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Vairë Was a Weaver, or, Real Men Wear Corsets  by Celeritas

Merry burst into the courtroom just as the innkeepers were about to settle.  “There you are!—my lord,” he blurted lamely, only just noticing that Faramir had taken seat in the Steward’s chair and had in his hand the rod of his office.

“Meriadoc son of Saradoc,” said Faramir, “It would please me if you would delay your message until I have dealt with this pressing matter.  I should like to salvage some appearance of formality.”

Merry immediately bowed.  He had not seen Faramir testy before (though upon reflection he’d be testy, too, with his belly bound in like that), and the sight unnerved him.  “The message I bear comes from the Lady Éowyn, whom as you know I am bound to serve this day.  Forgive me mine importunity.”

Faramir nodded.  “It is not held against you.”

“Permission to observe this meeting and attend upon you, my lord?”

“Permission is granted.”

Merry made his way to a spot a few steps to the left of the chair, where he had seen Pippin attend on the King.  He schooled his expression into calmness and hoped that it would suffice.

It was odd, watching this rather informal and certainly most unexpected meeting.  As far as he could tell, the Gondorians never did things by halves, which meant that there should always be at least one recorder, one page, and several guards in attendance.  But the guards were fewer in number and were far more discreet, and the petitioners did not seem terribly keen on following the normal order of the meeting.

“Forgive me, goodmen,” said Faramir, “for you have requested this audience at an unforeseen time, and thus Elessar himself is not able to deal with your concerns.  Yet he has given me authority to deal with the situation that has arisen, and I trust that you will not let strange garb overrule sound judgment.  Because this meeting must needs be informal, I suggest that we adjourn to the council room.”

Merry trotted behind Faramir to keep up.  “What message?” said Faramir quietly, without looking at him.

“Success.”

A thin smile graced Faramir’s lips.  If Pippin had been there he would have seen his father in him.

The council room was long and thin, and mostly taken up by a table of similar dimensions.  For a moment the alien shapes assaulted Merry’s eyes, though he had been abroad for eight months now.  The walls pressed in on him, while the ceiling soared free above.  It felt like a room for war.

He blinked and all was right.  The innkeepers had filed in and were seated in varying degrees of deportment around the table.  The Lord Faramir rested his hands upon the chair at its head.  He hurried behind.

“Now,” said Faramir, “would one of you pray tell me the specific nature of your grievances?”

Three men spoke at once.  Faramir merely gazed at them, waiting for the effect of his words to sink in.  The innkeepers looked at one another warily.  Finally, one of them spoke.

“Well,” he said, “I’d heard tell about the disaster on the First Circle, and I got to thinking that the fine folk in the Citadel would want some sort of refreshment for the feast tonight—”

“—and then up comes word that the Horse & Rider has been preferred, only everyone knows they don’t serve wine, and who would serve ale at such a place—”

“—and if ale, why not the Setting Sun’s, says I—”

Faramir held up a hand as the landlords again began to interrupt one another.  Merry’s first thought was, That dratted innkeeper talked!  His second was, This is all my fault.  He had only said it to be nice, really, although he was going to put in a good word for the establishment.  After all, it was unfair to get so much on credit, credit which the Horse never expected to be repaid.  Faramir was now explaining how so much of this was a rumor, but Merry knew that there was not enough drink to be found in the Citadel’s stores.  Any later discreet purchases, he suspected, would later be found out.  And Faramir probably knew it, too.

He could think of only one solution.

“If ever we do need to make purchase of any of your stores, we will contact you ourselves,” said Faramir.  “Please do not presume upon vague rumors, even if they did originate with one of the esteemed pheriannath—which I doubt.  It is, I trust, getting closer to evening—surely a time to look after your own affairs?”

The men took the hint and left the room.

“My lord,” said Merry.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me.  I am afraid that the rumors did originate with me.  I was only trying to—”

“Peace,” said Faramir.  “I believe that crisis is averted.”

“Well, I did say I was going to put in a good word for the Horse and Rider’s ale, so—”

“Duly noted, Meriadoc.”

“Right,” said Merry.  He shifted on his feet.  “You know, if you’re not sure about which establishment to use, and how to best be political and equal-minded about it…”

“Yes…”

“Have you ever heard of a pub crawl?”





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