. "I have spoken with Captain Ælric. I am yet somewhat unclear as to what stage of the complaint we are in, to be frank, but I am certain that you could inform me, since, according to him, your family has a habit of speaking for others in matters of the law."

"Is that what you wish to know, captain?" the other replied, refusing to take the opening offered.

Falthir stared at him a moment, seething, and Breca simply gazed back steadily, refusing to give an inch. Remember that he is Rohirrim! Ælric's voice sounded in his mind, and he throttled the impulse to groan. Clearly, this was going to be played according to Rohirric rules--Falthir would have to ask outright. Mules, every single one of them, Cair Andros' captain thought, and bit down on a sharp retort. Think of applying to Lord Denethor for help in a Rohirrim legal question, he reminded himself, which hideous notion cooled his wrath appreciably. Drawing a breath, he answered as calmly as he could, "No, Breca, that is not what I wish to know." He paused, and then, in a rush of irritation--or mayhap it was inspiration--continued quickly, "Valar help me if I care much what stage it is, or which court this would go to, or whether I would speak for myself or let another do so--none of it matters much to me. I am not Rohirrim," he said, turning about the complaint he had heard so often.

"No, that you are not, sir," Breca admitted.

"And since I am not, I shall not tell you what a vain, stubborn, contrary, obstinate, impossible, arrogant--did I say stubborn?--infuriating people I find you to be. Nor shall I acquaint you with the particulars of Lord Denethor's displeasure with the lot of us should I ever need to ask his aid or his father's aid in this matter. My family cannot afford any such wergild as you have named, and I am frankly tired of this. So in short: what do you want, Breca? I want peace in this fort and no further arguments--none at all. And be aware that blackmail is taken very seriously in Gondor," he added for good measure.

Breca gazed back at him, and Falthir had the impression that dumbfounded disbelief and mad hilarity were warring within him. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he sat back in the chair, heedless of the dust, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Your 'in short' is a mile long and more, captain," he replied at length, tone dripping irony and repressed laughter, much to Falthir's irritation. But when next he spoke, his tone was serious. "Peace in Cair Andros depends in part upon the good will of my men, who are naturally yours as well, I trust," Breca stressed, in such a manner that it was clear he did not trust, and would not short of Falthir's promise on that account.

"Naturally so," Falthir replied in as normal a tone as he could manage. "So long as they also recognize that."

"If that is what you wish, captain, then you have much to do to prove yourself worthy of them."

"Truly?" Cair Andros' captain raised a brow frostily. "How novel. I was under the impression that your--excuse me, my--men needed to prove that they were worthy to pass judgment on their commanders, given their lack of experience, rank, and rebellious manners. Not to mention, in certain cases, their lack of command of the language of Gondor."

"Those things I can address, if you will agree to treat them not as the leavings of the Riddermark's cavalry or errant boys on a holiday among armed men. They are not. We are not. Most of us have not very much experience, but men like Brything could sit a horse even if a dragon appeared. Brything," Breca added, sensing the lack of recognition, "from Granburg. You may have noticed him before--he has a scar from an orc that nearly took his eye, and he is not... how is it called?... not a man of gracious speech, if you will."

"Ah yes. I recall him now." 'Not a man of gracious speech,' indeed! "Very well. What else?"

"In the main, that the Gondorrim keep their hands off of our horses--dead, alive, or wounded, they are ours to deal with, in the manner that is proper."

"Burying a horse takes time enough that it could risk the company entire."

"But we bury the men if we can. 'Tis no different."

"They are horses!"

"And they are our horses," Breca countered forcefully. "We do not eat them, nor tan their hides for clothing, nor burn them only to scatter the ashes, or leave them lying. A Rider without a horse is nothing more than a heavily armed fyrd man, and half a man for having had such a companion. To treat one like a common cow... I would not do it, any more than I would bed my sister. Can you not understand that?"

"Frankly, no," Falthir admitted, and was vaguely pleased to see Breca set back on his heels by that stark denial. "A horse is a useful beast, and a noble one, I grant, but that is all. Such care as you lavish on your horses I prefer to reserve for men."

"Then I can guarantee you nothing, captain. Éothéod we are--horses are in our blood and in our very name."

"And because 'stone' is in the name of my people, I should be inseparable from it? There must at least be some faster way to dispose of corpses than burial."

"This is not a matter of expediency, captain. In truth, we bear more easily being held callow and untried than breach of this particular custom."

"Then that I call a pity."

"And that we call insulting."

"Which shall never cease to amaze me," Falthir sighed. "Very well. Bury your horses, but hear me now: if it is decided that the company cannot linger, I expect no complaints. You will simply have to find a way to change the ritual if it comes to that. Troublesome as I find Rohirrim to be, I would rather your skins intact than your horses in the ground, and being Gondorrim, naturally, I never said such a thing, because that would be ill-mannered of me."

Breca considered him for a long moment, then asked, "You said Ælric hlaford spoke to you, captain?"

"I spoke with him, yes," Falthir replied, hoping that that might count in his favor, much as he disliked to admit that. He still was uncertain what to make of Denethor's aide, and worried what report he might carry south.

"Did he tell you to couch your... objections... thus?"

"I am not in the habit of allowing others to put words in my mouth, Breca," Falthir responded in a clipped tone. "If anything, I learned such manners from the Rohirrim." He had rather expected a sharp retort, or at least some irritation for that last dig. Instead, in a wholly unexpected turn of events, Breca threw his head back and laughed. And laughed. Falthir's astonished puzzlement began to turn towards embarrassed, uncomprehending irritation once more ere his liaison officer at last managed to control his mirth enough to speak.

"That... is the most direct thing you have ever said to me!" Breca exclaimed, still chuckling somewhat. Eyeing Falthir, he gave a sharp nod, as of approval. "So you do learn from us. We may yet come to terms, captain. May I have leave to go, sir?"

"Are we agreed, then, that Hladred's death shall no more lie between us?"

"Speak to your men about the horses, and give us a fair chance, captain, and it shall not."

"Then we are agreed," Falthir replied, rising as Breca did. They did not clasp hands--there was still too much resentment between them for that. The Rohirrim gave the chair a quick swipe, which did almost nothing for the dust there, and Falthir shook his head. "Leave it," he said, "I shall have another deal with it."

"Aye sir." And after one more searching look, Breca went. Falthir sank down and laid his head on his arms on his desk. May it be enough! he thought. He did not quite trust Breca yet to deliver on his word, though the man had seemed in an uncommonly good mood. I wonder why? Never mind, I do not care, so long as this ends and there is order in this fort once more!

Chapter V
Patterns

The clouds rose up, fleece-like, on the horizon, sweeping in from the eastern mountains with the hot winds. The humidity was nearly unbearable, but despite the promise of thunder, there was no relief in sight, for the storm would spend itself ere ever it reached the Poros garrison. Thus men sat and sweltered in the thick, tense air, waiting impatiently for sunset and a chance at the bath-house. Ordinarily, the river would have been preferred to a tub, but those not on duty were forbidden to leave the fort's precincts by order of the Captain-General. By now, of course, everyone knew the reason for such a ban, and a sense of collective shame had hung over the garrison since Lord Denethor's arrival three days ago. Men whispered in the mess halls, and sat close to each other in small, subdued clusters, eschewing the company of those whom they considered less than fast friends, to be trusted absolutely in all matters. No one wished to come under the scrutiny of the Captain-General after all, who had proved that he had no compunction about questioning even common soldiers if he felt it was necessary. The men who had been summoned to him and who had returned came back mute and were not willing to speak much of the experience. And there was a good reason for that – "Look," one such soldier had exclaimed when his friends had pressed too hard for details, "I have not anything to hide, but Lord Denethor told me to say nothing. And so that's what I'm saying!" And thus it stood afterwards, and men walked on eggshells and wondered who among them might be a traitor, if their captain and lieutenants were. For there must be others, even among the ranks, though no one was willing to speak much of that possibility. The Captain-General's escort of men from Minas Tirith and South Ithilien kept careful watch on anything Lord Denethor deemed too sensitive to leave in the hands of the Poros garrison, and there was a general aura of discomfort that hovered between resentment and guilty acceptance of that clear sign of distrust.

But even if the ranks were gripped with a new sense of discretion, rumor still spread, for, as was wont to be said, gossip would withstand the fall of Gondor. Ingar was in prison, as was one other lieutenant who (according to rumor) had been caught in a lie from which he could not disentangle himself. Captain Ithrin was rarely seen abroad and men wondered just how long it would be ere he joined the other two in the gaol, since clearly he lived under the opprobrium of the Captain-General. Rumor again had it that the two had clashed hotly (or coldly, as some said – no one had ever heard much of Lord Denethor being hot-tempered, but there were tales that said he could freeze a man's marrow with his wrath) when first they had met, and it was quite certain that orders did not come down from him without Lord Denethor's approval, even if he remained a free man.

As for the particular crimes of the imprisoned officers, embezzlement, falsification of papers, and (most distressing of all) treason were the three that caught everyone's attention. Poros was a large garrison – two hundred men strong – and there were many who had not suspected anything was (badly) amiss, and who fretted over the possibility of having unwittingly aided traitors. At least the Captain-General had been very clear on this matter, having spoken to the men himself about it. He would not punish those who had been deceived. The degree of one's knowledge would determine the degree of one's guilt, and only those who either ought to have known better than to assist (and here, all those who served their companies in some specific capacity grew tense) or those who had knowingly assisted in illegal trade of information and goods with the Haradrim (and here anyone who had ever driven a cart grew nervous) would be punished. Anyone who might possibly know aught of aught ought to give his name to either the South Ithilien lieutenant, Belethil, or else to Hildar, the chief of the Minas Tirith escort. After that announcement, there had been some who had wondered what would happen to those who might have been forced to help, but no one dared to make that inquiry. It was better not to ask some questions, after all. No need to give the impression that one might be guilty of such unwilling assistance.

Had the men but known, Denethor had already considered that question, and had decided against answering it. For if I assure them that I shall be considerate of such things, it shall certainly become too broad an excuse, and I shall have it flung in my face at every turn, he thought. He would deal with such cases if they came to light, as he was grimly certain they would. And even were it otherwise, what use, such reassurance? It rings hollow here, when every man among them feels the weight of guilt. At least he had made progress and, after extensive questioning and combing through the records, he was fairly certain that he knew what the trade was. Indeed, he would be wholly certain, except that given this weather, there was no way to confirm it. The last smuggler's run had most likely occurred six days ago, and he knew not whether others might have been arranged.

Simplicity itself, Denethor thought, with a certain grudging admiration for the logic of it. Why was there so little evidence of illicit wealth in Poros? Why was nothing missing from the storehouses, save (upon closer inspection) two empty barrels? It had taken him a bit of time to answer those questions, but now that he had, it seemed an obvious trade to make with the Haradrim: water. They were trading water rights and safe passage for goods of an undisclosed nature. Another perusal of Ingar's account registers had revealed an abnormally high amount of "war booty" captured and sold to legitimate merchants whose routes took them between Poros and Pelargir. Given what Erethras had said of Poros' inexplicably slow response to any reported incursions, so high a tally was clearly naught but a bald-faced lie. The only questions left were whether Ingar alone had stolen from the company coffers, or whether other officers (or even company staff) had "borrowed" from the treasury, and where that money had gone. If nothing else, Ingar would confess that ere his sentence, he thought grimly.

Denethor grunted and shook his head as he paced carefully between the paper piled in neat stacks, evenly spaced, upon the floor of Ingar's office. The moment he had had the man clapped in irons, he had set about taking over his office, since obscurely, it helped him to think more clearly about troubling matters. Luxurious it was not, but it was as if walking through that cramped little office or down the rows of supplies allowed him a glimpse of Ingar's world, and made it easier for him to order his thoughts along crooked lines. Water, he brooded. One hardly need think of water in Gondor, 'tis so abundant. For the cost of two old barrels and the disclosure of commonly patrolled routes and schedules week by week, they can make a profit of nearly four hundred percent! It was ridiculously lucrative – irresistibly so. As for the Haradrim merchants involved, Denethor did not doubt that, in addition to selling the water, they sold the information that led them safely past South Ithilien's overlapping patrols, thereby trebling their profit as well.

And the only ones who suffer in this trade are the South Ithilieners. Likely, the Haradrim only attack the Rangers because they do not wish to jeopardize the relationship with Poros, Denethor mused, pausing to glance down at a set of notes concerning the atrocious company records in Poros. He had trouble finding names to match companies, and it seemed that lieutenants and certain of their company staff changed regiments on a regular basis. Allegedly, this kept them from becoming too set in their ways; in reality, it was a highly convenient way of masking who had been in command of which operations. A discussion of this problem with the lieutenant in charge of such matters had led to several contradictory statements as to procedures in Poros, each of which had clearly been thrown out in an effort to evade the question of the moment. Thus he and the quartermaster now kept each other company in a cell, and Denethor bided his time with Ithrin. The captain knew this – of that, Denethor had no doubt, and Ithrin must know that as well. But he had as yet no proof, for no one could (or would) implicate him, and Ithrin could not simply run, for Denethor would hound him to the ends of Arda if he did. And so the days stretched out and they kept their distance, while everyone watched and waited.

This must end soon, though, he thought, moving back along the short length of his acquired office to stare at a map he had managed to pin to the wall. He had marked off all the patrol routes from Ithilien and Poros. South Ithilien, despite its fewer numbers, was carrying the bulk of the weight of responsibility for keeping the Haradrim clear of the river, and especially of those points where a crossing could be made, if only one knew how. Circles denoted all the instances of attacks, their locations, the (approximate) dates, and the number of men in the patrol, and from the assemblage of these facts, Denethor was beginning to wonder whether there might not be a nest of Haradrim hidden along the edges of the Ephel Dúath. It would be a simple loop up and back along the river, and given that Ithilien's people had been caught even in the foothills, that said to Denethor that the merchants had information about such far-flung patrols. Which implied that they needed that information for their own safety, yet why would that be, unless there were something in that region worth the journey? Something like a band of Haradrim waiting to pick off the Rangers once they knew where their enemies would be?

It would be more than a band, Denethor thought grimly, adding up the numbers in his head. Given the sizes of the patrols that were being attacked and forced to retreat (to say nothing of those which simply disappeared, or left a handful of lucky survivors), it had to be a fairly considerable body of men. Nothing so large as Poros, but certainly a good seventy or so of them. And if they have a refuge, then ridding ourselves of them may be difficult. But it must be done, and if we can catch some of the merchants there, then we may learn much about Poros, he mused. Captured Haradrim soldiers were notoriously unwilling to talk, but merchants might be another tale, particularly if isolated from their fellows. At the moment, Denethor would rather deal harshly with the Haradrim than with the pair sitting in the gaol – morale was low enough at the moment that he was unwilling to add to it with such tactics if another source of information could be found. But that would mean delaying a resolution....

I should just force the issue with Ithrin, except that I have not a shred of proof that he is involved, other than that a captain ought not to be ignorant of what passes beneath his very nose, Denethor thought angrily. Almost without realizing it, he had begun playing again with that bit of string he had taken to keeping in a pocket. He was restless here, in a way that unsettled him, for he could not quite fathom why. There was frustration, certainly, for there was no satisfaction to be had in the verbal warfare that he and Ithrin engaged in; such would come only with either exoneration of the captain or a noose at the end of the day. Even so, it would be a poor sort of satisfaction indeed, either way. Then there were the myriad details of administration that grated on his nerves – the poorly kept records, the deliberate falsifications, the general sense among the men that it was quite normal to be plucked from one duty and given another with no warning. If only for such incompetence, Ithrin ought to be removed, he brooded. And then there was the weather: the heat did not help matters, for it brought tensions among the men to the fore, and made them snappish with each other, when they were not looking over their shoulders and jumping at shadows. This must end....

"I am not certain whether I dare to enter, my lord, though I am told you will see those who have something to report," said a voice from the doorway behind him, and Denethor looked sharply over his shoulder (for fear of disturbing the piles if he turned too suddenly), hastily stuffing the string back into his pocket, thankful that his body shielded that action. I really must break myself of that habit and soon, he thought, disgusted, as he took in the identity of his visitor with some surprise.

"Ælric," he replied, as smoothly as he could manage, eyeing the other's road-dusty form. "If you would, do remain in place – paper can be fragile, and needs not dust to rub the words away." Ælric inclined his head at that, but did not seem much chagrined. Folding his arms across his chest as he turned fully (and carefully) towards his aide, Denethor continued casually, "From Pelargir to Poros, either you were half a day slower than most, or else half a day swifter."

"We started very early, Geleafa and I," Ælric replied, eyes straying over the floor and the tiny desk. And if he did not smile at the piles, his eyes sparkled with a familiar amusement. Tight-fisted though Denethor might be in other matters (and Gondor would thank him in later years for his frugality), he was as prodigal with paper as other men were with coin. "May I hope, my lord, that this–" a gesture at the papers that trailed off of the desk and onto the floor in neat, evenly spaced stacks "–means that the mystery is nigh to being solved?"

"You may," Denethor replied, unconsciously reaching to brush a hand across his brow, as if to push hair from his eyes, though it was Ælric who needed such attention. A wind-blown strand hung down unheeded in his face, and for some reason, that irritated Denethor, as he continued quickly, "What I need are more names, and quickly. I want Ingar on a rope, and others might join him. Solid proof would also be welcome, though we may get that yet, if I am right about the Haradrim...." He trailed off, staring now at the map to his right, as speculation ran down its varied channels once again. "It would not be practical, otherwise, though, so it must be–"

"Have you eaten yet?"

"I beg your pardon?" Denethor blinked, turning back towards his aide, not quite certain that he had heard that correctly.

"I ask because you seem almost to speak to yourself, as is not your wont, my lord. And also because I am told you have been scarce today, and already the sky darkens," Ælric replied. And then he gave a half-smile and added, "And I have had a long ride and would welcome a rest. It would be... efficient... to discuss over dinner all that we have accomplished since last we spoke." There followed a brief moment of silence, during which the two of them stared at each other, each attempting to discern what passed through the other's mind. I have just been asked to dinner by my aide, Denethor thought, feeling as though north and south had just been reversed, though he tried not to show his perplexity. Most aides would not have made the offer, particularly since Denethor had never invited Ælric to eat with him. Of course, most aides were not captains in their own right, nor could count a king among their friends. Nevertheless, it was hardly the usual protocol between a captain and subordinate when not traveling together. Thus:

"'Twould be too crowded, for the watch has just changed, and I think it best if the men do not feel I am watching them always," Denethor replied, which was a valid excuse. Then, "Take an hour and meet me in front of the keep."

"Aye, my lord. One hour." With that, his aide offered a courteous salute and then disappeared, his boot heels clicking against the stone floor of the storehouse. A door opened and then shut again, and Denethor stood silently, trying to decide just when his tongue had grown so boldly independent of his mind. He had not meant to accept, and yet he had. Mayhap I do need to take some time away from this, he thought. He was feeling a touch light-headed, now that he thought about it, for in truth, he had last eaten early that morning. And after all, it was not as if the time would be wholly wasted by small talk or any such tedious nonsense. I have an hour still, he mused, stooping to collect the testimonies of several men as to Ithrin's activities. Another hour to ponder the wretched failure of anything resembling honor or integrity in Poros; Denethor sighed as he began reading again, and reached automatically for that string.

***

Aragorn ran his fingers through wet hair and wrung the water out of it over the washstand once more, wondering how long it would be ere the heat wiped away all memory of the cool depths of the bath-house. The river route between Cair Andros and Pelargir was the swiftest way south, taking only two days even without oarsmen, yet one still had to ride overland to reach Poros, and he had come far and swift indeed with Geleafa. I have not ridden that hard for too long, he thought as, with a sigh, he collapsed onto his bed in a graceless sprawl, grateful for the privacy of the moment. He probably should have traveled more slowly rather than attempting to make the whole journey in one ride, but freedom was intoxicating – Geleafa had wanted to run, and if he were honest, after a month in Minas Tirith, he had been just as eager as his horse. And it is not as if I am not a courier of news, he thought, rationalizing and enjoying it.

And perhaps that was another part of it – he admitted to a fair degree of satisfaction for the way Cair Andros's troubles had been settled. Once Breca and Falthir had agreed that the involvement of a Rohirric court was undesirable, they had moved with remarkable speed to try to remedy the ills of the fort. Falthir had taken good care to announce the changes concerning the treatment of slain horses to all parties, Gondorrim and Éorling alike, adding that all men would be expected to help the Rohirrim in their burial work and so expedite the process. Breca had firmly informed the Riders that they were to adopt more fully the ways of their hosts, and as a sign of good faith, the Éorlingas had given a separate pledge of obedience to Falthir. With Rothil and Eadwin, Brything and Hirion (who had struck up a rather swift and fast friendship after their first sparring match) holding forth in favor of reconciliation, men had fallen less suspiciously in line. I doubt that we shall hear from the Mark or Falthir again of such troubles. And this despite my deplorably Rohirric 'r,' as Denethor calls it.

Aragorn sighed again, playing with a strand of his hair, wincing when his fingers caught in a snarl and he had to yank them free. It was something of an annoyance to him at this length, but rather as he dared not simply cease to speak as he did, with a light but noticeable Westfold slur, he dared not cut his hair. Although he had quickly shed some of the habits a Rider of the Mark, there were others that needed to be kept for the sake of appearances. "Anywhere you go, lad, you shall be a stranger and known as such," Caranthar had told him once, on his first visit to Dale. "More, you carry weapons; you are no merchant, to ingratiate yourself to the folk who live here. Were you to seem too readily like a Barding, they would think you one of those honey-tongued liars, set to flatter and steal from them. So, be certain that you play to their expectations, and hold your strangeness about you like a cloak to hide other things. Odd though it may seem, they shall find you less threatening for it." It was advice he had heeded in the five years he had spent among the Rangers, and he had modified it to aid his assimiliation into the Mark. And so now, as he slowly settled into Gondor, Aragorn shed his éothéodic habits gradually, and considered carefully which ones to quietly do away with, and in which order. Even a man as subtle as Denethor was more likely to look to the more obvious tell-tales (like long hair and pronunciation) than to notice the smaller things. So long as that larger image remained convincingly Éorling, then he ought to rouse no undue suspicion.

Of course, inviting him to dinner might have been more than even Éorling brashness can explain away, Aragorn thought, closing his eyes. He knew that Gondor followed a more rigid code than did the Mark, and he had been scrupulous in observing it thus far. Until tonight, when he knew not what impulse had seized him. The first conversation we have had in eight days and I think I must have shocked Denethor. Falthir would be justly appalled at my behavior, he thought, ruefully, recalling his final (and rather unexpected) discussion with Cair Andros's captain. Despite the fact that it seemed the isle garrison would suffer less from the friction between Éorlingas and Gondorrim, he and Falthir had remained on quite formal and uneasy terms with each other. In point of fact, their discussion had been unusual twice over, both because Aragorn had not expected to have any such conversation with Falthir, and because of its content.

"You will have trouble in Poros, Ælric," Falthir had said, just ere Aragorn had left Cair Andros. "I would not normally presume to speak thus to one above me, sir, and mayhap it shall seem to you naught but the result of my own poor experience with Rohirrim, captain, but hear me even so." As he had paused, seeking, it seemed, a sign of assent from Aragorn, his discomfort had been palpable. Yet his words and tone had made it clear that he had spent much time marshaling both his points and his courage to speak on what he felt was an important matter, and Aragorn had motioned for him to continue. Falthir had nodded, and had seemed to force himself to relax slightly as he had spoken. "Many in the ranks grew up under the Shadow, and we face it with a certain... discipline. Many of us have known only Lord Denethor as Captain-General, and the older ones who remember Lord Ecthelion ere he became Steward, fought in Ithilien. You know the tale of Ithilien, do you not, captain?"

"Rumor came to us in the Mark, though reports were harder to come by," Aragorn had replied.

"Then you must have heard how the last of our people were forced off the land by Gondor's own soldiery. Some were slain, even, because they refused and fought those who should have been their protectors. And at the end, they say, it was a near thing – we nearly lost the province entire, and would have, but for the discipline that Lord Ecthelion imposed. One did not question – one simply did as told. I was not there, but my father and my grand-father were. Grand-father did not return." There had come a pause, and Falthir had glanced away for a moment, folding his arms across his chest. After a short while, he had continued, "Lord Denethor became Captain-General after the campaign was won, and he has kept all orderly. For us, that is enough, and we look for nothing more than that he governs us well and with a firm hand. That is all that we ask of any captain. Do you know how Lord Denethor is called in the ranks?"

"No, I do not," Aragorn had replied, quietly.

"The Stone Wolf of Gondor, which ought to tell you much of him." Falthir had paused a moment then, ere he had concluded, "You are too easy with us in your speech and your manner. One hardly knows whether to call you captain or guardsman or Rohirrim. One is left feeling either that one has not said enough or else that one has said too much, and more often the latter, I think. You seem too familiar for your rank."

The Stone Wolf of Gondor. And what am I to be, a pebble's echo of him? Aragorn wondered, as his thoughts ran in circles behind his eyelids. Certainly, it had been the greatest sign of trust that Falthir could have offered, for him to speak thus to one set over him. Indeed, given what Falthir had said, Aragorn still marveled that the man had spoken at all, and he had turned those words over in his mind more than a dozen times since leaving Cair Andros. If Falthir spoke for even a quarter of the other officers of Gondor, then Aragorn would have difficulty dealing with them, and with the ranks who were accustomed to Denethor's particular style of governance, to say nothing of Denethor himself. Prudence said that he ought to accept that and bend to follow that advice, yet he could not. Not in this at least, when his own apprenticeship in the North and in the Mark had taught him so differently; not if he were to be of any use to Gondor. Which meant that he would need to find some other way, to reach some other accommodation. And men can change, after all, as I know from having earned back my name from 'Estel' to 'Aragorn', and as Falthir and Breca proved, he thought.

Which brought him round by a wide and twisting path to that invitation that he had unexpectedly issued his captain. Do I truly think that I can change Denethor's habitual coldness? Is that why I asked him to dinner, even if it is only to Poros' mess hall? That seemed slightly too simplistic an explanation, not to mention a venture doomed to failure. It was a very rare person who could force such a change in another, and Denethor certainly deserved his reputation in many ways. The name fit, and a wolf long alone could be dangerous when its isolation was breached. And this is Denethor, after all. Aragorn liked to think that he was not one to attempt the impossible, and yet....

I am surprised he likes you so well, Ecthelion had said, and opened up a rather troubling horizon with his words. For I am surprised that he likes me at all, if this is the manner in which his affections are shown. Yet despite the danger to his disguise, he had to admit that their verbal sparring was not unpleasant, even if it did weary him at times. Honesty compelled him to admit that, whatever else he might think of Denethor, the man was possessed of a certain irresistible charm. A frustrating, difficult charm, one able to inspire fascination more than friendship, but nevertheless.... I am his aide, and if I do not know him as well as I know others in Minas Tirith, still, I have spent more time in his company than in any other's. If we are to be rivals, then let us have that clear between us; and if not.... Mayhap it was that his warm relationship with Breca over the past week had made him feel his loneliness here, a loneliness then exacerbated by Falthir's words. For if it was not to be strife between himself and Denethor, then Aragorn was unwilling to let things remain as they were, as if word games were the sole measure of liking between them.

It should be an interesting evening, if nothing else, he concluded with a certain eager trepidation, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. A quick tug at his tunic and a comb remedied the worst ills (and thankfully, it was dark in any case), and then there was nothing for it but to see whether a wolf could learn to endure the company of a man.

***

"... extrapolate their location," Denethor was saying an hour or so later, as he and Ælric sat in a corner of the mess hall, away from the few stragglers, and talked of Poros' troubles. As Denethor's account ended, his aide gave a soft grunt of disgust and ran his fingers through damp hair. He had taken advantage of the hour to clean up and settle in; Denethor would not have been surprised to learn that he had already gone about the garrison's grounds, for he had been quick to explore Minas Tirith when newly arrived. It seemed a habit of his in new surroundings, whether so humble as a room or as grand as a city.

"Even if the Haradrim do hide in the hills, we can track them. Surely the Rangers among your escort should be more than equal to the task," his aide replied.

"And they shall have a part in it, for that is only fitting," Denethor replied, spearing a vegetable with more force than was strictly necessary, eliciting a long look from Ælric.

"How many men shall go with you?" he asked, after a moment.

"I would rather take a company of Ithilien's men, truth be told, yet if Poros is to regain its pride, it must now help expunge its guilt. There are two lieutenants here with whom I have spoken who, I am certain, were not involved in the crimes of their fellows. One of them shall have to remain in charge here, and the other shall come with me. The rest shall keep Ingar company. I would leave you here as well to help try to put the garrison back together, but 'tis better, I think, if you learn now the ways of the Haradrim. What do you know of them?"

"I have heard a little of them in the Mark, from those who had served in the South. A fierce people, by all accounts, and your ancient enemies. 'Tis said they give no quarter," Ælric replied.

"Their warriors do not, as a rule, and they have peculiar customs. 'Tis true, they have ever been easily swayed by the Dark Lord and his puppets, though at times, some of them lived under our sway as well. But during the Kin Strife, many a defeated and rebellious house fled to their hospitality and there remained, breeding malice and arming our foes with their knowledge," Denethor replied, pausing to scrape the last of the stew from his bowl. "Even now, Umbar is their haven. Their numbers are grown great, and I fear that their many plots and attacks against us may one day cost us dearly." For a time, neither spoke, each intent upon finishing the meal. At length though, when they had done, and one of the younger lads came by to take their dishes, Denethor continued, changing the topic somewhat, "How skilled are you in the hunt?"

"Among my own people, I am accounted promising," Ælric replied with becoming modesty. Denethor narrowed his eyes.

"I asked not what your people thought, but how skilled you are in fact."

"More than adequate to the task, then, my lord. Any other judgments I leave to others," his aide replied.

"You realize that the area in which I believe the Haradrim to be hiding is wooded in places?"

"We are not all of us strangers to woodland who hail from the Mark," Ælric replied, with a faint, enigmatic smile. So you hold yourself a woodsman, do you? Denethor thought, and made a note to check the maps of Rohan more carefully when he had an idle moment. If that is so, then I may have a better guess as to what part of Westfold he comes from. For the moment, though, we shall let it go, and let him prove to me that a Rohirrim may indeed know his way round a wood. He gazed steadily at Ælric who refused to look away, and for a time, they strove thus against each other. After the tension and deadly serious matters of the past week, it seemed a silly game, yet Denethor refused to surrender. They were interrupted, however, by a loud clap overhead that seemed to throb in every man's bones, and a murmur of startled voices broke out among the stragglers in the hall. Denethor and Ælric both glanced upwards a moment, and then, as the unmistakable sound of rain began to drum against the roof, Ælric gave a sigh and said, "Well, mayhap we shall have some relief after all."

"Give it the night, and see if tomorrow is not as bad as today," Denethor replied with glum certainty. "I served here many years ago, and such storms as these cool the air only while they last. Once the sun returns, the air is more damp than before. Still, I had not expected it to reach us with aught but thunder. I suppose we shall have to wait for it to pass."

"I might have simply waited 'til now to wash the dust off," Ælric replied, with a soft chuckle. A pause, then, "Since you have served in Poros before, tell me something of the lands here. How do they speak to you?"

"How do they speak to me?" Denethor frowned, felt his brow furrow as he gazed skeptically at his aide.

"Aye. A man must love the land he was born to, and you were born to Gondor, even this far-off patch of it. What does it tell you?"

"'Tis a dry land for all that it lies along a river, being closest to the deserts, and long a place of strife," Denethor answered, eyeing the other, uncertain what the other sought from him.

"There must surely be some redeeming quality to it, if you speak of it with that tone."

"What tone?"

"A fierce one that says, with a fine ring of steel, 'mine!'" Ælric replied. Denethor had the awful feeling that he was blushing, and found himself looking away quickly.

"It is Gondor," he said simply, uncomfortably.

"Mm." Denethor shot the other an irritated look, irked by that too-knowing noise and the gleam in his aide's eyes, for all that Ælric maintained an admirably bland expression.

"I see now why they call you 'Ælfric.' Do you wax poetical often?" Denethor demanded, with something of a growl in his voice.

"When the impulse strikes, and if my audience does not," Ælric answered, even as thunder rattled the hall.

"I see. And what does Gondor say to a stranger, then?" Denethor asked archly. "Indulge your lyrical side, since it is already manifest this evening." There was a silence, and Ælric seemed to be considering this request, when another of the lads on kitchen duty appeared just then, with two cups filled with a dark, steaming liquid. Denethor gave a soft grunt at that and took one for himself, sliding the other squarely before Ælric, who sniffed at the rather earthy aroma suspiciously. Ere he could ask, Denethor said, "The spoils of victory, unless they are more brazen here than even I had imagined. 'Tis Haradric tea." Ælric pulled a face that said clearly that he did not trust either Denethor or the 'tea.' Denethor hid a wicked grin as he took a sip. Then, gesturing carefully with the mug, challenged, "But come, speak, answer my question, and earn your reward." For I would hear this, and see where Gondor lies in his heart.

"Considering the reward, I think I may be pardoned if I say that I should not deserve it," Ælric retorted, but then pursed his lips slightly, thoughtfully. After another short silence, he gave a nod and began:

"The homeward leagues so heavy lie upon the lonely heart.

Never shall they lightened be, nor know I of levity

Who 'twixt Thengel's hall and Minas Tirith miles mark.

Westfold sings loud and leal, strives 'gainst longing's open field

That in my flesh and in my bone speaks to me of Gondor's stone.

Yet although he pays me court of kings I cannot yield."

Denethor was not certain what he had expected – something like the songs he had heard during his visits to Rohan, or had seen in the studies he had been set as a child, perhaps. And there was something of that Rohirric tradition in this rhyme – indeed, there was much of Rohan in it. Yet it was not quite Rohirrim, in a way that Denethor was not quite able to articulate. As it had unfolded, he had found himself staring at Ælric, caught by the strangely luminescent quality of the other's grey eyes. Ælric, undaunted, had returned that gaze, seeming, as in the staves, almost to court him, to court comment, and for the first time, Denethor felt something stir in him under that look that had naught to do with their sharp and wary relationship. What has it to do with, then? He did not know, and when the poem ended, there was a long silence between them, one charged with a certain expectancy as they gazed at each other. But at length, Ælric shook his head, breaking the lock of looks, and took a cautious sip of the 'tea.' One sip only, and then he set the mug aside carefully, saying, "However rough the rhythm, I hold it was not so ill as to deserve that!"

"Such a prize as this comes but through blood; 'tis no mean gift, even were Sathros to have penned the verse," Denethor countered then, as the moment passed, and they returned to more familiar ground. For there were other questions to ask, other insights to be gleaned, as he turned the hastily-crafted staves over in his mind. Was it his imagination or had he noted a rather bastardized version of a linnod in among the more Rohirric patterns? And where did he learn that, I wonder? Off the top of his head, and in a foreign tongue, yet a Rohirrim spits out a linnod? And what was that undercurrent that went through those words? What was that look in the other's eyes? "Why 'he'?" he asked, then, watching Ælric carefully.

"It fit the line." A casual enough answer, that, though still with that hint of challenge, as if daring him to disagree.

"Is it not a poet's convention to say 'she' of lands and vessels?"

"A Rider of Riddermark can never lay claim to Gondor, nor be laid claim to by Gondor. Thus to me, because of my sex, Gondor is 'he,'" Ælric replied, "even as it would be 'she' to a shieldmaiden."

"Mm." That was not the answer that he had anticipated, and Denethor took another sip instead to avoid a reply. Most men say 'she' of things forbidden, though, he thought, and wondered why this troubled him. When, after a bit, vague intuition did not present itself to his reason in any intelligible manner, he sighed inwardly and set it aside, unhappily conceding the match in this case. It had been an odd evening, all things considered, and what was he doing, discussing a rhyme made up on a moment's notice? I had thought to avoid a casual conversation, he thought. After all, he still had not heard of Cair Andros. Cocking his head slightly, he stared at Ælric, at this enigma out of Rohan, whatever his roots, and wondered, and wondered, picking and pulling at all their words together....

Ælric's attention drifted from the scattered pairs of soldiers about the room and back to Denethor just then. Noting the stare, he let a slightly perplexed look slide across his face that asked silently, Is something amiss? It took a split second to respond with an appropriate diversion, but when he did, Denethor did not attempt to conceal his wicked amusement. Raising his mug, he said, "To Gondor, then, long may she remain unclaimed by foreign hands." Custom forbade refusing a toast raised in Gondor's honor, even if one had naught more than water in one's glass. Ælric knew it, and managed, with admirable composure, to empty his mug despite his aversion. Denethor chuckled at that, thinking, That for the last round, and to even the score tonight. But then he sighed softly as another peal of thunder hushed the low murmur of conversation, and said, "Let us hope that, as the Haradrim say, khave shall indeed sustain a man from dusk 'til dawn, for the longer the rain keeps us here, the later our night." With a shake of his head, he abruptly changed the subject, returning them to business. "Tell me of Cair Andros, since we must remain here awhile longer."

"The main trouble concerned the recent death of the liaison officer, Hladred, my lord," Ælric replied, resuming his station as aide in word and tone. "It seems there were a number of grievances that had not been properly dealt with, and his death was the final straw, as we say in the Mark. I believe that Captain Falthir now has the situation in hand, and he and his new liaison, Breca, have addressed the more serious complaints that came of misunderstandings about various customs. I remained for one night after they came to terms, but saw no real sign of trouble or opposition to their decisions. If there are further complaints worth a second review, I shall be surprised, my lord."

"In a few months, then, we shall judge your success there. In the mean time, we may at least set aside the lesser matter without overmuch fear." Denethor paused then, considering the other as Ælric sat listening, with one forearm flat on the table, while the fingers of the other hand wandered over the star-brooch he always wore. An absent-minded habit, that, one that Denethor had noted in passing before. Tonight, for some reason, it caught his attention fully, perhaps because his own habits had broken loose so often in the past week in lonely moments, and he stared for several moments, ere curiosity got the better of him. "Whence comes that? I cannot place the craftsmanship, yet clearly 'tis not Rohirric work."

Ælric blinked, gazed at him a moment, then apparently realized what he did, and gave a slight smile as he lowered his hand and laced his fingers together before him. "It came to me through my mother. As to the craftsmanship, well, 'tis not dwarvish."

"Ah," Denethor replied. Nay, 'tis not dwarvish. It seems rather akin to some of silverwork from the older schools of Gondor. Dúnadan work... Tharbad, perhaps? That ancient settlement had been drowned and deserted not twenty years before his own birth, and the survivors had settled over a wide area, a number of them in the Westfold. Most had left Rohan for Gondor in the following years, but a few remained, and Denethor wondered that he had not thought of that before.

"Will you never cease, my lord?" Ælric's voice put a halt to speculation, and if his expression was ironically bemused, there was that in his voice that was serious. Denethor regarded him a moment, surprised by that sudden, unprecedented frankness in acknowledging their habitual contest. For suddenly, they were back in that strange place that that poem had woven for them, and it seemed almost that there was an odd note in his voice, a note of....

"No," Denethor replied quietly. Then he rose, breaking the mood once more, and Ælric followed suit. The patter of rain had grown appreciably softer in the past few minutes, and it was clearly time to leave this place. Making a short, gesture, as if to sweep all their words aside, he said briskly, "Enough of this. I have yet to decide how best to deal with Ithrin. Come." Denethor turned then and headed for the door at a brisk pace, and Ælric followed. And was it his imagination, or did a sigh trail after him?

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