[Kransha]

“Tired indeed, madam.” said Fescue, smiling haphazardly at the innkeeper, “Libations would be a welcome treat, dear Miss Amanaduial.” He sat down, with his two cohorts, in the upraised chairs provided for them by Aman, at the corner table of the Common Room.

“Can I interest any of you noble gentlemen in some ale, or breakfast, perhaps?” She was very polite and courteous about all of this, though she had not lost her air of concern. Fescue had, obviously, predicted that she would do such a thing, at least to himself. The hobbit sometimes figured he must have been at least slightly clairvoyant, considering the fact that he was so often right about things. Fescue briefly, whimsically considered his divine intonation, before turning his thoughts back to the question that Aman had imposed. He was not averse to ale, but felt it better to remain alert, wits unsullied by alcohol, than to allow himself to run the risk of becoming slower on the uptake. So, he declined wordlessly.

Spurge, on the other hand, enthusiastically raised his hand. He had a stomach for ale, and a full, paunchy one as well. But, to his morose chagrin, his hand was yet again batted down by the indeterminable Fescue Bracegirdle, who shooed the limb from its upright position like a scolding mother. “No, certainly not,” he said, brisk but firm, “Officers of the law ought not to have ale on the job. Anyway, my friend, Master Proudfoot, here, can get a wee bit raucous when under the influence, and this is hardly the time to be making a scene, now is it, miss?” Aman nodded, but, to anyone with a bit more brain than Fescue Bracegirdle, it would’ve been obvious that her consistent agreement was a simple, albeit well-delivered façade. “No,” she said, “hardly the time to make a scene. So, is there anything you desire, my inn is at your service.”

“Only some victuals, after our long ride: whatever is available.” She nodded again and turned, a little hurriedly, but Fescue was not too polite to call her back on a whim. Begrudgingly, she returned to the table, as Fescue leaned up, over the edge of the table (as high as he could raise himself), and whispered. “And, if I may,” he said, “I suggest you inform the inn-goers of the criminal’s presence, or, at least, those who you trust, so that they may report to me if they find anything that may assist our search. I, in the meanwhile, will begin scoping out the grounds for the knave. I expect that you will not hinder my search. By order of the Thain, the grounds of the Green Dragon are as accessible to me as they are to you…except, of course, for your own personal quarters.” A vague red tint flourished in his face, but only momentarily, though long enough for Amanaduial to notice it. Disregarding the embellished look, she curtsied. “Thank you again, kind and noble sir, for coming to the aid of this inn in its time of need. I cannot thank you enough.”

Fescue fumbled his way out of his chair and bowed gracefully. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Aman smiled sweetly and headed back towards her study, all thoughts of bringing food or drink for the Thain’s Three disappearing from her mind.

--------------------------

His mind racing, Toby followed Snaveling. The man, taller than his companion and faster moving led Toby out of the stables and around to an unseen side of the inn, one which Toby had not seen before. “Come,” said the man, resolute in his bearings, “there is a secret entrance here. The officers will not see us enter.” Toby barely heard him, so engrossed was he in his pensive state, but caught the tail end of the sentence. He raised his arm and grabbed Snaveling’s lavish sleeve, causing him to turn. “How many are there again?” the hobbit questioned unenthusiastically, “What manner of officers are they; Shirriff’s, or Thain’s men?

“They are of the Thain’s household,” said Snaveling, his voice low as the duo moved through the kitchen, “and proud of it. They did not seem to be the most proficient officers of the lot, and avoiding them should not be hard…especially for you.” Snaveling cracked the semblance of a smile, possibly trying to console his friend, but Toby did not return the look, nor did he make further eye contact with his companion. His own gaze was affixed on the ground. Snaveling’s smile withered, and, when Toby looked up, it appeared that nothing had been there before. In disconcerting silence the duo headed inside the inn, through the kitchen entrance, wound their way through the kitchen itself, and entered Amanaduial’s cloistered study.

When Snaveling and Toby arrived in the study, Aman was standing, and looked flustered, pacing, perhaps thinking or perhaps for a purpose. She stopped her movement when she saw the two enter, and looked to them. Before the hobbit could say anything, she had practically materialized in front of him, her expression full of concern, but also bewilderment. “Toby,” she said to him, “I have heard some very disturbing news.”

Toby nodded solemnly. “I know of it.”

“Then tell me that it isn’t true!” Aman cried out, her voice’s volume rising suddenly, “Tell me you are not guilty of all the charges made against you!” Toby did not answer, despite the look of urgency on Aman’s fair face. The muted hobbit glanced, out of the corner of his eye, at Snaveling, who stood just behind, patient and unwavering. Toby waited, and Aman could only look down at him, in a state of confusion, at the suddenly reclusive hobbit. Finally, he spoke up, albeit silently. “I can only tell you what I know,” he murmured, his speech distorted by constant breaks and pauses, “…and hope that you do not think worse of me for it.”

The innkeeper was stern, but her alarm dulled and her face softened. Her tone became simple and blunt. “All I want, Toby, is the truth.” Toby winced at this, but did not falter too much, and managed to reply seriously. “And you shall have it. You may wish to sit down though.” Aman sat in her chair in the study dutifully, and indicated that Tobias Hornblower ought to sit down in another one of the gilt wood chairs vacant in the roon and continue. So, reluctantly, he did…

“Aman: the story I have to tell is a long one, and might be tedious to hear…and painful to retell, but for you, my two dearest friends, I will recall it. All I can ask of you is sanctuary. Money will not help me, and food or drink will not console me. By rights, I should not stay here, now that the inn is occupied by officers of the law, and I will only do so if you wish me to. Here is the story:”

“It was years ago – over a decade – before the Scouring, that it all occurred. In the Shire, we did not know a war was raging, as we were later told by our would-be saviors from the south. We did not know of the dire straits we were in, nor did we care. We were content. All the Bagginses were gone, which many thought to be a definite omen of a prosperous future. So, we went about our lives, even if we were more nervous, more alert, and the like, and then, as you no doubt know he came; Sharkey, the shadowy villain, who stole onto our lands and took them over beneath our very noses. His brutish men subjugated us, beleaguered us in our homes, and soon he had us in his bony hands, and those who would oppose him under lock and key, even the fool who paved the way for him, old Lotho Sackville-Baggins. It was thought, obviously, that no self-respecting Shire hobbit actually supported Sharkey and his monstrous horde of rogues…but…there were some extraneous circumstances to be observed. Before the Scouring, there was much talk of the outside lands. Much worry and debate ran rampant in the Shire. Then, Sharkey came, and Lotho was made Chief, and you know the rest…But you did not know of my unfortunate part in it.”

“I had not fallen upon hard times, and my family was prosperous, but those were the days when I was not the hobbit I am today. I was miserly, and greedy, and I wanted more than just money. I wanted power, for me, so that I would not be insecure in these times of strife…And that is what I was offered: power, or rather, immunity. Lotho it was that approached me first. I do not know how he had guessed that I could be turned, but he got what he wanted. As one of the prime heirs of the Hornblower line, one of the most influential families in the Shire, through various genealogical connections, I had a surplus of necessities, which Lotho ‘requested’ in exchange for immunity from Sharkey. I provided pipe-weed (in excess), and all the funds I could muster. I leeched wealth from my family, and others that I could, and contributed it to Sharkey’s government. I know not what he used my money for, but I can only guess that it greatly helped him, or at least allowed him an easier slip into power.”

“Then, though it is unbelievable, I did something mildly righteous, though it did not help. When I did not receive my allotment of immunity from Sharkey’s minions and laws, and witnessed the berating of my hobbit kin, I decided that I had been cheated and, stubborn as I was, I went straight to Lotho to protest. This was primarily because some family of mine had actually been arrested by the Chief’s Men, and walled up in Lockholes. That protest of mine, unfortunately, had the opposite effect. Instead of releasing those imprisoned family and giving me my dues, Sharkey proved that he would not accept the slightest hint of opposition from his subjects…My cousin, one of the three Hornblowers in Lockholes was…” he paused, his voice cracking in his throat, as low and as miserable as ever it had been “excuse me,” he said, as he halted, and took several deep breaths. Snaveling’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and his friend encouraged him silently, but it was still some time before Toby was able to muster the ability to continue.

“He was killed,” Aman was taken off guard by this, but Snaveling only showed a hint of surprise, as if he had expected it. Toby knew that he had probably deduced the fact. Hastily, the hobbit began to explain. “…I didn’t know him, since I have many cousins, but that didn’t make it any less painful. That lad was counted as one of the unfortunate causalities of the Scouring, along with the twenty or so hobbits slain at the Battle of Bywater, and Lotho himself. At the time, there was merely mourning. Several hobbits in Lockholes had been brutally beaten by the Big Folk that Sharkey brought, some to within an inch of their lives, so the death of my cousin was dismissed as part of Sharkey’s havoc…” his voice faded again, but not for long. He sighed deeply, and continued again. “I wish that this was the end of the story, but it is not.”

“I had no idea, as I have told you, what Sharkey did with the money I contributed, but now I can venture a guess. My sister, Opal Boffin, whom is a rather dogged investigator, and has lost no love on me in the past, recently uncovered my crimes, but in a greater detail than even I knew. According to her, the testimony of a hobbit who served under Lotho and Sharkey has revealed that the money that Sharkey did not use (as well as the pipe-weed, regretfully) was distributed among various tribes of goblins that still incur to Eriador from time to time. No doubt, at one time, Sharkey was planning a full-fledged coup, attempting to rally the last orcs around him with bribes straight from the Hornblower treasury. The money may still be swimming around among sinister groups in the Shire, those still affiliated with the deceased Sharkey.”

“And, to make matters worse, Opal is convinced that it was my idea to have our cousin killed, because he discovered my illicit activities. So, not only am I a petty thief, an embezzling cad, and a wretched fool, but I have been branded, by my own family, a murderer and a veritable lord of all crime. I do not doubt that Opal will try to lay every single crime ever committed in the Shire on me…but I suppose I deserve it. It was my fault that my cousin was killed, even if I did not wish for such a thing to happen. My arrogance and my stupidity has made me the first hobbit to kill one of his own kind in nearly a century…”

At last, Toby stopped, leaving another silence to linger, sour and unwholesome, in the air. “That is the story.” He concluded, “Make of it what you will, and I hope you give me no better than I deserve. The only thing that might absolve me of my crime, in part, would be proof that my cousin’s death was not my own doing…but that will not make all my troubles disappear…Nothing will.”