Archive of Our Own

Rador was both a little annoyed at, and worried for, his sometime research assistant, Lady Idis. For the past three months she had been quite distracted, grumpy, and unwontedly late with her reports. Now she had not turned up to an appointed meeting. This was unprecedented, and he wondered if she was unwell.

He stomped next door to Lieutenant Barthon’s office. “Have you seen Idis? She was due well before now.”

“No,” said Barthon. “She has been a little odd lately. I don’t know what is going on.”

They peered into Idis’s little office, but it was unoccupied, reports scattered across the desk, covered in her neat handwriting.

Rador sighed. “I am sure we will find out eventually what is going on.”

After lunch, Idis and her father turned up at Rador’s office.

“What has happened, my Lord Steward?” Rador said with alarm to Idis’s father.

Idis inclined her head to Rador and spoke instead. “I am sorry I did not turn up to our meeting this morning, Captain, but I was saving a man from assassins, and then we discovered Old Amarchon in the Archives had been murdered by the same assassins, so—”

Rador stared at her. “Assassins? Old Amarchon murdered? Whence hailed these assassins?”

The Steward produced a dagger with a bent point. “Haradric, we deem. We found this dagger at the back of the Archives, and my daughter says they were wearing Haradric garb.”

Rador straightened up. “This is unacceptable! There must be a security breach somewhere! Wait and I shall bring Barthon into the meeting too.”

He fetched Barthon, swiftly updated him, and took him back to his office. Rador sat at his desk, waited for Barthon to sit, and then said, “So how exactly did all this happen?”

The Steward looked at his daughter, and his daughter blushed. “Well ... I was in the Archives, and I saw one of the Trade Attachés from the Harad Office being followed by assassins, so I warned him and helped him to escape—then I went to Daddy and told him—then the Guards said Amarchon had been killed, and we looked at the scene. I should have invited you too, but I was not really thinking straight after I heard Amarchon was killed—that poor old man!” She wiped her eyes.

“You are the only person who was fond of him, Lady,” said Barthon.

“He had a soft heart!” protested Idis. “He was not bad! Just fiercely protective of his books!”

Rador scratched his head. “Trade Attaché to Harad Office followed by Haradric assassins. Hmm. I see a link. What does the diplomat say?”

“Lord Thorongil is relatively junior,” said the Steward. “Idis’s theory is that it has something to do with the Report he was asked to fetch on Khandian café bean growth in the 20th year of the Fourth Age, rather than anything about him.”

Barthon snorted with laughter. “Thorongil! What a name!”

Idis glared at him. “It is a very honourable name, Barthon, but he did say I could call him Thor.”

“While you were running from the assassins?” said Rador.

“Yes. We did not have a long conversation, but obviously I had to introduce myself to him and he had to introduce himself to me, because we had not met before this.”

“Anyway,” said the Steward, glancing at his daughter, “Rador, we have left the crime scene intact for you. Idis can show you where the dagger was thrown at them—”

“I am not climbing up those stairs at the back of the Archives again,” announced Idis, “in case anyone is wondering. Twice is enough for one day.”

“Idis is going to write a report for me, you and the King, Captain Rador.” The Steward turned to look at Idis, his gaze piercing. “Full disclosure, Idis.”

Idis coloured. “I will not do it again.”

Rador’s eyebrows rose. Idis was eccentric but usually scrupulous in her observance of the rules: at the least, she obeyed the spirit, if not the letter.

The Steward stood. “Thank you Captain, Lieutenant. I will be back later to discuss possible ways in which the assassins might have entered the Citadel.”

He left, and Rador looked at his assistant. “You never cease to amaze me. You did not engage in combat with the assassins?”

“No,” said Idis. “There were at least two, maybe three, of them and one of me, and an unarmed man. I thought it best to escape.”

“You did not draw your daggers and give this poor man a heart attack?” said Barthon.

“Of course I drew my daggers! And Thor was not in the least disturbed!” said Idis.

Rador stood. “Well, Barthon, we should go down and look at poor Amarchon, and leave Idis to write her report.”

Idis rose and went to her office without comment.

As they walked down to the Archives, Barthon said, “I wonder who this fellow is? The diplomat?”

“I’ll look him up later,” said Rador. “If he’s with the public service, we will have done background checks on him.”

Guards now stood at the front desk of the Great Archives. Old Amarchon was sprawled across the desk, lying on papers. His face was purple, his eyes bulged and his blackened tongue stuck out.

“Assassination is awful,” said Barthon. “I mean, I can understand someone murdering someone else in the heat of an argument, even if I would not do it, but to creep up behind a blameless man and strangle him?”

“Yes, it is,” said Rador, inspecting how the garrotte had dug into Amarchon’s neck. It had cut deep enough to bleed, and blood stained his beard, which was also caught in the garrotte. Amarchon had evidently tried to grasp his neck, but his hands had fallen down.

“I do not think we have any doubt about cause of death here,” said Barthon.

“No,” agreed Rador. Then he looked at what was scattered over the desk: lists of books and memoranda to Archive staff. He inspected the sign-in book carefully. Only two people had signed in today. The first was Lord Thorongil of Galaridh, for the Report on the Growth of Khandian Café in the 20th Year of the Fourth Age. He had an elegant hand. The second was Idis, for An Account of the Extraordinary Nomads of Rhûn, but a scroll of that name sat near Amarchon’s hand—she had left it at the front desk, for some reason.

“Thorongil writes like a woman,” said Barthon, peering over Rador’s shoulder.

Rador stared at his Lieutenant. “You do not like his name, you do not like his handwriting—?”

Barthon frowned. “I reserve my judgement on the man himself, Captain.”

“There are only two stairways in and out of the Archives,” noted Rador. “It has always worried me if there was a fire—”

“So the assassins must have gone down the main entry, or the other. Where is the other?”

“I’ll show you,” said Rador. “Let us pass the section with books from Harad and Khand—”

They walked past the Harad and Khand section, but there was no sign of disorder. Then they continued to the back of the Archives.

Rador saw something on a bookshelf and said, “Halt!” There was a long, fresh, deep scratch on one of the bookshelves they passed. “I suspect this is where that dagger was thrown.”

Barthon winced. “They threw it hard.”

When they got to the rear door, Rador winced. “O dear. I should say Idis locked this door against the assassins and the assassins broke down the door.”

“Definitely,” said Barthon, kneeling to look at the wood splinters. “They hit with force again.”

Rador looked up. None of the windows in side of the dome were broken or open, and he could not see how even an assassin could lower himself down from that height. He suspected no one could get up there, not even cleaners: they looked a little dirty.

“We will have to talk to Idis about what the sequence of events was, and perhaps Thorongil too, in order to work out what entrance is likely.” Then he sighed. “Please get the Guards to take that old man away to Coroner Nefreon. I am going to do the implicitly unpleasant climb that Idis did not want to do again.”

“Take care,” said Barthon.

“I am bearing a sword and a dagger, unlike our diplomat,” noted Rador, “and I am forewarned.”

Barthon trotted off, and Rador went up the stairs. About two spirals up, he realised he had made a critical error: the stairs were unlit and he did not have a lantern. He wondered whether Idis had had a lantern. Then he continue to climb in the dark, with no noise other than his own puffing breath and the slap of his feet on the stairs.

He emerged in an abandoned part of the Citadel. Everything was covered with dust covers, and rooms were locked. He frowned; there were no witnesses around here. The tiled floors were covered with dust, except in the centre where many people had tramped. He cursed Idis for not inviting him to the initial inspection of the crime site. On the other hand, at least his escape route was clear. The footprints led back to a door and the main corridor. The two Guards looked at him.

The left-hand guard said, “Another person! First the red-headed fellow, then the Steward and his daughter with a retinue of Guards, and now you, Captain Rador? Has there been a crime?”

“Red-headed fellow?” said Rador suspiciously.

“Aye, he was looking for the diplomatic offices,” said the right-hand Guard. “Said he’d gotten lost and was helped by a Lady—the Steward’s daughter?—but at the time we thought the poor fellow had gone quite insane, and he did too.”

“Idis just left him here?” said Rador, sighing within at another instance of the sometimes poor communication skills of his assistant.

“We never saw her at all the first time. He kind of stumbled out by himself,” said the left-hand Guard.

“You never saw any assassins?” said Rador.

“Obviously not,” said the left-hand Guard. “We’d not just be standing here, would we?”

“Well thank you, and can you point me back in the way of the Minas Tirith City Guard Office?” said Rador.

The right-hand Guard grinned. “Down there.”

Rador trotted down and found a corridor he recognised. Then he passed by the Steward’s office and told him what he had seen.

“Thank you, Captain Rador. ” The Steward paused. “My daughter is determined to meet with this diplomat again, as part of her investigation into this matter. I have already fetched the files on him, if you would like them?”

Rador raised an eyebrow. “That would be helpful, I suppose.”

“If she does meet him, I would like you to be there. Thorongil seems to be a decent person, from his files, but I am disinclined to let her wander off to private meetings with strange men whom I do not know.”

“Very well,” said Rador. “Should I tell your daughter that we will be there?”

“Yes, but do not tell her that I have already checked into this man’s background, if you please. We have already had words on… well, I will let her report speak for her.”

There were strange depths here which Rador could not fathom. However, when the Steward handed him the files, he simply bowed and accepted them.

“Also,” said the Steward, “could you turn your mind to the question of who in the Citadel has connections with Harad? The diplomats are the obvious ones, but there may be others.”

“I will, Lord Steward,” said Rador, and went back to his office and put Thorongil’s files on his desk. Then he went to talk to Idis. She was still sitting at her desk writing; she was surrounded by crumpled-up paper.

“Having difficulty with your report, Idis?” Rador asked her.

Idis looked up and scrunched up her face. “Maybe it is better if I just make the confession to you verbally first? I did something bad and Daddy is disappointed in me.”

Rador said, “Very well,” and closed her office door behind him.

Idis’s face turned redder and redder. “So you know I took the public service test, Captain?”

“I am the one who wrote the letter to the King asking for a special dispensation.”

“When I took it, they said I had done very well.” Idis’s face was now beetroot. “But there was one other person who had done better than me.”

“One other person?” said Rador.

“Thorongil of Galaridh,” said Idis. “I had to know! I had to know how he had done better, and who he was!”

“O, Idis,” said Rador, sadly.

“So … I might have looked up his civil service test results, and actually yes, he did beat me fairly—and then I got more curious and looked up his military record, and I might have told the records people that it was for a case we were working on,” said Idis, her eyes downcast, all in a rush. Then she put her hands over her face.

“When was this?” said Rador.

“It was three months ago,” said Idis, taking her hands off her face. “And then—you will not believe this!—I happened to see his name in the Archives sign-in book four days later—he was looking for a book from the Harad section, so I went there.”

“And you spoke to him?” said Rador, sighing.

The pupils of Idis’s eyes dilated. “No. He did not see me. I just looked at him for a while.”

“I see,” said Rador, frowning. “It was very bad of you to tell the records people that you needed this man’s records for a case. Also you should probably apologise to him?”

“I do not really know how,” said Idis. “I did not think I would ever have the courage to speak to him until today? I hope I see him again, and then I will work myself up to apologising.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Rador. “You became aware of some clever young man, and set yourself to knowing everything about him?”

“Yes,” said Idis. “He is quite vague. I promise you that he has not noticed me at all until today!”

Rador’s heart sank as he imagined his assistant tailing this poor man around the building. “No, no, no!”

Idis’s face flamed. “I was trying to build the courage to say hullo, but it takes me a while, Captain.”

Rador put his hand to his face. “This was unprofessional of you, Idis, and unrelated to your job.”

Idis rose and bowed. “I am really, really sorry. It is just that I have never seen anyone who is as much like me as he is, at least on paper. I could not resist knowing more about him. There are very few people in Middle Earth who are like me.  And then I saw him in person, accidentally—remember when I had to do a covert surveillance on Lord Gorthon, as Mistress ‘Gwendes’?—and now I have talked to him. Thor is just … lovely.”

Rador closed his eyes. He was swiftly developing a headache. “By the Valar, Idis!”

“He offered to sacrifice himself to the assassins for me,” said Idis, her grey eyes shining.

“Well, write the part about getting this man’s reports in your report—thank you for being honest—but do not write about him being lovely.”

“No!” Idis paused. “Do not tell Barthon, please, about what I did and said.”

“Very well,” said Rador, shaking his head. “I remain disappointed with what you did, and I look forward to more professional behaviour in future. I have enjoyed working with you for these past five years: you have been surprisingly professional, despite my doubts at the start.”

Idis bowed her head. “I have enjoyed working with you, and I apologise deeply for breaching your trust.”

“Now we move on and forget about this unfortunate incident,” said Rador. “I am not the kind of man who likes it when his underlings constantly whip themselves for doing the wrong thing … as long as you learn from your mistake. Making a mistake once is acceptable. Making it twice, however, is unacceptable.”

“I hear you,” said Idis. “I will never do it again.”

Rador left Idis’s office, and went to Barthon’s office. “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” said Barthon, and rose.

“The first thing is that I still have no idea how the assassins got into the Citadel. It was not down the back stairway as far as I could see. I will require you to scour the Citadel. Secondly, can you help me go through this Thorongil’s files?”

Barthon sat at the other side of Rador’s desk and Rador said, “Take Thorongil’s Army file. I shall take the public service file.” He pushed the larger folder to Barthon.

Then he opened the public service file, and blinked as he scanned the summary of the man’s results. Thorongil had indeed done exceptionally well across the board: general knowledge, mathematics, science and history. But his stand-out result was languages. He had apparently taught himself Haradric while in the Army, and was also exceptional in Sindarin.

Rador snorted. “And so Idis finally met her match!”

Barthon put his head up. “What?”

“This man is equal to Idis in linguistic ability,” said Rador. “He may also be equal to her in several other areas. He beat her in the public service test.”

Barthon rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, this is what piqued her interest? She hates being beaten.”

“You are entirely correct.” Rador kept scanning the report. After that, there was a skirmish of correspondence between different departments: Treasury, Justice and the Embassy to Harad. All three departments had fought to get Thorongil, but ultimately, the Steward held that he should go to the Embassy to Harad because of the difficulty in getting skilled personnel who were fluent in Haradric. Rador wondered if he was imagining that the Deputy Ambassador’s acknowledgment of this to the Chief Justice was rather smug.

“He was a Lieutenant in the mounted infantry, by the way,” said Barthon, leafing through the reports. “Didn’t have his own horse, but was described as being a sound rider with good skills in a variety of weaponry.”

“Meanwhile I have a fight between Treasury, Justice and the Embassy to Harad for him, which obviously the Embassy won.”

Barthon made a gagging noise. “He sounds horribly like a male version of Idis. Skilled in a billion languages and weapons, all at the same time.”

“Hmm,” said Rador. “I do not much like the Ambassador’s report here. It does not even seem as if he knows who this man is: it could be any person.” Then he flipped the page and said, “Ah, the Deputy Ambassador’s report is much better. That is interesting! Apparently Thorongil accompanied the Deputy Ambassador to Khand for several two week stints. By the end of those stints, he was reasonably fluent in Khandian. That is some skill!”

“Huh, this part of the Army file reflects a similar theme with regard to languages,” said Barthon. “Apparently he befriended some Haradric prisoners of war, and taught himself Haradric? And he successfully led his men on an assault on Qom Hadara, wherever that is, using the intelligence they gave him.”

They both sat in silence. Rador knew some Sindarin, like any good gentleman, as well as some Rohirric swear words, but that was it. He would have loved to have possessed Thorongil’s talent. Barthon kept leafing through. “By the Valar, they turned him into an interrogator!”

“Show me,” said Rador, and Barthon passed him the file. It appeared that the man’s language skill had led him to be Haradric Prisoner of War liaison officer and he was frequently required for interviews with captured Haradrim.

Rador scanned the pages quickly. “I deem he was the pleasant one, from this. And then, if they had trouble, they brought in the unpleasant one, and he offered to save them from the unpleasant one in return for intelligence.”

Meanwhile Barthon looked at the public service file, and gaped. “His results!”

“I know,” said Rador. He flipped to the end of the Army file: there were lots of boring reports about interviews with prisoners and battles which made no sense to him.

At the end was a letter from Thorongil’s commanding officer. He began to read it out:

“With best regards to Deputy Ambassador Arahaelon,

I am discharging Lieutenant Thorongil from the Fifth Osgiliath Mounted Infantry Corps with distinction. I have suggested that he take the public service test. My Lord, please do not be fooled by his diffident and humble attitude. He was a very competent officer who was well liked by his men. Moreover, he is exceptionally talented in the tongue of Harad, and even taught himself Old Haradric for the sake of interest in the lulls between campaigns. He lacks confidence, but I believe he would be an excellent fit for the Embassy, and I commend him to you.

Yours most sincerely, Captain Uirien.”

“That is a glowing reference,” said Barthon, sourly.

“I wonder why he lacks confidence?” said Rador.

“Maybe he looks at Idis and compares himself with her and her family all the time—although wait, she said she had not met him until today?”

“Apparently she is determined to investigate these assassins, and she wants to meet with Thorongil,” said Rador. “If she does, the Steward wants us to be there.”

“So he is a suspect?” said Barthon.

“I suppose he is,” said Rador. “However, I cannot see anything immediately suspicious about him, and indeed, if the dagger indentation on that bookcase was any indication, they certainly seemed to want to kill him.”

Barthon kept leafing through the public service file. Then he held up a sheet of paper from the back. “Swyve me dead, look at the declaration of interest form here—he’s Judge Denethor’s youngest half-brother!”

Rador stared at Barthon. “That pompous balding twerp?”

“The self same,” said Barthon. Rador looked at the sheet and saw that it was indeed as Barthon had said. His other brothers appeared to be in farming, law or in the merchant trade.

“He’s a bit of an odd fish compared to the other brothers,” said Rador. “The other full brothers do not live too far from the parents, and they did not do stints in the Army.”

“I still cannot connect a supposedly humble diplomat with that pompous gasbag!” said Barthon. “Although I can’t imagine anyone from that judge’s family being a traitor?”

“They all mention the lack of confidence, apart from the Ambassador,” said Rador. “It must be so.”

There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” said Rador.

“It’s just me,” said Idis.

Rador stuffed all the papers back into the files and shoved them into a drawer quickly, while Barthon stared at him. Then he sat back up. “Come in!”

Idis walked in and looked at them suspiciously. “What have you been doing?”

“Among other things, we have been talking about how the assassins might have gotten into the Citadel,” said Rador.

“I have finished my report,” said Idis, and handed to Rador, flushing slightly as she did so.

Rador read it. “Ah! This is useful, Idis. So did they follow Thorongil down the main stairs?”

“I do not know. Maybe? When I saw Thor at the desk with Amarchon, there was no evidence he was being followed. But then when I was following him, I heard a strange noise and turned: I think that must have been them killing Amarchon, sadly. That is when I saw two assassins behind me. I thought—well, I thought they were after me—but I could not be sure. I knew where Thor was going, so I darted off to see if they would follow me—they did not—and then rejoined him. They were still following him when I caught up with him: they were not at all interested in me—”

“Lucky for this fellow that you followed him,” said Barthon, picking Idis’s report up from where it lay in front of Rador. “Why were you following him anyway?”

“No! Don’t read it!” said Idis, leaping for it.

“Why not?” said Barthon.

“I did something which was not good, and I do not want you to know!” Idis pulled it off him and held it up in the air.

“What did you do? Smuggle weapons? Run a gambling den? Kill someone?”

“No, I looked up Thor’s public service exam results because-he-beat-me!” said Idis, very quickly.

Barthon burst out laughing and slapped his knees. “O, Idis. That is so typical!”

“I am not as competitive as either Cirion or Bron,” said Idis, allowing Barthon to pull the paper off her.

Barthon scanned her report. “You shoved him out into the corridor, and ran off?”

“Yes, because I had to get him to safety.”

“I need you both to think of everyone in the Citadel who has a connection to Harad,” said Rador. “Can you both compile lists, and I will compare them to mine?”

“What do you mean ‘a connection’? Would Elboron have a connection with Harad because he once fought there? And Cirion, because he commanded the campaign there?” said Idis. “And if it’s anyone who fought there, that is half the Citadel and—”

Rador grimaced. “Good point. I was thinking more of people who have a known continuing relationship with Harad. Cirion does not go there now, does he?”

“Not if he can help it,” said Idis. “It brings back bad memories.”

“Use your discretion but indicate whether the relationship is strong or weak,” said Rador.

“Very good,” said Idis, inclining her head. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Not for now,” said Rador.

Idis gave him another long look and then left.

“She is suspicious of us,” said Barthon, as Rador got the files out of his desk and put the papers back in, in a more orderly fashion.

“The Steward did not want her to know we were investigating Thorongil, for some reason. I suspect we may be asked to undertake a more in-depth investigation?”

“I shall compile my list,” said Barthon.

“Thank you,” said Rador, and then set to writing his own. There were a disturbing number of people who had ongoing connections to Harad, including the King and the Steward, but at least he could cross the last two off.

Eventually after comparing lists with Idis and Barthon, he told them to go home. Then he packed up his own office, but was surprised to see Idis still there.

“What are you doing?”

“I am looking at statistics about Khand. I went down and got them from the Treasury. That is what the report was about.”

“Go home,” said Rador.

“I will, eventually,” said Idis. “I just want to finish reading these figures.”

He bade her farewell and went home. “How was work today?” said Talvel.

“One of my operatives had to save a man from Haradric assassins,” said Rador.

Talvel put her hands to her mouth. “But the war is over? What would they be doing?”

“Something to do with café beans,” said Rador.

“I do not really like that café drink, even though the girls think it is wonderful,” said Talvel.

The next day when Rador got into work, Idis was already there. She beamed at him.

“You did not sleep in the office, did you?” he said. She had previously done so, much to his disapproval.

“No, you can ask Daddy. I went home, and I came in this morning just after he did. I asked Daddy if I might meet with Thor at a Salon to continue our investigation, and Daddy said that was acceptable.” Idis paused and coloured slightly. “I have sent an invite to Thor today, because there’s no time like the present?”

Rador sighed. “Your father anticipated your desire to meet with Lord Thorongil, and said to me yesterday that if you were to meet with him, we were to be there as observers.”

Idis rolled her eyes. “That is typical of Daddy. May I leave early to change for the Salon? I have sent Thor a note asking him to meet me at the Third Bell at Salon Miruvour.”

“Very well,” said Rador. A part of him was extremely curious to see how this meeting went, and what the famous Thorongil was like. “What do you intend to discuss with him?”

“I want to talk about café beans and why the assassins might be there. I also thought we should actually try some café as a conversational starter? And then we can go to other Salons. Because—I was thinking about it last night—there is clearly an issue with café beans in Harad, but I do not know enough about it to understand what it is.”

“That sounds fair,” said Rador.

When Barthon came in, Rador said, “Covert mission at a Salon at the Third Bell. We get to see Lord Thorongil in action. Idis has asked him to meet her.”

“Does she suspect him?” said Barthon.

“I do not think so, but we make our own judgement.”

At the Second Bell Idis knocked on Rador’s door and said, “I am going to get changed. I will see you at the Salon just before the Third Bell, but I shall not acknowledge you.”

“We will see you then,” agreed Rador, wondering somewhat at her early departure.

Just before the Third Bell, he and Barthon walked down to the Salon Miruvour. A snooty waiter looked at them. “Do you have a booking?”

“No, but I see many free tables,” said Rador.

The waiter looked like he was going to argue, so Rador brought out his warrant. “Captain Rador, Minas Tirith City Guard, here on the King’s business.”

The waiter looked at him resentfully. “Follow me, sir, a table has become free.”

Rador and Barthon took their seats and then Barthon gaped. “By the Valar!” he said quietly. “She looks stunning!”

Rador turned and saw Idis at the entrance: she was clad an elegant brown dress made from Haradric silk, with a faint gold sheen, and her hair was braided. He saw now why she had had to leave early.

The unpleasant waiter fawned over her and led her to a table at on the side of the Salon, away from the windows at the front. Rador moved his seat somewhat so that he could keep an eye on both her and the front entrance.

Idis sat down and took out the book she had been carrying under her arm. She sat down and began to read, fiddling nervously with the end of her braids. She ignored Rador and Barthon.

Rador and Barthon ordered the house special: some kind of concoction with cream.

“It really is what one is supposed to have here,” Barthon explained to Rador. “It is all the rage.”

At almost exactly the Third Bell, a man with auburn hair came into the Salon, and Rador remembered the Guard’s words. He gently nudged Barthon under the table, and they watched the man who was likely Thorongil.

Thorongil was thin, of medium height, and wearing a smart but ill-fitting suit—Rador suspected he had borrowed it from someone. He was girt with a sword, and walked like he knew how to use it. His features were fine and Númenórean, but his red hair and greenish eyes made him look exotically handsome, almost beautiful. The good looks were offset, however, by a diffident, shy manner which seemed to raise the unpleasant waiter’s ire.

After an exchange of words, the waiter suddenly switched tacks and became smarmy, and led him to Idis’s table. Idis looked up from her book and smiled sweetly. As the waiter left, Thorongil stopped and executed a courtly and elegant bow. It appeared this was not appreciated, because Idis picked up a butter knife and brandished it at him in response.

“She’s going to stab him!” said Barthon. Instead, Thorongil sat—apparently unworried by the butter knife—and they began to talk.

Rador regretted letting the waiter control where they sat: they were too far away to hear; but he could sense from their postures that both Idis and Thorongil were extremely nervous.

Barthon nudged Rador and said, “Southron.”

Indeed, one of the diplomats from the Harad Embassy in Minas Tirith had just come in, although he was clad in ordinary clothing of Gondor and could pass as a local. Rador had met him a year earlier, in a matter where a Haradrim had been killed in a fight at a public house. The man from Harad scanned the room, marked Idis and Thorongil—his eyebrows went up—and then he smiled at Rador and touched his head.

The man from Harad also had a fight with the pretentious waiter, and was led to a table near the window. Rador could sense the man from Harad’s frustration: in order to see the couple at the back, he had to turn around and crane his neck. He shifted his chair around too, and Rador risked a wink at him. The man from Harad stared at him loftily, and did not respond.

Meanwhile conversation had faltered between Idis and Thorongil, and Thorongil was leaning back in his chair staring at the murals on the wall.

“This is so awkward,” said Barthon. “I am coming out with hives from watching it.”

“Maybe I need to suggest they talk about Haradric grammatical construction—” said Rador, and was startled when Barthon laughed loudly.

Idis glanced over in their direction with narrow eyes and turned back to Thorongil. His inspection of the murals had evidently given him inspiration, as he resumed conversation.

Towering drinks topped with cream were brought out to Rador and Barthon. Rador looked at it doubtfully. “This is a woman’s drink! How am I supposed to drink this!”

The waiter eyed him with disdain. “You will see we have placed a spoon in the glass.”

Idis and Thorongil’s drinks came much more swiftly than Rador and Barthon’s had. Rador noticed with satisfaction that Thorongil appeared to be having the same difficulties as he had suffered. Thorongil poked his gingerly with a spoon and turned the glass around. Idis had no difficulty. She spoke, picked up the spoon and took a large spoonful of the cream off the top. Thorongil blushed furiously as he watched her, then glared at his drink and attempted to sip it.

Barthon snickered. “He got cream on his nose,” he said in a low voice.

Thorongil wiped the cream off his nose and chin, took a deep breath, and stirred the cream in. This was a disastrous choice, as the café and cream slopped over the edge of the glass. Idis did not appear to notice.

After they had both drunk a little of the horrible drinks, and spoken some more, Idis smiled, then brightened and leaned forward and looked conspiratorial, saying something. Thorongil shrugged: evidently he did not much care for whatever she had proposed.

Then Idis stood and clicked her fingers, and gestured at the unpleasant waiter, and then pointed at her and Thorongil’s half-finished drinks. She was now speaking loudly enough to be overheard: she was apparently unhappy with the quality of beans in Thorongil’s drink. The waiter responded more quietly and pointed at Thorongil. Thorongil sat up, his diffident air falling away in an instant, and said something quiet but sharp. The waiter something in an undertone, then Idis said loudly, “Come on Thor, we are going!” and reached out her hand to him. He took her hand, and they looked each other in the eyes for a long moment and smiled shyly at each other.

Then she dragged Thorongil across the Salon, past Rador and Barthon’s table, exclaiming loudly that she was going to take him for a walk. Rador looked at Thorongil as he passed, and Thorongil looked back at him with suspicion. He was no fool.

Thorongil and Idis walked out of the Salon, and the Haradric diplomat smiled triumphantly at Rador: now he had the best view of what was going on. Rador and Barthon had to half-stand to see what was happening. Thorongil let go of Idis’s hand, and they spoke, then Idis took his arm and marched off with him in a determined fashion. Rador wondered where she was taking him.

“She has left her book at the table,” said Barthon. “She has never forgotten a book before.”

Rador sighed. He did not want to finish the horrible drink any more than Thorongil had. He called the waiter over and said, “Do not worry, I will collect Lady Idis’s book and take it back to her.”

The waiter said, “Thank you, sir, and I hope that you enjoyed your drink?”

“I did,” Rador lied, “but I am now full.” He looked over at Barthon, who had finished his.

The waiter sniffed. “I do not approve of the Lady’s beau.”

Barthon’s eyes widened and he went to speak, but then closed his mouth and shook his head.

Rador picked up the book. It was written in Haradric, but someone had helpfully written a translation in Westron on the cover: ‘Modes of Southern Haradric Agriculture’. He had long ceased to be amazed by Idis’s eclectic taste in reading, but he suspected that this book had been selected specifically to impress Thorongil. Then they paid and left, nodding politely to the Haradric diplomat as they passed him.

As they went back up the hill, Barthon said, with some venom, “Well, isn’t our man pretty?”

Rador glanced at Barthon. “It is the colouring you get in Lossarnach sometimes.”

“I am inclined to dislike him.”

Rador said nothing until they crossed the courtyard and passed the Tree. He was putting together the pieces in his mind. “You are jealous?”

“Me? Why would I be jealous?”

“You will need to lie more convincingly if you want to persuade anyone,” said Rador, in dry tones. He looked at Barthon sidelong. “I thought you wanted to get rid of the Lady anyway.”

“I do want to get rid of her,” said Barthon.

They stopped talking as they went up the stairs, and Rador reflected sadly that he was getting old: his hips hurt every time he climbed the stairs. Then Barthon went back to his office, taking Idis’s book with him, while Rador dropped in on the Steward.

“Idis met with her man Thorongil,” he told the Steward, as the Steward poured him tea, dark and unsugared, just the way he liked it. It was infinitely better than the awful café with cream.

The Steward raised an eyebrow. “How did it go?”

“Awkwardly, but they walked off together at the end. My Lord… is she… does she—?”

“I deem she is utterly set on that man,” said the Steward, sighing as he sipped his own tea. “Please tell me for my peace of mind that she has some chance of success?”

“From the way that he looked at her, and blushed and smiled, I think so.” Rador sighed. “I am going to lose my favourite covert operative, aren’t I?”

“It is too early to tell,” said the Steward, steepling his fingers. “We shall see.”

“There is no chance that he is an agent of Harad is there?”

“None whatsoever.” The Steward looked uncomfortable, almost pained. “I read him, and I have ordered further checks into his background. I am not going to allow my daughter to be hurt. But I will need you to look into the other two: Lord Romdaer and Lord Gadrion. They reacted strangely when I told them of the assassins. Their minds were closed and I did not want to push too hard.”

“To be fair, anyone might react strangely to news of assassins,” said Rador, “but I will look into them.”

“Do not directly question them yet. Covert, at this stage.”

Rador saluted the Steward. “Very well.”

When Rador returned, Barthon was sitting at his desk staring miserably at the book on Southern Haradric agriculture.

Rador clicked his fingers. “Enough, Barthon. We need to conduct covert investigations of Lord Romdaer and Lord Gadrion from the Harad Office.”

“Not Thorongil?” said Barthon.

“No, he is out of the picture: the Steward has satisfied himself that Thorongil is not involved.”

“Romdaer, Gadrion and Thorongil were the top of my list of people with connections to Harad, unsurprisingly,” said Barthon. “You cannot get any more connected than working in that office, unless you are in Harad’s Embassy.”

Idis came loping up, dressed again in her ordinary dark clothing with split skirts, her hair still braided. “Most awkward! I left my book at the Salon, and had to go back there! And the horrid waiter said you took it!”

Barthon held the book up. “It’s here, Idis.”

“Thank you,” said Idis.

“What was wrong with the café?” said Rador.

“It was more bitter than other time I have been there,” said Idis, taking her book from Barthon. “Thor noted it, and I thought I would see what the waiter did if I complained.”

“I did not taste anything,” said Barthon.

“There is something suspicious about the bitterness.” Idis ignored Barthon. “But how this relates to assassins, or whether it is related at all, I cannot tell.”

“I found it disgusting and difficult to drink,” said Rador.

“So did Thor,” said Idis, smiling.

Barthon laughed. “He got cream on his nose! It was hilarious!”

Idis glared at him. “I thought it was very sweet.” Then she turned and went to her office.

Barthon said in a very low voice, “Is she keen on him?”

Rador sighed and closed Barthon’s door. “Does she usually dress up like that for us?”

Barthon frowned. “No.”

“I did not realise that you liked her in that way,” said Rador. “This puts a different cast on things.”

Barthon’s eyes widened. “I do not! I have never met such an irritating, frustrating woman in my entire life. That pretty boy genius is welcome to her!”

“Hmm,” said Rador. “Go down and fetch the files for Romdaer and Gadrion for me.”

After Barthon had trotted off, Rador went to Idis’s office. She looked up. “Do you see what I mean? Thor is lovely!”

“Barthon is jealous.” Rador decided it was best to cut to the chase.

“Horse’s tits,” said Idis in the tongue of Rohan. She paused. “Barthon had his chance, and lost it. He can’t complain.”

“He did?” Rador was astonished: he had assured his wife that there was nothing going on between his two assistants.

Idis coloured. “Ah, about two years ago, when we were on a covert mission, we might have … um, ended up walking out for a time? We decided that it was best to behave as if it never happened, because it should not have done. To be frank I have not thought about it much since, because it is easiest not to.”

Rador felt a moment of sympathy for Barthon: clearly it had not impacted much upon the Lady’s psyche.

Idis had other concerns. “We did not do anything really improper—I just want to make that clear!”

“I do not want to hear about that,” said Rador.

“We did get abused by some random passer-by, because I was dressed as a man, and we got caught kissing. It must be hard to be Ecthelion.” Idis looked thoughtful.

Rador shook his head at the vision which came into his head, hoping that if he shook his head enough, the vision would dissolve.

“Do not worry, I pulled my daggers on the passer-by, and he ran away,” said Idis, mistaking the reason for him shaking his head.

Rador started to laugh. “My Lady, I hope this Lord Thorongil is prepared for such insanity.”

“O, I think he is,” said Idis, happily. “He did not even flinch when I threatened him with a blunt butter knife, but just sat down as if nothing happened.”

“I noticed that,” said Rador. “What was the problem?”

“He was bowing and my Ladying, and saying he was not worthy of me. Apparently Thor met Daddy this morning. He was concerned that Daddy might feel uncomfortable because he senses the feelings of others at times, which I thought was very kind of him. People do not often think about how hard it is for Daddy.”

“We need to investigate the other two men in the Harad office,” said Rador.

“Most definitely.” Idis looked at Rador through her eyelashes. “I shall need to meet Thor again to ask him about those men. I am not disposed to think well of Lord Romdaer. He did not at first believe Thor about the assassins!”

“I leave that to you,” said Rador.

Barthon came back. “I have the files on our men.”

“Come into my office and we’ll go through them,” said Rador. Idis and Barthon followed him, and then Rador realised too late that Thorongil’s files were still on his desk.

Idis glanced at the files. “You checked Thor already?”

“Of course,” said Rador. “I would not have been happy with you meeting him otherwise.”

“That is fair,” said Idis, and sat. Rador was pleased to note that the Steward did not always get everything right.

They divided up Gadrion and Romdaer’s public service files and military files. “Whoever finishes first gets the last one,” said Rador.

Idis had Romdaer’s public service file. “Hmm. I am sure I recognise this description by Ambassador Galador from Thor’s file. He’s used the same description, I deem! Could you pass me Thor’s file?”

Rador pushed it over and said, “I had the feeling it was not a very personal description: I got no sense of Thorongil at all from it.”

Idis hunted through Thorongil’s file until she came upon Galador’s yearly reports on Thorongil and laid them side by side. “Well, it is a little different. He used the word ‘diligent’ for Romdaer whereas he used ‘hard-working’ for Thor in the first sentence. And he changes the word and sentence order.”

Barthon burst out laughing. “He takes these reports really seriously then?”

Idis kept going through Romdaer’s file. “The Deputy Ambassador is much better. I actually have a feel for Romdaer. He seems reasonable enough.”

Then she said, “O dear—”

“What?” said Barthon.

“I just came on the background check. Listen: ‘Romdaer married his father’s business partner’s daughter Lalaith when he was thirty and she was twenty four, and received a large dowry. While Lalaith is physically attractive she lacks intellectual ability and sense. It is an unhappy marriage.’”

She flipped to the next page. “O! They actually made him undertake not to disclose work details to his wife as a condition of his employment.”

“That seems extreme,” said Rador. “Would not the general confidentiality oath that we all have to sign have been sufficient?”

“It sounds to me like they wanted to be absolutely sure he did not discuss anything with his wife,” said Barthon. “Potential issue?”

Idis kept going through the file. “No one has expressed any concerns about it since, so he has evidently kept to his undertaking.”

“We will have to check out the wife,” said Rador.

“They have already done a check on her!” said Idis triumphantly, brandishing a piece of paper. She squinted at it. “She is apparently prone to buying such items as tawdry jewellery, knick knacks and make up, and her husband had to limit her income as a result, but she continues to be visited by women who run such schemes, who give her free gifts. She knows nothing about what her husband does apart from the fact he works in ‘Nasty Harad’.”

“By the Valar!” said Rador. “My wife’s cousin’s sister-in-law was into those schemes. They were all the rage among a certain class of lady. Selling soap! Earrings? Glass jars? I cannot remember.”

Idis wrinkled her nose. “Now, I know I do not fit into Minas Tirith society, but this is a moment for me to feel extremely glad about it. I would not like such a scheme. We make our own soap at home anyway, with olive oil. Mummy grew up with tallow soap and she just loves soap from Gondor.”

 Barthon pointed at Idis. “I am afraid you may have to pretend to be interested in tawdry jewellery and soap. I doubt this woman will believe I am interested.”

“By the way, Mummy has helped make a nice range of soaps for men,” said Idis to Barthon. “My brothers all use soap she has developed.”

Barthon grimaced. “I am still not going to visit this woman, Idis.”

“No, I shall do it,” said Idis. “But if you want, I will give you the soap Elboron uses. It is quite nice.”

She began tapping her foot on the ground. “Idis, stop that!” said Rador.

“I need some advice,” said Idis. “If you have asked someone out once, but do not want to look slightly obsessive, how long should you wait until you ask them again?”

Barthon rolled his eyes. “Good luck with persuading anyone that you are not obsessive, Idis.”

Rador sighed. “Give it … five days?”

“Five days it is then,” said Idis. She began tapping her foot again. “Not even a little visit tomorrow?”

“NO!” said Barthon and Rador in unison.

Idis sighed in turn and visibly restrained herself from tapping her foot. “I shall just concentrate on this … Lalaith … then. I wonder if Gala knows anything about her? I shall ask.”

“Gadrion is boring,” declared Barthon after some time of silent reading. “Middle son of middling house with middling ability. No scandalous marriages or brilliant public service tests. He has been engaged to a pleasant daughter of a middling house for a year, and it is expected they shall marry.”

“I still want to put people on both of them,” said Rador. “Barthon, can you get the usual men we use for public servants? I want them followed for the next … three weeks. But now: it is lunch time.”

They all went down to the buttery and had lunch on a table on one of the terraces overlooking the Pelennor and the great curve of the Anduin.

Then Idis disappeared, presumably to ask her contacts about Lalaith. Meanwhile, Rador and Barthon instructed their other covert agents on what information they needed regarding Gadrion and Romdaer.

“But there’s three fellows in their office at the moment?” said one of the clerks who also did covert surveillance for them.

“The third one is the one assassins tried to kill, and the Steward investigated and said we could rule him out,” said Rador.

“Bit rough to kill your workmate,” said another man.

Rador checked through other people on the list who might have connections with Harad. There were several people in Treasury who dealt with taxes, so he got their files too.

Finally he made Barthon go home, and then went home himself.

“You are late. Any more assassins today?” said Talvel.

“No, but Idis has become infatuated with the man she saved,” said Rador. “And Barthon is horrendously jealous—”

Talvel had met both of them: she had insisted on inviting them for Winter Feast drinks on several occasions. She crowed. “I knew it! I knew all that grumping was to cover something else! I knew he was sweet on her.”

“Idis tells me that she and Barthon walked out for a time some years ago,” said Rador. “She said, ‘Barthon had his chance and he lost it, so he can’t complain.’”

Talvel’s jaw dropped. “Well—I—never!” She took a moment to digest this interesting news, then leaned forward. “What’s this new man of hers like then?”

“Extremely clever, red-headed and shy,” said Rador. “We had to watch Idis meet up with him today, and drink horrible café with cream. You are right. It was disgusting.”

“Which place did you go to?” said Talvel.

“Salon Miru-something.”

“O, that one is fancy, all the gold mirrors and paintings,” said Talvel.

“It is better than some of the places we have to stake out,” said Rador. “But they are very rude and pretentious.”

“That is all part of the appeal, darling,” said Talvel.

“I do not understand it,” said Rador.

The next day Idis came in very early and left Rador a encoded note on his desk saying she was getting information on Lalaith, and would be back in touch in a day or two. The note ended with, Wish me luck in pretending an interest in soap. That is apparently her latest craze, according to a friend of my sister-in-law’s.

It took Rador half an hour to decode the note, and not for the first time, he wished Idis would stop leaving encoded notes. He burned it in the fireplace. Then he spoke to the Steward, and after that conversation, walked down to the Haradric embassy.

The young man who had been at the Salon was sitting at the front desk.

“The very famous Captain Rador! The scourge of Minas Tirith crime!” said the man in accented but excellent Westron. “First I see you at that café venue, and then here! It must be a lucky day.”

“I am sorry; I have forgotten your name,” said Rador.

“I am named Darius,” said the man. He put his head on the side. “I was not imagining it, was I? Torongel was meeting with the Steward’s daughter?”

“Yes. Do not ask,” said Rador, and rolled his eyes. He paused. “Everything is calm here?”

“No problems at all,” said Darius. “Your side?”

“Someone was killed in the Archives two days ago,” admitted Rador. “I do not know if the killers were from your area of the world, but they were dressed like assassins from Harad, according to the sole person who saw them.”

Darius looked shocked and then narrowed his eyes. “It is someone trying to cast suspicion on us!”

“This is what the Steward said: why would the Haradrim cause problems now? He thinks it might be someone else unaffiliated with the Emperor,” said Rador.

“—may he live forever,” said Darius.

“Why were you at a Salon? I would have thought you disliked that café more than me,” said Rador.

Darius shrugged, and his eyes became opaque. “When in Minas Tirith it is well to try the local food, do you not think?”

“That local travesty, I could do without,” said Rador. “Expensive and disgusting. Anyway, if you could pass the information about the assassins onto Ambassador Ardeshir, that would be appreciated.”

“I will do so. But before you go: do you know what Torongel was doing with the Steward’s daughter? I was not expecting to see that. It was—how do you call it?—an added bonus of my morning. Is that the terrifying daughter who carries the knives?”

Rador leaned forward and said in an undertone, “Aye. They are attempting to court each other.”

Darius burst out laughing, and said something in Haradric. Then he said in Westron, “That explains why they were so awkward! Most entertaining! If he succeeds in becoming a damat, I will get him special Haradric café as a prize: an exceptional move. Of course, she may just stab him—”

He chuckled again and said, “I think you have made the entire Embassy of Harad’s morning, Captain, when I tell this news about Torongel. We are thanking you.”

“And I am thanking you,” said Rador, and bowed and left. Then he realised he had forgotten to ask what a damat was. He repeated the word over and over in his head, and resolved to ask Idis.

He felt reasonably sure that Darius, at the least, had not ordered the assassination of Thorongil, and had no involvement in any such plan. As the Steward had said, it seemed more like the act of an independent party, but it was just as well to inform the Haradrim. It should have been Romdaer’s job to talk to the Embassy, but he and the Steward had agreed that they could not trust him at the moment. He hoped he had not said anything undiplomatic: diplomacy was not his strong point.

Then he and Barthon went down and asked the Treasury if they knew anything about trade from Harad in café. The man down there shrugged. “You need to talk to Romdaer or Thor in the Embassy to Harad. They are the two who would know most about it. In fact, Thor came down the other day, and got the extra reports sent up to his office?”

“Peachy keen,” muttered Barthon.

“He is,” agreed the Treasury man. “Very pleasant chap, however. Say hullo to him if you speak to him from me.”

The afternoon was spent checking all the covert entrances to the Citadel he knew of, securing them, and writing up the results of the investigation thus far, and setting out all the evidence he had on a piece of paper. In the late afternoon, Idis came storming past, wearing a fancy dress and a black-haired wig. She walked past Rador’s office, and then came back, with her normal hair sticking up in a halo of fine hairs where the wig had lifted it up, and her eyebrows still darkened with charcoal.

“By the Valar,” she said. “I do not want to repeat that again.”

“What happened?” said Rador.

“I’ll bring in Barthon and tell you both,” said Idis. She fetched Barthon, and then closed the door to Rador’s office and everyone sat.

“Lady Lalaith—it is rather sad—she is not a very clever person” said Idis. “She is very, very sweet and pretty. There is not a mean fibre in her body. But there was absolutely no point me wearing a disguise because if I turned up tomorrow again, she would not recognise me.”

Barthon laughed.

Idis turned to him. “I do not jest, Barthon. She is—in the tongue of Rohan—we would say she is slow.”

“Romdaer is not like this, is he?” said Rador getting the file. He checked the public service records again and said, “No, he is intelligent, and fluent in several languages.”

“I think his family married him off to this woman to get the huge dowry and as a favour to his father’s business partner,” said Idis. “I heard so much about how darling Romdaer’s Daddy worked with Lalaith’s Daddy, and how lovely it was for her Daddy to suggest that they get married, and how nice it was for her to have pretty dresses and nice cakes, and how it is so sad that darling Romdaer has to go to Nasty Harad. She has a duenna in constant supervision, so it takes a little time to realise how very dim she is.”

“Nice cakes?” said Barthon.

“I ate an entire plateful of sweet cakes.” Idis made a face, and then she dug around in her pocket and brandished something. “And I had to take this! It is the soap she is presently obsessed with. I told you she is kind? She insisted I take it as a gift, and I could not say no; it would be like kicking a kitten.”

Barthon sneezed. “It is very strongly fragranced!”

“This is because it is tallow soap with fragrance,” said Idis, disdainfully. “It is terrible quality. I suppose I could take it home to wash clothes with.”

“Some people might be happy to have tallow soap,” said Rador.

“Yes, but those people would not be happy to pay the price of olive oil soap for tallow soap with scent,” said Idis. “It offends me!”

Barthon shook his head. “You are so strange, Idis.”

“They are taking advantage of her,” said Idis. “But moreover—I now see why the marriage to Romdaer is unhappy. I would go crazy if I had to be married to that woman. I suspect this may be why he took a job which requires him to go to Harad.”

“I would take a mistress,” said Barthon.

Idis looked at him sidelong. “It is funny you say that. I crept around the house when I was purporting to go to the toilet, and found a letter in Haradric in his bedroom. I did not get a chance to look at it closely, but it was written in women’s tongue. I shall have to work out a way to get it back later.”

She rustled around in the bodice of her dress and Barthon looked away. Then she pulled out a letter and opened it, translating it as she read it out.

“To my dear darling … Prince of Gondor … When are you coming back to Beyazim?... I long for your pale embrace and your tender … whispers … Can you bring me some more … beautiful trinkets, my love? … You know I prefer gold … I also yearn for your …” Idis paused and coloured. “I am not reading the next bit out aloud.”

After an awkward silence, she kept going. “So when you are back … come see me, my Prince … and make sure you bring … gold to open my …” She stopped again. “Ugh! I am not reading that out either.”

“I am guessing that is not his wife,” said Barthon.

“No.” Idis sniffed the letter. “This woman uses a sandalwood based perfume: quite expensive. Her name starts with S.”

“How do you know?” said Rador.

Idis held out the letter. “She signed it off with S. Well not ‘S’ exactly, because sometimes it can also be ‘Sh’ if it is in combination with—”

“Save it for the red-headed man,” said Barthon, sarcastically.

His barb went awry: Idis beamed. “Excellent idea.”

“Expensive mistress, then, if she is wearing perfume, demanding gold, and lives in Beyazim,” said Rador. “That is the capital, is it not?”

“More of a courtesan,” agreed Idis, nodding.

“But this does not explain why Romdaer would hire assassins to kill his colleague,” said Barthon.

“No,” said Idis. “Unless someone is blackmailing him, or this courtesan is some kind of an assassin?”

“More research needed,” said Rador.

“O no, I will have to go back to Lalaith tomorrow to return that letter—” said Idis, scratching her head. “And I shall have to wear the wig again because the duenna at the least will recognise me.”

“Do you know what damat means in Haradric?” said Rador to Idis, as she went to leave.

Idis raised her eyebrows. “No! A word I do not know! How did you hear it?”

“I just came across it,” said Rador.

“It must not be a common word,” said Idis. “What was the context?”

“I cannot remember,” lied Rador, and regretted raising the matter at all. “Go home, Idis.”

“Much calmer at work today,” Rador said to Talvel when he got home.

“No more romantic assignations for Idis?” said Talvel.

“We advised her to wait four or five days before asking this man to a Salon again,” said Rador.

Talvel laughed. “This is hilarious.”

The next day was calmer still. Rador began to hope that the Haradric assassins had disappeared entirely. Then he got far more prosaic and sad news: a man had been found with his throat cut, and dumped in an alleyway. Idis was still presumably at Lalaith’s so he left her a note to explain, and he and Barthon went down to the alleyway in the Second Circle.

There was an upset man in a chef’s apron and hat waiting for them by the sprawled body. “We didn’t realise he was here! I think he’s been here a few days! And I must have walked right past him, but they hid him—“

Rador knelt down. “Do we know who this man is?”

Barthon felt in his pockets. “His pockets have been emptied.”

“Reasonable clothing: not poor, not rich, middle aged,” said Rador. “Looks like a local.”

“I don’t know who he is!” said the chef. “Just came out to put out the rubbish, and knocked the old cart there and off he fell! I did think there was something a bit off smelling yesterday—thought it was the mutton.”

Rador patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you so much for alerting us. Barthon, could you take this man into his kitchen and ask him exactly what happened.”

Then he paid a boy to alert Nefreon and to send a porter down to collect the body. He did not think there was any doubt about how this man had died: the throat had been cut deeply and thoroughly. He had to pay the lad double.

“I’ve heard tell the Silent Houses are haunted,” the boy said, with big eyes. “The ghost of the Last Ruling Steward haunts it.”

“I’ve never seen him in the hundreds of times I’ve been there, lad,” said Rador. “That being said, I wouldn’t go near the Burned Crypt, but I’m not asking you to, am I? Master Nefreon is up the other end.”

Then he waited with the body until the porter from the Rath Din came down. The porter startled as he saw the body. “Swyve me, Cap’n, it’s Midhon! His wife jus’ thought he’d gone on another one of his benders—”

Rador stared at the porter. “You know him?”

“Aye, he’s a messenger at the Citadel, so of course we’ve passed while doing jobs—well, I should say he was a messenger, I s’pose, poor bastard?—has a bit of a problem with the bottle but really not that bad a man. Didn’t deserve to end like that.”

“No one deserves to end like that,” said Rador, and the porter helped him load Midhon onto the trolley and they covered him up with a sheet.

Then he went into Barthon and the chef. “We have a name: Midhon. He was a messenger at the Citadel.”

Barthon swallowed a curse word, and said, “I do not know how you do it, Captain.”

“In this case, I can take no credit. The porter from the Rath Din knew him. We’ll have to go back to the Citadel and find who his kin are, I suppose. Have you finished giving your statement, chef?”

The chef took off his cap: his hands were shaking, while the kitchen hands looked on in awe. “Aye, I have, Captain. Has the body gone?”

“It has gone. We’ll deal with it now.” Rador saw a bottle of cooking sherry by the stove, and a pewter mug. He poured the sherry into the mug. “Have a nip of this.”

The chef swallowed the sherry and said, “Thank you and farewell, Captain. I hope you catch the person who did that.”

“I hope I do too,” said Rador. “A theft, I deem, from the fact his pockets were empty? What a waste of a life.”

Then they went back up to the Citadel again to find out more about Midhon, and to inform the Steward. Minas Tirith was relatively crime-free: it was rare to have two murders in one week, let alone one year.

Idis was back in the office. “Another murder?”

“Some poor fellow killed by footpads for his money, it seems,” said Rador, sighing. “I’ll just go tell your father. Barthon, you go get his records—”

Idis drew another soap from her pocket. “Does anyone want this? And I replaced the mistress’s letter, just as before.”

“Actually, I might prefer that soap smell to a three day old body that has been rotting in an abandoned cart,” said Rador, and sniffed it, then slipped it into his pocket. He informed the Steward of the murder, and sent Idis to confer with Nefreon.

When Idis came back from the morgue, she said, “Obviously the knife cut to the throat killed that man, and Nefreon thinks he’s been there two or three days, but cannot be sure.” Then she looked shifty. “I may have invited Thor to meet me at Salon Hador tomorrow at the third bell.”

“Idis!” said Rador. “We told you to wait five days.”

Idis looked mutinous. “He said yes! And there is a professional reason for our meeting.”

Barthon came past with Midhon’s files. “What is going on?”

“Idis has invited Thorongil out for café again,” sighed Rador. “Salon Hador, third bell.”

“He will think you are an obsessive lunatic, Idis,” said Barthon, with a slight tinge of satisfaction. “We told you five days was proper.”

“I think he will not mind,” said Idis, putting her chin up. “And we are meeting for professional reasons—I did put that in my note.”

“Then he will be sorely confused,” said Barthon. “Shall I go inform Midhon’s widow, Captain?”

“I’ll come too,” said Rador.

Informing a woman that she was a widow was never pleasant, Rador reflected, as Barthon awkwardly patted the bawling middle-aged woman on the shoulder.

“Do you know of anyone who might wish your husband ill?” said Rador.

“Nooo!” howled the woman. “He wasn’t a bad man, just a bit fond of the bottle. No one had anything against him, Captain.”

The next day, Rador hoped that there would be no more bodies. Idis attended Amarchon’s funeral in the morning. On a whim, Rador went down the Embassy of Harad. Darius Khan was still at the front desk, to his relief.

“Do you think you could attend a Salon today?” Rador said in a low voice. “And tell me if you see anyone you recognise at the Salon?”

Darius brightened. “I get to assist in an investigation, Captain Rador?”

“Yes,” said Rador. “Do not make me regret trusting you. But if you want to clear your realm and discover who is at the bottom of this plot, I will need your assistance.”

“This is so exciting! I am investigating with the famous Captain Rador!” Darius exhaled suddenly. “Will Torongel and Idis be there too?”

“Yes,” said Rador.

Darius grinned. “Can I tell my office what they do? We are all being most excited by this. It is the funniest thing that is happening!”

“That can be your reward: you can tell the office how this courtship proceeds,” said Rador.

“We are thanking you again,” said Darius. “I will see you at the Salon Hador.”

“I am thanking you in anticipation. Pat your head twice if you see someone you recognise, and once if you see no one.”

When he got back to the office, Idis was sitting at her desk looking tearful after Amarchon’s funeral. Rador was touched that one person was sad about the grumpy old man’s death.

“Sometimes, when it was just me and him down there at the desk, we talked about all kinds of things,” Idis said. “I liked him. I think he was a bit ruined in the head by the War, but that applies to just about everyone, including my parents, so I do not judge him for that. I told his great-niece about it, and she said she was glad he had a friend like me.” She started to sniffle again.

“Go wash your face and concentrate on something else,” said Rador. Then he made her write up several half-finished reports.

One of the covert agents who had been following Romdaer came into Rador’s office. “Our man Romdaer left work early yesterday and went to … er … the House of Silken Delight,” he said. “He was there until about the Sixth Bell, then he went home. I did not follow him in, but waited outside.”

Rador frowned: the House of Silken Delight was a high class brothel. “Ah. Thank you very much.”

“I will write up my report shortly,” said the covert agent, and bowed and left.

Then they went down to the Salon Hador to watch Idis’s next meeting with Lord Thorongil. Thorongil recognised Darius when he entered—they nodded to one another—and Darius met Rador’s eyes and patted his head once: there were no Haradric agents in the Salon.

“I don’t hate this café,” said Rador to Barthon.

Barthon laughed. “We will teach you to become a civilised man, Captain!”

Idis and Thorongil had a short argument over who was paying for the café, and Thorongil won. Then Idis announced loudly they were going for a walk again.

After they had left the Salon, one Ranger followed them, while the other ran over to Rador’s table. “We’ll keep an eye on them. No need to follow. Odds are presently 250 to 1.”

“Thank you.” As the Ranger jogged off, Rador wondered what the odds pertained to.

Darius wandered up to their table. “I like this style of café better, but you Northerners should not spoil it with milk and vanillé.”

“When in Minas Tirith, you must do as we do,” said Barthon.

“This is a cultural experience,” said Darius, with pleasure.

Idis took a while to come back. “What were you doing?” said Barthon, when she finally returned.

“Thor and I went and sat in the park, and independently wrote down our impressions of that Salon,” said Idis. “Then we swapped papers, and discovered we had come to the same conclusion: it was better than Salon Miruvour.”

“I agree,” said Rador.

“Write your impressions down on a piece of paper, Captain! In fact you can join in too, Barthon! I will collate everyone’s answers in my final document!” Idis grinned. “By the way, Thor thinks you are both suspicious.”

Barthon snorted. “He is lucky we do not think he is suspicious. He did not think it was improper for you to invite him out again?”

“No, he said he had a nice time,” said Idis, beaming. “I told you he would not be worried. He wants to know where we are going for our next outing. I will think on it.”

“I was surprised you let him pay,” Rador said to Idis. She coloured and looked away.

“O, Idis, you slipped money into his pocket?” said Barthon.

Idis ignored this. “Thor said there was a Haradric diplomat at that Salon too.”

“We noticed him,” said Rador.

“I suspect he is my second cousin’s half-cousin,” said Idis.

“Are you related to half of Middle Earth?” said Barthon, squinting at the description.

“Probably,” said Idis in a nonchalant tone.

Over the next two weeks, Rador, Barthon, Darius and a rotating group of Rangers visited three different Salons. Darius saw no one he recognised at any of the outings, but had immense fun, and also enjoyed critiquing most of the café viciously: “Milk is bad enough, but it is disgusting that you put cream and sugar syrup in it. Disgusting. I cannot taste the café. You Northerners are savages: Cyaxares Khan would feel sick from the very thought of it. I cannot wait to disgust him with my description.”

“I do not actually like it either,” said Rador. “One day I will have to try it in the way of your people.”

“When all this is over, we will have you to the Embassy, and give you café in the civilised way, Captain,” said Darius.

Rador did not mind the Salon visits: it kept his mind off the fact that they had no headway in the matter of the murder of Midhon. They had interviewed Midhon’s wife, the chef who found the body, the other messengers, and the last man to see him, a publican at the Wheel and Barrow. No one had any notion of who might have killed Midhon.

Conversely, Barthon hated the Salon visits. “This is excruciating.”

Rador said, “Nay, it is less excruciating than it was: they are much less awkward with each other now. Do you know why the Rangers keep muttering falling odds to me, Barthon?”

Barthon grimaced. “No? Perhaps it is odds that they will gaze at each other in a way that makes me want to vomit?”

“That is a higher than even prediction. Last time they mentioned odds to me, they were 150 to 1.”

“Ye gods, maybe it is odds that they will kiss?” said Barthon.

“If that is the case, I would say the odds should be considerably lower, I am afraid,” said Rador. “I must remember to ask the Rangers what it is about.”

Barthon put his hands over his eyes. “No, no, I had a horrible thought. I hope it is not the odds that they will swy… ?”

Rador choked. “I cannot really imagine the Steward’s men betting on that! And Thorongil seems too much of a gentleman?”

“I do not want to think on it any more,” said Barthon, glumly, and left.

The next day, they had a very unpleasant case. A neighbour had reported that a woman in the Second Circle had been beaten by her husband. Rador and Barthon went down to the dwelling. Rador made a quite deliberate choice not to bring Idis.

A thin dark-eyed woman with a big bruise on her cheek opened the door. She was holding a baby, and three big eyed-children stood behind her.

“Captain Rador, Minas Tirith City Guard, and here is my King’s warrant,” said Rador.

“Please, please, go away,” whispered the woman.

There was a rough shout from within. “Oi! Who is that, Esteldes?”

“No one,” said the woman. One of the children put her hands over her eyes and shuddered.

“You are a lying bitch,” said the man, and came to the door. He was a burly unshaven man with wavy dark hair and eyes and an unpleasant curl to his lip.

Rador held up his warrant. “Captain Rador, Minas Tirith City Guard.”

The man’s eyes widened. “And why do you think you’d be here, Cap’n?”

“We received a report from a neighbour that he thought he had heard a woman being hit, and I see before me a woman with a bruise on her face.”

“I walked into the door,” said Esteldes.

“You hear that? She walked into a door. Very clumsy woman,” said the man.

“Aye, I’m sorry Cadhiron,” said Esteldes. “I’m sorry I’m not a better wife to you.”

Rador narrowed his eyes. “So, it happens I know the Steward quite well. His daughter works just down from me, and takes after her father: she knows things. I decided not to bring her down with me today because she can get a little … feisty. She might also take after her Ma. But if I hear of any further incidents involving … doors … and Mistress Esteldes, after my visit today, I’ll send her down to talk to you, Master Cadhiron.”

“I once saw my Lady Idis stab a man in the stomach with a sword after he tried to hit her,” said Barthon, inspecting his fingernails. “He died screaming, of a rotted gut.”

“Don’t let her kill my Cadhiron!” said Esteldes, grasping her husband’s arm. One of the children started to wail.

“That depends whether Cadhiron can prevent any more doors from coming and hitting you in the face,” said Rador. “Do you think you can try to restrain those doors, Cadhiron?”

The man glared at him sullenly. “Aye.”

“Good,” said Rador.

They went back up the hill in total silence.

“Sometimes this job really takes it out of you,” said Barthon as they came to their offices.

“And now, for something totally different, we have to accompany our Lady to Salon Central for her latest meeting with Lord Thorongil,” said Rador.

“This job swyves itself up the arse,” said Barthon, and went into his office and slammed the door.

Rador forbore from suggesting to Barthon that he thought this was not anatomically possible, if a job had in fact had bodily features. He was not going to chide Barthon for cursing: he felt rather the same way about poor Esteldes, and hoped they would not one day be attending to find her dead at the hands of her husband.

Salon Central in the Fourth Circle was covered in murals of flowers in purple, yellow and red. “This is giving me a headache,” moaned Barthon.

“My colleague needs café,” said Rador. “I will just have tea with sugar.”

“Bad day?” said the waiter sympathetically.

Idis came in, dressed this time in a spectacular linen dress with a floral pattern in green and blue. Rador had not know she had so many attractive dresses; most days she just wore dark split skirts and matching dark tops. As was her wont, she took out a book and started reading, and ignored him and Barthon.

As soon as Thorongil came in, Idis looked up and called out. “Hullo Thor!” Her whole face was alight.

Thorongil greeted her in a more restrained manner, and kissed her hand.

He sat and they had a short discussion, until Darius Khan came in, inspected the crowd carefully, nodded at Rador and touched his head once.

Thorongil frowned and glared at Darius. After a short conversation with Idis, to Rador’s horror, Thorongil got up and confronted Darius, trailed by Idis.

Rador could hear them quite clearly, but unfortunately the conversation was in a foreign language, presumably Haradric. Thorongil sounded polite and calm, at least, and Darius Khan was pleasant in response. For some reason he waved a small linen bag at Thorongil, and Rador tried to remember to ask Darius what that was about afterwards.

Then Idis spoke too in the foreign language. The conversation continued amicably, until Thorongil asked Darius a question. Darius replied shortly. To Rador and Barthon’s horror, Idis adopted a tone they were familiar with: her sweetly threatening tone—they did not know what she had said, but they had the sense of it.

Poor Darius gaped, and Thorongil choked, then turned to Idis. “You cannot threaten him thus when we have called each other honoured brothers,” he said in Westron.

“I find it is best if everyone knows where they stand, and I did not call him an honoured brother.” Idis crossed her arms.

Darius said something hastily in Haradric, and Thorongil bowed politely and spoke back in mollifying tones. Darius replied, and Thorongil gaped at him, then turned bright red. Darius laughed and said something else.

Thorongil stormed back to the table he was sharing with Idis, and threw himself into his chair in a unusually ungentlemanly fashion; Idis sat opposite in a much more elegant fashion. She appeared totally unworried by whatever Darius had said.

Rador missed the conversation which followed, as his and Barthon’s tea and café was brought out, and he could not hear Idis and Thorongil’s low conversation. Thorongil appeared to be chiding Idis.

Then the waiter took their orders. While they were ordering, Thorongil put his head in his hands and groaned. Idis also seemed unworried by this, and the waiter laughed.

Rador could clearly hear Thorongil’s exclamation after the waiter had gone. “Idis—!”

“I wonder what she said?” said Barthon, raising his eyebrows at Rador.

The waiter brought out the drinks, and Thorongil and Idis were silent again for some time. When they resumed talking again, their conversation was distinctly stilted.

“Pretty Boy Genius is not happy,” said Barthon in a whisper.

“O no, Idis is about to lose her temper,” said Rador, as he saw her face go stiff and cold, and then she slammed her spoon down on the table.

They began arguing loudly, audible even to Rador and Barthon.

“Do you really care about what other people think?” Idis said, with derision.

Thorongil remained calm and emotionless. There was an air about him which reminded Rador of the Steward, he realised with surprise. “Yes. I have to care, and so should you.”

Idis stood and put her hands on her hips. “Very well.”

“Where are you going?” said Thorongil sharply, looking up at her.

Idis narrowed her eyes. “Does it matter to you? And I am going to pay—we are not going to have that stupid fight about who pays, because it is boring.”

“I am sorry I am boring,” said Thorongil, in flat tones.

“I am sorry I am not worth meeting with,” said Idis bitterly. Then she turned and walked out, and handed the surprised waiter what looked like a gold coin.

Thorongil stood up. “Idis—!” He rushed to the doorway and looked out. The Rangers sighed and rose too.

The waiter approached Thorongil, and they had a low conversation. Thorongil took the change from the waiter, and ran his hands through his red hair so that it stood up. Then he ran out into the street, followed by the resigned Rangers.

“O dear,” said Rador.

“Ha, now he sees what she is really like,” said Barthon.

“And he is distraught that she is upset, and seeks her out,” said Rador.

Darius strolled over to their table. “What a shame, but as the poet said, ‘Love is the sea where the intellect drowns’.”

“What did you say to them?” said Rador.

“We discussed my cousin Imrazor Khan, who is also a relative of Idis Hatun’s, and then Idis threatened to kill ‘my people’ if they killed Torongel Khan. Torongel, of course, is a man with tact and discernment: he understood that my people have not done these things. To ease his embarrassment, I said that I understood that Idis wished to protect him because he was her lover, and Torongel became strangely shy, and tried to pretend he has not been gazing at Idis like a mother deer gazes at its fawn, then ran away.” Darius laughed. “There is much to tell my office.”

“I think this romance is over anyway,” said Barthon, putting his chin up.

“O no, I think it has only just begun,” said Darius. “‘The wound is the place where the light enters in,’ the poet says. Maybe now that they have fought, they will admit what is happening. Do keep me updated on any further developments!”

He wandered out.

Barthon and Rador walked slowly back to the office.

“It would be a pity if Idis has ruined this for herself,” said Rador.

“Mmmhm,” said Barthon. “But anyone who wants to live with her must know what she is like?”

“True,” said Rador. “Perhaps this is a test.”

Idis came past, her eyes flashing and her arms crossed over her front. “Hmph! Who cares what people presume! I care not at all! I care not a fig!” she said to the world in general.

Rador and Barthon looked at each other and went to her office. She was sitting at her desk with her arms still crossed.

“What happened?” said Barthon.

“Thor said we have to stop seeing each other because people were presuming things about us. Who cares about that?”

Barthon sat down on the spare chair. “A decent lower level noble who cares about the reputation of the woman he is trying to woo, Idis.”

Idis blinked. “What?”

“Thor is lower than you; only just above being a high level commoner. He has to be very careful about his reputation. You are one level below the Royal family, and therefore you can … well, you can do anything you like, really.”

Idis stared at Barthon. “There are many things I cannot do.”

“I was being figurative,” said Barthon. “You do not have to wed. You are rich and powerful in your own right. I am guessing Thorongil is of a similar status to me and has no land of his own? He doesn’t even have his own horse—hence why he joined the mounted infantry—”

Idis bit her lip. “I have said to him repeatedly that I do not care about that.”

Barthon sighed. “Moreover, Thorongil would know that women have to guard their reputation, and that they find themselves ostracised if it becomes known that they are loose or inappropriate.”

“That is downright unfair,” said Idis, giving Barthon a strange look. “Men are not ostracised.”

No, they are not,” said Rador. “The fact that Thorongil is worried that he may affect your reputation adversely suggests that he cares about you.”

Idis blushed. “O no! I told him he did not care about me!”

“We heard,” said Barthon, disapprovingly.

“He was distressed afterwards,” said Rador. “He ran out onto the street looking for you.”

Idis cast her eyes down and said something in Rohirric. Then she said, in flat tones, “I ruin everything I touch.”

“That is not true, Idis,” said Barthon. “You can apologise to him?”

“I shall draft out some apologies,” said Idis.

Rador exhaled: he was finding Idis-in-courting-mode very frustrating. “But—dare I ask—do you and Lord Thorongil have any useful conclusions from all these Salon visits?”

Idis brightened. “Yes! We have been most diligent in our conclusions! Three out of five have the bitter café! All Salons say it is from Harad.” Her eyes narrowed. “Also, Darius Khan is suspicious. He was lying when he said he kept seeing us by accident, and he also lied when he said there was no issue with the café trade in Harad.”

“I told him where you were meeting to check there were no Haradrim watching your Thorongil,” said Rador. “So far, he has not recognised anyone at any Salon. The point about the café trade is interesting. I do not know what that is about, but I doubt he will tell us.”

Idis squinted. “Who, then, is watching Thor? Someone must have been watching him, to tip off the assassins.”

“His colleagues are still the obvious ones,” said Barthon.

“Hmm.” Idis looked concerned. “Maybe I need to threaten the colleagues?”

“No!” said Rador. “We have no basis to threaten them!”

They all went back to their offices, and Rador wrote up a report on Esteldes and Cadhiron, including his suspicion that Cadhiron was an aggressive husband and father who was responsible for Esteldes’s bruises. He asked Barthon to check whether there were any records relating to Cadhiron.

Shortly afterwards, a Ranger loped past Rador’s office and then stopped. “Where is Idis’s office?”

Rador got up and led the Ranger to Idis’s office. Idis looked up at them both, an utterly miserable expression on her face.

The Ranger said, “Just to let you know, your man has left the office early, m’Lady. Prince said we were to tell you if he did anything out of his routine.”

Idis glared. “Early? Why? What’s he doing?”

The Ranger shrugged. “He plans to go to the Eagle and Star.”

Idis stood and frowned. “I could go to him now. I think I need to apologise to him?”

Rador snorted: Idis sometimes lacked patience. “Apologise tomorrow.”

“Definitely better to sleep on it,” said the Ranger, in kind tones. “Cap’n is right. We’ll look after him. He’ll be more than happy to accept your apology tomorrow.”

Idis looked them with huge grey eyes. “I just have an awful feeling—that something terrible is going to happen.”

Rador exchanged a glance with the Ranger. The Ranger said, with alacrity, “I’ll go along too, tonight, if that will put you at ease, my Lady. Ambon and Livon are already with him.”

Idis frowned. “All I ever do is watch and follow. It took me months to get up the courage to speak to him, Halben. Months. It is time for action.”

The Ranger sighed. “As I say, m’Lady, we’ll take care of him.”

Idis put her hands on her hips. “I’m coming with you, Halben.”

Rador did not feel he could let this foolishness stand. “Idis—!”

The Ranger gestured to his black clothing. “You’d need City gear. Forget it.”

Idis smiled like a cat with the cream. “I have both Forest and City gear.”

The Ranger stiffened and stared at her. “Have you been ambushing people lately, m’Lady?”

Rador shook his head. “Of course she has.”

The Ranger set his jaw. “I’d better get back to your man. Apologise to him tomorrow, m’Lady, and please don’t fear. I’ll speak to you then.” He strode off at a brisk trot.

Idis came out and watched the Ranger go, her face filled with strain. “I must join them too. I know this.”

Rador’s arms prickled. “I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?”

“I will kill myself if I have ruined this,” said Idis, in conversational tones. “Why do I always have to destroy my own chances?”

Rador sighed. “I am wise enough to know when there is no point resisting you.”

To his shock, Idis briefly hugged him. “Thank you!” Then she went back into her office. “I’m changing into City gear—”

Shortly after, Barthon came back upstairs from the records office. “Where is Idis? She’s not in her office?”

“She’s joining the Rangers on security detail,” sighed Rador. “She was saying that she would kill herself if I didn’t let her—so I let her go—I’m inferring from what the Rangers said that Thorongil has gone to a public house to get drunk—”

“Why does Thorongil have all the fun?” said Barthon. “Today has been a horrible day.”

Rador said, “Come into my office, lad.” He got out his emergency bottle of wine out from the back of the cupboard. “Let us have just one glass.”

So they sat in Rador’s office with two mismatched glasses and some fine Dol Amroth wine.

“The quality of the wine makes up for the glasses,” said Rador.

“It’s a fine drop,” said Barthon. “I hope that man does not kill his wife.”

“We did what we could,” said Rador. “I just hope he does not punish her for our visit—”

“I wish I could help her more,” said Barthon. “Why does she stay with him?”

“Because she has children with him, and relies upon him as the breadwinner. And maybe she has affection for him, or had affection once.”

“I cannot think about it any more,” said Barthon.

They had a second glass, agreeing that it was too lovely to waste. They talked for some time about satisfying cases they had solved, and eventually recalled the case when they had first met Idis: the case involving the murdered fish merchant.

“I thought she was totally insane,” said Barthon.

“She is,” said Rador. “Just in a … semi-functioning and quite useful way. Maybe we’re all a little insane, Barthon.”

“I have a confession to make. Idis and I—we … ah … um … we—” Barthon went scarlet and looked down at his glass.

“—You walked out together,” finished Rador. “She told me several weeks ago, and I am afraid that it stuck out like a sore thumb anyway from how you were both behaving about Thorongil.”

Barthon stared. “What did she say?”

“Just that you had walked out for a time, and then you both decided to treat it as if nothing had ever happened,” said Rador, delicately. “Also something about drawing a dagger on some passer-by who thought she was a man?”

Barthon laughed. “She did! The man spat at us and she drew those bloody daggers and shouted ‘I am going to cut your private bits off’. I have never seen anyone run so fast.”

Rador was curious. “Why did you stop walking out?”

“She said that I wasn’t going to marry her, and she did not want her heart broken. The worst of it is… maybe she was right. But I still think she’s amazing and beautiful—and I still—”

“You’ll have to get over it,” said Rador, pouring a third large glass of wine for each of them, to finish off the bottle.

“Pretty Boy Genius,” said Barthon, taking a large drink, and slurring a little. “She told me she would only sleep with a man if she knew he would marry her.”

“Ah,” said Rador. “That seems fair enough.”

They sat in silence for some time.

Eventually Rador said, “I hope Thorongil does marry her. Because she strikes me as a lonely person. When she was telling me about accessing his records, she said, ‘I do not often find people who are like me, so I just had to look more once I started’.”

“I hope she’s happy too,” said Barthon. “It is just—I cannot help feeling a little jealous—”

“Don’t,” said Rador, patting him on the shoulder. “You will find someone who is right for you.”

By the time they finished the bottle, they were both quite unsteady.

“I’m glad—“ said Rador, waving his finger, “—I’m glad that even if she ends up leaving and marrying this man, you’ll be staying, lad. You are a very good Lieutenant, very hard working. The best.”

“Yes,” said Barthon. “I mean it’s a hard job and all that, but remembering those cases we solved, Cap’n—I’m lucky to work with you—”

Rador made sure Barthon got home safely, and then wandered home. Talvel stared at him. “O, Rador! A bad day? Emergency bottle of wine?”

“Man beat his wife,” said Rador. “Awful. We worry he will end up killing her. And there’s nothing we can do.”

Talvel made him eat soup and then tucked him up in bed. When he woke in the morning it was later than usual and he had a headache.

“Argh!” he said, as his valet shaved and washed his face. “I am reminded of why I leave the emergency bottle of wine for emergencies. I am never drinking to excess again!”

“Until the next emergency bottle of wine,” said Talvel. “There’s one a year.”

The autumn sunlight seemed far too bright when he walked up the hill to the Citadel. When he arrived neither Idis nor Barthon were there, but there was a note on his door.

Come and speak to me. Faramir.

His heart sinking, Rador removed the note and quickly made his way to the Steward’s office. The Treasurer was there already, but the Steward said, “I’m sorry Lady Treasurer; Captain Rador takes precedence. I will be quick.”

Rador went into the Steward’s office with trepidation. The Steward did not go through his usual ceremony of making tea. Instead he said, “Idis is fine, but she is at the Houses of Healing keeping watch on her Lord Thorongil.”

Rador blinked. “What? What happened?”

“Thorongil was attacked again, and poisoned,” said the Steward. “He has woken briefly this morning, they tell me, much to Idis’s relief. She and the Rangers killed three assassins. Their bodies were transported to the morgue.”

“Would you like me to investigate this incident?” said Rador.

“Yes, please.”

“Is Idis really well?”

The Steward nodded. “Now that she knows Thorongil is not going to die, I believe she is well. She was uninjured, but she would not sleep until he woke and looked at her. I understand the Healers have now persuaded her that sleep is necessary.”

There was a knock at the door and Halben put his head in. “Hullo Prince, hullo Captain: Thor has woken again and, this time, he is talking. The Healers say he should be fine after some bed rest.”

“Good news,” said the Steward.

“Healer Pedriel said that after wondering where he was and what had happened, the next thing he did was ask where Idis was,” said Halben, with satisfaction.

The Steward said, “His memory was affected?”

“Unfortunately he doesn’t recall anything after that little Army chap left,” said Halben. “What a shame. I was looking forward to teasing him, but I daresay the Lady’d kill me if I did.”

“Very good, Halben, thank you again, and go get some rest too,” said the Steward. “And I will speak to you later, Captain Rador; I must talk to the Treasurer now”

Rador followed Halben out. “Pity you didn’t take my offer to bet yesterday, Captain,” said Halben. “The odds have now shortened dramatically.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Rador.

“Idis and Thor,” said Halben. “We’re betting whether they’ll marry. But it has now gone down to 10 to 1. I expect it will shorten further.”

“By the Valar!” said Rador. “What happened? She didn’t propose to him did she?”

“No, he declared his love for her,” said Halben. “Just after he vomited and just before he passed out over my shoulder. It was hilarious. He’s mad as a box of frogs, of course. We approve: he knows a good thing when he sees it.”

“I shall have to find a new assistant.” Rador could not help feeling sad.

He went back to his office and checked on a grey-faced Barthon. “I am never drinking again,” said Barthon.

“Nor am I,” agreed Rador. “By the by, Idis is at the Houses of Healing keeping vigil on Thorongil, but it looks as if he will pull through.”

“What happened to Pretty Boy Genius?” said Barthon, with wide eyes.

“Attacked by assassins again. Idis and the Rangers killed them, and we are to check their bodies. I should also warn you that the Rangers are betting on whether Idis and Thorongil will marry, and the odds have shortened dramatically from 50 to 1 to 10 to 1, since last night.”

“He must be a lunatic,” said Barthon, moodily. “I mean, what kind of person would fall for Idis?”

“The Rangers came to the same conclusion: that he is quite mad,” noted Rador. “They were pleased about it.”

Barthon sighed. “This is not helping my headache.”

“Let us defer visiting the assassins until this afternoon,” said Rador. “They are not going anywhere, and I very much doubt there is anything which will give us clues to their identity: it is simply a matter of squaring the ledger.”

Instead he read Cadhiron’s file and ascertained that the man had been jailed for brawling and theft in the past. He wrote a note about the incident with Esteldes and put it on the file.

Just before lunch, Idis came in. She looked exhausted, and had a long scratch down one cheek, but she also looked serene, in a way he had never seen before.

“Hullo, Idis, how is Lord Thorongil?” said Rador. “Your father told me he had been injured.”

“Thor is sleeping.” Idis turned to him, her face glowing. “I will see him again tomorrow. They said I should not excite him too much—I very much want him to be well again—so I left him to rest.”

“You look like you need more sleep yourself,” said Rador.

“No, I cannot sleep now,” said Idis, dreamily. She came closer to Rador’s desk, and whispered, “Thor likes me! He told me he loved me!”

Rador suspected from her expression that the odds should probably be lowered to 5 to 1. She drifted off. He was not going to ask her to do any work today.

After lunch, he called Barthon to go see the assassins. Idis drifted out too, still smiling, and Barthon stared at her. “You are back?”

“Yes,” said Idis. “I will come and see my handiwork.”

“Did the Houses of Healing give you tincture of poppy?” said Barthon.

“No,” said Idis. “They did not give me anything.” Ordinarily she would have bristled at such a suggestion.

“You should rest,” said Rador.

“If I can find out anything about these people who tried to kill my Thor, I will do it,” said Idis, with a touch of her normal acerbity.

Rador gave up, and they went down to the Rath Din in silence. Idis did not follow her usual practice of turning her face away from the Burnt Crypt when they passed it.

When they got there, Nefreon said, “Someone is trying to make me work overtime!”

“I am responsible for one of these,” said Idis. “I can tell you exactly how all the deaths occurred.”

Nefreon stared at her. “Are you well, Lady Idis?”

“I have never been better,” said Idis.

They went through to the morgue. Three naked dark-skinned men wearing only loincloths lay on stone biers.

“There was nothing distinctive about their clothing, apart from the fact that it was the kind of clothing typically associated with Haradric assassins, and nothing to indicate their identities,” said Nefreon.

“I am sadly unsurprised. Where do you think they come from?” said Rador.

“It could be Harad, it could be Khand, it could be Umbar. They could even hail from Gondor, the way things are these days,” said Nefreon.

“One of them bore a dagger coated with snakebite poison from Khand,” said Idis.

Nefreon winced. “Nasty stuff: induces an intense and painful burning feeling. I hope they did not get you with it?”

Idis’s brows drew together, and her tone sharpened. “No. They got poor Thor—he was in such pain—and that one there hit Thor over the head, so I killed him.”

“Ah,” said Nefreon. “This dagger thrust here? Very surgical, my Lady, right between the ribs. He would have died quickly.”

“The other two—Halben and I stabbed this fellow; Halben is responsible for the sword wound to the gut; I am responsible for the cut to his side—then Halben caught him by the arm. Ambon and Livon also caught and pinned this fellow, but both assassins took the poison that smelled of bitter almonds before we could speak to them,” said Idis.

“You did not even need me,” said Nefreon, sulkily. “That was what I was just about to tell you.”

“We did need you,” said Idis. “You are always helpful, Master Nefreon. It is good to have confirmation, because one can miss things in action. It also shows how accurate you are.”

“What happened to the man they were trying to kill?” said Nefreon, his humour restored by Idis’s compliment.

Idis looked dreamy again. “Thor is in the Houses of Healing, sleeping. They were concerned last night that he might not awake, and that his head was fractured, but he woke this morning—praise the Valar!—and later he spoke to me.”

“Have they given you tincture of poppy, my Lady?” said Nefreon, curiously.

Idis blinked. “No? Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“It is something about your manner,” said Nefreon.

“She did not get much sleep, I hear,” said Rador, “but she has refused to go home.”

Idis was not listening to him: she was looking off into the distance, smiling happily.

“They have definitely given her something,” said Barthon in an undertone, and Nefreon nodded.

“I will send her home after this,” said Rador. “Farewell, and thank you Master Nefreon.”

On the way back to the Citadel, Rador finally managed to persuade Idis to go back to the Steward’s House. He and Barthon escorted her there, and left her with a housekeeper, imploring the housekeeper to make sure she rested.

“I really hope this is the end of people being killed in Minas Tirith,” said Rador, once they had returned to the office.

“I agree,” said Barthon.

One of the agents who had been following Gadrion came in. “Finally our man does something interesting! Today was his free day, and he spent it by dressing up in a terrible disguise and going to the horse races and putting large bets on horses.”

“A terrible disguise?” said Rador.

“Yes, a false beard,” said the agent. “It was ridiculous. He took it off when he got to the races.”

“His family have a reputation for being conservative and severe, from the profile and the background checks,” said Rador. “Perhaps the main aim was to stop them recognising him on the street? After all, they would be unlikely to attend the races themselves.”

“Likely so, but I cannot help but disapprove of his disguise,” said the agent. “It made me itch.”

Rador laughed, and thanked the man. Then he called in Barthon and told him what had the agents had reported.

“Gadrion is finally interesting!” said Barthon. “Well, I am glad for him. Previously he appeared to be the most boring man on Middle Earth.”

“The public service background checks said nothing about gambling,” said Rador. “I wonder if this is a new habit?”

“I could talk to the bookies at the racecourse tomorrow?” said Barthon.

“Good idea,” said Rador.

The next day, Idis came in late, looking much better: much less pale, and the scratch on her cheek had faded. “I am glad I made you go home and sleep,” Rador said. “You were in a state of shock yesterday.”

“Not so much shock, as the most intense relief I have ever felt,” said Idis. “It was horrible; waiting to see whether Thor would regain consciousness. I did not want to lose him before I had had a chance to apologise for our fight.”

Rador then received an irritating letter from the head of the Merchant Guild demanding that he explain why Minas Tirith was suffering from a “plague of murders” and demanding that he explain himself at the next King’s Council meeting.

He wrote back explaining that the first death was at the hands of assassins, possibly Haradric; three of the deaths were not murders, but involved covert operatives dispatching of the assassins after they had again attempted to attack their original target; and the final death was as yet unexplained. He then said tartly that this was hardly a “plague of murders”, and indeed that the Head of the Guild should be happy that the assassins had been removed. He also said he was happy to report to the Council at its next meeting, at which point he would hopefully know more about the matter.

Idis put her head in and said she was going to visit Thor at the Houses of Healing, and Rador waved her away.

Just before lunch Barthon came back and said he had spoken to the men at the racetrack. Gadrion was well known to the bookies for placing large bets, had only been attending the races for the last year, and had strange three month gaps where he did not attend races.

“That would be when he was on rotation in Harad,” said Rador. “What happened this time last year?”

They opened up Gadrion’s file and looked at the previous year. The only thing in his file was a recommendation for promotion.

“He got more money and decided to play with it?” hazarded Barthon.

“It might well be,” said Rador. “I can see nothing else?”

After lunch Idis came back. “How is Pretty Boy Genius?” said Barthon.

“Thor is doing much better today,” said Idis, haughtily. “I will thank you not to call him that, even in jest. I met Romdaer by the way, and Thor’s silly friend Duinion, from the Embassy to Rohan. Romdaer was noticeably nervous around me: it was suspicious. Moreover, Thor told me that Gadrion knew that he was going to the Eagle and Star.”

Rador said, “If we were suspicious of every man who was notably nervous around you, Idis, an awful lot of people would be in trouble. However, the point about Gadrion is interesting: he started gambling on horses heavily about a year ago. We know Romdaer was not around to hear of where Thorongil was going, but the Haradrim may have tailed Thorongil?”

“I am going back home to Emyn Arnen tomorrow,” said Idis. “I will be gone for four or five days.”

“Why?” said Barthon.

Idis sighed. “I must be fitted for bridesmaid dresses for my sister Morwen’s wedding. I will leave early to pack, and ride out tomorrow.”

“Which sibling is this?” said Barthon. “I get so confused.”

“She is the eighth one, seven years younger than me, and the third sister,” said Idis. “She does not often come to Minas Tirith. Mummy thinks coming out into society is extremely stupid, and Morwen had some bad experiences with the gentry here anyway, so she never bothered—”

“Does she bear daggers?” Barthon asked.

“No, there is no need,” said Idis, her grey eyes glinting like steel. “I look after her.” She strode off.

“I am reasonably sure that Idis left Lord Cabron permanently incapacitated over ten years ago after he foolishly made a loud public comment that he would like to deflower fourteen-year-old Morwen, and was overheard by the House of Húrin siblings,” said Rador.

“I have no doubt,” said Barthon. “She has never confessed anything to me, but it has all the hallmarks of a young and angry Idis.”

The days after Idis left were slow. Rador reflected that no one ever realised how much investigative work simply involved grinding through possibilities and evidence, and eliminating them. They had made no progress on why assassins would want to kill Thorongil, nor on the case of Midhon.

Rador became desperate enough to ask someone from the Haradric Embassy to come to the morgue to inspect the slowly decomposing corpses of the dead assassins. He explained to Darius Khan that they had again attacked Thorongil.

“Did Idis kill them?” said Darius, with wide eyes.

“Actually, yes, she killed one,” said Rador.

“I thought they would reconcile,” said Darius, and fetched Ambassador Ardeshir.

“I do not recognise them,” Ambassador Ardeshir said, after looking solemnly at the bodies. “I do not know where they may be from: it may be Harad, Khand or Umbar. I will inform the Emperor, may he live forever, so that he is aware, but it may take some time to get a reply.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” said Rador.

“Tell me, Captain, is it true that Lord Thorongil from your Embassy to Harad is now courting the Lady Idis?” said Ambassador Ardeshir.

“It is true,” said Rador. He could see no reason not to tell the truth, given what he had already said to Darius, but he hoped desperately that he had not made a diplomatic error.

Ardeshir laughed. “O, a very elegant move! Will Thorongil become damat, or will he be eliminated?”

“What is ‘damat’?” asked Rador.

“It is a man who becomes royal by marrying a Princess,” said Ardeshir solemnly. “It is a most respectable way to gain rank.”

“Is that why she was mooning about?” said Nefreon. “Not tincture of poppy, but in love?”

“Aye, she is besotted,” said Rador. “The feeling is mutual, as far as we can work out.”

“How sweet!” said Nefreon, revealing an unexpectedly romantic side.

Barthon grunted. “Utterly cloying and quite disturbing.”

“If I come across anything that can help you, I will inform you,” said Ardeshir. “It is not in our interests to have people such as these men causing problems in Gondor.”

Rador bowed. “And I will inform you if there are any developments. At the moment, I am sadly bereft of leads, however.”

Idis returned from Emyn Arnen, four days after she had left, in the afternoon, glowing with happiness. “Hullo! I’m back! And Thor and I have made a breakthrough, I think!”

“What? How?” said Rador.

“Well, I visited Thor as soon as I got back to Minas Tirith this morning—he is doing very well by the way!—and we met with the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Thor asked the Warden about café beans, and the Warden said that a new café bean has been found—it is cheaper and easier to grow than the usual version, but it tastes more bitter—we ate a bean each!—he calls it Caffea Mysteriosa and says it hails from Khand.”

“Report on the Growth of Khandian Café Beans from the 20th year of the Fourth Age,” said Rador, thoughtfully.

“Yes!” said Idis. “I deem it is something to do with that. The picture is becoming clearer. Recall that the café in three out of five Salons was bitter?”

“Could someone in Harad be trying to conceal the fact that there is a cheaper competitor bean from Khand?” asked Rador.

“Maybe,” said Idis. “We need more evidence.”

“The Haradric Embassy disclaims the Emperor’s involvement,” said Rador.

Idis shrugged. “That means nothing. In any case, Thor and I are going to go to a different Salon tomorrow: a much more authentically Haradric one. We shall not require your presence: I think the Rangers will be enough.”

“Is Thorongil well enough for that?” said Rador.

“He still gets tired,” said Idis. “He will need the approval of Deputy Warden Halvien, but I will look after him.”

Rador told Barthon about Idis and Thorongil’s discovery. “Do we know if this bean is sold in Gondor?” said Barthon.

“I do not think we know,” said Rador. “Idis says she and Thorongil are going to do more research tomorrow.”

“I will see what I can find as well,” said Barthon.

Idis was late into work the next day. “What were you doing?” said Rador.

“Organising a new suit for Thor,” said Idis. “I do not want waiters to be rude to him.”

Rador blinked as he took in what she was wearing. “That is a very nice green dress, Idis! And I have never seen you wear jewellery before?”

Idis touched her hair self-consciously: it was in an ornate chignon with hair pins. “I look nice? I mean, Thor seemed happy enough when I had unbrushed, unwashed hair and a second-hand Houses of Healing dress, but Morwen and Daerien told me I should dress up and wear jewellery, so I have done so.”

“He will appreciate you making an effort, I am sure. Morwen and Daerien are your sisters, no?”

Idis blushed. “Yes, the younger two. I was not intending to tell them, but it sort of came out, and my brother Dior told everyone because he is a pest—”

“Ah well, never mind. How was the bridesmaid dress fitting?”

Idis sighed. “Rose, rose, rose. Who knew rose could come in so many shades? There is still four or five months until the wedding and I am already sick of it. But I will do it, even if they will not let me wear my daggers or a sword.”

Rador laughed. “You can wear daggers for your own wedding.”

Idis narrowed her eyes at Rador. “You have not been talking to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, Captain?”

Rador shook his head. “No, the Rangers.”

“O, they are even worse,” said Idis. “I would worry that they would scare Thor off, but he does not seem worried at all: just a bit confused.”

“Do we get to meet him properly one day?”

“When he is out of the Houses of Healing, yes.”

After lunch Idis went off to the Houses of Healing. Barthon said, “By Ea, was Idis wearing jewellery? And another silk dress?”

“Apparently her sisters impressed upon her that she should,” said Rador. “Have we made any headway with the murder of our messenger?”

“Still no leads at all,” said Barthon, glumly.

“Maybe someone mistook him for someone else?” said Rador. “Go and interview the messengers again.”

Barthon sighed. “Very well.”

In the late afternoon, just before Rador was about to go home, Idis came rushing back into Rador’s office, still dressed in her finery. “Thor and I have discovered something really interesting!”

Rador sat up. “What?”

“Remember the two types of beans? We went to a Salon with authentic Haradric café—the Golden Mûmak—we recommend it, by the way. We got into a discussion with the owner. He says that some Salons have been cutting their café beans with cheap Khandian café and charging as if it is expensive Haradric café!”

Rador said, “So—it is definitely something to do with the café beans—now we just have to work out who is behind it?”

“Yes, as Thor said, only part of the picture has been revealed, but it is better than a sliver.”

“You were quite some time?” said Rador.

Idis blushed. “I took him back to the Houses, and we sat in the Garden for a while and … talked. Then they made me go away so he could rest.” She sat up and stared. “We met Thor’s brother! Well, half-brother. He is very pompous!”

“Judge De—?” began Rador, and stopped.

“Yes. It was awkward. Thor was—well—he was holding my hand, actually; and he had to let go in case his brother saw, and his brother gave us both a very disapproving look.”

“That Judge is a pompous stuffed baboon,” said Rador. “I feel sorry for your Thorongil.”

“That Judge is the one who refused your order in that gem smuggling case because he said there was not enough evidence, is he not?”

Rador scowled. “He is not forgiven. I am sure they were able to hide or fence off gems as a result.”

“He seemed annoying to me too,” said Idis. “It is funny how people in a family are different, is it not? The judge is tall, fat and balding with dark hair, and Thor is a little shorter, thin and has a full head of red hair. They do look the same when they are surprised however: like owls.” Idis did a slow round-eyed blink.

Barthon passed Rador’s office. “I had no success with the messengers.”

Idis sat up. “Why are you looking at messengers? I was going to talk to the messengers tomorrow.”

“This man Midhon, whose throat was cut three weeks ago, was a messenger,” said Rador. “Did you not realise?”

Idis’s face paled. “O, no. O, no.”

“What is wrong?” said Barthon.

“What was the estimate for when he died? It was not the same day that Thor got attacked in the Archives, was it?”

Rador stared at her. “Well, yes, give or take a day. You do not think it was related?”

“Thor and I were talking about it before, when we were sitting in the Gardens. We decided that someone had to send a messenger to call the assassins, because they could not simply be hiding in the Archives, could they?”

Rador and Barthon gaped. “So—the messenger delivered a message which must have seemed normal enough, and then the assassins killed him later?” said Barthon.

“Thorongil must have dithered an awful lot on his way to the Archives,” said Rador. “For someone to call a messenger to get assassins into the Archives?”

Idis blushed a little. “I have noticed that, sometimes, Thor just stops where he is and starts thinking.  So he may not have been particularly quick in getting down to the Archives. In any case, it narrows it down to three people, all of whom would know what Thor is like: Romdaer, Gadrion and Amarchon.”

“One of the first two for choice,” said Rador.

“What we still do not know is why?” said Barthon.

Idis’s face went paler still. “I think Thor is the only one who can put together all the pieces we have found, because he has the trade knowledge and the knowledge of Harad and Khand.” She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip until it was bloodless. “How can I keep him safe? I wish I could take him to Emyn Arnen. I wish we were already wed—”

Barthon startled. “You are not engaged?”

“No. But he might have said something today—well, anyway, that is between him and I—”

“I hope the Rangers lower the odds,” said Rador.

“I hope this fellow is decent,” said Barthon, darkly.

Idis sat up. “He is! When you meet him properly, Barthon, you will be incapable of disliking him. He has a delightful disarming manner.”

“A disarming manner is very useful if you are going to court a woman who carries knives,” said Rador drily, to ease the tension which had suddenly arisen in the room.

Idis laughed. “True.” Then her brows drew together. “I will not let anyone hurt him.” She got up and walked out.

“By the Valar,” said Barthon. “They are going to marry, aren’t they?”

“Everyone seems to think so,” said Rador. “This man must have a pleasant manner, however, because even the people from the Harad Embassy liked him, and he befriended prisoners of war and successfully questioned them on tens of occasions, if that military record is anything to go by.”

“It may be that Idis needs someone with a pleasant manner, to take the edge off,” said Barthon.

“Do you know of whom I am reminded?” said Rador. “Her parents. That was all very sudden: they met, fell in love and got engaged in a matter of weeks.”

Barthon stared at Rador. “Speaking of her parents: how many siblings does Idis have again? If she takes after her mother, she may produce hordes of insanely talented linguistic geniuses who bear knives? Because all of Idis’s siblings of whom I know have had hordes as well—”

Rador put his head on the desk. “There are ten siblings, and yes, the married siblings have all produced prodigious numbers of children at regular intervals. And he is from a reasonably large family too! I do not think Middle Earth is ready for this.”

The next day Rador took Barthon to his meeting with Master Gaudon, the head of the Merchant’s Guild. He explained that there was not a plague of murders and that they thought all the deaths were related to a trade dispute regarding café.

Master Gaudon patted his beard. “Ah. Well, there has been an increase in competition between the Haradrim and the Khandians, I believe: I alerted Lord Romdaer to it. It does not really affect my guild directly as café is not locally produced.”

“Only indirectly,” agreed Rador, “in that there may be a trade war—in the real sense, once assassins are involved—between Harad and Khand.”

Master Gaudon sighed. “Khandians are mad. But we must deal with them for spices, and our trade with them is lucrative.”

“You don’t have any idea of who might have hired the assassins? Is there a Haradric café guild?”

“Yes, there is: Asherbani Khan is the current head—a canny, ruthless man. The Khandians—it is hard to separate their trade from their government. Everything is tightly controlled there.”

“So it could be either?”

“You need to talk to Gondor’s Embassy to Harad,” said Master Gaudon. “I recommend that you talk to either Deputy Ambassador Arahaelon, First Trade Attaché Romdaer or Third Trade Attaché Thorongil.”

Seeing Barthon grimace, Master Gaudon said, “I know that the latter is the most junior man in the Embassy, and very quiet, but he is competent and has a good head for trade.”

“Pretty Boy Genius,” said Barthon under his breath, and Rador kicked him.

“Arahaelon is in Harad, and Thorongil is in the Houses of Healing—it was he who was attacked by the assassins. It was unclear whether he would regain consciousness at first,” he explained to Master Gaudon. “I am not sure whether the Healers will let me talk to him.”

Master Gaudon gasped. “The poor lad! Maybe talk to First Trade Attaché Romdaer then?”

“What of the Ambassador?” said Rador, curiously.

Master Gaudon assumed a pious face. “My dear old Mama always said, ‘Gaudy, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.’”

“Ah, so our impression is correct,” said Rador with satisfaction.

“I said nothing,” said Master Gaudon, winking. “And thank you for the reassurance. My members were quite anxious that people would be put off from dealing with us here in Minas Tirith. I shall now be able to put their minds at rest. It is nothing to do with us at all: it is the Southrons.”

When they got back from the Merchant’s Guild, Idis was back in the office. “Thor is being released tomorrow,” she said, tapping her foot. “I know Daddy is putting guards on him, but I am still worried.”

“Should he really be returning to work?” said Rador.

“Only half days,” said Idis. “I will go to him at lunchtimes for the first week, and I shall escort him home. I promised Deputy Warden Halvien, but do not tell Thor about it.”

“Everywhere we go, they tell us to speak to Deputy Ambassador Arahaelon, Romdaer or Thorongil if we want to know useful information,” said Rador.

“I deem from what Thor says that the Harad office is a little … dysfunctional,” said Idis. “His attitude seems to be to ignore it and do the best he can with what he has, which I would be unable to cope with.”

“He is too junior to do otherwise,” said Barthon. “I expect he is keeping quiet until he is in a position to make changes.”

“Getting back to our assassins, we think that they must have been hired from someone from either Harad or Khand, connected with the café bean importation: likely a merchant or merchants from those countries.” Rador grimaced. “This is going to be very hard to investigate. We are going to have to bring your Thorongil into it, I think. He may have to investigate in both Harad and Khand. Has he ever dealt with the King’s Intelligence Service before, Idis?”

“We have obviously never discussed it,” said Idis, loftily. “However, I think he would be an exceptional recruit. I will speak to Daddy.”

“I will ask him to join us for a meeting the day after tomorrow, regardless,” said Rador. “We should let him settle into work first.”

“Very good,” said Idis. “I have to do some translation work for the King, so I will do that now.” She got up and walked out.

“What now?” said Barthon.

“I do not think there is much more we can do until we speak to Thorongil,” said Rador. “The assassins are dead, so he will hopefully be safe for the meantime. It would take weeks for new assassins to come from Harad or Khand? I suggest you try to finish your unfinished reports.”

Barthon rolled his eyes. “I wish I had never asked.”

“Do not worry, I shall be doing the same,” said Rador.

The next day, Rador saw Halben the Ranger walk past. Rador could not help wondering what he was there for, so he got up and followed him.

The Ranger was saying to Idis, “We’ve delivered your Thorongil safely to the office now, Idis. You can relax—”

Then a Guard came running past. “Disturbance at the Diplomatic Offices! ‘Ware!”

Idis’s face went pale, and she leaped up. “Thor!” She leaped up, and was off before Rador could even react.

“Damn,” said Halben, and ran after her, unsheathing his sword as he ran.

Rador stared after them and wondered whether to follow. Barthon came out of his office. “What on earth is happening?”

“Disturbance at the Diplomatic Offices,” said Rador. “I have never seen Idis run so fast.”

“By the Valar!” Barthon stared at Rador. “It must be either Romdaer or Gadrion?”

“You are right. I thought he would be safe because the assassins were dead, but I forgot that one of the people in that office must be a Haradric or Khandian operative.”

They began to walk towards the Diplomatic Offices, when they saw the guards leading away a very ordinary looking dark-haired man who had clearly been hit very hard with a solid object on one side of his head. He was bleeding copiously from his nose, and had the most spectacular black eye Rador had ever seen. Rador stopped and said, “Who is this?”

The Guards looked at Rador. “Ah! Captain Rador! We will need your assistance. Lord Gadrion attacked Lord Thorongil, and we will need your assistance to investigate the matter.”

“We have already been investigating this matter—” said Rador, as Barthon said simultaneously, “It was boring Gadrion?”

The dark haired man gave Barthon a baleful look.

“Does Thorongil still live?” said Rador.

“Aye, he hit Gadrion with one of the Last Ruling Steward’s old lebethron chairs,” said one of the Guards. “Takes a lot to break one of those.”

Gadrion swore, cursing Thorongil, and the Guards led him off.

“Well, well, well,” said Rador. “I suppose we interrogate him and find out who he was in league with?”

Halben came running back, and halted with relief when he saw them. “Thor is well, the Lady is also well and most relieved, and the odds will have to be reduced to 2 to 1. Also, it was Gadrion in the pay of the Khandians, not the Haradrim—”

“Gambling debts?” said Rador.

“Aye,” said Halben, raising an eyebrow. “Gadrion is a very lucky man. The Lady was fit to stab him until Thor embraced her.”

“I don’t know: I might prefer death to being arrested for attempted murder of a colleague on account of being a Khandian agent,” said Barthon. “The shame of it!”

They stood in the corridor discussing how Thorongil had captured Gadrion, when Idis came trotting down the corridor, looking offended. “Daddy sent me away! He said I was squashing Thor!”

“You were,” said Halben. “He could barely breathe, you were kissing him so much.”

Rador and Barthon laughed.

Idis ignored Halben and said, “I expect Halben has told you it was Gadrion, in the pay of the Khandians? They did not want people to know they were selling low-quality beans to Minas Tirith and making a profit. Well, when I say people, I mean the Haradrim and the trade arm of our Embassy as well, in case we told the Haradrim—”

“How did the report factor into it?” said Rador.

“Ah!” Idis brightened. “So—Thor is one of the few people in Gondor who has any real fluency in Khandian, other than Khandians and Deputy Ambassdor Arahaelon, obviously. And that Report gave away the fact that the Khandians wanted to undercut the Haradrim and sell low quality beans to the ‘barbarians’, which was us. So they wanted to stop him from reading it. Romdaer tried to read it—he should really have gotten Thor to read it—but I suspect he was too proud to admit he did not quite understand it as Thor did.”

Barthon crossed his eyes. “I think I am going to have to get you to repeat that. The problem was that Thorongil could read Khandian?”

“Yes, and they wanted to stop him specifically from reading it,” said Idis proudly. “Is it not good my dear Thor is so clever?”

“A mixed blessing, it would seem,” said Halben.

The Third Bell rang and Idis said, “Ah! I have to take Thor home. I promised Deputy Warden Halvien!”

“I will come with you,” said Halben.

“That is not necessary,” said Idis.

“‘Tis most necessary, m’Lady, lest you squash him again,” said Halben, and they wandered off, still arguing.

“Well, let us have lunch to celebrate an apparently successful resolution of that case,” said Rador. “And then I think we can have the afternoon off.” They went down to the Pig and Barrow, and had a delicious ploughman’s lunch, with ham, pickles and cheese, and apple cider.

“Cheers,” Barthon said to Rador, as they watched all the passers by.

After that, Rador went home. His wife was in the parlour drinking a cup of tea with their second daughter. “Hullo darling!” she said with surprise. “I thought you were busy with all those assassins and murders?”

Rador kissed his wife and his daughter, and said, “We caught the perpetrator: a diplomat in league with the Khandians, it seems.”

Talvel looked shocked. “Not Lady Idis’s young man?”

“No! This other diplomat did try to kill Idis’s man this morning, however, which was how it all unravelled, and Thorongil hit him with a chair.”

Taliriel sat forward. “Lady Idis’s young man? She has a beau?”

“Aye, a fellow from the Embassy to Harad.”

“Is he terribly fierce like her?” said Taliriel.

“We have not met him, Tally, but everyone says he is a very gentle, pleasant fellow.”

“What are the odds at now?” said Talvel.

“2 to 1,” said Rador. “Significantly lower since today’s incident.”

“Odds of what?” said Taliriel.

“Idis marrying Thorongil,” said Rador. “They are totally besotted with each other.”

Taliriel gaped. “I never thought she’d wed at all. In fact, I wondered if she had ever any thoughts in that direction?”

“I deem she is like her father: she probably has not had many, but once she made up her mind, and discovered Thorongil liked her too—”

“What a name the poor lad has been burdened with!” said Talvel.

“Better than his oldest brother; he is called Denethor,” said Rador. “That will cause issues with the in-laws, I presume?”

“Well, that is awkward for everyone,” said Taliriel. “You must tell me if there are any other developments.”

The next day when Rador got to the office, Idis was standing outside his office, hand in hand with Thorongil.

The red-headed man smiled shyly and sweetly. “Hullo. I am Thorongil, but please call me Thor. Idis says that you and your man have been responsible for much of the information she was able to share with me. I have come to thank you.”

Rador bowed to him. “Captain Rador, at your service. A pleasure to meet you, and I have to thank you too. I do not know if we could have solved this without your input, even while you were indisposed and injured.”

“I was getting very bored by the end at the Houses,” said Thor. “It was a pleasure to have something to occupy myself.”

“He was pacing around the gardens like one of those big cats you sometimes see at menageries,” translated Idis. “I thought he might need to teach himself another language.”

“You have promised to teach me Rohirric,” said Thor, and gazed at Idis as if one of the Valar had descended to Middle Earth in front of him.

“I will get you the book Mummy wrote for Daddy and Loti,” said Idis, gazing back him with an equal level of adoration. “And you will teach me more Khandian—”

As they beamed at each other, Rador was tempted to agree with Barthon that this behaviour might go beyond sweet, and verge upon cloying. He cleared his throat.

“Idis said you might want to talk to me about Harad and Khand?” said Thor, recovering himself.

Rador said, “I wanted to ask you to investigate who was behind the attacks next time you went back; but it seems that this is moot.”

“Gadrion said it was the Khandian café merchants: they cannot do anything without government input,” said Thor. “Lord Romdaer is going to talk to the Haradrim this afternoon to update them.”

“You might want to tell Lord Romdaer that I have already spoken to the Haradric Embassy several times. While Idis was away, I was so desperate for leads that I approached them, with the Steward’s approval,” said Rador, attempting to be tactful.

“Ah,” said Thor, inclining his head, his eyes glinting. “I will tell him.” Rador got the feeling that the man had immediately discerned that Romdaer had been under suspicion, and this was why Rador had been communicating with the Haradric Embassy instead.

“I shall come with you: there is something I need to talk to Romdaer about,” said Idis.

Thor gave her a curious look but did not say anything, and they wandered off.

Rador went back over Gadrion’s files, and then looked up as Barthon came in.

“We shall have to interrogate our Khandian agent, I suppose,” he said. “It is lucky Idis has gone to speak to Romdaer; I would not want her joining us. Also, I met the famous Thor—”

“What is he like?”

“Exactly as one might expect,” said Rador. “Let us go down to the cells.”

They went down to the cells, and found Gadrion sitting alone in a cell, his eye even more swollen and bruised than the day before.

“My name is Captain Rador, and this is Lieutenant Barthon,” said Rador. “We’re here to ask you a few questions.”

“I wish Thor had killed me,” said Gadrion.

“How did it start?” said Rador, sitting outside the bars.

Gadrion sighed. “So, I started gambling on horses. At first I won. But then I lost. I lost too much. So I thought—I’ll just try to get that back.”

“I see,” said Rador.

“A Khandian came up to me at the races and told me there was a way I could make some money,” said Gadrion. “He said it was easy. He said all I had to do was to open a door to an old laundry chute. I did that, and they paid me handsomely. Then they asked me to ensure a message was taken to a specific place just outside the Citadel if anyone in my office inquired about a particular issue. What harm could come from that?”

“What issue?” said Rador.

“If Romdaer asked anything about the Khandian café trade,” said Gadrion.

“I see,” said Rador.

“I did not know that they would kill for it!” said Gadrion. “It seemed like it would harm no one!”

“Anyway, Romdaer asked for that wretched Report from the Archives, and I sent a messenger to the Khandians to say he’d sent Thor to get it—”

“Now it makes sense,” said Barthon.

“I don’t know why they sent assassins to kill Thor! That was not what I intended. I was as shocked as anyone! I thought it must have been the Haradrim at first—!”

“Idis thinks it was because Thor is one of the few people in Minas Tirith who is fluent enough in Khandian to quickly grasp the meaning of the Report,” said Rador. “His public servant report said he had spent some time in Khand with Arahaelon, and learned the basic language very quickly. I suppose they have been watching him. Maybe they were afraid he’d read it on the way back to the office?”

“I have heard they are controlling,” said Barthon.

“Damn,” said Gadrion. “If I had not told them it was bloody Thor, maybe it would have been different. Anyway, after the assassins, the Khandians said I had to destroy the Report, or they’d tell Romdaer what I had done. But there was no way I could get that report off Romdaer. Romdaer started routinely locking his office.”

“Did you tell them Thor was going to the Eagle and Star?” said Rador.

Gadrion put his head in his hands. “They started putting pressure on me! They said they’d tell my fiancée about my debts! They said they’d hurt her! They told me that they killed that poor messenger! He just wanted a bit of extra money for a drink—”

“I suppose they were not very happy when Idis and her Rangers killed the assassins?” said Barthon.

“Not very happy is an understatement,” said Gadrion. “The threats to my family and fiancée got worse, and I became desperate. There was no way they could get to Thor while he was in the Houses, and they demanded that I kill him, but I said he was under the watch of the Rangers. They told me to find a way—”

Rador sighed. “Were you planning to kill Thor when you confronted him in Romdaer’s office?”

“No, I was not expecting him to be in Romdaer’s office at all, although I was carrying that stupid dagger because they had asked me to carry it. I had noted that Romdaer had left his office door open for the first time in an Age. I was just going to say I was fetching a document for Romdaer and dash back out, and take the Report and drop it down a cistern. However, Thor had obviously observed the same thing, and we both thought to get the Report—”

“To kill your colleague!” said Barthon disapprovingly. “Maybe even… your friend?”

Gadrion put his head in his hands. “The only way I could screw myself up to do it was to imagine Taithriel being murdered by Khandians,” he said, his hands still over his face. “And even then I hesitated—because I like that vague red-headed lunatic—” He began to sob.

“Can I tell him how all this occurred?” said Rador gently. “Would it help if I did?”

“Yes please,” said Gadrion, looking up. “Tell him—I’m sorry.”

“Are they going to put you under house arrest before trial?” said Barthon.

“I gather they are.” Gadrion paced around the cell. “My life is over, though.”

Rador and Barthon were silent. Rador did not know what to say. Eventually he stood and said, “Thank you for answering our questions. We appreciate your honesty, and will inform the Steward.”

They went upstairs, and Rador passed by the Embassy Offices. Two men were standing in the corridor boasting to others how they had held down the miscreant Gadrion, and how they had placed bets before the odds had gone to even: apparently the Steward had invited Thorongil to Emyn Arnen for the Autumn Festival.

“Gadrion really would have been better off taking that wager,” said one man. “Although now it is not worth placing a bet; we got in just in time, Bergil—”

“Excuse me, sir, but which one is the Harad Office?” Rador asked him.

“Next door,” said the boastful man politely, pointing, and the other men quieted to watch.

Rador knocked, and Thor opened the door. “Hullo?”

“We have spoken to Gadrion and we would like to talk to you and Lord Romdaer,” said Rador, stiffly, conscious of the men behind him watching.

“I will just tell Romdaer you are here,” said Thor, and closed the door.

He returned, opened the door, and led them into an outer office, then an inner office. There were still shattered splinters of dark wood all over the carpet. “Ignore the diplomats from our Rohan Office, by the way,” he said. “They are revelling in their moment of fame.”

When they reached the inner office, Romdaer stood and said, “Captain Rador? I do not believe we have met before? I am Lord Romdaer, First Trade Attaché to Gondor’s Embassy to Harad.”

“I am Captain Rador and this is Lieutenant Barthon,” said Rador. “We have just been down to speak to Gadrion—”

Romdaer and Thor looked at each other and grimaced.

“He was initially told to open a laundry chute. Then he was told to give the Khandians information about your inquiries, Lord Romdaer,” said Rador. “The Khandians panicked when they heard you had sent Lord Thorongil, and sent assassins. After that, Gadrion got in deeper than he could manage, and they threatened those he loved, and sought to get him to destroy the Report—”

“Please call me Thor, and that is what he said to me too: that it had started off as a small favour,” said Thor. “I wish he had told me! I wish it had not come to—”

“He said he is sorry,” said Barthon. “He said he always liked you.”

Thor looked away, his jaw set and his face pale. “I am sorry too. I thought he was a friend.”

“May I ask why you decided to look into this, Lord Romdaer?” said Rador.

“It was Master Gaudon, the head of the Merchant’s Guild. He wrote to me and said that he had observed some kind of competition between the Haradrim and the Khandians in the café market on the Great Road,” said Romdaer. “I thought it was something I should investigate, particularly after the Haradric Ambassador reacted strangely when I asked him about it. But our figures did not show me what the competition was about, and so I though of that Report—”

“But why would they want to kill me?” said Thor. “With respect: why not kill Lord Romdaer? As I said to Idis at the beginning, I am nobody.”

“We think they knew that you were relatively fluent in Khandian, and moreover, they did not even want to risk Romdaer getting the report. This is what led them to send the assassins.”

Thor blinked, and said mildly, “I am not that fluent. I would not say I could write a decent letter, or carry on a detailed conversation about complex issues. But I suppose I can read it somewhat.”

“You read it better than I, Thorongil,” said Romdaer. “It took me weeks to figure out what the Report said, but only with the help of several lexicons: Khandian to Haradric. I should have asked you, but I did not realise your skill was higher than mine—”

“Do not blame yourself: I am afraid that I did not even realise that the Report was in Khandian because Idis had it down the front of her dress most of the time,” said Thor, colouring. “Otherwise I would have offered my assistance, although I probably would have disclaimed my skill.”

“By the Valar, can everyone stop being so modestly apologetic?” said Barthon.

Thor smiled at Barthon. “We cannot help it! We are diplomats of Gondor; it is in our nature and training to be diplomatically apologetic to one another!”

“Unless one is Deputy Ambassador Arahaelon,” said Romdaer.

“He is going to be diplomatically sarcastic,” agreed Thor. “I suppose he has set out already? He is probably looking forward to his sabbatical—poor foolish man—”

Rador stood: he was not interested in hearing about the Deputy Ambassador. “Well, thank you gentlemen.”

Romdaer said, “Could I ask before you go, Captain: it has been vexing me. How was Gadrion’s gambling not picked up in the background check?”

“He only started a year ago, and wore disguises when going to the racetrack,” said Rador.

Thor put his hand to his head. “I wager the disguises were awful!”

“They were, apparently,” said Rador with surprise, raising his eyebrows.

“Had I been a Khandian, I would not have hired Gadrion—he is the last person I would ask to be surreptitious. I would have offered to get the Report myself, for example, rather than allowing someone else to fetch it, and then I would have concealed it, and pretended I had lost it or I could not find it—”

“It is just as well you are not a Khandian agent, Thorongil,” said Romdaer, his mouth twitching for a moment, as he displayed an unexpected sense of humour.

“It is not really my style, Lord Romdaer,” said Thor. “And poor old Amarchon paid the ultimate price for protecting his books, no? Although I suspect Amarchon would be proud to give his life to save a scroll from destruction—I will have to tell Idis, because she still grieves—”

“We really must go,” said Rador: he found the way in which Thor’s eyes lost focus when he mentioned Idis’s name disturbing. “Farewell, and thank you for your time.

“I will walk you out,” said Thor, as if they had paid a visit to his house. He held open the door to the antechamber, and then again held the door open to the main corridor, and bowed. “Farewell.”

Rador and Barthon walked back to their area in silence.

Finally Barthon said, “Actually I do like him, although he is a bit strange and vague: you wonder if he’s going to get to the point, and then you realise, thinking back about it, that he has several points. For example, he managed to tell us that Gadrion preferred to get others to do the hard work, without directly saying so, and that Arahaelon is going to be cleaning up the mess—”

“If he was ever minded to drop the vagueness, he might be terrifying,” said Rador.

“I think Idis is right: he prefers to be disarming,” said Barthon. “They most likely had the same problem growing up—terrifying people with their intellect—and this is the way he has mitigated it.”

“They are simply cloying together, I warn you,” said Rador in an undertone. “I saw them this morning. They gaze at each other and talk about they languages they are going to teach one another. They display no signs of intellect at all: when they look at each other, it all evaporates.”

Barthon laughed. “That is oddly pleasing; that for once Idis is not controlled by logic and intellect.”

However, a week later, Barthon had changed his mind. He came into Rador’s office at lunch time. “Captain! I do not want Idis to be … out of control … anymore!”

Rador stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Barthon blushed. “Well, I went to our Archive Room, you know the one down the stairs, and I happened to look out the window, and you know that abandoned room on the third floor—?”

“You stay here, I will look,” said Rador. He went to the Archive Room stairs, and glanced up out the window as he passed. Clearly Idis and Thor thought they were in private—and in fact, they would not be visible to anyone except from the strange angle of this window, through the curtains. The couple were up against the window, kissing passionately, and Idis’s dress was starting to fall off her shoulders, while Thor’s jacket lay on the floor—

Rador squeezed his eyes shut and ran away in embarrassment. He went back to Barthon’s room. “I see what you mean. O dear, most unexpected. I will talk to her.”

“Thank you,” said Barthon. “I just happened to look up, you see; I really did not mean to—”

“Probably just as well,” said Rador.

Idis came back after lunch looking very much as she always did. Rador said, “I need to talk to you about something awkward. Could you come into my office?”

Idis’s eyebrows went up. “Of course.” She sat down and looked attentive.

“Both Barthon and I could see you and Thor from the Archive Room stairs at luncheon,” he said. “It is probably not the best to do that kind of thing at work, even on lunch break, and to keep things professional.”

Idis went scarlet. “O no! Do not tell Daddy! I am so sorry.” She looked away. “We did not think anyone would see us. It is just that there is nowhere private to talk. I share my house with my family; he has all those silly housemates—although Duinion is actually decent, I have discovered—but the others are pigs!”

“Frankly, if that is what is going to happen when you are in private, I think you should marry as soon as possible,” said Rador, forbearing from making the observation that he had not seen much talking occurring.

“It has to be him who asks! If he was not noble, I could ask him—like Morwen asked Berry—but Thor would be humiliated if I asked—”

Rador laughed. “I am tempted to suggest to him that he propose as soon as possible, for everyone’s sake. But please do not do that again.”

“I am very embarrassed,” said Idis, looking down. “I have never felt quite like this before. We shall be appropriate in future.”

“Never mind,” said Rador, gruffly: he did not want to get into this discussion. “And now, can we never speak of it again?”

Idis retreated to her office, and Rador informed Barthon that it would not happen again at work. Idis and Thor were restrained in all interactions thereafter, and had lunch in full view of all from that time onwards.

Rador was relieved that no more bodies or attempted murders occurred before the Autumn Festival. He was hoping he would get his two days off. Idis left early to go to Emyn Arnen.

“I will be back in five days, although you can send for me earlier if you need me,” she said. “Túrin and Norrie and their children are coming down from Belfalas, and I would like to spend a little time with them? They want to meet Thor, you see; I am taking him with me.”

“That is fine,” said Rador. There were often periods when she disappeared without telling him where she was at all, so he was grateful for the warning. He let Barthon go early too.

After the Autumn Festival he was consumed by the usual allegations of theft and fights breaking out between family members. Idis had not returned on the day she had said; Rador presumed she was spending more time with family.

When she was three days late, he thought he ought to check with the Steward. The Steward took him to the comfortable lounge chairs before the open fire, got a servant to bring him black tea with sugar, just the way he liked it, and some Emyn Arnen shortbread.

“Idis is fine, Captain Rador: she has been held up unexpectedly. She should be back in a week at the latest. She will explain when you next see her.”

“Did the family enjoy meeting Thorongil?” said Rador.

The Steward smiled, as if at a joke only he knew. “We did. We look forward to spending more time with him.”

Four days later, Idis turned up in Rador’s office in the mid-morning. “I hope you are not busy in mid-Ringarë?”

Rador blinked. “Hullo Idis. Not as far as I know?”

“Very good,” said Idis. “Thor and I are getting married, in … well it shall be five weeks and five days now, and you, your wife and Barthon are invited. Do you think I should invite Nefreon too? I do not imagine he gets many invites to weddings, so it might be nice for him.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rador surreptitiously looked at her waistline, thinking of the scene he had seen from the Archive Room stairs.

“I am not pregnant,” said Idis, without any embarrassment. Then she added, with only a slight blush, “Luckily, as it turns out.”

Rador stared at her, and she shrugged.

Eventually he said, “Your family is not upset?”

“O no, not at all,” Idis said. “They are very pleased, apart from Ecthelion, who is a pointy-nosed sneak. He should leave what is mine alone, and should not walk into private bedrooms without knocking—!”

Rador’s jaw dropped. “You did not throw your daggers at him, I hope?”

“No. I had left my daggers in my room. I threw Thor’s boots at him instead, because that was all I could think to do.”

Rador simply did not know what to say.

Idis continued blithely, “I feel a bit sorry that Beren had to witness all that—he turns out to be not Thel’s lover at all—you know how we always assumed for all these years—? Beren says he prefers maps to people.”

There was a knock at the door, and Rador said, somewhat faintly, “Who is it?”

“Barthon.”

Idis opened the door. “Barthon! Come to my wedding in five and a half weeks time, and no-I-am-not-pregnant—”

Barthon came in and said, “What did you just say, Idis? Did you just say you are getting married?”

“Yes! Thor proposed a week ago, and we just had to wait a little time to know the exact date!” Then Idis turned to Rador and said, “I am afraid I am going to have to leave you sooner than I wanted, Captain. I will be joining the Embassy, so I can work with Thor.”

Rador was momentarily robbed of words: he had not yet made that connection from her announcement. He had to turn away and wipe his eyes.

“O no,” said Idis, sadly.

“Who shall we get to be Ecthelion when you are not here?” said Barthon, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“You could ask Ecthelion to be Ecthelion?” said Idis. “He is rather good at it.”

“Is he trustworthy, though?” said Barthon.

Idis looked offended. “He is entirely trustworthy!” Then she paused. “Except when he has decided that he rather likes your beau, but I cannot imagine you will have that problem with him—”

Barthon choked. “He did NOT?”

“He did. Thor dealt with it well; he said, ‘Ecthelion said some odd things to me, but I ignored him and concentrated on fishing, and did you know that I love you very much, Idis?’”

Rador laughed. “Ecthelion may be capable of being himself, but is he capable of being ‘Wulfbane the Rider’, ‘Mistress Gwendes the cleaning lady’, ‘Fairuza Hatun’, ‘Jahan Khan’, ‘Mistress Folcryth from the Eastfold’, and ‘Mistress Fellril the fishwife’—?”

Idis crinkled up her nose. “He does speak Rohirric and Haradric, but I doubt he knows how to speak the female form of Haradric convincingly. He would have to shave very carefully to be any of the women, and his voice may be a little low. You could ask? Really, there is very little he will not try once, for the right incentives.”

“You have had an extraordinary repertoire, this last five years,” said Barthon. “‘Mistress Gwendes’ is my personal favourite. She’s such a garrulous old gossip.”

Idis blushed. “She’s based on a lovely Healer called Ioreth, who is sadly dead now—she would have been so excited about my wedding—although at least the dear old Warden will make it, and the other people from the Houses of Healing. I went and invited them just now. But I am sure you will be just a little happy to finally get rid of me, Barthon?”

Barthon said, “Eventually a person gets used to irritation, and he might even feel unexpectedly sad when it is gone.”

“That is nice to hear,” said Idis. She got up and went to walk out. Then she said, with the door half open, “Thor is making me practice being less abrupt. So—I am leaving to go to my office. Goodbye for now.”

Barthon stared at Rador. “She is really getting married? I did hear that correctly?”

“Yes,” said Rador.

“That is hasty,” said Barthon.

“I gather we are lucky we are not attending a marriage at sword point,” said Rador, drily.

“Is the Steward furious?” said Barthon, wide-eyed.

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Rador. “He did not tell me any of this. He simply said in slightly amused tones that Idis had been ‘held up unexpectedly’ and that they looked forward to spending more time with Thorongil in the future.”

Barthon laughed. “You know who is going to go absolutely insane?”

Rador raised his eyebrow. “No?”

“That pompous bald twerp, Judge Denethor,” said Barthon. “Thorongil’s older brother.”

Rador laughed until he cried. “That is the most cheerful news I have had all week. A very happy end to all of this.”