Chapter 27. Burning Truth

Heledir rose and put a hand on Ulrich’s shoulder. Squarely facing the King, he said, ‘Surely this Halfling’s ability to sift truth from falsehood is a wonder and a marvel. I have never heard of such a gift before, and if it were not that he sat at the side of the King of Gondor and Arnor, I’d say it was a simple trick, to force a confession from a guilty man. If, that is, Ulrich were a guilty man.’

 ‘I know only what I hear,’ Ferdi said. How ironic, he thought, to lie about hearing truth or lies!

Pippin put a hand on his arm and squeezed slightly. Ferdi looked over and he nodded. There is no proof, Pippin thought, and these Men will never believe what they cannot hold in their hands, or see with their own eyes, or hear with their own ears. ‘Very well,’ the Thain said aloud. ‘I have asked my Chancellor to assist us, and you have heard his words. We can do no more.’

Heledir met the gaze of the Ernil i Pheriannath. ‘I thank you for attempting to aid in this matter,’ he said carefully, not wanting to offend the princely Halfling. ‘It would have been a fine thing if he could have dispelled the fogs of suspicion aroused by the accusers.’

 ‘It might be best to meet with the three witnesses,’ Ulrich said, ‘to reassure them that they have seen only a chance resemblance, and that their tormenter is not here. In any event, he probably died long ago. It is not known for ruffians to live a long life.’

 ‘Were there enough evidence for a trial, you’d have met them,’ Elessar said, confirming Ulrich’s suspicion that the three Halflings in the room were not his accusers. He wondered which of the feasters he’d met that day had seen another man’s face in his. ‘I will ask if they are willing to meet with you in the morning, ere we depart.’

 ‘It might be better for them to put the dark memories behind them,’ Heledir said.

Ulrich bowed his head. ‘I will do whatever the King desires,’ he said, and raising his eyes to meet Elessar’s once more, he added. ‘Whatever you deem is best for the Halflings, my lord. It grieves me to know that any of the kinsmen to the Ring-bearer were tormented and oppressed.’

He bowed to the three Halflings, who rose and nodded to him but did not deign to bow in return, and together, he and Heledir strode from the chamber, past the guardsmen standing at the door.

***

 In the dark watches of the night, dark figures crept from shadow to shadow until they reached the inn where the travellers were staying. One climbed upon the low, leaning roof, his softly shod feet making no more noise upon the wood shakes than the soft scratching of a rat. The other handed up several large jars. Taking one of the vessels, the rooftop stalker poured out its contents upon the shakes as he moved along the length of the roof, returning twice to exchange his empty jar for a full one.

The smell of lamp oil rose on the night breeze as he worked. His companion, in the meantime, was splashing the same liquid against each door in the long corridor, generous in his distribution so that lamp oil ran down the door to puddle on the floor outside each room. At the last he took up two of the turned-down lamps from their brackets on the wall. His companion jumped softly from the roof, taking one. In the same breath each hurled his lamp, one into the corridor, the other up onto the roof. Glass shattered and the tongue of flame that had made each lamp a homey guide flared into a monster, feasting greedily on the oil-soaked wood and puddles of oil.

The shadowy figures faded back once more into the shadows whence they’d come, watching the flames build higher, until the first of the guardsmen to see the flames shouted and the fire-bell began to ring.

Beregond had been restless, walking under the stars instead of seeking his bed, trying to make some sense of the matter. Ulrich seemed a fine and upright man, well-esteemed by all in the town, high in the esteem of King and Queen, for that matter. Surely he could not be the villain the hobbits had made him out to be. Yet from what Bergil told him, the three witnesses were respected amongst their own kind, known for their integrity.

He heard the ringing of the fire-bell and scanned the surrounding rooftops. Tongues of flame were rising to the east of the market square... the inn! He pounded over the stones, down the street to the inn where the travellers were staying. The wing where the hobbits were lodged was fully involved, rooftop ablaze, flickering fire showing through the windows of the corridor, windows that were already starting to shatter from the heat.

Bergil ran up to him, his face streaked with soot.

 ‘Hobbits!’ Beregond shouted.

 ‘Trapped!’ his son returned desperately. ‘We cannot reach them!’ Indeed, the first buckets of water poured upon the flames in the corridor had floated the flaming oil, spreading the fire instead of dousing it.

 ‘Blankets!’ Beregond shouted, remembering the Siege of Minas Tirith. ‘Soaked blankets, to smother the flames!’ Bergil nodded and ran in through another entrance to the inn where the flames had not yet extended their reach.

In the meantime, Beregond ran to the trough before the inn and rolled in, gasping at the coldness of the water. Thoroughly soaked, he ran to the flaming wing, his sodden cloak about his head, and into the inferno. As he’d seen through a window, the wooden doors in the corridor were burning, and it was not hard to force his way through the first. The light from the fire in the corridor played on the faces of the hobbits, still in their blankets, untouched as yet by flame.

The White Captain scooped up an armful of children, wrapped them in his wet cloak, and turned to carry them to safety, nearly colliding with another guardsman as he did so. As the other guardsman was taking up a hobbit, Beregond dashed through the flames to the safety of the yard. Someone took his burden from him and as he turned to run back into the flames, a townsman in the bucket brigade dumped his bucket over Beregond’s head, soaking him once again. He shouted thanks and ran back in, one of a number of guardsmen and townsfolk who braved the flames to bear away the unconscious hobbits.

By some miracle, the hobbits were all got out before the roof collapsed. It might have had something to do with the heavy rains that had fallen some days earlier, the remainder of the storm that had stranded the travellers in Rohan. It might have had to do with the Men who braved the flames, suffering smoke and burns in their efforts. There might even have been some power to the words Queen Arwen whispered as she watched, scarcely breathing. Merewyn, who’d been roused from bed with her husband, heard Elbereth amongst the other words that were beyond her ken, but somehow comforted her.

Ulrich stood aghast, watching the limp bodies of the Little Folk borne out of the flames. He tried to go forward, to join in the rescue effort, but his wife clung to him, anchoring him in place. The first of the hobbits rescued were beginning to rouse, coughing, gasping for air, the little ones crying as their bewildered parents hugged them tightly.

Elessar fell to one knee before Pippin, who was holding Diamond as she clutched their little twin daughters. ‘All out,’ he gasped. ‘All safe. Many breathed some smoke, but we got to them before the air was unbreathable.’

 ‘It helped that the innkeeper put us on pallets on the floor, rather than in high beds,’ Pippin rasped. ‘The air was clearer where we were sleeping.’ 

 ‘He extended us every comfort,’ Diamond said, ‘including the convenience of being roasted alive in our beds.’

 ‘No, my love,’ Pippin said, his arms tightening about her and their littlest ones. ‘No, the fire may have started by the hand of Man, but it was not the innkeeper.’ He looked beyond Elessar, to the still figures of the Mayor and his wife.

Ulrich stood frozen as the flame-eaten roof of the wing collapsed. The fire-fighters had turned their efforts to preventing the spread of the fire to nearby buildings. Arasfaron came up to report, wiping soot from his face. ‘They got all the Halflings out,’ he panted. ‘Several of the rescuers sustained burns and breathed smoke, but this fire will claim no lives, thanks be!’

The fire marshal jogged over. ‘I think we’ll stop it from spreading any further,’ he said. ‘We’ll lose the farrier and the greengrocer for sure, but...’ He turned his head to cough. ‘From what I’ve been able to gather, it started in one wing of the inn and spread quickly.’

 ‘How?’ Ulrich demanded.

The fire marshal shrugged. ‘Too early to tell,’ he said, and lowered his voice. ‘One of my men told me there was a strong odour of lamp oil...’

 ‘Lamp oil!’ Ulrich said. Pieces began to fall into place. Others at the banquet could have overheard the words of the Ernil i Pheriannath. Gossip might have spread, and someone might have decided to take matters into their own hands. Someone who suspected the rumour might be true? In any event, the danger for the Halflings remained so long as Ulrich was under suspicion... Even if he were completely cleared, the accusation would hang in the air, prompting action he wanted no part of.

He put his arms around his wife and kissed her forehead. ‘I have always loved you,’ he said, ‘from the first moment.’

 ‘Ulrich?’ she said, confused.

 ‘I never wanted you to be touched by the curse of the past,’ he said. ‘That was another life, another Man who is long dead, now.’

 ‘What do you mean?’ Merewyn said. ‘You’re frightening me... I do not understand.’

Ulrich held her tightly for a moment, memorizing the feel of her, the smell, the look of her face as he put her away from him. He looked to Heledir, standing nearby. ‘Take care of my family,’ he said. The old councillor nodded slowly.

Ulrich gently detached his wife’s clinging hands and walked to where the King still knelt. He waited for Elessar to rise. By the light of the torches in the courtyard, and the dying flames of the ruined inn, he looked the King full in the face. ‘I am the Man you spoke of,’ he said. ‘I am Reinadan.’