Title: Poison in the Citadel 
Author: Kathryn Ramage 
Email: kramage@erols.com
Code: Frodo/Sam, Frodo/Merry
Rated: PG13

Summary: A Frodo Investigates! Mystery.  Frodo is requested by the King to 
return to Minas Tirith to help investigate a series of poisonings.

Notes: This story takes place three years after the fall of Mordor, in 1422 
(S.R.), or in 3022 of the Third Age.

Special Thanks: To Karen, for saying about a year ago, "Hey, you could set a 
story in Minas Tirith," and starting me off on this idea. Also for giving me 
feedback on this story while I was writing it.

Disclaimer: The characters and overall storyline are certainly not mine. They 
belong to J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and I'm just playing with them to entertain 
myself and anyone else who likes this kind of thing.

June 2006

!~|i|~! Prologue

Minas Tirith had seen murders before. With so many people living in such close 
quarters in the enormous, seven-leveled city, tensions could run high, tempers 
flair, and passions boil over. A drunken brawl in a tavern. A quarrel between a 
husband and wife. An attempted robbery gone wrong. A knife drawn, hands around a 
neck, or a blow struck too hard in anger. Such incidents were not unfamiliar. 
Fortunately, they did not happen very often, and the murderer was usually 
obvious to determine and easy to apprehend within the city walls. Justice was 
swiftly seen.

But _these_ murders were different. A councilor found dead in his bed-chambers. 
A citadel guard fallen after a night's carousing with his fellows. These murders 
were not committed in the heat of anger, but through cool and deliberate 
poisoning. The killer struck unseen and the dead body was found afterwards with 
no sign of who could have done it.

King Aragorn was deeply distressed. This was not what he had envisioned, so 
early in his reign. This was meant to be a new and glorious Age, with all evil 
banished. How could his own people be killing each other in this insidious way 
within his own city, in the very heart of the citadel? These deaths were 
alarming to all his subjects--and, worst of all, disturbing to his councilors, 
courtiers, and the citadel Guard, who knew the two dead men best. He was 
beginning to see doubt and mistrust rising among them.

He was alone in his council chambers, contemplating this disquieting question, 
when a page ventured in and said. "I pray I do not disturb you, my lord. The 
halfling asks to see you."

At this news, Aragorn's expression brightened; the distraction was welcome. 
"Show him in, by all means."

The page went out, leaving the door open, and returned a minute later with Merry 
at his side. 

Aragorn rose from his seat at the head of the council table and came forward to 
welcome his visitor. "What may I do for you, Merry? You have a petition to 
make?" Since Merry had arrived in Minas Tirith last autumn, he had become a sort 
of ambassador for the Shire; they'd had a number of discussions about suitable 
ways for the King to aid his hobbit subjects.

"No, Strider," Merry answered, leaving the page wide-eyed at his informality. 
"I've no requests today. I have a proposal. I've heard the news about these 
deaths in the citadel. Gandalf's told me that you have no idea who could be 
doing this?"

"The murderer has left no sign of whom he might be. The captain of the Guard is 
in charge of the investigation, but he confesses he is lost."

"What you need is an expert investigator. I'd like to recommend one I know, who 
lives in the Shire." Merry plunged on: "He's quite good at this sort of thing. 
He's had a great success with investigating mysteries, even some murders. You 
know he's very clever and resourceful. The only difficulty is his health, which 
might not allow him to come all the way to Minas Tirith again."

Aragorn followed this stream of fast-flowing, enthusiastic words; when Merry 
paused to catch his breath, he smiled in understanding. "Again? You mean Frodo?"

"Of course!" Merry grinned. "Do you think we could send for him? If Frodo was 
here, he'd solve your murders in a trice!"

!~|ii|~!

It was a cold and dreary February afternoon in the Shire. Though it had not 
snowed nor rained, the sky had been overcast all day and the gray light was 
already beginning to fade. In spite of the weather, Sam was out in the garden. 
Although spring was still weeks away, the first daffodils were coming up and 
needed careful tending, he said, but he'd been so restless shut up in the house 
lately that both Frodo and Rosie suspected this was mainly an excuse for Sam to 
go outdoors and keep himself busy.

At dusk, Frodo came out, wearing a woolen shawl thrown over his shoulders. He 
found Sam on his hands and knees in the flower bed beneath the study window. 
"Will you come into the house?" he requested. "Rosie-"

"Rosie-?" Sam looked up from his work in alarm. "It's not her time?"

Frodo laughed. "No, not yet. Rosie's fine." As the anticipated date for the 
baby's birth drew nearer, Sam grew more anxious with every day. "She's just put 
the kettle on, and tea will be ready in a few minutes. She says to come in if 
you want yours. Aren't you freezing out here?" Sam was, in fact, working with 
his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, while Frodo was shivering under 
his shawl.

"I'll be in just as soon as I finish this bit," Sam answered. "But _you'd_ 
better go back inside now, Frodo, have your tea and not wait for me. You'll 
catch your death if you stand out here much longer, and we can't have you 
getting sick now, can we?"

"No, we can't," Frodo agreed, pleased at Sam's fussing over his health. Most of 
Sam's fussing these days was focused on Rosie and the about-to-be-born baby. He 
turned to go in, when a glimmer of white moving through the thickening mists in 
the valley below the Hill caught his attention. "What's that?"

Sam looked up. Both of them could now hear the oddly muted sound of hooves 
echoing from the lane. In another moment, they saw that a rider was indeed 
heading toward Bag End on a white horse; the rider wore a gray cloak, but 
beneath it, he was clad in white.

Frodo burst into a smile. "Gandalf!" he cried. Instead of going into the house, 
he ran down the front steps to the gate. Sam left the last of his spring bulbs 
to follow. "Hullo!" Frodo called out and, as the wizard came closer, "I must 
say, this _is_ a delightful surprise. What brings you back to the Shire?"

Gandalf dismounted from Shadowfax and let the unsaddled and unbridled horse trot 
away. "I've come directly from Minas Tirith in all haste, with a special message 
for you, Frodo. The King requests your assistance."

"Assistance?" echoed Frodo, stunned by this remarkable announcement. "Wh- What 
do you mean?"

"There have been two baffling murders in the city," the wizard explained. "A 
councilor and his son have been poisoned, and the citadel Guard are unable to 
find a culprit, or indeed any reason why these two should be killed. Aragorn has 
heard of your investigations here, and hopes that your experience will allow you 
to find an answer where others cannot. If you agree to return with me to Minas 
Tirith without delay, you will be appointed the King's Special Investigator, and 
any aid you require will be placed at your disposal."

Frodo was alarmed at how far his reputation had carried, and at what he was 
being asked to do. "But, Gandalf, I couldn't possibly..."

Before he could say more, Sam spoke up, "Begging your pardon, Mr. Gandalf, but 
Frodo oughtn't be out in this cold so long--he's fair turning blue. Whyn't you 
talk this over over a nice fire and a cup o' tea instead?"

Gandalf nodded solemnly, but there was a twinkle of understanding in his eye. 
"Of course, Sam. My errand is not so urgent that we must discuss it in the road 
on such a day." With the skirt of the wizard's cloak cast around Frodo's 
shoulders to keep him warm, they went into the house. Rosie, who'd been watching 
Gandalf's arrival from the window, had put out another teacup for this 
unexpected and notable visitor and quickly raided the pantry for extra 
seedcakes. Sam made Frodo comfortable before the parlor fire, brought him his 
tea, then left him to speak to Gandalf alone, although he looked anxious as he 
shut the door behind himself.

"Was it you who told Aragorn about my work, Gandalf?" Frodo asked between sips 
of tea.

"No, it was Merry who recommended you."

"Merry? So he did find his way to Minas Tirith." Frodo was relieved to know 
this; he'd been worried about his cousin for months. "How is he? We haven't 
heard a word from him since he left Buckland last summer. To think that he made 
it all that way by himself!"

"Not alone," Gandalf told him. "He arrived in the city last autumn with a 
traveling troupe of conjurers and jounglers, managed by a strange, small Man."

Frodo smiled. "Mr. Grimmold's circus?"

"They're gone from the city now, but their performances were very popular while 
they were there. Merry has stayed on. He's looked after my house for me, since 
business with the Elves kept me in Lothlorien for most of the winter."

"I hope he's happy," said Frodo. "He wasn't very happy in the Shire, you know. 
It was a quarrel with his father that sent him off..." Frodo didn't know how 
much he could tell Gandalf about Merry's problems with his father. Wizards were 
unimaginably old and had seen a great deal, and no doubt knew a great many 
things beyond even the brightest hobbit's comprehension, but they never married 
nor had love-affairs as far as Frodo knew. Would Gandalf understand about the 
love between Merry and Pippin, or between Sam and himself? He only said, "But he 
was restless to be away before that."

"I guessed that something of the sort must have prompted him to come so far," 
Gandalf said. "He's never explained his reasons. I wouldn't call him unhappy, 
but I believe he's lonely. I suspect he suggested your services as much to bring 
you to the city as to assist in finding the poisoner." Gandalf returned to the 
reason for his journey. "Will you come, Frodo? Speed is of the essence. I will 
ride for Minas Tirith in the morning; Shadowfax's swiftest pace can convey us 
there in ten days."

"But, Gandalf, I can't do it!" Frodo protested. "It's not that I don't wish to 
help, but surely there must be better investigators in Minas Tirith, Men who 
know more about the city and its people than I do. I wouldn't have the first 
idea of where to begin. I may pass for a great detective in the Shire, but 
that's because I know the people here so well. I understand hobbits. I don't 
know a thing about investigating Big Folk!"

"You undervalue your abilities, Frodo," the wizard answered. "I think I have an 
idea of their true worth. I've seen you at your work. You made your way into the 
heart of a secret that had not been touched in thousands of years, and dwelt 
upon the minds of Elves--which are much less fathomable to hobbits than the 
minds of Men! The 'Big Folk,' you'll find, are not so different from hobbits in 
their motivations. They have the same loves and hates, ambitions, greeds, fears, 
desires. Their reasons for committing murder are much the same. The captain of 
the citadel Guard may know the ways of the city better than you do, but as a 
soldier and keeper of the peace. This type of crime is beyond his scope. 
Poisoning is a subtle crime, and requires an investigation of equal subtlety."

"You're very subtle yourself," Frodo responded with an affectionate smile. "I 
daresay _you_ could discover who has committed these murders more quickly than 
_I_ could. You were there when they happened, weren't you?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I returned to Minas Tirith only after the first murder 
had been committed. I know little of the matter, but I will aid you all I can, 
Frodo."

Frodo was not convinced that he could do this, but the summons was difficult to 
refuse. More than one friend was calling upon him for help. "I suppose I must 
go, if I am needed." He lifted his eyes to the wizard's. "Very well, Gandalf. If 
you believe I can solve these murders, I will try my best to."

The wizard smiled. "You have never disappointed me yet."

!~|iii|~!

The rest of that evening was spent in hasty preparations. Rosie made up one of 
the spare rooms--the one with the longest bed--for Gandalf, while Sam searched 
Frodo's wardrobe for the clothing he had bought and worn in Minas Tirith. Frodo 
was busy in his study, putting his affairs into order to see that the household 
ran smoothly during his absence; he also wrapped up the Red Book and a small 
case of writing materials to take with him.

Frodo went to bed immediately after dinner, but was too nervous and excited at 
the prospect of the journey he was about to embark upon to sleep. How odd to 
return to Minas Tirith! He never imagined he'd see the city again after he'd 
left it nearly three years ago. In fact, he'd never expected to leave the Shire 
once he'd come home.

After Bag End was darkened and quiet, Sam came in. It was Frodo's night, 
according to the rules established between the three of them when Sam and Rosie 
had married. Although Sam didn't dare leave Rosie alone all night, now that her 
baby was expected at any time, he always spent an hour or two with Frodo before 
returning to sleep in his wife's bedroom.

Frodo sat up with his arms around his knees and smiled at his friend in the 
firelight. "Everything's packed, Sam, and ready to go?"

"Your bag's sitting by the front door, and your book 'n' all's within it," Sam 
replied. "I've got a few things left to put into mine, but that's only a 
moment's work. We'll be ready to leave with Mr. Gandalf first thing in the 
morning."

"You're coming with me?" Frodo was surprised. They hadn't discussed this. Under 
normal circumstances, he would've taken it for granted that Sam would accompany 
him on an investigation--but he'd never expected Sam to want to go with him now.

"Of course," said Sam, as if he were surprised Frodo should ask. "If you're 
bound to go, then I'm coming with you. D'you think I'd let you go without me?"

"What about Rosie?"

"I've had a word with Rosie. She's going to send for her mother to come 'n' stay 
with her while I'm away."

"But this investigation may take us away from the Shire for weeks, even months," 
Frodo responded, incredulous that Sam should propose such a plan. "You'd never 
be able to leave Rosie for so long, not now. You can't even bear to be out of 
her call!"

"She'll be all right. Don't you fret about it. Her mum'll look after her, and 
I'll look after you like I always do," Sam insisted, but in that bold, bluff way 
that told Frodo he was quashing some doubts in his own mind. Frodo brought them 
out into the open.

"I couldn't ask that of you, Sam. I know you mean well, but you'll worry about 
her every day we're away. Besides, if you went with me, you couldn't possibly 
return in time to see your child born. You'd never forgive yourself if you 
missed that."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes at the mention of the baby. "But I couldn't let you 
go alone, Frodo. I'm that torn in two over it!"

Frodo held out both hands and, in an instant, Sam was in his arms.

"Who'll look after you if I don't?" he sobbed. "I didn't like to say so afore 
Mr. Gandalf, but you're hardly fit for such a long trip. And what about your 
worst day? You know it's coming up soon. What if this next bad turn is even 
worse'n last year's?"

"Gandalf will be there, and Strider--he's a skilled healer," Frodo answered in 
reassuring tones as he patted Sam's back and tangled fingers in his curls. "They 
have Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, full of people who are accustomed to 
attend to illness. They'll take the best care of me on that day, or if I have 
any other troubles with my health."

In Sam's opinion, no one could ever give Frodo the best care except himself, but 
he had to concede that these people would tend to Frodo adequately. "I wish 
you'd said No."

"I did try to, Sam, but the King has asked for me `specially. Strider needs my 
help, and Gandalf seems to think I'm the hobbit for the job. I couldn't refuse."

Although he didn't say so to Sam, Frodo also thought that it was for the best 
that he take this opportunity to leave Bag End and the Gamgees for awhile. As he 
had let Sam and Rosie spend time alone together during their courtship and on 
their honeymoon, he ought to let them establish their own family without him in 
their midst. A new baby would be disruption enough to the household, and would 
not be more than a few weeks old when he had his dark day at the end of March. 
From his previous bad spells, Frodo knew he would need a great deal of care on 
that day, and for many days afterwards. Last year, he'd been bedridden for more 
than a week and had remained in fragile health through most of April. How could 
he ask Sam to care for him when there were others who needed Sam's care and 
attention more?

"I'll return as soon as I can," he promised, and raised Sam's face to kiss him 
lightly. "Will you stay with me awhile tonight, Sam? I know I ought to sleep, 
since I must be up at daybreak, but this will be our last night together for 
some time..." He'd been speaking playfully, to try and console Sam, but as he 
spoke, Frodo felt the full impact of his own words; he and Sam _would_ be parted 
for a long time. Tears welled in his own eyes.

"Oh, Sam!" he cried. "I'll miss you terribly." They both were sobbing as they 
clung to each other, exchanging wet kisses on their tear-dampened faces.

Sam was still in his clothes, and Frodo began to tug at them, undoing the 
buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. He wanted to touch him all over, bare skin 
to bare skin. Once he had gotten Sam out of his upper clothes, helped as Sam 
tried to pull his nightshirt off over his head. He entwined with Sam and brought 
him in, as deeply as he could. He savored every stroke, every sensation. Their 
lovemaking must be special tonight, the very best, for it would have to last a 
long time in his and Sam's memories... until they were together again. Who knew 
how far in the future _that_ would be?

!~|*|~!

At daybreak, Frodo rose and dressed. He and Gandalf took a hasty breakfast while 
Rosie, who was used to early hours, packed some food for their journey. She did 
not say so aloud, but Frodo could see she was relieved that Sam would not be 
going with them, and grateful to Frodo for talking him out of it; she gave Frodo 
a peck on the cheek as she saw him off at the front door, and promised that she 
would take care of his house for him awhile he was away.

Sam, on the other hand, was red-eyed with weeping and a sleepless night as he 
carried Frodo's bag to the gate. Frodo kept a hand on his friend's arm as they 
went down the steps.

"There's one bright light in all this, Sam," he said. "Even if I can't help 
Strider with these murders, I'll see Merry again. Perhaps I can convince him to 
come home with me when this business is finished. At least, I can bring news of 
him back to Pippin and the family. Oh--I hadn't thought of it, and there isn't 
time to write them now! Will you do it for me, Sam? Write to Pippin and to my 
Aunt Esme, tell them where Merry is, and that we've heard he's well and happy."

"Her ladyship won't think it presumptuous of me?" asked Sam.

"The Lady of Brandy Hall will be delighted to hear from you," Frodo assured him. 
"She's fond of you, you know, and she'll be relieved to have news of her son."

Gandalf, who was already standing in the lane, gave a piercing whistle; there 
was a whinneying cry in response, and Shadowfax appeared from the lingering 
morning mists, the first glints of the rising sun making his white coat gleam.

When Shadowfax trotted up to the gate, Gandalf lifted Frodo up onto the horse's 
back, and put the strapped baggage over his hindquarters. "We'll ride south, 
down the Greenway, to reach the city as quickly as possible," he said as he 
mounted behind the hobbit.

Frodo looked down to find Sam standing below. "G'bye, Sam."

Sam climbed up onto the garden gate and grabbed his toes--all he could reach of 
Frodo on horseback--and gave them a farewell squeeze. There were fresh tears on 
his face as he gazed upwards. "I'll think of you every day you're gone," he said 
in a choked voice, then let go.

And they were off. Frodo's last sight of Sam was his friend hanging on the gate 
of Bag End, waving farewell.

!~|iv|~!

They passed through the Southfarthing in a dash, and crossed the unfamiliar 
lands beyond the Shire's southernmost borders with amazing speed. As they 
traveled southward, the weather improved and the world around them grew more 
green with every mile, as if they were riding into spring. On the third day, 
Frodo was warm enough to take off his winter coat and tuck it into his pack. 

When they reached Isengard, Gandalf stopped "to let Shadowfax catch his breath." 
The horse was fine, and hardly out of breath, but Frodo was weary at the long 
and astonishingly swift journey; he was grateful for a few hours' rest and the 
chance to stretch his legs and look around. 

He had only seen Isengard once before, briefly, when he'd traveled to the Gap of 
Rohan on his way home after the quest. Then, the black tower had risen in the 
midst of a wasteland of muddy and torn earth, with filthy water filling the vast 
pits. Since the Men of the Riddermark had taken charge of it, the water had been 
drained off and the pits filled with earth. Grass was growing again and young 
trees had been planted around the tower. 

"It will take a hundred years for this place to be what it was before Saruman 
made it into a pit for his machines and tools of war," said Gandalf as he walked 
beside Frodo, exploring the new parkland, "but it will recover from the evil 
that has touched it. This Middle-earth of ours always does. Mortal beings are 
not so fortunate." He regarded Frodo with some concern as the hobbit sank down 
onto the grass. "Are you well, Frodo? Sam makes much of your health, but I've 
wondered if he is prone to exaggeration."

"He does fuss, a bit," Frodo said with a wistful pang of yearning; already, Sam 
was hundreds of miles away, "but he means well. He worries for me. I do tend to 
tire easily." He glanced up at the wizard. "You're right, Gandalf: I never fully 
recovered after I returned from Mordor and the Ring was destroyed. The quest 
took all my strength, and I'll never get it back. If I rest, I'm well... most of 
the time. I have nightmares if I am distressed, and I have my bad spells, you 
know. Dark days, as if I'm lost in one of my nightmares and can't get out. The 
next is expected at the end of March. You were here last year when I was still 
abed after the last one."

"I remember that you'd been ill, but I didn't realize the cause of it. These 
dark spells recur every year-?"

"Yes. On the- ah- day," Frodo confirmed, and tried not to glance down at his 
hand with the missing finger. "And in October too, on the anniversary of the day 
I took my wound at Weathertop, although those aren't as bad, and pass more 
quickly. The day in March is the worst."

Gandalf's concern grew deeper at this information. "I wouldn't have insisted you 
come if I'd known of this, Frodo. Are you quite sure you're well enough to 
undertake this journey?"

"I wouldn't have agreed to come if I didn't! Gandalf, I'm fine." When he saw 
that the wizard still looked doubtful, Frodo added, "I will be abed on that day, 
and some days afterwards, but that time is weeks away. I may have your poisoner 
in hand before then, and it will only be a matter of resting until I feel well 
enough for the journey home."

They spent the afternoon at Isengard and took dinner with the garrison guard. At 
nightfall, they rode on again. After four more days of swift riding, with only a 
few brief stops, the towers of the white city rose before them. 

They passed through the great gates, which were open, and rode up the winding 
streets between the close-set and overhanging houses, through the tunnels cut 
into the outcropping rock. Up and up, level upon level, until they came to the 
very top and at last, Shadowfax stood in the vast courtyard before the White 
Tower of Ecthelion and the great hall of the citadel.

A watch must have been kept for their arrival, for several people were coming 
out of the great hall to meet them--Big Folk all, and many were old friends. And 
there was one smaller figure, breaking away from the others and running down the 
steps toward them as Gandalf lifted him down from Shadowfax's back. Frodo was 
hugged hard as soon as his feet touched the courtyard's paving stones, and he 
clung to Merry in return.

"How wonderful to see you, Frodo!" his cousin said near his ear. "I knew you'd 
come."

They were immediately surrounded by others. When Merry let go of Frodo, King 
Aragorn knelt to take him by the shoulders and say ceremonially, "We welcome you 
to Minas Tirith, Frodo." And before Frodo could make a polite and formal reply, 
Aragorn hugged him too.

Queen Arwen bent to kiss his brow and offer her welcome as well, and then 
Faramir and his lady Eowyn had their greetings. It soon seemed to Frodo as if 
everyone was talking at once and making an enormous fuss over him. It was all 
rather overwhelming, and some of his bewilderment must have shown in his face, 
for Gandalf spoke a soft word to Aragorn and the King said, "You must be weary 
after such a long and swift journey, Frodo, and would no doubt like to rest." 

"Well... yes," Frodo admitted.

"We can discuss these murders this evening. Will you come to dine with us at the 
citadel tonight?"

"Yes, of course! I would honored."

Merry took his hand. "You're staying with us at Gandalf's house." A few more 
brief words were exchanged, and Gandalf took Frodo's bag down from the horse's 
back; the hobbits went together to the sixth level of the city. "You'll have the 
same room you stayed in before," Merry said as they walked down through the 
street. "I've had it made ready for you. I'll be right next door, in the same 
room I shared with Pippin. It's almost like old times." He turned to Frodo. "I 
wish it were under better circumstances, but it is good to have you here, 
Frodo."

"It's good to see you too," said Frodo. "Everyone's been worried for you--we 
didn't know if you'd made your way here. Gandalf told me you arrived with Mr. 
Grimmold's troupe." He smiled. "You always predicted that one of the Tooks would 
run off to join the circus, Merry. I was surprised to hear that _you'd_ done 
it."

Merry laughed. "I didn't join them, exactly. I met them on this side of the 
Misty Mountains. They were planning to return to Bree for the winter, and I told 
them I knew of a better place. They gave me companions to travel with, and I 
gave them a new audience in the city. I expect they'll come back again next 
winter."

They reached the house, and Frodo was shown to the room he'd never thought to 
see again when he'd left Minas Tirith three years ago. He felt a small shiver 
run down his spine when he looked out the windows to see the dark line of 
mountains to the east; Mordor lay beyond.

As Merry helped him unpack, Frodo reported all the news of their family, mostly 
births and marriages. Sam's and Rosie's baby was not the only one about to be 
born; Melilot and Everard were expecting their first child in the autumn, and 
Celie and Merimas had had a second little boy in December. After Merry had left 
the Shire, Saradoc had relented and let Ilberic and Estella marry, and Dodi and 
Isalda Took were married now as well. Isalda's eldest sister Ada had given up on 
Ferdi Took and married one of her sturdy and reliable Banks cousins. Fatty 
Bolger had felt lonely living alone in his home at Budgeford after his sister 
Estella had gone away to Brandy Hall and Aunt Beryl had gone with her, and he 
considered getting married himself; he was tentatively courting Ada's and 
Isalda's sister Flora. Ferdi seemed to be deciding between Pippin's sisters Pim 
and Peri, and it was up to the girls to make up his mind for him now.

"They'll all be paired off in another year or two," said Merry. "What about 
Pippin? Has he married that North-Took girl?"

"They weren't meant to marry for years yet," answered Frodo, "and the marriage 
arranged probably won't come off at all now."

"Really?" Merry's expression brightened at this news. "What happened? She came 
down to Tuckborough last summer, didn't she? Did you meet her, Frodo?"

Frodo nodded. "She came with Aunt Di, just as planned. She seems sweet and shy, 
and very young. Her name's Di too--Diamond, not Diamanta."

"And didn't she like Pip? Or didn't he like her?" 

"They didn't really have anything to say to each other. But there was another 
girl, another Di..." He told Merry the story of the mischievous Diantha Took.

"I wouldn't mind meeting this Di myself!" Merry said, laughing once Frodo had 
finished. "She sounds like a perfect wife for our Pippin. They ought to get on 
very well."

"She's like us, Merry. She says she won't marry anyone. Besides, Pippin's never 
loved anyone but you."

"I know." Merry sombered. "I was half hoping that he'd come with you."

"There wasn't time to ask him," said Frodo. "Gandalf arrived and carried me off 
so quickly. But he knows where you are by now--I asked Sam to tell him."

"I cried every night after I first left the Shire," Merry told him. "I almost 
turned back a dozen times, but I knew I was doing what was right for me and for 
Pippin too, if he wants children. Perhaps it's best that I stay away long enough 
for him to sort things out one way or the other and marry _somebody_--one Di or 
the other, or anybody else who'll put up with him."

"That may be years. Will you stay away as long as that?"

"Oh, I suppose I'll come home eventually."

"Are you happy here, Merry?" Frodo asked; he could see that his cousin was not 
as restless and discontented as he'd been when he'd left the Shire, and was more 
like his old, cheerful self. 

"Happy enough," said Merry. "I have a place here, and friends, but I miss being 
home all the same. The green hills and fields, wildflowers and trees that nobody 
planted. I miss the company of other hobbits--not just you and Pip and Sam, or 
my family, but people like us. There's no one here who looks at things the way 
hobbits do. It's odd being half the size of everyone around me, and living with 
furniture that I have to climb up to sit on! I miss round doors and windows, and 
curved walls. I miss the taverns."

"They have taverns here."

"Yes, but the ale doesn't taste quite the same as our good old Shire brews, and 
it's different sitting among the Big Folk to drink it." 

"What about pipeweed?" Frodo teased. "Do you miss that too?"

"We have pipeweed. Strider's introduced it. Since _he_ smokes a pipe, and so 
does Gandalf, half the court's taken up the habit. It's not bad here, Frodo. I 
get homesick, but I know that if I went home again, I'd only be back in the 
middle of all the things that made me want to leave. No one here disapproves of 
me, but without Pippin, I'm not doing anything for them to disapprove of. And 
I'm doing more good for the Shire here than I ever did while I was in it. 
Strider wants to do something for hobbits, and I talk to him about the things he 
might do. We talk about opening up more land for hobbits to use in the west, and 
making better roads between here and there, and mail routes with way-stations. 
Think of that, Frodo: letters carried from here to the Shire as easily as they 
are from one end of the Shire to the other! We could travel the distance in 
weeks rather than months."

Frodo had to smile at Merry's enthusiasm; it was remarkable to hear his reckless 
and wayward cousin, the famous bad-boy of the Brandybucks, speaking so keenly 
about improvements to the Shire. Merry must be growing up. "I traveled here 
quickly enough, thank you," he said. "I was at home barely a week ago." He and 
Gandalf had left Bag End on the morning of February 23 by the Shire calendar, 
and today was March 3.

Merry grinned. "Not everyone has the service of the fastest horse in all Middle-
earth. It must have been wearisome to travel at such a pace." He looked over 
Frodo's pale face. "You will be able take up Strider's invitation to dine 
tonight, won't you? You're not too tired?"

"I won't be," said Frodo. "I only need to lie down for awhile."

Merry took the hint and left him to rest. Once his cousin had gone, Frodo lay 
down on the bed and was asleep within minutes.

!~|v|~!

Frodo awoke from his nap some hours later to a rap on the door. The room was 
dark; though the curtains were drawn back, the last of the sunlight had faded 
from the sky. "What time is it?" he called out.

"We've still half an hour before dinner," Merry answered through the door. 
"There's no need to rush, but don't dawdle either. We wouldn't want to be late."

Frodo rose, washed, and changed into his finest clothes--the dark blue velvet 
tunic he'd worn to Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding. Merry and Gandalf were waiting 
for him by the front door, and they walked up to the citadel together.

Frodo had been afraid that this dinner would be a grand, formal occasion, with 
all the King's court and the most important people of Minas Tirith assembled to 
meet him. To his relief, he found that it was only a small, private party in 
Aragorn's and Arwen's chambers. In addition to the three of them, Faramir and 
Eowyn were the only other guests.

The conversation over dinner was just the sort a reunion of old friends should 
have: Frodo talked about Sam and Rosie and the baby, and about the book he was 
writing of his adventures on the quest. He wondered if Aragorn had a little time 
to help him with the parts of the story no hobbit had witnessed, such as the 
phenomenal 45-league run that Strider, Legolas, and Gimli had taken to follow 
the orcs who'd kidnapped Merry and Pippin, and their later journey on the Paths 
of the Dead. Aragorn agreed to find time and, from there, they spoke of their 
erstwhile companions. 

"What's become of Gimli and Legolas?" Frodo asked. "I assume they've gone from 
the city, or they'd be here too."

"They remained in Minas Tirith for many months," Aragorn told him, "but they 
went at last to see the Glittering Caves at Aglarond." 

"How wonderful! Gimli spoke of visiting them for so long," Frodo recalled how, 
in Lothlorien, the dwarf had insisted that the beauty of the famous caves 
surpassed any elven woodland, and he and Legolas had argued about it since.

"Yes, he has long desired to show them to his friend."

"Will you write of your adventures as an investigator when you finish this book, 
Frodo?" asked Queen Arwen.

"I've written one already," Frodo replied, "about the history of Gondolin, as 
told to me by a very old elf who was there. Others, I suppose, may also make 
interesting reading. We've had some odd cases." He amused his friends with 
stories of the hunt for Mrs. Taggart's jewels, the circumstances under which he 
and Merry had first met Mr. Grimmold's troupe, and the curious tale of the 
umbrella thief who had plagued Hobbiton last autumn.

"Merry's told us that you've investigated other murders too," said Eowyn.

"A few," Frodo answered diffidently. "There have never been very many murders in 
the Shire, but I seem to have landed in the middle of every one that's occurred 
in the last two years, and been called to sort them out." He looked shyly at the 
others seated around him. "Is it permitted to speak of this business, of why 
you've called me here? I don't know what Big Folk's customs are on such 
subjects." He was thinking primarily of the ladies; Eowyn was a former shield-
maid and accustomed to blood and battle, but would Arwen, with her elvish 
sensibilities, find the topic of murder grotesquely unsuitable? 

"Aunt Eglantine, Pippin's mother, says it isn't fitting to speak of such horrid 
things over the dining table," said Merry with a grin. "But the other hobbit-
ladies are always interested in hearing about mysteries and murders." 

"Yes, that's so," Frodo admitted. "My cousins, Peony, Angelica, and Estella, 
have aided in my investigations." 

Eowyn smiled. "I think I would like the hobbit-ladies."

"These deaths are terrible to think of, but they are near to us," said Arwen. 
"Their solution is of concern to us all." 

"I've asked Beregond, who has been in charge of the investigation thus far, to 
join us after dinner to tell you what he's learned of the matter," Aragorn 
informed Frodo. "We will speak of it then."

When they finished dinner, the ladies retired to Arwen's boudoir, where her 
maids-in-waiting had gathered. Merry went with them, to tell Eowyn more about 
his and Frodo's girl-cousins. Beregond, the captain of the citadel Guard, 
arrived soon after and met with Aragorn, Frodo, Faramir, and Gandalf in the 
King's counsel-closet, a small room in the royal chambers for private 
discussions. 

"What can you tell me of these murders?" Frodo requested. "I know very little, 
only what Gandalf said when he came to fetch me. We haven't talked of it since. 
There were two victims--a councilor and his son?"

Aragorn nodded. "And there has been a third since Gandalf left to bring you to 
Minas Tirith."

"_Three_ murders?" Frodo looked up at the tall Men standing around him in 
surprise, and then at the wizard seated in the corner of the small room. "When 
did this last happen?"

"Two nights ago," Aragorn told him, "but it was not discovered until yesterday 
morning."

"I did not learn of it myself, until after you'd gone to rest," added Gandalf. 
"There was no good time to speak of it before this."

"But we get ahead of ourselves!" said the King. "It is best you hear of the 
deaths in an orderly fashion, Frodo. Beregond will tell you all he knows." 

Beregond came forward. He was a tall Man, taller than Aragorn or Faramir, 
slender and lank with long, pale hair. As he gazed down at the tiny hobbit 
standing before him, Frodo wondered what he must feel at being supplanted by an 
outside investigator less than half his size.

Whatever Beregond's thoughts on the matter, he gave his report to Frodo 
impartially, as his king and lord had bidden. "The first was Councilor Carathir. 
He was head of one of the oldest noble families in Minas Tirith--his forefathers 
have advised Kings and Stewards of Gondor for countless generations. Lord 
Carathir was found dead in his chamber here in the citadel by his servants one 
morning at midwinter. He was an aged man, and it was first believed that his 
heart had failed in the night. An odd mottling was noticed on his skin, and 
there was a bluish color on his lips. After seeing the odd markings upon 
Carathir's face, the Master Healer said he may have taken some poison by 
accident. A tragic mistake, but no more was thought of it at that time. Lord 
Carathir was laid to rest in his family tomb. 

"Unlike many of the great families, Lord Carathir was fortunate to leave a son 
to carry on his name, until Carathir's son, Caradan, died in the same manner a 
month later. Caradan was a young man in his prime, a lieutenant of the Guard." 

"I knew Caradan from boyhood," said Faramir. "I've fought beside him in defense 
of the city many times, and considered him a friend." 

"He was last seen alive among his fellows at the Steward's Arms, a tavern in the 
lower levels of the city, drinking ale," reported Beregond.

"Yes, I know it." Frodo remembered the tavern. It had been a favorite haunt of 
Merry's and Pippin's during their previous stay in the city; he'd gone with them 
occasionally to have a pint there himself. "Did Caradan die there?"

"No, but it seems most likely that that was where he was given the poison. Many 
men had ale from the same barrel that Caradan drank from, but the Arms is a 
crowded place, full of people and noise. It would not be difficult for someone 
to place poison in his mug and go unnoticed. Caradan's companions all say that 
he was hearty when he left them. The others are well. Only Caradan was found 
dead on the floor of his chamber the next morning. It appears that he fell as 
soon as he arrived. He still wore his uniform, and there is no sign that he took 
further food or drink after he left the tavern. As with his father, his lips 
were blue and his face mottled." 

"It was then we realized Carathir's death was no accident," said Aragorn. "Some 
more malignant force was at work."

"Who is the heir now?" asked Frodo. "Is there one--or was he the third victim?"

"There is an heir, alive," Beregond replied. "He is Carathir's nephew and 
sister-son, Cirandil. He is also one of the citadel Guard."

"I see what you suspect, Frodo," said Faramir, "but I've known Cirandil as long 
as I knew Caradan. A man's mind may be turned to evil with great temptation, but 
I find it hard to believe that Cirandil is capable of such a crime. Besides, he 
was far from the city at the time of his kinsmen's deaths."

"There is no proof that the poison was given to Caradan that night," said 
Gandalf. "Poisons may be given days in advance, and their effects not felt 
immediately. I do not accuse your friend, Faramir, but it is also possible that 
our poisoner is not doing his work alone. He may have a confederate."

"Yes, that's so," agreed Frodo. "Do you know what poison the victims were given? 
Perhaps that's a question best asked of the Master Healer." 

"You will have an opportunity to speak to him tomorrow," said Aragorn. "You'll 
no doubt want to visit the Houses of Healing tomorrow regardless."

At first, Frodo thought that his friend was gently alluding to his fragile 
health, then he understood that Aragorn was referring to something else. "Why?" 
he asked. "Does it have to do with the third victim? You still haven't told me 
who he was."

"She, not he. The third was an old woman named Bregilde, of no connection to the 
family of Carathir," said Beregond. "She was a herbalist in the Houses of 
Healing." 

!~|vi|~!

The next morning, Frodo began his investigation at the Houses of Healing. The 
Houses were a complex of buildings around small, secluded courtyards and a 
larger plaza, connected by cloistered walkways, and took up most of the eastern 
half of the fifth level of the city. All here were dedicated to the healing 
arts: there were not only beds for the sick and wounded in the central hall, and 
rooms for laying out the dead, but apothecaries and a herbarium for the making 
of medicines and a library containing all the medical knowledge that could be 
gathered, preserving old lore and training young healers. Both Frodo and Merry 
had spent time here as patients, and Frodo recalled his days of recovery within 
these peaceful walls as he entered them again.

The Master Healer remembered as well, for he smiled warmly when he saw Frodo and 
came forward to greet him. "I welcome you to our Houses, Ringbearer. I'm pleased 
to see your health has greatly improved since you were last here..." He placed 
his fingertips gently under Frodo's chin and lifted his face to study it 
carefully, "though not so improved as I would have hoped. If you require our 
medicinal arts while you are in Minas Tirith, you mustn't hesitate to call upon 
us."

"Thank you," Frodo replied. "I may need your aid, one day soon. Today, I hope 
you can help me in another way."

"You refer to these tragic deaths? Yes, of course. A most baffling matter, and 
this last death has affected those of us who work in the Houses most strongly."

"Did you know Bregilde well?"

"She worked here as a gatherer of herbs for many long years before _I_ came to 
be apprenticed to the old Master. She has always been part of the Houses to me, 
a familiar sight. She's been laid out in our rooms for the dead, if you wish to 
view her." 

"Perhaps later, thank you. I'd like to speak to anyone who knew her, worked with 
her, first."

"Yes, of course. I will take you to the herbalists."

The Master Healer escorted him into the herbarium, where healers skilled in 
herbal lore prepared the plants of their craft, some grown within these walls, 
others gathered wild from the woods, fields, and foothills of the mountains 
beyond the city. Several herbalists were at work when Frodo came in; like the 
Master and all who served within the Houses, they wore cowled robes. Some began 
to murmur excitedly at the sight of the hobbit, and one young woman regarded him 
with curiosity and surprise. 

"This is Methilde," the Master Healer introduced the young woman. "She is 
Bregilde's great-niece, and an apprentice herbalist." 

"Are you the King's Investigator?" she asked Frodo. "I'd heard that such a one 
was coming, but didn't know that you would be a halfling."

"Frodo is the halfling who saved our beloved city--indeed, all this Realm--from 
darkness," said the Master Healer.

"And will you find who has murdered my aunt?"

"I hope to," answered Frodo. "It is what I was brought here to do, to solve 
these poisonings." He turned to the Master Healer. "I was told you knew what 
poison was used. What was it?"

"It was Pahiril, our herb-master, who determined the poison after viewing the 
bodies," said the Healer, and took Frodo into a sunny bay on the outer wall of 
the herbarium, filled with pots of growing greenery and flowers, where the herb-
master was at work. 

Once he understood Frodo's purpose, Pahiril was only too happy to be of 
assistance. "From the discoloration of the victims' flesh," he began, "I would 
say that they had taken a powerful distillation of nightshade."

"Do you keep such a distillation about?" asked Frodo.

"Yes, of course. We keep many potions that might be called poisons. What may 
kill may also cure when given in minute doses. Foxglove, here-" he reached up 
and gently touched the leaves of a pink-flowered plant growing in a pot on the 
highest shelf, "strengthens the beat of a weak heart. Valerian gives a restful 
sleep. Wolfsbane is good for the headache, gout, and fevers. Hensbane eases 
spasms. Mandragora is beneficial for the pain of wounds, snakebite, and to 
restore vitality. Poppies are used to make many medicines, but it can ensnare 
the patient in its soothing spells if taken too often, or kill if too much is 
ingested. Others too--hemlock, oleander, laburnum..."

He would have gone on indefinitely, reciting the entire pharmacopoeia of deadly 
plants and their medicinal virtues, touching a sample each if they were at hand 
on the shelves, if Frodo had not brought him to the point and asked, "What about 
nightshade?" 

"Nightshade? Yes." Pahiril indicated an innocent-looking plant with dark leaves 
and bright red berries, which sat on a lower shelf where the full sun did not 
fall. "It is used for pain, and to heal ulcers of the flesh, and also to bathe 
the eyes and expand the pupils--but in only the most dilute potions, a drop or 
two in water. More than that causes great distress in the bowels, vomiting, 
convulsions. That is how it kills. The odd thing is the blue about the lips, 
which suggests that the victims were unable to draw breath. Nightshade does not 
affect the breathing." 

The Master Healer nodded in agreement. "By their lips, they appeared as if they 
had been smothered."

"It is my opinion that another poison was combined with the tincture of 
nightshade," Pahiril finished. "Laurel, or perhaps rhododendron."

"Could that mixture of poisons have been made here?" Frodo wondered. 

"Yes, certainly--though all within the Houses are dedicated to the arts which 
will cure and heal, not those that cause death!" 

"Who is permitted to enter this room, where the plants are kept?"

"Herbalists only, about their business, and our Master Healer, of course." 
Pahiril bowed slightly to the Master.

"Could someone else make this poison, someone not a healer?"

"It is possible," the herb-master admitted grudgingly, "if they knew which 
plants to use. Any might gather them in the wild--nightshade is found in the 
damp, wooded clefts on the lowest slopes of our mountains, and laurel trees grow 
everywhere in Ithilien. It is a matter of culling the berries and leaves of the 
necessary plants, then brewing them in such a manner that the essence of the 
poison is drawn off and collected. We have such workings here, but I do not 
think any others exist in the city."

"It isn't necessary to have such workings, Master," said Methilde, who remained 
nearby to listen to Frodo's conversation with the herb-master. "Any ordinary pot 
set to boil on a kitchen fire would do as well."

Pahiril seemed startled and somewhat offended that the girl should contradict 
him. "Not as effectively." 

"No, Master," she replied, "but the one who killed my aunt and the others may 
not be so particular." 

"You are impertinent, Methilde," the Master Healer said gently.

Methilde bowed her head. "Your pardon, Master. I only wished the halfling to 
know it _is_ possible to make such a poison without the tools of our craft."

The Master Healer accepted this as an apology. "If you wish to help, why don't 
you introduce Frodo to those who knew your great-aunt best?" he suggested. "You 
might also take him to view her, if he wishes it."

"Yes, Master." She turned to Frodo. "Will you come with me... Frodo?" For the 
first time, a hint of a smile appeared on her face. "It is an odd name."

"In Gondor, perhaps," Frodo replied, "but not in the Shire."

He spoke with the other herbalists. Many knew Bregilde well, for they had worked 
at her side for many years, and praised her knowledge of herb-lore and 
remarkable healing skills. But none had any idea who would wish to kill her. The 
thought of it frightened them; if a healer could be murdered so cruelly, then 
none of them were safe!

Then Methilde took him to view her aunt's body, which lay on a low bier in a 
small, windowless room with a single candle lit above the head. Bregilde's body 
was well wrapped in burial shrouds, with a cloth wound tightly around the head 
lengthwise from crown to jaw so that only her face showed. The dead woman's face 
was very pale in the dimly lit room, but a trace of the mottling remained.

As he stood on tiptoe to have a closer look at these odd and distinctive 
markings, which herb-master had said were a sign of nightshade poisoning, 
Methilde spoke softly: "There is something else you must know, Frodo: Aunt 
Bregilde could easily have brewed such a potion herself. She knew the plants 
that grow for fifty miles around Minas Tirith. She taught me all I know, and 
knew much more besides."

Frodo was astonished, not at this information itself, but that the young woman 
seemed to be implying her great-aunt was the poisoner. 

When he asked her, she replied, "I don't know it is so, but I've wondered since 
her death. I don't like the thought of it, but it is in my mind."

"Did she know Councilor Carathir or his son? Could she have borne them a 
grudge?"

Methilde shook her head. "No, none that I know. I never heard her speak their 
names."

"Why then do think she might have killed them? And do you think she took the 
last dose of her own poison herself, out of remorse?"

"Oh, no." She looked down at him, eyes bright. "I think that she made the poison 
for another, who wished the councilor and his son to die--and once they had been 
disposed of, he had no more use for her and got rid of her too. He used her own 
craft against her. _That_ person, Frodo, is the one you must find."

!~|vii|~!

When he left the Houses of Healing, Frodo went up to the citadel to meet the 
King's Council. Aragorn had told him that the Council convened regularly at what 
was ten o'clock in the Shire, and that they would be expecting him at that hour. 

They were already seated around the great, round table in the council-chamber 
when Faramir escorted him in. There were eleven councilors in all, and an empty 
chair in what had been Carathir's place. Frodo found them and the room itself 
intimidating: the ceiling seemed to rise miles overhead; the black and white 
marble of the walls and floor felt cold and harsh, and all the furniture towered 
over him. The room was silent as he entered. He could feel all eyes upon him 
and, as he walked toward the table, the only sounds he heard were the soft 
patter of his bare feet and the louder, echoing thumps of Faramir's boots behind 
him. The sound of those boot-steps was comforting, for it meant that a friend 
was nearby. 

He spotted the King seated in his tall-backed chair at the far side of the table 
and, standing at the windows behind it, Gandalf. When the wizard smiled, Frodo 
felt more confident.

Aragorn rose from his seat and came around table. "Frodo, welcome."

The councilors were also rising, coming forward to meet him. Aragorn introduced 
them: Larengar, Grangirtan, Alzaran, Diarmad, Imatibin, Hilabar, Belethor, 
Sirih. Frodo had met some of these same Men at Aragorn's coronation, but he knew 
little of the structure of Gondor's government and had never learned what the 
Council did beyond advise the King. The Shire had nothing like a Council; one 
mayor was considered sufficient to see to the necessary business of appointing 
magistrates, chief sherriffs, and postmasters, as well as performing the public 
duties of the office by showing up at ceremonies on holidays and attending 
parties held by prominent hobbits.

All spoke words of welcome, and those who remembered him addressed him as 
Ringbearer, as the Master Healer had, but Frodo thought he saw incredulity in 
the expressions of some as they looked down at him.

"We've long looked forward to your coming, Ringbearer," said Larengar, who was 
an elderly Man, heavy-set and white-haired. "You are indeed most welcome. This 
terrible matter has been of the greatest concern to all of us since we learned 
that Carathir's death was no accident. King Elessar has spoken of your work as 
an investigator in your homeland, and it is my especial hope that you'll also 
prove successful here. Carathir was a dear friend of mine, and I would see 
justice for him and his son."

"There was also the woman from the Houses of Healing," Hilabar, a much younger 
and leaner Man, pointed out. "She was poisoned too."

"True. None in the city are safe."

"I say it must be the work of a madman," said Imatibin, with a significant 
glance at his fellow councilors. "No sane creature could commit such acts."

It was then that Frodo realized they were all frightened, but not as the 
herbalists had been; this was a different type of fear. The herbalists he'd 
spoken to had been afraid for their safety from an outside harm--anyone who had 
killed one healer might easily kill another--but they did not believe that that 
killer was one of their own. Aside from Methilde, none could conceive the idea 
that a healer, who had vowed to preserve life, could also deliberately take a 
life. The councilors, on the other hand, suspected that the murderer was among 
them. As they discussed these poisonings, he saw the way their eyes flickered to 
the others; even as they ostensibly spoke to him, they were looking to see how 
the other councilors reacted to their words.

None of them dared to voice their suspicions, but _he_ would have to consider 
exactly what they feared. Methilde's remarkable suggestion that someone had 
hired her aunt to poison Carathir and his son had been whirling in his head 
since he'd left her. If what she suspected was true, then these Men were the 
most likely people to do so, after the nephew Cirandil. Did any of them have a 
reason to hate Carathir enough to kill him and his son? There might be factions 
and long-standing political differences that went back years before Aragorn had 
claimed his throne. Or perhaps fresh quarrels had arisen under the King? These 
were questions that the Men of the Council would probably not answer honestly if 
he asked them, but they were precisely the things he must find out. 

Aragorn had just invited Frodo to tell what he'd discovered that morning at the 
Houses of Healing, when a voice spoke behind him, "Your pardon, my lord--"

Frodo turned and saw that a young Man in the uniform of the citadel guard stood 
at the open doors with Beregond, staring at him.

Aragorn had also turned to the newcomer. "Cirandil, welcome. I wished you to 
join us today, to meet Frodo." 

"Frodo..." Cirandil's eyes, still on Frodo, widened incredulously. "_This_ is 
the great investigator who has come to aid us? I had heard he was to be one of 
the Little Folk, akin to the halfling seen about the court and the lad who 
served as Lord Denethor's esquire, but I expected- I am amazed that we have put 
the finding of my kinsmen's murderer into the hands of one who appears as a 
child of ten!"

Frodo knew that Cirandil didn't mean to be deliberately insulting; his 
appearance must come as a surprise to a Man who had heard of his reputation, but 
had never seen him before. "Actually," he said, "I'm seven-and-thirty."

The young man's face colored and he said, "You don't look as if you could be so 
old, little one. You are ten years older than me!"

"We age more slowly than Men, and don't come of age `til we are three-and-
thirty," Frodo explained. "I admit I am young, even by the reckoning of my own 
people, but I've solved other murders before this, and will do my best to find 
who is responsible for your kinsmen's deaths, and the death of the herbalist." 

"It is a mistake to underestimate 'the Little Folk,'" Gandalf said dryly. "Time 
and again, they have been tested and proved their worth. I would not have 
brought Frodo so far if I did not believe he was equal to this task."

"And I would not have sent for him if I did not believe so too," Aragorn added. 

"Your pardon, my lord, Mithrandir," Cirandil said again, but more contritely 
this time. "I meant no offense. If you say this Frodo is capable, then he must 
be so." 

Cirandil said no more after that, but stood and listened as the Council began 
its business with the King's Investigator. Their first meeting was brief. Frodo 
reported what the Master Healer and herb-master had told him about the nature of 
the poison used and how it might have been made by any with a basic knowledge of 
herb-lore. He did not mention Methilde's theory.

Once Frodo had finished, Aragorn said, "We must speak of measures to be taken to 
ensure that the citadel and the Houses of Healing are made secure. You needn't 
stay, unless you wish it, Frodo."

Frodo left the council-chamber, but lingered in the corridor outside, taking a 
seat on a marble bench between two massive columns. He had hoped for a chance to 
speak to Aragorn privately, but the Council meeting seemed to be a long one. 
After awhile, he became aware that he wasn't alone. A flicker of dark cloth 
farther along the corridor caught his attention, and he turned to see a young 
lady of the court standing in the shadow of another column. She wore a black 
gown and had long black hair beneath an even longer black veil. She also seemed 
to be waiting for someone, for her eyes were on the door to the council-chamber 
and she did not appear to see him.

When Cirandil emerged, she went to him. The two exchanged a few whispered words 
before they noticed the hobbit seated nearby. The lady darted away again 
quickly.

After she had gone, Cirandil came to speak to Frodo. "I must apologize for my 
foolhardy words."

"I wasn't offended," Frodo answered. "I'm sure many of the Council thought the 
same, and must also have doubts about my abilities."

"But they had the good sense to keep their tongues still?" Cirandil smiled 
wryly. "They wouldn't dare speak against you in our King's hearing. My lord 
Elessar often speaks your praises. Even today, after you'd gone from the room, 
he said that he owes his return to the throne of his forefathers to you, and all 
in this city owe you their lives. I hadn't realized `til then that you were the 
same halfling who went into Mordor." 

"Yes, I am he," said Frodo, but said no more. It wasn't modesty; he never liked 
to talk about his quest, especially when he was praised for a success that had 
been entirely beyond his control. It was somewhat disconcerting to hear how 
Aragorn spoke of him to others.

"I never saw you when you were here before, though of course I heard the tales 
that were told," Cirandil continued. "If you could accomplish _that_, then you 
may also find the one who killed my kinsmen--and prove that I did not. I am 
suspected. I know it. I see it in the eyes of many, even comrades in arms who 
have been my friends from boyhood. Oh, they would fain deny it, but they doubt 
me all the same. Even the most loyal wonder if _I_ could have done this thing. 
But know this, little one: I have no desire to assume my uncle's place, nor take 
what rightly belonged to my cousin Caradan. They were dear to me as a father and 
brother. If I come to a higher position through their deaths, it is a 
responsibility I am not prepared for, nor that I wish to undertake. I would be 
happier to remain a guardsman for many years more, and have my kinsmen live."

He sounded extremely earnest and even a little angry, as if he were shouting 
down his doubting friends. Frodo didn't know whether or not to believe him. "I 
will do all I can to discover the truth of the matter," he said noncommittally. 
"Since you wish to clear your name, I hope that I can rely on your assistance. 
May I ask--Who was that lady you were speaking to, the one who was all in 
black?"

"She is no one," Cirandil answered shortly. "She has nothing to do with this." 
And he turned on his heel and walked away.

!~|viii|~! 

Frodo waited until midday for the Council to disperse. When they did not, and 
noon was long past, he left the citadel and returned to Gandalf's house. He 
hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast, so he went in through the kitchen 
door; he was looking through the larder when Merry came in and offered to make 
lunch for him. "I'm not so good a cook as Sam is, but I've learned to make a 
decent meal for myself," said his cousin. "I'll cook something for you."

'Something' turned out to be toasted bread and cheese, and they sat together at 
the table to eat it while Frodo told Merry about his morning's work, and how he 
had felt when he faced the Council. 

"For all Aragorn's and Gandalf's taking my part, I'm not so sure that they're 
wrong to wonder if I'm fit for this job. I feel as if I've accepted a task 
that's much too big for me."

"Not for the first time," Merry said, smiling in sympathy.

"Yes, and look how _that_ ended!"

"You succeeded, against all hope. You'll do as well this time, Frodo, and it 
won't be as hard on you."

"No, nothing could ever be." But Frodo was encouraged by Merry's faith in his 
abilities. Everyone who knew him seemed to believe he could do this... perhaps 
he really could. "All the same, this isn't like my investigations at home. I 
don't know where I am here--I've barely begun, and already I feel lost. These 
Big Folk are strangers to me. I can't speak with them as I can with other 
hobbits. Their manners and language are more formal than we're accustomed to. I 
need a way inside, to learn about them. I can't go about as I did in the Shire, 
visiting people, and asking my family to help."

"What about Strider? He's not a stranger, and he could tell you a lot about the 
people in the citadel, if you asked. He's promised to give you whatever help you 
need and he meant it sincerely."

"I'm sure he did, but I'd hate to bother him more than I have to. After all, he 
_is_ the King, and he must have other business to attend to." Frodo thought of 
how long he had waited today to try and speak to Aragorn, but he knew that Merry 
was right. 

"You have me," Merry offered. "I'm not busy. I'll help."

"Can you?"

"Yes, if you'll tell me what you need. I've been here among the Big Folk longer 
than you have, and I know them and their ways a little better. What can I do?"

Frodo thought about this while he nibbled his bread and cheese. "Are you 
familiar with the people in the King's court?" he said after a minute. 

"I don't have much to do with the Council members, if that's what you mean. 
They're all much too stuffy. But I'm friends with some of the citadel guards. I 
knew Caradan, though not well enough to call him a friend." 

"And the cousin, Cirandil?"

Merry shook his head. "He's been away in Ithilien since midwinter, and hasn't 
been out with the other guards since he came back."

"What about the court ladies?"

"Oh, I get on very well with them, especially Queen Arwen's attending maids."

Frodo's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Do you?"

"Lady Eowyn's my friend, and she misses woods and green hills as much as I do. 
We go out riding together, or for walks on the mountain paths. When we don't go 
out, I'll sit with her and the other ladies in the Queen's chambers. If I were a 
young Man, three feet taller, and spending so much time in the company of the 
Steward's Lady, it'd be quite a scandal, but no one thinks anything of it. They 
don't think of us in that way, you know. We might as well be children."

"Ten years old," said Frodo, recalling what Cirandil had said.

He'd experienced something like this already in the Shire, when older hobbits 
who had heard of his reputation as an investigator met him for the first time, 
and were surprised to see a young hobbit-lad only a few years out of his tweens. 
To the eyes of Big Folk, he must appear tiny and childlike. If he looked older 
and wiser like Uncle Bilbo, or had boots and a beard and an undeniable voice of 
authority like Mr. Grimmold, who was shorter even than a grown hobbit, he might 
be taken more seriously.

But perhaps his youth and size might be used to an advantage here? If the Big 
Folk thought him a child, they might speak to him less guardedly than they would 
to a Man like Captain Beregond. 

Merry grinned. "It's a pity I don't take an interest in ladies, Big or hobbit-
sized. I could have such fun."

"The next time you go to see the ladies, may I come with you? I saw a lady today 
I'd like to know more about."

"Really?" His cousin looked curious. "Which one?"

"I don't know her name--I only saw her for a moment outside the council-chamber 
with Cirandil. Her face was hidden beneath a veil, but I think she was rather 
young. Tall, even for a Big woman. She has long, black hair, and was dressed all 
in black."

"Oh, _her_. That's Tharya. Yes, you'll want to talk to her. Will tomorrow do? 
I'll tell Eowyn and the Queen you'll be coming."

!~|ix|~!

The next morning, Frodo returned to the citadel. There were more guards on duty 
than there'd been the day before, as part of the stricter watch to protect those 
who lived within the citadel, but the guard stationed at the door to the great 
hall knew who the hobbit was. When Frodo asked to see Aragorn, he was escorted 
immediately up to the King's chambers, where a page announced him.

The King and Queen were still in their private apartments, just as Frodo as 
hoped, but were not at breakfast. By all appearances, they had just finished.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Frodo said apologetically once his escort had shown 
him into the room. "I was hoping to speak to you alone, Strider, before you went 
to the Council. They're partly what I want to talk to you about. You said you'd 
give me whatever aid I needed-"

"Yes, of course, Frodo." If Aragorn found such a request odd first thing in the 
morning, he gave no sign of it. They went into the council closet for a private 
conversation.

"I want to know about Councilor Carathir," Frodo explained. "After all, this 
began with his death. I have to think that his was therefore the most important 
murder, from the murderer's point of view. The son was only killed afterwards. 
Was it simply because he was his father's child? Or perhaps he knew something 
that endangered his father's murderer, and must also be got out of the way. We 
must start this investigation by listing everyone who would gain by the 
councilor's death."

After listening to Merry, Aragorn was accustomed to hobbits' fast-flowing bursts 
of speech. "You wish to make a list?"

"Sam would write one out for me, to be methodical," Frodo answered with a small 
smile. "We needn't do that, but we must consider the question, and take into 
account everyone who could reasonably be an answer to it. You can tell me what 
others might not. They'll wish to speak well of the dead, and no one will dare 
say anything that might draw suspicion to themselves."

"Yes, I see..." Aragorn thought about this for a minute. "Though Faramir does 
not like to hear it spoken, there is, of course, Cirandil."

"And who else?" Frodo prompted. "Are there other members of the family? Cirandil 
is heir now his cousin is dead. Who's next in line?"

"I believe the line ends with him."

"Was Lord Carathir a widower? No one's mentioned a wife."

"The lady of Carathir died when Caradan was a boy."

"Could he have had a mistress?"

"Frodo!" Aragorn was shocked at the question, then he laughed. "I know nothing 
dishonorable of Carathir's private life. Besides, I believe he was long past 
such... passions."

"It might have happened years ago, a woman he'd loved and cast aside, perhaps 
misled with promises of marriage. She would be an old woman now too." Though he 
didn't say so to Aragorn, Frodo was thinking of Bregilde. Had the herbalist and 
councilor shared a mutual past that made her bear him and his family a grudge 
even after many years? Could that be the reason why she'd agreed to help someone 
else take revenge against the family, or had taken revenge herself?

As he spoke, the King regarded him with amused astonishment. "I never guessed 
you had such a vivid imagination, Frodo."

"Gandalf tells me it's a valuable quality," Frodo rejoined. "It helps me to see 
all the possibilities. Very well. No mistresses." Now that he had cleared the 
ground of other suspects, he broached the ones he had come here to talk 
especially to Aragorn about. "Shall we consider your councilors then? You must 
know something of their characters and their history, Strider--what can you tell 
me about them? Did Carathir have enemies or rivals among them?"

Aragorn was suddenly alert. "You suspect one of the Council? Who is it, Frodo?"

"I don't suspect anyone in particular yet," Frodo admitted, "but I have to 
consider them, as close acquaintances of Carathir. That's something I've learned 
from my other investigations: you must be willing to consider _everybody_. You 
can't simply say, 'It's impossible for this person to have committed a murder--
he or she would never do such a thing.' You have to imagine, 'What if they 
did?'" 

"Yes, I see." Aragorn nodded. "It is a wise course, though I fear it will upset 
and offend many people."

"It's offended many hobbits, but it had to be done. I've had to question members 
of my own family, some of them very dear to me, but I couldn't refuse to look 
for the truth even when it was unpleasant," Frodo told him. "I believe it's why 
Captain Beregond's investigation didn't succeed: he wasn't able to search the 
right places for the answers he needed. He couldn't question the Council, could 
he? Their position protects them--they'd refuse to answer any questions they 
didn't like. But they have suspicions amongst themselves. You do know, don't 
you, Strider, that they suspect one another of committing these crimes?"

"I've seen the looks that have passed between them since Carathir's death," 
Aragorn acknowledged.

"I have reasons to think one of them hired someone with knowledge of poisons to 
act for him." Frodo would only say that much, even to Aragorn, until he was more 
sure that Methilde was right. "Which ones do you think are most likely? Who had 
reason to be glad to see him gone from the Council? Did you give Carathir any 
special appointments or favors that the others might resent?"

"No, none. He'd been Keeper of the city's treasury for more than fifty years. 
Since he proved himself trustworthy with so much gold, I deemed it best that he 
should hold his place for as long as he wished it."

"Carathir was an honest Man?"

"Undoubtedly. He was stubborn about clinging to the old ways and traditions, and 
found it hard to accept the new. He was very proud of his family line and its 
long service to Gondor. His sense of duty to the city never wavered."

"Who keeps the treasury now?"

"Carathir's secretary has taken his duties in the treasure-house, but he does 
not sit on the Council. I must appoint a new treasurer."

"If he was a Man who clung to old ways, I suppose Carathir often disagreed with 
the younger and more modern-thinking councilors?" Frodo was thinking of Hilabar 
and Imatibin, who were the youngest members of the Council with the exception of 
Faramir, and from what he'd heard today, had the sharpest tongues.

"Many argued with him, naturally. Carathir and Lord Larengar were especially 
vociferous, but they were also old friends. You must understand, Frodo, that 
debates within the Council can become very heated when each party is certain 
that he and he alone is right. I sometimes fear that they'll come to blows in 
anger, but they never do." 

"Did you appoint them all to their places? I noticed that some are old Men, and 
I guess that they served Lord Denethor before you."

"Yes, almost half of the Council who served in Denethor's day still advise me," 
Aragorn answered. "I thought they knew the business of governing a great city 
better than I, and I retained all who were known to have done good service. Only 
those who deemed unfit were dismissed."

"Such as who? Can you tell me their names?"

"There was Garamant, who drank to excess and rarely attended the Council, and 
was never in a fit state when he did appear. And Bifilir, who was in his dotage 
and slept through the meetings." Aragorn was silent and thoughtful for a moment, 
then he said, "In the final days of Denethor's stewardship, the best men of the 
Council did all they could to check his madness. When he would do nothing to 
prepare the city's defenses, they tried to dissuade him and offered advice that 
he refused to hear. Against their Lord's decrees, they did what they could to 
see that provision was made for the city's protection. But there were others... 
Broneron was their leader."

"Broneron?" Frodo repeated the name.

"He was Head of the Council at that time. His family had risen to prominence 
during the days of the most recent Stewards. Perhaps he thought of it as a sign 
of loyalty, but he stood by Denethor in all he did and fed the worst of his 
madness. If others, such as Carathir or Larengar, worked to protect the city, 
Broneron worked against them, as Denethor had decreed that nothing should be 
done. He, and the others who stood with him and worked for the city's fall, were 
expelled from the Council when I assumed my throne."

"Do you think he might seek revenge against Carathir and his family since you 
dismissed him?"

"He might," Aragorn admitted, "if he believed that Carathir was responsible for 
his disgrace." 

"Does Broneron still live in Minas Tirith?" asked Frodo. "Or did you banish 
him?"

"He has been banished from the citadel, but he has a house within the city. He 
lives there still."

!~|*|~!

When they came out of the counsel-closet, the hour of 10:00 was approaching.

"I have your permission to go freely about the city and make inquiries?" Frodo 
requested.

"Certainly," Aragorn replied. "I will provide you with an escort, so that none 
may stop you from going where you will. You may search for the answers you need 
without hindrance. If any bring complaints to me, I will say that you act with 
my authority, and in my name. But the hour is upon us--I must go."

Aragorn went down to meet the Council. Frodo would have gone too, but Arwen 
asked him to stay awhile. She offered him a glass of some sweet, pale orangish 
fruit nectar and they sat down at the little table where the King and Queen had 
breakfasted, but had since been cleared by servants.

"Lady Eowyn tells me that you and Merry will return to us this afternoon," Arwen 
said. "You think to bring your investigations here, into my chambers."

At first, Frodo thought that she disapproved and was going to refuse to let them 
intrude upon her private rooms and disturb her ladies-in-waiting with questions. 
Then he realized she was merely curious. Although she looked like a young woman, 
no older than Lady Eowyn, she was thousands of years old; there was a cool, 
elvish detachment in her voice and expression that made it hard for him to 
interpret what she was truly thinking. 

"If you've no objection to it, my lady," he answered deferentially. "In the 
Shire, I've found that social occasions where ladies gather to talk--gossip--
about goings-on are a perfect opportunity for me to listen and learn. I know so 
little about Minas Tirith and the people here. Your ladies do, don't they?"

"Save for Eowyn, all the ladies who attend me are of the old Gondor families. 
Many are wives and daughters of the councilors. They know a great deal... more 
than I." A small smile curved at the corner of her lips. "This city and the life 
within it are new and strange to me too."

"There is one lady in particular I wish to meet and speak with. Merry tells me 
her name is Tharya." 

"Tharya? Yes, she is among my maids-in-waiting. She is Councilor Larengar's 
daughter." 

"I won't pry or ask personal questions," Frodo assured her, "only listen to 
their ordinary chat. I'm sure they talk about these murders in any case."

"So they do," Arwen agreed. That hint of a smile appeared again. "I admit, I am 
intrigued. When I first heard of your work, I was curious how you would 
investigate the deaths here. Mithrandir told me how you discovered the true tale 
of the fall of Gondolin, and how my mother's tutor at Caras Galadon visited you 
on his journey to the West."

"Since he helped me then, Gandalf seems to believe I can solve any puzzle I put 
my mind to."

"If he believes it, it must be so," Arwen answered. "You will stop these 
horrors, and I will do what I can to aid you." Her voice lowered, she added, "I 
wish to aid you however I can." She reached out to touch the astonished hobbit's 
cheek and said, "You are in pain, Frodo. I see it. A shadow lay upon you when I 
first saw you in the wilderlands near Imladris, gravely wounded as you were. You 
were healed, and wounded and healed again--and yet the shadow remains. The Ring 
still haunts you, though it has been destroyed?"

"Yes," Frodo admitted. He was usually reluctant to discuss his illness, but he 
couldn't conceal it from her. Since her fingertips had touched his cheek and, 
with her eyes gazing solemnly into his, he felt as if a spell had been cast over 
him. He was reminded of her grandmother Galadriel's way of looking into your 
thoughts and seeing all the secret things you never dared tell. He felt 
compelled to speak. "There's been an emptiness in my heart since it was lost, as 
if something vital to me has been cut away. I sometimes think I'll never be 
entirely healed." As he spoke, he felt that empty ache swell within him.

"And if you can find no relief, what then?" 

"I don't know," he answered in a whisper. The pain wasn't so bad right now, but 
on his darkest days, it rose to engulf him; each year, it seemed to grown worse. 
What would happen when it became too much to bear? 

The spell was broken abruptly when a page brought Captain Beregond into the 
room. 

"Your pardon, my lady," Beregond said with a bow. "The King bids me escort the 
halfling about the citadel this morning." He turned to address Frodo: "I am to 
answer all your questions of the two deaths that occurred here. I will wait 
without until my lady has finished with you."

"We have done," answered Arwen. "You may go, Frodo. We will speak again, and be 
merrier, this afternoon."

!~|x|~!

Beregond took Frodo to see Caradan's quarters in the guards' hall first. The 
room was small, but neat and plain, fit for a soldier to sleep in. Beregond 
informed him that the young lieutenant had been found lying on the floor beside 
the bed, but no sign of this tragedy could be seen on the stone. No blood had 
been spilled in the young Man's final minutes of life, and any spew of sickness 
had long since been cleaned up. Frodo saw no sign that Caradan had drunk 
anything here on the night of his death; the captain's theory that the young Man 
had been poisoned at the tavern was probably correct. 

When he looked through the chest at the foot of the bed, Frodo found little out 
of the ordinary for a guardsman to have--extra uniforms and civilian clothes, 
small personal arms, a few books, an empty flask. The only remarkable object was 
a delicate silver bracelet--too delicate for a Man's wrist--crafted to look like 
a bird with outstretched wings. A gift intended for a lady, Frodo surmised, or 
else a keepsake from one. 

Most of the citadel Guard were on duty at that hour, or abroad on business 
elsewhere in the city, but at Frodo's request, Beregond managed to find one 
guardsman who'd been a friend of Caradan's and had been with him at the 
Steward's Arms on that fatal night. Beregond had already questioned his 
guardsmen about the ale Caradan had drunk, and how easy it might be for anyone 
to put poison into an unwatched tankard; Frodo passed on such questions, and 
instead asked the guard if he had any idea who could have wanted Caradan dead. 
Had anyone borne a grudge against him?

No, Caradan had no enemies. He was popular and well-liked by all who served with 
him or under his command. "We've talked of it amongst ourselves," the guard 
admitted, "and there's only one we can think of who'd be bettered by Caradan's 
dying... though Captain Beregond doesn't like to hear it said."

"I won't hear it said," Beregond responded grimly, "not against one of my own 
men until I am shown it is so by undeniable proof."

No name was mentioned, but Frodo knew who they were talking about. Cirandil was 
right; his friends among the guards suspected him. "Did Caradan have a girl-
friend or lady-love?" he asked, thinking of the bracelet he'd found.

The young guard grinned at the question. "One or two." Apparently, Caradan was 
as popular with the maidens of the city as he was among the guards.

"Shall I show you where Lord Carathir died next?" Beregond offered as he and 
Frodo left the guards' hall. 

"Yes, please. There's something I've been curious about since I first heard of 
Carathir and his son," Frodo said. "They both died within the citadel, but in 
their bed or bed-chamber. Did Councilor Carathir live here?"

"The family of Carathir owns a grand house on the sixth level, not far from 
Mithrandir's, but it has been closed for years," Beregond answered. "Lord 
Carathir found it troublesome to maintain so large a household for himself alone 
once his lady had died and his son and nephew had grown and were in the Guard. 
Since he spent most of his days within the citadel, he chose to spend his nights 
in his chambers here too."

"Do all the councilors have private chambers at their disposal?"

"Yes. I will take you there." They went around behind the great hall to a 
smaller courtyard. There were other buildings here, including a long, low one 
which swept around the southern end of the small courtyard in a semi-circle 
beneath the outer wall of the citadel, connected to the back of the great hall 
by a long, covered gallery. "If a meeting of the Council goes well into the 
night, or goes on for days, the councilors like to have a place to lay their 
heads and rest for an hour or two without having to walk down through the city 
streets and return again. Some use their chambers little, while others like 
Carathir make them a second home." They went into the long, low building and 
down the curved hallway to a locked door; Beregond unlocked it and held the door 
open for Frodo to go inside. "Here you see Carathir's chamber." 

It was a richly-appointed room--large to a hobbit's eyes, but probably just 
adequately big enough to contain the minimum of necessary comforts for a 
Gondorian nobleman: a tall-posted, curtained bed and oaken wardrobe, an armchair 
before a screened fireplace, a desk, a number of books on shelves that rose from 
floor to ceiling on one side of the fireplace, and a small, floridly carved 
cabinet on the other. A light layer of dust lay on the upper surfaces of the 
furniture.

"Has anything been changed since the night of his death?" Frodo asked.

"Carathir has been dead more than two months," answered Beregond. "We did not 
know then that it was murder. The sheets were taken from the bed, and a few 
papers carried from the desk, as they were of need to others in the Council. An 
empty mug left at the bedside was removed. Otherwise, nothing has been changed."

Frodo looked around the room, opening the drawers of the desk and wardrobe to 
examine the contents. When he opened the little cabinet, he found a set of glass 
decanters containing wines and colorful liqueurs, and six pewter goblets; he 
picked one up to find it clean of any residue. All were clean--none had been 
used on the last night Carathir had spent here; he'd had no company. Frodo then 
took up a decanter half-full of greenish liquid and removed the stopper to 
sniff: the scent was crisp and pungent, but not unpleasant. Would he recognize 
the smell of nightshade? Did it have a distinctive scent? He'd have to ask the 
herbalists. 

"Carathir drank none of those wines on the night of his death," Beregond spoke 
behind him. "Each has been tested, and none are poisoned."

"How did he take the poison?" As Frodo turned to the captain with this question, 
he noticed an old, ringed stain on the varnished wooden armrest of the chair, 
where a damp, hot, cylindrical object had been set down. "You mentioned a mug. 
What was in it?" 

"Lord Carathir was accustomed to take a posset made of warm brandy with spices 
to ease his sleep. I believe that the poison was given in his drink that 
evening. The spices would disguise any odd taste."

"Where did he get the brandy, if not from here?" Frodo indicated the row of 
decanters.

"The posset was made in the kitchens, and brought to Carathir's chamber. The 
servants knew he would ask for it nightly, and had it made ready when he called 
for it."

"His servants, or the citadel's?"

"The citadel's. Some are assigned to attend the councilors and other guests. 
They keep these chambers in order, wash the laundry, and see to their wants 
while they dwelt within these halls. Carathir kept no servant of his own after 
he came to live here. All food and drink, save his private stores, was brought 
to him from the kitchens that serve all the citadel, from the King and Queen to 
the scullions."

They left Carathir's chamber and passed through the gallery to visit the citadel 
kitchens, which sat behind Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts. The kitchen staff 
were busy, as Frodo guessed they were from daybreak to night, to feed so many 
people. The midday meals were being prepared now: enormous copper pots full of 
stew and vegetables simmered; dozens of roasting fowl turned on spits over a 
vast pit of glowing embers; and maidservants rushed about with platters, bowls, 
and tankards. It had been crisply cool outdoors, but it was sweltering in here; 
Frodo could only imagine what it must be like in summer.

When the head-cook noticed the visitors, she came to see what they wanted. 
Beregond presented Frodo as "the King's Investigator," and explained their 
errand. 

"May I speak to the servants who attended Lord Carathir?" Frodo requested.

The cook consented to send them, though she added, "But you may be sure, Lord 
Carathir never was poisoned by any food that came from _my_ kitchen!" 

Frodo and Beregond went into the servants' dining hall. A few minutes later, the 
butler who saw to the steaming of the brandywines came in. He was very sorry 
about Lord Carathir's dying, he said, but there'd been nothing wrong with the 
brandywine his lordship was accustomed to drink. Carathir had had his mug from 
the same bottle of brandy every night, and it had been finished off by others 
since his death; no harm had come to anyone else from it. No, he could remember 
nothing remarkable about that last night. Everything had gone just as usual. 
He'd warmed the brandy at the regular hour, added the spices--nutmeg, cloves, 
and others from the kitchen stores; Frodo might see them if he wished--and sent 
a maidservant to Carathir's chambers with it.

"Which maidservant took it to him?" asked Frodo.

"I don't recall which it was," the butler answered. "These girls come and go so 
quickly. This one was new to the King's service, for she had to be told where 
his lordship's chambers were. All the maids who've served here for a time know 
where the councilors' rooms are."

They asked around the kitchens, but couldn't find the maid who had taken 
Carathir his mug of spiced brandywine that night. When questioned, none would 
admit to doing it. Were they afraid? Frodo wondered. The maid who'd done it 
might think she'd be blamed if she confessed to carrying that drink, even if she 
had no knowledge of the poison within it. Or was the maidservant who'd brought 
Carathir his brandy no longer here? 

"Is there anything else you wish to see this morning?" Beregond asked after 
they'd left the kitchen.

"Only Cirandil, if he's about."

"He is on duty within the citadel. I would have sent him to serve elsewhere 
during this troubling time, but he insisted on remaining here to perform his 
duties as if nothing was changed. Perhaps that is best, and it commends him well 
that he wishes to stay and brave the worst of it." There was a distinct note of 
pride in the captain's voice.

Cirandil was standing guard at the White Tower of Ecthelion. Beregond relieved 
him briefly from his duty to speak to the King's Investigator.

"I hope you can tell me about your cousin Caradan," Frodo explained to the young 
man. "You were brought up together, in the same house, weren't you? Almost as 
brothers?"

"Yes, that's so," Cirandil answered solemnly. "Caradan was as a elder brother to 
me."

"I know what that's like," Frodo said, thinking of Merry. "You must've been 
quite close to him, and knew him better than anyone else. You knew his secrets." 

"If he had an enemy who wished to kill him, I know nothing of that," the young 
guardsman replied. "I wasn't here when he died."

"I don't wish to ask you about that. This is something else, something personal. 
I gather that your cousin was well liked by the ladies."

"Indeed, he was," Cirandil said dryly.

"Was there anyone he was particularly fond of? It may have nothing to do with 
his death, but I found a curious object in his quarters today--a bracelet--and 
I'd like to know more about it. It's a silver circlet shaped as a sort of bird, 
open at one side for a lady's wrist to pass through. Do you know anything about 
it?"

Frodo thought this a fairly innocuous line of questioning, but it seemed to 
strike a nerve; at the mention of the bracelet, Cirandil grew wary. "Yes," he 
answered, "I know them well." 

"Them?" Frodo echoed; he had only found one.

"They are a matched pair of pledge bracelets. They belonged to my Aunt 
Rainelde."

"Caradan's mother?"

Cirandil nodded. "They've been in our family for generations. It is a tradition 
that the eldest son gives one to his chosen lady when he plights his troth to 
her, and the other on their wedding day. When both bracelets are worn together, 
the two doves clasp and the wings embrace. My uncle gave them to Aunt Rainelde 
when they were wed. At her death, they were passed on to Caradan, to present to 
his bride."

"Was he betrothed?" asked Frodo. "I only saw one bracelet. Who did he give the 
other to? Do you know?"

Again, Cirandil's reaction surprised him. The young man looked almost angry. 
"Yes, I know," he answered tersely, "and if you don't mind, I have my duties to 
attend to and no wish to gossip about my dead cousin." With this, he turned on 
one boot-heel to return to his place in the White Tower. Frodo considered going 
after him, but decided to let the matter drop for now. He would pursue it later, 
if he didn't find the answer elsewhere.

His path had taken him in a full circle around the great hall; he and Beregond 
had begun at the guards' hall on its eastern side, and the White Tower lay on 
its northwestern corner, beside the fountain and white tree. Frodo returned to 
the front of the great hall just as the Council concluded its morning session. 
The councilors were dispersing, some heading across the vast courtyard toward 
the entrance to the tunnel, others standing together and talking. Larengar was 
speaking with a small group of his fellow councilors, but when he saw the 
hobbit, he broke away from the others and swept toward Frodo, a beatific smile 
on his broad face. 

"Ah, Ringbearer! We'd heard that you were abroad on your investigations today. 
With some success, I hope."

"It's really too soon to tell," Frodo replied. "I've only just begun to look 
around."

Although there was no one standing near enough to overhear their conversation, 
Larengar bent with his hands upon his thighs, so that his face was nearer to 
Frodo's, and he lowered his voice. "Some of the Council have questioned the 
King's wisdom at having an outside investigator brought in, but I say that it is 
our duty to aid you in discovering who has committed these monstrous deeds in 
any way we can. You may consider me at your service."

"That's very kind of you, sir."

"I will tell you this, in hopes it will help you: Not everyone wept at 
Carathir's death. He was a dear friend of mine, and I grieve at his passing--but 
others, I am sure, feel no sorrow."

"Are you referring to anyone in particular?" Frodo asked, amazed at this 
confidential statement.

"I've no wish to cast aspersions upon anyone," Larengar said virtuously, "but 
you've only to ask who Carathir argued with the most, and the worst."

"The King told me that Carathir often disagreed with the younger members of the 
Council," said Frodo.

"Ah," said Larengar. As he stood up straight, he turned to glance at Imatibin, 
who stood on the steps leading up to the great door, talking with a Man whom 
Frodo hadn't seen before. "You have your answer. But I pray you pardon me--I 
have matters to attend to before the Council reconvenes this afternoon." He 
bowed to the hobbit, and went on his way.

Imatibin had kept an eye on them during their conversation; once Larengar had 
gone, he raised a hand to beckon Frodo. As Frodo came closer, he saw that the 
other Man was as dark and thin as Imatibin was, but clean-shaven while Imatibin 
wore a trimmed beard. "This is my brother, Erlotibin," Imatibin introduced his 
companion once Frodo had come up the steps to join them. "He is not of the 
Council, but has a place at court as the King's Master of Scribes. I was just 
telling him about your arrival, and how you will find the person responsible for 
these poisonings. I wish you all luck, Frodo. It must be quite a task for you--
no matter how skilled an investigator you are in your homeland, you are 
unfamiliar with Minas Tirith. You don't know the ways of the city."

"Yes," Frodo admitted; he'd thought the same himself more than once since he'd 
come here, but he didn't like hearing it said by someone else. The Man seemed to 
be suggesting that he was out of his depth, and made Frodo wonder if _he_ was 
among the councilors who doubted the King's wisdom in bringing him here.

"You must want aid and advice," said Imatibin.

"As a matter of fact, I would welcome any help," Frodo answered. 

"I can help you on one matter, at least. I saw you were speaking with Lord 
Larengar." 

"Imati-" Erlotibin said in a soft, warning tone.

Imatibin turned to silence his brother. "No, I must speak the truth. There is 
something I must tell the King's Investigator--I'm sure he'll want to know. 
He'll find it interesting." He turned back to Frodo. "Larengar has told you what 
great friends he and Carathir were, hasn't he?"

Frodo nodded. 

"Yes, I thought as much. He makes a point of it whenever the opportunity 
presents itself. But for all the mournful sounds Larengar makes about the death 
of his dear friend Carathir, the two had their differences."

"I've been told that everyone quarrels in the Council," said Frodo. He was 
beginning to see the purpose behind Imatibin's offer of "help." It was the same, 
apparently, as Larengar's.

"And so they do," Imatibin agreed with a laugh. "A councilor who keeps his 
opinions to himself is worthless as an advisor. No, little one--I meant quarrels 
outside the council-chamber, of a more personal nature. We heard them shouting 
at each other one evening not long before Carathir's death. Didn't we, Erlo?"

"I want no part in this," his brother responded.

"Never-the-less, we did see it," Imatibin insisted. "They were in the cloisters 
before the guests' hall, where Carathir spent his last days."

"What were they arguing about?" Frodo asked.

"We were not near enough to hear their words," said Erlotibin.

"We couldn't hear all they said, but I distinctly heard the name of Caradan 
spoken more than once," Imatibin added quickly. "Their argument must have been 
over Carathir's son, who is also dead now. If you wish to know more about it, 
Frodo, you'll have to ask Larengar yourself."

After the two brothers had gone, Frodo rejoined Beregond, who stood waiting for 
him near the fountain and the white tree. 

"They both wanted to tell me how the other quarreled with Carathir," Frodo told 
him, and laughed. "Your councilors smile so pleasantly and speak so kindly, but 
they are as insidious as adders!" 

"Words are their craft," said Beregond. "They use them to make things plain, or 
to conceal the truth."

Frodo looked up at the Man, who towered over him. "Tell me please, Captain: When 
you were in charge of this investigation, did you suspect one of the Council of 
having a part in these poisonings?"

"I did wonder," Beregond admitted. "I can name no names--not because I wish to 
be discreet, but because it was no more than a thought that crossed my mind. I 
spoke to Larengar and Imatibin and to other members of the Council after 
Carathir's death. They did not speak so boldly against each other then, but I 
saw the looks that passed from one to another. I saw that they were wondering 
too."

"But you could go no further?"

"No. One does not question a great noble of the city without good reason. I had 
none." They rose and began to walk toward the tunnel to the sixth level. 
"Perhaps you will find reasons to question them, Frodo. Is there anything else 
you wish to do today?"

"Not just now, thank you. I'd like to go home and rest for awhile before I call 
upon the Queen." It had been a busy morning, and he was feeling rather tired. "I 
must think about what I've learned so far, and what I need to do next."

"I'll come to Mithrandir's house for you tomorrow morning," said Beregond. "Tell 
me where you wish to go, and I'll go with you."

"That's very kind, but you don't need to accompany me everywhere," Frodo 
replied. 

"I must," said Beregond. "It is what my king asks of me. He loves you dearly, 
little one, and would not see you endangered in his service."

"Endangered?" echoed Frodo. "How?"

"Your presence and purpose is well known throughout the city," Beregond 
explained. "Whoever has committed these three murders would not hesitate to kill 
a fourth, especially if that fourth seeks him." 

"Oh." Frodo had been thinking of the poisoner as Bregilde, a woman already dead-
-but the person who had hired her was still alive and might resort to the 
further use of poisons, or to violence, if he was threatened with discovery.

"Such a small creature as you are can hardly defend himself against a murderer," 
Beregond continued. 

"I think you'll find that hobbits are stronger than they appear."

"Your kinsmen, perhaps. I know well the brave deeds done by both Peregrin and 
Meriadoc... but you are not like them, Frodo. You are not so hearty," Beregond 
said bluntly. "Wherever you go, I shall go with you. It is worth my life if I 
let you come to harm."

Frodo realized that he had acquired a bodyguard as stubbornly determined to 
protect him as Sam was, although from very different motives. "Very well," he 
consented. "Come for me tomorrow, after breakfast."

"And where will we go?" asked Beregond.

"I don't know yet. I'll tell you then."

!~|xi|~!

When Frodo returned to Gandalf's house, he went into the kitchen and found Merry 
there, reheating soup left over from last night's dinner. 

"I thought you'd probably be in for lunch," Merry explained, "and I ought to 
have something ready for you."

"Thank you. It's almost like being home," said Frodo. This room, large, square-
cornered, and flagstoned, wasn't as cozy as the kitchen at Bag End, but after 
the overheated, noisy bustle of the citadel kitchens, it seemed quite cheerful 
and pleasant. He set the table and helped himself to the soup.

As they settled down to have lunch, he began to tell Merry about his morning's 
exploration in the citadel. They were surprised when they heard the front door 
open and, after a minute, Gandalf came to the kitchen. "You're home early," 
Frodo said to the wizard. 

"I'd heard you were about the citadel today, and I left in order to find you, 
Frodo. Beregond told me that you'd gone away alone. He should have escorted 
you."

Frodo realized that Gandalf had been frightened for him, and had come home to be 
sure he was all right. He hadn't been very alarmed when Beregond had expressed a 
concern for his safety, but if the wizard was worried too, then there must 
indeed be good reason for it. How odd to feel that he might be in physical 
danger over this investigation! Frodo couldn't recall feeling personally 
threatened during an investigation before, and only once when he'd met with 
murderers face to face. 

"I'm fine, Gandalf," he answered. "It's only a short walk, and I doubt that 
anyone will attack me in the streets of Minas Tirith in broad daylight. We're 
hunting for a poisoner, remember? If I'm going to be truly well-protected, 
perhaps I'd better have someone taste my food." 

Frodo turned to regard his cousin archly; Merry laughed and pushed away his 
half-finished bowl of soup. "Not me!"

Gandalf snorted. "Is there anything hobbits won't make jokes about?" he 
grumbled, but the hobbits knew he wasn't really angry. Frodo smiled at him.

"Only missing dinner," Merry rejoined. "There's nothing funny about _that_."

"I suppose you're right, Frodo," Gandalf said. "Little harm can come to you 
between here and the citadel, as long as you don't do anything foolish."

"I won't," Frodo promised. "I'll be careful. Beregond will go around with me 
tomorrow, just as he did today."

"And what did your investigations turn up?" the wizard asked as he took a seat 
and helped himself to some soup.

"I've had a look about the citadel and seen where two of the victims died. I've 
spoken to some of the Council, and learned the names of a few people worth 
suspecting. There are certain points I must follow up on if I'm to figure out 
which of them is responsible for these murders." Since he didn't have a pen or 
paper at hand to write things down, Frodo counted off these points on his 
fingers.

"I need to find this Broneron Strider spoke of, and the other Men who stood by 
Lord Denethor when he went mad. If Broneron believes that Carathir opposed him 
and had something to do with their dismissal from the Council, others might feel 
the same. It's possible that one, or perhaps all of them, have taken their 
revenge this way.

"I also want to visit the treasure-house and see the secretary who has taken 
Carathir's duties. A Man might go to great lengths to get his hands on so much 
gold. 

"Next, I must look into the herbalist Bregilde's death. It seems to me that 
another visit to the Houses of Healing is in order. I'm sure Bregilde's niece 
can tell me more than she has, and I need to learn more about these poisons. 
I've been wondering how difficult it is to find nightshade growing beyond the 
city walls. If it wasn't taken from the herbarium, our murderer must have 
gathered the plants and brewed the poison him- or herself. Let's see if we can 
trace their steps. Would you mind, Merry, if I go with you and Lady Eowyn the 
next time you go out?"

"Of course I don't mind, and I don't see why Eowyn would either. What else can I 
do?" Merry asked. "`Tisn't fair that you keep all the fun to yourself."

"Yes, you're right. I can't go everywhere with Beregond trailing after me. If 
you want to help, Merry, can you go to the Steward's Arms first thing tomorrow 
morning?"

"In the morning? But they won't be open yet!" Merry protested.

"I don't mean for you to have an ale. You're to speak to the tavern keeper at an 
hour when he isn't busy with a house full of people. I want you to ask about the 
night when Caradan was poisoned. Ask especially about his servants. Were there 
any new barmaids or serving-women about the place at that time?" 

While Frodo outlined these errands, Gandalf had been sitting and listening 
without interruption. The hobbit assumed that he would speak up eventually to 
offer some advice or suggestion on a line of inquiry, but Gandalf seemed to 
think Frodo was doing fine on his own. At this last instruction to Merry, 
however, the wizard's eyebrows went up and he began to look extremely 
interested. "You suspect a woman, Frodo?" 

"It's an idea I have," he answered vaguely; Gandalf continued to regard him with 
curiosity. "Only a suspicion." He was thinking again of Bregilde. If she had 
poisoned Carathir and his son, she had probably administered the poison herself. 
How hard would it be for her to go in and out of a tavern or the citadel 
kitchens unnoticed? Out of her healer's robes, she would look no different from 
any other old woman of the city. 

To Merry, he said, "We can begin all that tomorrow. But first things first--we 
have a call to pay upon the Queen and her ladies, including the elusive Tharya."

!~|xii|~!

The ladies of the court had already assembled by the time Frodo and Merry 
entered the Queen's boudoir, but Arwen had not arrived. Eowyn introduced Frodo 
to Dame Thressildis, a large and motherly woman who was in charge of the maids-
in-waiting, and presented him to the other ladies.

The Queen's boudoir was near the top of the great hall in one of the turrets. It 
was in part a work room, for a loom stood in one angled corner, and there were a 
number of embroidery frames and tables with pieces of tapestry spread out on 
them around the room. From the scenes on the sections Frodo examined, he could 
see that the work commemorated the fall of Mordor and the return of Gondor's 
king. The three main panels told the tale: On one, Aragorn and his army 
confronted Sauron's legions of orcs at the Black Gate; on another, the 
Oliphaunts that besieged Minas Tirith were driven back by the Riders of Rohan, 
and the tiny figures of the Stewart's Lady and her halfling companion could be 
seen dispatching the Witch King and his monstrous, winged mount; on the largest 
panel, Mount Doom was depicted as crumbling into fiery ruin, while another tiny 
figure cast a golden ring into the pit--which was not quite as it had happened, 
but that was the way the story was told in Minas Tirith. 

Once the pieces were sewn together, Eowyn explained, the finished tapestry would 
be hung in the throne room. All the ladies of the court were working on it. 
Tall, mullioned windows on three sides of the turret room gave them light for 
most of the day. 

When Frodo stood on tip-toe to gaze out of the foremost windows, he could see 
the top of the white tree in the courtyard, which was just beginning to put 
forth new leaves, and out onto the dizzying view of fields and mountains beyond 
the city. 

"It was not so pleasant a sight in the days of the Dark Lord, but it grows more 
green with every day," said Thressildis. "These rooms haven't been used in many 
a year, not since the death of Lady Finduilas." 

"She was Faramir's mother," Eowyn added. "He speaks fondly of the days he spent 
here with her as a little boy."

"That's right, my lady," said Thressildis. "Faramir was his mother's favorite, 
and it fair broke his heart when the poor lady died. It was a sad day for all of 
us who remember it. The last light of the court went out with her passing, and 
the old Steward never smiled at anything afterwards. There hadn't been a Lady of 
the Citadel since Finduilas. But now we have two, since our young Steward has 
married you, my lady, and there is a King again, who's brought us a Queen." She 
turned and dropped into the deepest curtsey she could manage, as did all the 
other ladies present, as Arwen entered the room. 
 
From Thressildis's remarks, Frodo inferred that there hadn't been much of a 
courtly life in Denethor's day. After the death of his wife, and as the danger 
from nearby Mordor had grown darker, the citadel had become entirely masculine 
and military. Now that the danger was past, the wives and daughters of the 
councilors were happy to have a place at court, and Ladies of the Citadel to 
serve. 

Arwen bid them all to rise, welcomed the hobbits, and joined her ladies at their 
work. As she smiled and spoke with her attendants, the Queen seemed not so 
different from the other young women about her.

The ladies chattered cheerfully as they worked. By watching them and 
occasionally joining in their conversations, Frodo observed that they were not 
very different from the hobbit-ladies of his acquaintance, only much taller, and 
they wore thin-soled slippers on their feet. The matrons sat together and 
gossiped, and the maidens giggled and whispered like hobbit-misses. He might 
almost believe he was in the drawing-room of an oversized smial. There was only 
one conspicuous discrepancy.

"Is there no tea?" he asked Merry. This seemed very odd. Frodo couldn't imagine 
hobbits without a tea-table to gather around in a similar setting.

"They don't have the custom of afternoon tea here," Merry replied, "not the way 
we do in the Shire." 

"Poor things! Perhaps we ought to introduce it?"

"What a good idea!" Merry grinned. "Shall I ask?"

As Merry proposed the idea of having tea parties to Arwen and the women seated 
around her, Frodo soon saw what his cousin meant about "having fun" if he were 
inclined to like women, for they obviously liked him. The older ladies doted on 
him as if he were a small child, and the young maidens flirted with him as 
shamelessly and harmlessly as he paid gallantries to them. They laughed at his 
jokes, and rumpled his curls, and even though he wasn't interested in girls, 
Merry obviously enjoyed their attention. 

Frodo believed the ladies would have treated him the same way if they'd known 
him better, but his shy, reserved manners did not invite cuddles from strangers. 
Never-the-less, he blushed when he heard one girl whisper to another, "Have you 
ever seen such a darling little thing? He's just like a living doll!"

The ladies of Minas Tirith, Frodo also found, were as interested in mysteries as 
their hobbit counterparts. They all knew who he was, and why he'd been summoned 
to the city; several told him that they'd heard Merry speak of him as a 
marvelous investigator. 

"The night of your arrival, Merry told us of your investigations, and how your 
cousins help you," said Eowyn. "Peony, Angelica... are all hobbit-ladies named 
after flowers?"

"Many are," said Frodo, "and some lads too. It's a common practice in the 
Shire."

"I can see why Merry is named as he is," giggled one of the younger maids. "He 
is so cheerful, and it suits him perfectly. But why are you called 'Frodo'? What 
does it mean?"

"Nothing at all," he admitted. "Some hobbit-names are plain nonsense." His 
answer only produced more giggles.

The ladies were also curious as to what he could do to find the poisoner who was 
terrorizing the courtiers as well as the city. They referred to the murders that 
had happened in the citadel in horrified whispers and some sorrow, for they had 
all known Carathir and Caradan. 
 
Frodo was surprised to learn that the older ladies also knew Bregilde. Outside 
the Houses of Healing, the herbalist was best known as a midwife, for she was 
frequently called upon by mothers-to-be to provide remedies to ease morning 
sickness and other ailments related to pregnancy. 

"Has one of the ladies had a baby recently?" Frodo asked Thressildis. "Or is 
someone expecting?" If she had a patient here, Bregilde could easily go in and 
out of the citadel, bringing whatever potions she liked, and not rouse 
suspicion. 

"Oh, we have our hopes..." Thressildis inclined her head in the direction of the 
Queen, "but I'm sorry to say there's no sign of a little prince yet. `Tis 
Imadene, the wife of Councilor Hilabar. She is Mistress of the Wardrobe. No, she 
isn't here today. She has troubles in her early months. Bregilde always tended 
her before, and she's at a loss now the poor woman is dead to know who will 
deliver this baby for her when the time comes."

As the afternoon went on, more ladies came in, or those already present went 
away on errands, but the one Frodo had seen outside the council-chamber wasn't 
there. He was beginning to think she wouldn't come at all, when she did appear. 

She was no longer veiled, but he recognized her immediately, for she wore a 
black gown as she had that day. He could see now that she was indeed young and 
rather pretty. It wasn't easy for him to judge the ages of Big Folk, since they 
seemed to reach maturity much earlier than hobbits, but Frodo thought she was 
probably in her middle-twenties. A hobbit of that age was a half-grown child; 
here, they were grown women and men. 

She curtsied to Arwen and said, "Your pardon, my lady. I was delayed." 

"I'm glad you've come, Tharya. We've felt your absence today," Arwen replied. 
"There is one who's been waiting to meet you." She turned to bring Frodo forward 
with a graceful gesture of one arm; the hobbit almost seemed to appear by magic 
within the sweep of the long, draped sleeve of her gown.

Tharya's eyes widened in surprise when she saw Frodo, but she said, "You- Why, 
you are the investigator the King has sent for."

"Yes, I am," Frodo answered, and introduced himself.

"Isn't he adorable?" one of the other maids-in-waiting said with a laugh, which 
made the tips of Frodo's ears turn pink. "Our Merry tells us he's twice as 
clever as any Man in the city. He'll find out who murdered poor Caradan and his 
father."

"I hope you will," Tharya said to Frodo. "Someone must put an end to this 
terrible thing, and what it's done to us all. The fear we live with, the awful 
suspicions. It's become unbearable. I am pleased you're here." These last words 
were spoken courteously, but with an undertone of nervousness that made Frodo 
doubt she meant it. She wasn't pleased to find him here.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Miss," he responded with equal courtesy. "But 
we've met already, haven't we?"

"Have we?" 

"Downstairs, as a matter of fact, in this very hall. It was while I waited 
outside the Council chambers the day before yesterday-"

"No, I don't recall," Tharya said quickly. "You are mistaken--It must have been 
someone else. I think I would remember if I'd seen _you_ before." She turned to 
the Queen. "I really must pray your forgiveness, my lady, but I can't remain 
today. My father requires me elsewhere."

Frodo was sure that this was only an excuse; the girl was obviously anxious to 
get away from him. After another deep curtsey, Tharya darted away.

"What an extraordinary thing!" said Dame Thressildis after Tharya had gone. 
"I've never seen her behave so strangely."

"She has been in a peculiar state lately," said another lady. "But I suppose she 
has her reasons, after all. These last weeks have not been happy for her, poor 
girl."

"Why does she wear black?" Frodo asked them. "In the Shire, it is the color of 
mourning." The ladies confirmed that black was also worn for mourning here. "Who 
does she mourn? Was she related to Carathir?" 

"No, she wasn't," said Thressildis. "At least, not yet. She was betrothed to his 
son, Caradan." 

!~|xiii|~!

"_That_ didn't go very well," Merry said as they were leaving the great hall at 
dusk. A steep, circular stairwell in the corner tower led directly down from the 
turret rooms to a side-door on the eastern side of the hall. The last of the 
fading light came in through tall, narrow slits of windows, and the hobbits each 
kept one hand on the outer wall as they hopped down from step to step.

"Even if I didn't get to speak to Tharya as I would've liked, it was a good 
afternoon's work. I learned a few interesting things," Frodo replied. "I know 
that Tharya was betrothed to Caradan." He had guessed as much from her mourning 
garments, but his guess was now confirmed. He'd also observed that Tharya was 
not wearing a bracelet to match the one he had seen in Caradan's quarters.

"I could've told you that, Frodo."

"But you didn't!"

"You didn't ask me. Besides, I thought you had something particular to ask her 
about him," Merry retorted. They reached the bottom of the stairs; standing on 
the last step, Merry seized the handle with both hands and pulled with all his 
might to try and open the heavy door. 

"It wasn't Caradan I was most interested in," said Frodo. "Tell me, Merry--
between your flirtations with every other pretty young lady in the room, did you 
have a chance to ask Lady Eowyn about my going out riding with you?"

His cousin laughed. "Yes, I did. She said she'd be delighted, whenever you want 
to go. If we can't get a pony for you, you can ride with her. Now that's a great 
honor. I'm rather jealous."

With Frodo's help, Merry pulled the door open a crack, enough for a hobbit or 
two to slip through. Outside, the evening was clear, still and quiet. Frodo 
could just glimpse the corner of the vast courtyard; torches lit above the 
entrance to the tunnel that led down to the sixth level of the city cast a 
flickering, yellow light over the stone pavement, but the space between the 
great hall and the guards' hall was in darkness. At first, Frodo thought that 
there was no one nearer than the guards on duty in the courtyard--then he 
realized that two figures stood in the long shadows by the guards' hall.

Before Merry could go out, Frodo grabbed his cousin by the arm to pull him back. 
"Ssh!" he hissed. 

By peeking through the gap made by the slightly open door, they could see Tharya 
standing with a Man in guard's uniform. His face was in shadow, but Frodo could 
guess who it was. The pair were talking together softly, urgently. As she turned 
to go, the guardsman stepped out of the shadows and into the torch-light. It was 
Cirandil.

"Have a care, Tharya," he called after her in a voice loud enough for the 
hobbits to hear, "or you'll be suspected too. I don't want you involved in this. 
No breath of scandal should touch you. Be wary of that little investigator. It 
would be a mistake to underestimate the halflings. They may look like children, 
but they are not. If the King and Faramir and even the wizard Mithrandir think 
so highly of this little one, then there must be good reason."

"He means you," Merry hissed near Frodo's ear, although Frodo had already 
deduced that for himself and waved for his cousin to be silent. 

"I have no worries for myself, Cir," answered Tharya. "My only fear is for you."

The pair stood silently for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes. Tharya 
lifted one hand and placed it lightly on Cirandil's chest, then she whirled and 
came to the door they were hiding behind; she shoved it open, pushing them back 
into the angle of the wall behind, and went up the stairs. The hem of her long 
skirts brushed close to the hobbits as she swept past, but she did not see them. 
They waited until Cirandil had gone too before they emerged.

"Is _that_ what you wanted to ask her about?" asked Merry.

Frodo nodded, though he had no need to ask now. The look in the young couple's 
eyes had told him everything. He thought he might have been mistaken in those 
few seconds when he'd seen Tharya with Cirandil that first time; now, he was 
sure he was right. He knew very well how people in love looked at each other. 

!~|xiv|~!

Gandalf was waiting for them when they returned to the house, and opened the 
front door even before Frodo and Merry reached it. 

"It's all right," Merry said cheerfully as they went inside. "I've been with 
Frodo every step of the way, and you see I've brought him safely home. We aren't 
late for dinner, are we? No? Great! I'll go wash up, and Frodo can tell you 
about all the fun we've had." 

"'Fun'," snorted Gandalf after Merry had gone to his room. "He calls your 
investigations of murders 'fun.'" 

In spite of his grumbling, Frodo knew Gandalf wasn't angry. The wizard was often 
gruff over young hobbits' foolishness, but he enjoyed having them around. He 
wouldn't have let Merry stay at his house for so long if he wasn't fond of him.

"For him, they _are_ fun," Frodo answered. "He's always been eager for 
adventures, more than the rest of us. I think he enjoyed his part in the quest. 
Even if it's dangerous, helping me to catch a murderer gives him something 
exciting to do."

"He is certainly more lively since you've joined him," Gandalf agreed as they 
left the front hall and went into the sitting room down the hall. "It's more 
than the opportunity for adventure--you've given him the company of another 
hobbit, and I know he's missed that sorely. You are very dear to him, Frodo."

"He's very dear to me too. When I agreed to come here, I was hoping to convince 
him to come home with me, but now... well, if only we'd thought to bring Pippin 
with us, Gandalf. I think Merry would be perfectly happy staying in Minas Tirith 
if Pip were here too. He did ask Pippin to come with him, you know, but Pippin 
wanted to stay in the Shire."

"No, I didn't know," Gandalf said. "Merry's told me nothing, and neither have 
you. Perhaps it is no business of mine, but hobbits are usually so forthright, I 
admit that it piques my curiosity when they keep things back. This is the one 
point on which his unending, ridiculous prattle falls silent."

"It is rather personal," Frodo said reluctantly. "I don't know if he'd like it 
if I told you. You might think differently of him." But Frodo hoped it wouldn't 
be so. Whether or not wizards knew anything about love, Gandalf had seen a great 
deal of the world and the people in it in a lifetime that spanned centuries. 
Perhaps he would understand, not only Merry's situation, but his own. 

The wizard's bushy white brows rose at this last statement. "What did he do? 
Frodo, I promise you, unless Merry has taken to waylaying travelers and robbing 
them, or something equally criminal, it will not alter my opinion of him."

All right then. "He wasn't happy in the Shire," Frodo began. "I've told you that 
much." 

"You said he'd quarreled with his father," Gandalf prompted. 

"Yes, that's right. Uncle Saradoc wanted him to marry a girl he'd chosen for 
him, and Merry refused. He was in love with someone else."

"Someone his father didn't approve of?"

"Well, yes. They couldn't have married, not by any rites that we hobbits have. I 
don't know if it happens to anyone else on Middle-earth, but it sometimes 
happens to us hobbit-folk. Maybe it's a peculiarity only our people have." Frodo 
could see that Gandalf was only perplexed by this explanation that was no 
explanation. He would have to be clear. "It was Pippin, you see. They've loved 
each other since they were in their twenties. Even before Pippin, Merry's always 
been that way: he can only love other boys." He regarded the wizard timidly. "Do 
you know about such things?"

Gandalf nodded. "It is not a peculiarity exclusive to hobbits, Frodo. There are 
such Men too, and Elves. Among the Dwarves, it is commonplace--they have so few 
women-folk."

He wasn't shocked. He didn't even seemed very surprised to hear the truth about 
Merry, as if he'd already guessed something of the sort. Frodo thought of what 
had gone on in this same house three years ago, when all four hobbits had lived 
here with the wizard, and his cousins had shared the room where Merry now slept 
alone. Had Gandalf seen it then? If it was as common a thing as he claimed, then 
perhaps he _did_ understand. 

Since he'd told Merry's secret, it was only fair he tell his own as well. But 
this next step required more bravery, and before Frodo could work up his 
courage, Merry came in. 

"Aren't you ready to eat?" he asked them. "The cook's put dinner on the table--
roast chicken--and she's waiting to carve it up. Did you tell Gandalf who we 
saw, Frodo?"

"No," said Frodo. "I haven't had a chance to yet. We've been talking about 
something else."

!~|*|~!

Over dinner, the hobbits told Gandalf how they'd seen Cirandil and Tharya 
together, and repeated the fragment of conversation they'd overheard. 

"She might've been betrothed to Cirandil's cousin, but there's something between 
the two of them," Frodo concluded. "I'm sure they're in love."

"Is this Tharya the woman you suspected?" asked Gandalf.

"She wasn't. I only saw her talking to Cirandil yesterday, and wondered who she 
was. I thought she must be connected with the family, because of her mourning-
dress. But now I wonder if she has a greater part in this. It seems we've 
discovered a new motive for these murders. Perhaps Cirandil didn't poison his 
cousin to have his place, but for a more basic reason: love and jealousy." 

Frodo saw now that Cirandil had not spoken the entire truth when he'd said he 
wanted nothing that rightly belonged to Caradan. He desired his cousin's 
intended bride. He wouldn't even speak her name when Frodo had asked him 
directly if Caradan was betrothed. Surely, Tharya must have the other bracelet, 
even if she didn't wear it.

"What about the uncle?" wondered Merry. "Why kill him?"

Frodo thought about this. "Perhaps the uncle didn't approve his nephew marrying. 
He wanted Tharya for his own son. If it was an arranged match and Tharya had no 
choice in the matter, she's free to do as she likes now. And Cirandil's come up 
in the world since his uncle and cousin are dead. He's in a better position to 
marry. A young guard living in quarters couldn't give a proper home to a wife, 
but now he'll have his uncle's wealth and that grand house down the street. 
Nothing stands in their way."

"Except the suspicion of murder," said Gandalf. "Be careful how you accuse them, 
Frodo. Being young and in love is not proof of guilt."

"I know it," Frodo answered, "and I don't intend to accuse anyone yet. I can't 
be certain that they're guilty, but I do wonder..."

!~|xv|~!

After dinner and a few quiet hours in the sitting room, smoking his pipe and 
talking with Merry and Gandalf of things unconnected to the citadel murders, 
Frodo went to bed, and found he couldn't sleep. 

On his journey to Minas Tirith, he'd traveled at an incredible speed for days, 
and had scarcely had time to think at all. Since he'd arrived in the city, he'd 
been thrown immediately into the problem of finding out who was responsible for 
these poisonings, and _that_ had been foremost in his mind. The last two nights, 
he'd fallen asleep as soon as he'd gotten into bed. Now, he was rested, and 
restless. 

Since his talk with Gandalf before dinner, when he'd nearly told the wizard his 
secret, Frodo had been thinking about Sam. He'd begun to feel how much he missed 
him. They'd been parted for more than two weeks now, as long as they'd ever been 
apart since Sam's honeymoon. Feelings of longing had haunted him all evening, 
and lying in bed, alone in the darkened room, they grew more strong than ever. 

Here in Minas Tirith, he thought of the first time he'd come to the city with 
Sam at the end of their Quest. He remembered what it had been like to fall in 
love.

He couldn't point to an exact moment during the quest when he'd finally realized 
the true nature of Sam's love for him, or when he'd understood his own feelings 
for Sam. That knowledge had dawned gradually during the long days and nights as 
they'd made their way toward Mordor. The details of that journey were vague to 
him now, for the Ring been slowly overtaking his mind; what he recalled most 
clearly was the warmth and strength of Sam's arms around him, giving him one 
last thing to cling to before he'd descended into darkness. He'd certainly known 
by the time Sam had rescued him from the tower at Cirith Ungol. How could he 
fail to fall in love then? And, when they'd sunk down together on the fiery 
ruins atop Mount Doom, expecting to die, he was almost happy. He'd wanted 
nothing more than what he had at that moment: to spend the rest of his life with 
Sam. He hadn't changed his mind about that since.

He thought too of a night nearly three years ago, not long after they'd first 
come to this house. He'd recovered enough from his injuries to be let out of the 
Houses of Healing; his maimed hand was in bandages and he still felt weak and 
rather fragile after all he had endured, but he was ready to invite Sam into his 
bed. Now that he truly understood what Sam meant to him, he hadn't wanted to 
lose another day. 

He remembered the fumbling awkwardness of that first time, the tenderness, the 
thrilling flutters of fear... and the incredible joy of learning what it was to 
love so completely.

Afterwards, and on other nights that followed, they'd lain awake in the 
darkness, making plans for what they would do when they returned home to the 
Shire. Wonderful plans for their future together--and, for the most part, they'd 
made those plans come true. 

Sam was home now, and _he_ was here again, in this same room, in this same bed. 
Wishing that Sam were with him.

After he'd tossed and turned for an indeterminate amount of time, Frodo gave up. 
He'd never be able to sleep with such powerful memories in his head. He got up 
and went down the hall to Merry's room. After ta