It was raining outside like it often did in Minas Tirith this time of the year, a heavy, pouring rain. Every once and a while the darkness was broken by flickering flashes of lightnings in the eastern sky, followed by deep and ominous rumbling or sharp, loud cracks of thunder.
The Thirsty Seer was a huge and pretentious tavern, like most taverns in Minas Tirith, at least in the inner tiers. There were many spacious, ostentatiously decorated halls with lots of empty space between tables or benches offering peace and quiet for those solemn-faced men and women who wanted to spend their evenings in quiet contemplation, noses buried in old dusty tomes or engaged in quiet conversations with their closest friends. In the back of the tavern there was one hall that offered a more tavern-like atmosphere with many tables and benches and merry patrons dancing, singing and laughing, but the sounds were muffled by the acoustic design of the tavern so it did not disturb those who enjoyed their solitude or private conversations.
The gray-haired man who sat at a table in one of the quieter rooms had an aura of coldness and aloofness about him. He had chosen a lonely table in a large, mostly empty hall with only a couple of small, square tables with four chairs and huge swathes of empty space surrounding the tables from all directions. It seemed almost wasteful to leave that much space unoccupied in a tavern, but it ensured the privacy for all who sat there by making eavesdropping virtually impossible. The room was almost empty of people too, with only a single barkeeper keeping watch behind his counter in the back.
The solitary man at the small table was garbed in brown, simple robes. The lit candles on the table illuminated his ashen, wintry face, hatched with deep lines of age and worry. His eyes were marble gray, calm and expressionless. His hair was gray with dark brown streaks here and there, like the icy tundra of Forochel. He was middle-aged, but still tall and strong of build. His face wasn’t good-looking because of the lines and the hardness it reflected, but there was still certain charm to it. His hands were big, his fingers blunt and not very long. He could have been just another scholar, spending his evening in solitude and quiet pondering about natural philosophy and the secrets of the universe, and indeed he had been such a scholar once. A long time ago.
The door opened and another man, who could be described as middle-aged at best, entered the tavern. Parthadan, the Warden of the Green of Minas Tirith, was not wearing his usual armor and green coat of arms with the White Tree of Gondor embroidered on the front. Instead he was garbed in an inconspicuous dark gray woolen cloak with a hood pulled over his head to conceal his long, well-kempt hair. Parthadan was a short, stocky man, and his fleshy, short-nosed face was remarkably ordinary and plain. Without the symbols of his power there was nothing exceptional about the Warden of the Green, the man who had been tasked with the protection of the fields of Pelennor surrounding the capital. He looked around him in the dimly lit hall and walked over to the table with the solitary man.
”Delioron”, Parthadan said.
The cold man didn’t respond, he didn’t move a muscle. Delioron’s lack of respect for his betters bordered on insubordination and often irked Parthadan, but he had a need for Delioron. He had needed Delioron for the past decade and a half, even though Delioron held no rank or position in the warden’s staff. Men like Delioron were never called to his offices or lodgings, and Parthadan would only meet them in places like this, privately and unofficially. In theory Delioron didn’t hold any allegiance to Parthadan or anyone beyond the demands of his Gondorian citizenship, but that’s just theory. In reality all freedom is merely an illusion, all existence slavery to varying degrees.
Parthadan took a seat opposite the gray-haired man, who pushed one of the goblets over the table so Parthadan could fill it from the vase between them. Parthadan did so, but only half-way – the Warden of the Green was a creature of rigorous moderation.
”It’s about Hodhion”, Parthadan said dryly.
Delioron recognized the name immediately. Ten years ago he had met an old Ranger of the North named Hodhion in the Gap of Rohan. Delioron had tricked the old Ranger, he had blackmailed him and finally he had bought him. Now Hodhion was, as far as Delioron knew, just another part of Parthadan’s vast network of spies he kept all over Middle-Earth, to keep him up to speed with what his friends as well as enemies were up to. Allies spying on allies, all for the glory of Gondor, or at least for Parthadan’s own security. Such was the nature of politics. Even in Gondor, even in Minas Tirith where he lived, Parthadan had both friends and enemies and it was impossible to know one from the other. So knowledge, information, was of utmost importance to him.
For the glory of Gondor. For the security of Parthadan. For Parthadan it was the same difference, as he had lost his ability to differentiate between himself and Gondor a long time ago. Delioron had stopped particularly caring about either at least a decade ago. For him it was now but a matter of simple survival.
”What about Hodhion?” he asked bluntly. Delioron’s voice was cold, monotonous, without tone or warmth or emotion, a voice that often chilled Parthadan’s spine. ”He must be over a century old by now. That’s a little old for active service, even for a Dúnadan.”
”He’s 108 years old. He has more or less retired from active service a couple of years ago, but he’s maintained his contact with the others of his kin. Those Rangers never really ’retire’, they just take on gradually lighter duties as age and feebleness creeps up with them too. Anyway, Hodhion’s information was never much use to me. Since he returned to the old haunts of what’s left of Arnor he’s been mostly patrolling the northern borders of what he calls the ’Northfarthing’. It’s a home of some strange, pint-sized, hole-dwelling people called ’hobbits’, who are apparently completely harmless and nothing ever happens there. Useless.”
”How have you kept contact with him?”
”I have a man in Bree”, Parthadan explained. ”Gondorian-born, but he’s utterly accultured to the local ways of life after living there for so many years. He’s even adopted a name ’Greengage’ to better fit the local custom. He’s a keeper of pigeons, bred in the Citadel, regularly delivered to him. Some of his own stock are delivered here in turn for easy communication. Useful creatures, those pigeons.”
”And Hodhion has been reporting regularly through your pigeon handler in Bree?” Delioron sipped his wine and refilled his goblet.
”He used to. Like I said, the information he used to send has unfailingly been totally useless to me, but I have sent a courier in that way with his rewards once every year. Just to make sure he keeps reporting, because you never know when a man like that might stumble into something useful. But then, last spring, he stopped reporting. No letters, no pigeons, nothing.”
”And you think he’s dead now? Or just decided to stop being your informer?”
Parthadan shook his head. ”Not quite. A little more than month ago he did contact us again. Only this time, he claims he has stumbled upon something. Something big. Something he claims we really, really want to know about. But he’s not telling us what it is. Not before we pay him a lot more. In advance.”
”How much more?”
”Two Double-Dragons. Plus ten silver pennies, presumably for running expenses. I suppose he would have great difficulties in exchanging those Double-Dragons into anything resembling their real value.”
Delioron whistled. ”That would be enough for him to disappear and live comfortably anywhere in the world for the rest of his days”, he pointed out.
Parthadan pressed his fingers against each other under his receding chin. ”Yes. I have thought about it. He could be trying to lead me on, to cheat me out of his retirement fund.”
Delioron leaned back on his chair, frowning. ”So you don’t pay him. Simple as that.”
”Yes. And still… what if he really does have something? Something worth two Double-Dragons?”
Delioron glared at Parthadan, suddenly suspicious. ”I don’t understand your game, Parthadan. What is your interest in Bree? In the Rangers of the North? What possible significance could that desolate area in the north, the ruins of northern Arnor, hold for you or your position as the defender of the Pelennor fields? Or Gondor? Do you think Sauron has turned the Rangers on his side? Are you afraid of a surprise attack from our northern flank?”
Parthadan shrugged and spread his hands. ”All information is valuable.”
”Bullshit!” Delioron snarled. ”I’m not playing if that’s all you’re going to give me. What’s your angle in this?”
Parthadan sighed. ”You do know the Rangers of Ithilien have a special kinship with the Rangers of the North, don’t you? And not as much with me?”
Delioron did know that. And that Túrher, the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien had a long-standing feud with Parthadan. To say that these two hated each others’ guts would have been a gross understatement. Delioron leaned back.
”So that’s your angle? You’re hoping to find out something that might help you establish a better relationship with the Dúnedain up north? Or soil their relationship with Túrher and his outfit?”
Parthadan shrugged. ”Or both. In any case, I want to know.”
”I’m not your assassin”, Delioron said.
”And yet”, Parthadan pointed out, ”you have killed before. For me. For Gondor.”
”Never on your orders”, Delioron rumbled, ”or anyone else’s, for that matter! Yes, I have killed people, when my own survival or… the interest of Gondor demanded it, but I made the decision myself! The responsibility was all mine. I am not your assassin, Parthadan, I am not your killer.”
Parthadan spread his hands again. ”And that’s what I like about you, Delioron. You are trustworthy, you are intelligent, and you are capable of doing the right thing when the situation demands it. Even if the right decision is a difficult one to carry out. But I am not asking you to kill anyone.”
”Then what?”
Parthadan slipped a hand inside his cloak and threw a pouch across the table. Delioron opened it and saw the glimmer of silver and gold. He saw the minted dragons. For once he was lost for words.
”So… you want me to ride to Bree to give this fortune in gold and silver to Hodhion… for information that is most likely as useless as pigeon droppings?”
Parthadan shook his head. ”No, Delioron”, he said. ”I want you to ride in Bree, yes. I want you to meet Hodhion. And I want you to find out what he’s got that’s so important that’s worth two Double-Dragons. And then I want you to ride back to me, with either all the gold in it’s entirety or information that’s well worth all the dragons. I will leave the details up to you, and I trust your judgment in whatever you will do up there. You have proven yourself to be intelligent and loyal in the past, and that’s why I called you. That’s what I need from you – your intelligence and loyalty. For Gondor. For the White Tower.”
Delioron emptied his goblet of wine and stared at Parthadan’s smiling face. There was nothing else to say, for either of them.
