“Pippin, this is a terrible idea.”

“You say that about all my ideas.”

“That’s because they’re all terrible!  You do realize that this is a poison-ingesting position and not an advisory one?”

“Well, it should be an advisory position.”

“I don’t contest the point, but it’s also for Strider’s safety.”

“Yes—his safety from bad food!  The cooks of Gondor are all style and no substance.  If King Strider wants someone to taste all his food, it ought to be someone qualified to criticise it properly.”

“What will he do when we return home, then?”

“Depends—how well do you think ‘Official Food Taster’ pays?”

“Pippin, your mother will set every marriageable lass on me if she learns I let you stay here eating and drinking Gondor’s finest for the rest of your very short life.”

“Hmm… you know, I don’t think I’d need them to pay me, if I just get the food…”

“Fine!  You’re right, it’s an excellent idea.”

“And furthermore—wait, really?”

“Clearly our more subtle tongues will be able to detect poison better than a man’s.  And, maybe then you’ll get hit with a stunning poison and will stop coming up with these hare-brained schemes of yours.”

“You’re absolutely no fun, Merry.”

“And you are getting stir-crazy.”

*  *  *

“Meriadoc of the Shire.”  Aragorn pursed his lips.  “And, of late, sworn to Rohan.  Pippin, I can understand, but why would Merry write a letter asking to be the taster?”

“He has always seemed astute enough to understand the idea of ‘conflict of interest,’” said Faramir.  “And this despite the long-standing alliance between Rohan and Gondor.  It is fitting that only one of Gondor be chosen.”

“Perhaps his stomach has gotten the better of him, then?”

“Or he jests.”

“Half a minute.”  Aragorn picked up the letter and examined it more closely.  “This is not his hand.”

Faramir peered around his shoulder to look at it.  “He’s also using the familiar.  Yet I know that Merry and I discussed the differences in pronouns while we were in the Houses.”

“Pippin…”