The Choices of Mayor Samwise -- III Election (a)

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III Lithe 1427 SR : ElectionREADING official documents had never been one of Will Whitfoot’s pleasures in his office, but he worked his way conscientiously through the one column of the magnificent scroll he could understand, chewing on some of the long words with his eyebrows rising higher and higher, and looked at his unexpected visitors.

“What does the other column say?”

The Thain shrugged. “The same in Sindarin, Samwise tells me. I’d have asked Peregrin but he’s up at Long Cleeve talking final wedding arrangements.”

Beside him Master Saradoc nodded. “And Merry and Estella aren’t back from Rivendell yet, so we came via Hobbiton to check. What do you think, Will?”

“I don’t know what to think. It’s quite a shock. But I can see some problems straight off, as I’m sure you can too. Did Sam say anything else?”

The Master’s smile had a certain edge to it. “Quite a bit, actually. I think a fair summary would be that the King’s being a ninnyhammer and there’ll be real trouble if we can’t get this voted down, or modified at least.”

Will’s eyes went wide. “He called the King a ninnyhammer? I’ve never heard him speak of him with anything but, well, loving respect, I’d call it.”

“Me too. He called him Strider, as he always does, but ninnyhammer was in there, Will. And noodle and nodcock and a few more choice words. But his reasons were interesting. He said Strider was still grieving so much for poor Frodo, and feeling guilty about him for some reason, and so tired from this war he’s been having with the Umbari, he’s not thinking straight about the north he hasn’t seen for too long.”

The Thain nodded. “And that he also feels guilty for the Troubles we had, because his … what’s that word, Sara?”

“Dúnedain?”

“Yes, them, that they didn’t stop the Ruffians invading us. So he’s trying to make up for it, over and above that very generous wergild thing they’ve been sending each year. And he said things about that ring they always say caused all the trouble too, but I didn’t quite follow what he was on about there.”

“Nor me.” The Master frowned. “But as best I grasped it, he thinks it, or the memory of it, the echo of evil he called it … I don’t know, feeds the guilt, somehow, like stirring embers with fresh kindling. More to the point, though, do you think he’s right about this causing real trouble?”

One thing Will did understand after so many years in office was Shire politics, such as they were and had become, and he thought it through several ways before nodding decisively.

“Yes, he is. As things stand, if we hold a vote at the Midsummer Fair, as we’re asked to, most folk will agree with this. The King’s proposing it, after all, and it’ll fit with our old ways of thinking - keeping ourselves to ourselves and all. But the margin will be a lot smaller than the Yeas expect, and the defeated Nays will be furious, with fair reason, I have to say. It’ll make life very hard for the Bree trade, and in the South Farthing, and it’ll cut back on who comes to the Fair, as well as stopping the wandering men who’ve been coming through, and welcome. Besides, what about men who are just using the East Road? Are they supposed to go round? How could they? And if your sons feel the same way as Sam, which I imagine they will, we’ll have three angry Travellers, one the Master of the Hill and the others the heirs to Buckland and Thainship, as leaders of the discontented. And there’ll be at least three, maybe five or six, senior family heads amongst them too, besides us, as well as almost all the Bounders. And it’ll be about something we can’t change ourselves, nor even appeal to the Lord Steward, because it’ll be a King’s Order. I’d call that real trouble, alright.”

Both Thain and Master nodded, and the Thain spoke.

“That’s about where we’d got to ourselves, Will. I’ve not had the chance to talk to Peregrin since the scroll came, but he heard of the idea some years back, when he went south to fetch those ents, and I’ve heard him and Merry speak of it several times with heavy hearts.” He sighed. “And though I like those old ways of thinking well enough myself, as you know, I agree many in the South Farthing won’t like it one little bit. Besides, what are we supposed to do by way of enforcement? Post a permanent muster of some sort? No-one will want that duty if the Bounders don’t, which you’re right they won’t. And what’s supposed to happen to anyone who sneaks in anyway? Men could swim the Brandywine almost anywhere, in summer at least, and the sort of penalties suggested in that scroll are nothing any hobbit would agree to unless there’d been a far worse offence than trespass.”

The Master leaned forward, resting hands on thighs. “And there’s so much we don’t know, Will. One good question Sam asked is what the Lord Steward thinks. Is Halladan having problems with men we don’t know about, so as he’d be glad of a blanket ban even if it meant him too? Or is he as surprised by it as we are? And if so, which way will he jump? Then, a second question, which wouldn’t have occurred to me so fast, if at all, is what others will think - elves and dwarves and ents? Strictly speaking, you could say it’s none of their business, but there are Dúnedain who come with elves to visit the huorn groves, and Sam was very clear those huorns have a right to be visited by any who want to honour them. And though it made my head hurt, he had an argument about anyone, even the King, telling elves and dwarves who they could or couldn’t have with them when they crossed the Brandywine Bridge or Sarn Ford.”

The Thain shivered slightly. “So he did. I made the mistake of saying I couldn’t see it was anyone’s business but ours, and Samwise gave me a look that would have withered barley before asking me if I was willing to explain to little Elanor why she couldn’t see her Uncle Damrod anymore when her Uncle Glorfindel could come when he liked. She was on his lap, staring daggers.” He shivered again. “And I don’t know about you, but that’s one lass I’ve no wish at all to cross. She bids fair to be the most beautiful hobbit I’ve ever seen, she already speaks to Samwise in Sindarin as often as Westron, and the groves adore her. I swear I’ve seen a tree in Sam’s Wood bend down so she could swing on the lower branches. She thanked it after, too.”

“And the mallorn.” The Master nodded sharply. “Merry says as soon as Elanor could walk confidently and went off to look at it he saw it drop blossoms on her hair. And Pal’s right - she did look daggers, and Sam told her she could write her own letter to go with his.”

“She can write already?”

“Apparently.”

“And Sam’s writing a letter to tell the King he’s being a ninnyhammer, presumably?”

“So we understood.” The Master grinned. “I’d like to see it.”

“Me too.” Will whistled softly. “Will it have any effect, do you think?”

“Maybe not. Sam said he’d written to Strider two years back on the matter, saying it wasn’t needful, but that the few bits of trouble we’ve had seemed to weigh with him out of all proportion.”

“What trouble? Those fellows who tried to sneak in when the Bounders turned them away?”

“Yes. And the drunken tinker who fell over Lando Gooseberry and sent them both to the healers.”

“But that was Lando’s fault, fair and square. He never did look where he was going.”

“Man hurts Hobbit, end of story, according to Sam.” The Master looked gloomily at his feet. “When we left he was muttering about going south to make his feelings clear in person.”

“Was he? And with Rose due in only a week or two?” A cascade of ideas went through Will’s head, and he heaved himself to his feet, grabbing his stick and limping back and forth while he thought. Thain and Master knew better than to interrupt and talked quietly to one another until Will sat again, eyes bright but brow furrowed. “I don’t know if either of you are going to like this much, but there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What?” The voices were simultaneous, and Will took a breath.

“I’m not standing again this year. I’ve had enough.” He held up a hand as mouths opened. “My knee hurts too much with all the travelling, I don’t have anything like the appetite I used to, and frankly, I’m out of my depth as I’ve never been. Wills, and marriage and property contracts, and feasts, yes, I’ve always dealt with them fine, and the odd disputes that get as far as the Town Hole. But I’d not have got through that roil we had about Lotho’s crooked contracts and the wills Ruffians destroyed without Frodo’s advice, and when it comes to the dwarves that are quarrying up at Scary, and the ents, and men that ask for Midsummer Fair licences, and those Gondorians who want to look around - I’ve no more idea what I’m doing than a faunt, and at eighty-six that’s not a comfortable feeling.”

“Tell me.” The Thain nodded. “Alright, Will - I’d wondered. I know your knee’s been giving you a lot of gyp. But when you said nothing I thought you must have decided to serve for one more term.”

“I thought about it, but no. Five terms is more than enough, and we need someone different. There’s other things I’d like to be doing as well, to be honest, now cousin Speedwell’s passed and her land’s come to me.” Both his guests nodded, appreciating that point. “What’s held me up is I know full well who ought to follow me, but I’ve never seen how to do it. Until now.”

The Master got there first. “You mean Sam? But he’ll never-”

“Exactly.” Will’s rare interruption signalled his frustration. “He’d walk it. The single best-loved hobbit in the Shire, bar none. And he could do it, inside and out - he already is, in a way, since Frodo left him Lobelia’s properties with his own and we convinced him it was up to him to do with them as he saw fit.” They all remembered how hard that had been, and that only Sam’s sense of obligation to Frodo had persuaded him. “He feeds what was Baggins money into the Bounders and relief work as well, you know, and always tells me he doesn’t need it, though how he keeps up Bag End and the Bywater school on what’s left I’ve no idea. And he’s easy with all sorts - elves in their own language, and men and dwarves and ents and Tom Bombadil and who knows what. But suggest he might be Mayor, which I’ve done twice now, and he goes the colour of ripe mulberry and spouts ten yards of old Hamfast about what’s proper and how he isn’t gentry.” Will shook his head. “Last time I said but he was Master of the Hill and what did he think that made him, and he gave me one of those looks of his and said he was Mr Frodo’s gardener, looking after what he couldn’t no more, and I’d no call to make needless suggestions. Then he went off to sit by that pool he dug in his gardens, puffing smoke-rings that clustered above his head, and I gave it up as a lost chance, cursing. But now …”

Thain and Master looked at one another, brows creasing, then at Will again. “But now?”

“Now there’s a cause. Tie the vote on this proposal to the Mayoral vote, with Sam standing for election to oppose the King’s idea. Beat his modesty down with the need he feels, and invoke young Elanor’s right to meet her Uncles Whosit and Whatnot whenever and wherever she likes. Ask him, whatever he thinks of anything else, to find out for us what the Lord Steward thinks of it all.” Will drummed his fingers. “And what we need’s a contested vote. There hasn’t been one since I beat Sordo Brockhouse thirty-five years back to win my first term, and a real choice’ll perk everyone up. They’ll argue themselves blue, which’ll mean actually thinking this through properly and seeing the difficulties, then vote for Sam by three to one or better, so the only problem will be the bruised pride of whoever’s got themselves voted down.”

The Thain looked uncertain, as he often did these days, but the Master laughed so hard he slapped his knee before recovering his breath and beaming.

“Will, that is superbly sneaky. But who’d be silly enough to stand against Sam?”

Will gave a fox-smile. “But they won’t be - they’ll be standing for the King’s proposal. Olo Proudfoot for one will be all in favour, and as loudly as ever, if only because it’d curb traffic on the road and he’s never liked having strangers through. Still calls the groves unnatural as well, and says all the fair-haired bairns from 1420 and 1421 will grow up queer in the head, the old fool.”

“Isn’t he just? But he’s what? Eighty-one? A bit old to go for a first term, Will.”

“He won’t think so if he gets wound up a bit. And it doesn’t have to be him anyway, just someone who’ll like the idea of the ban and get upset at a move to vote it down. It’s the timing we need to get right.” His fingers drummed again. “We’re bound to announce this anyway” - he tapped the scroll - “and as soon as may be, so we do, and the talk starts and builds up a bit. Then I announce I’m against it, but not standing again on account of my knee, and how I don’t think I could deal with the trouble there’ll be if this gets passed, which is no more than the truth, and ask for nominations. That’ll start a buzz and no mistake. And once we’ve got Olo or one of his mind standing, then we get Sam to stand, with you two as the nominating family heads, and away we go. And that’s still going to be the tricky bit.”

“Mmm.” The Thain nodded thoughtfully. “Still, I quite like this plan, Will. It’s a lot better than anything Sara or I could think of, and we certainly need to get some changes to this idea of the King’s. But I know one thing for sure. Samwise Gamgee won’t do a thing like this if his Rose is against it, but the other half of that is that if she’s for it we’d be most of the way there. So I think what we need to do first off is have a quiet word with Tom and Lily Cotton.”

* * * * *
Sam had not been best pleased when Saradoc had asked for his company going to Bree to talk to the Lord Steward, but as Rose had briskly told him she was fine and he’d be no use until he got over being cross with the King, he found himself on the road anyway. It was in any case not an unreasonable request, as he conceded to himself, and if Rose hadn’t been so near her time he’d have wanted to go ; besides, the groves were always glad to see him, as he to visit them, so by the time they reached the Bridge Inn he’d argued himself out of any gloom and was quite enjoying the late spring weather.

Saradoc had sensibly left him to his silence most of the way, save in respectfully greeting huorns, but noticed his shifting mood, and from Whitfurrows they talked about the quarrying that was going on, and the rebuilding of Annúminas for which the great dwarf-carved blocks of Scary whitestone were destined. After they’d eaten, though, the Master steered him to the private room he kept at the Inn, bringing a bottle, and turned to more pressing matters.

“I’m sorry to touch on a sad memory, Sam, but can you tell me why the King feels guilty about Frodo? You all said you’d known he’d have to go with the elves to heal, and it was the only thing that could help. I can see the grief, of course - I’ve that myself, like all of us - but why guilt?”

Sam sighed. “It’s complicated, Sara, and I’ve not seen Strider in more than seven years, so I’m only guessing anyway. But remember he was trained as a healer as well as a warrior and all, and he saved Mr Frodo and me from dying, after the eagles fetched us out of Mordor, as well as Merry after he stabbed the Witch-King and Pippin after that troll fell on him, only he couldn’t help Mr Frodo enough. No-one could, not even Mr Elrond or Mr Gandalf, for it weren’t his body but his heart and mind it scoured out, but Strider … well, he’s like a Baggins himself, that way, so he feels he should of been able to anyway.”

Saradoc nodded. “Alright, that makes fair sense. And leading folk you feel responsible for all of them anyway, so I can see how that must work in. What’s the complicated bit?”

“Bits. One’s the Troubles here. I don’t know what all he said, but when he was Deputy Mayor Mr Frodo sent a lot of long letters south - details mostly, I expect, but I’ll bet there was some steam about those executions at Sarn Ford. He hated that, and he did have a way with words when he was moved to use them. And we were all hurting badly over late 1419 and into 1420, so there’d have been some of that as well - all salt in the wound. Then two’s that Strider didn’t get to see him again before he left, what with one thing and another. Wouldn’t of done no good, but he took it hard and felt like he failed Mr Frodo again even though he shouldn’t of wanted to be there anyway, because then he’d have seen Mr Elrond again, who was his dad in every way that matters, and they’d already made their last farewells. Which is three, because even though the numbers don’t work out, Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo went in the Queen’s place.” Sam drank from his glass, swirling the wine. “How he thinks about that, and the way his joy and his sorrow are all mixed together, I can’t imagine, but I don’t suppose it helps none.”

Saradoc whistled, nodding more slowly. “No indeed. Elves are puzzling enough, however delightful, but to be married to one who’ll die of it … my word. I’ve heard Merry and Pippin talk about that, and the King’s letter with the first wergild was certainly very apologetic. But I hadn’t quite connected that with Frodo specifically having come back to find such a mess. And if the King felt bad already because he couldn’t heal him as he wished …”

“All of that, and more. You remember Strider had Mr Frodo take part in his coronation?”

“I’ve heard the story. Carrying the crown, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right - Mr Frodo took it from Mr Faramir and gave it to Mr Gandalf to set on Strider’s head. It was meant as a sign.” Sam ran the Sindarin words in his memory, translating them. “By the labour of many I am come into my inheritance, he said, and Mr Frodo stood for them, living and dead.” He drank again. “And he meant it rightly, did Strider, not least because he was grieving deeply himself, for Mr Boromir and Mr Halladan’s brother Halbarad, who was killed at the Pelennor. Other Dúnedain, too, and Denethor and Théoden, and everyone. But it had all meant something at least, with Sauron gone and all the prophecies fulfilled at last. And then he had to start facing up to the fact that Mr Frodo wasn’t going to make it, long before we realised it, and when we did … well, it just didn’t seem fair, and it wasn’t in the past, with the dead, but right here and still to be faced. So four’s that it all got mixed up together in his head. Don’t you see it, Sara? He desperately wanted to be able to set everything right for Mr Frodo, the way it had been before, and he couldn’t, then he heard about all the Troubles here, and was upset all over again, and then Mr Frodo had to go, and Mr Elrond and Mr Gandalf with him. And the Lady, who’s the queen’s gammer.”

“Ah!” Saradoc’s eyes lit up. “And he still wants to, and protecting the Shire like this is one way, maybe the only way, he can do it.” He whistled for a second time. “Now that makes sense, for all he’s wanting to push water back under the bridge.”

Despite himself Sam grinned, shaking his head. “Buckland saws! Trying to put spilt milk back in the jug’s what you mean. But yes, that’s what he’s up to, I reckon. And the last few letters he’s sent me have been distracted with all the trouble them Umbari have been causing, so that’s probably stirred it all up too. That’s one of the things I want to ask Mr Halladan about - Strider’s letters was none too long and I don’t rightly know how bad it is down there.”

Saradoc frowned. “I hope not so bad, obviously, but does it matter to this?”

“It matters to what and how we ask him, Sara. Or tell him. If he’s got a real battle facing him, which is what it sounded like to me, he’ll be hating it and stupid busy besides, and telling him off would just put his back up. And upset him when he really don’t need it, which I won’t do nohow. But maybe he’s fought it already, and if he has he’ll likely be grieving a lot of someone elses too, but he might also feel he’s sorted something out.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know much about Gondor’s history, but I saw the Umbari ships that got captured and I heard what folk had to say about them. Slavers as well as pirates, evidently.” Saradoc shuddered. “And it’s a family feud, you might say, going back about fifteen centuries, if I remember right, so it’s had a long time to fester. But if it’s been dealt with somehow, and especially if it’s been dealt with properly at last, then there’ll be no reason not to tell him flat out he’s being a ninnyhammer.”

During the long ride to Bree next day Saradoc’s questions pulled from Sam a broad but clear picture of Gondor’s ruinous civil war, the creation of Umbar as an independent province in rebellion, and the Black Númenórean influence that had made its corsairs so vile and intimate a foe of the shrinking kingdom. Their long and renewed ensnarement by Sauron was there too, for Sam had spent some of the idle days of waiting in the archives of Gondor, as well as in the Houses of Healing, and had been caught by the tale of the landing of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden and the great pillar of light that had stood on a headland above the city of Umbar before Sauron had cast it down. And though Sam wasn’t aware of it, Saradoc’s already profound respect for him grew steadily, for though he took a general view, and was wholly sincere in saying - many times - that he knew little of Gondor’s history, what he meant was that he didn’t remember all the dates and titles and speeches by kings or lords the way Halladan would. But like any self-respecting hobbit he had the family relationships that had started the disaster exact to many generations, and though the horrors of the civil war and the ruin of Osgiliath appalled him, he understood in a manner Sara would bet the learned chroniclers hadn’t what he called the way of evil.

“It’s just giving in and giving up, Sara, very sensible and all wrong. I never got pushed past breaking, though there were days I could see how it would be, but Mr Frodo got dragged there at the last, and if a Baggins can be, anyone can. Sauron wasn’t just malice, he was armies and murder and burning, just like the Ruffians. Buckland held out, but what if they’d got in? And not hundreds, but thousands, quick to beat and kill anyone who said anything? Or you could agree to do what you’re told, whatever you’re told, and life will get better again.”

“Except.”

“Oh yes. But you see how it is. And from what I read, the Black Númenóreans didn’t blame Sauron for what happened, only Eru and the Valar, and sometimes their king. When you’ve got it all wrong as badly as that, admitting it’s like killing yourself, and most won’t. Don’t, anyroad. Look at Ted Sandyman or that Bracegirdle lawyer - any of those we banished, really. But same as we came to the end of any patience and struck them from their family books, so Strider’s all out of patience with the Umbari, I reckon. And with Men, that means killing, not banishing, which he’ll hate as much as ever Mr Frodo did, but he’ll force himself to all the same. And it’s always hard when what’s right and what’s needed aren’t in harness. You find that out the first time you kill, and he’s had to do a lot more of it than any of us can begin to imagine.”

The sheer scope of Sam’s experience amazed Saradoc as much as the clear certainty in what he did see fit to say, and he was grateful for the history lesson when they met Halladan in the Prancing Pony. The Lord Steward had retired early to his rooms for the night, but only to catch up on correspondence, and welcomed them with a slight wariness that dissolved when Sam asked for news of the troubles in the south. As they ate Barliman Butterbur’s good food he poured wine and told them what he knew.

“Truth to tell, I’m very relieved. Ever since he took the throne the King’s being trying to sign a treaty with Umbar and never got anywhere. And since the resettlement of Harondor got under way and the Umbari started to raid again, it’s gone from bad to worse. He’d have gone after them sooner, if he could, I think, but Umbar city is a stout place, and putting an army in the field takes more than food and weapons. So it dragged on until it really couldn’t any more. He was as angry and frustrated as I’ve ever known him about the whole thing, but in the event it went better than anyone expected. I don’t have much detail but the city was taken, and its walls have been razed.” Halladan hesitated for a moment, then his lips firmed and his voice flattened. “It’s a bad tale. Their slaves revolted and, well, they died, pretty much, along with a lot of the slaves, poor people, but the result is that Umbar’s under Gondor’s control again, no longer a threat, and everyone’s happy about that.”

Dealing with a final mouthful, Sam grunted. “Losses?”

“Inevitably, but far fewer than feared and none he named.”

“Don’t mean he’s not grieving for them, but alright. As good as can be, then, given how it was?”

“I think so.”

“Right, then.” Sam laid down his knife and fork on a very clean plate and shook his head. “So what do you think of this ban on Men entering the Shire he’s dreamed up meanwhile?”

Halladan blinked as several complicated emotions flickered across his face. “You don’t approve of it?”

“Of course we don’t, Mr Halladan.” Sam sighed. “He’s being a complete nodcock, and if I can guess why it still don’t make a lick of sense. Unless you know otherwise? Are you in favour, for any reason?”

Halladan’s voice became at once stiff with affront and yet somehow intensely curious. “No I am not, Lord Perhael, and if you can guess why the King should choose this course I should be glad to understand your thinking.”

Some pungent moments later Halladan was thoughtfully topping up the hobbits’ glasses so he could honourably fill his own.

“That’s … very persuasive indeed, my Lord.” Sam flapped a dismissive hand the Lord Steward ignored. “The King has urged me to watch the Shire in the Palantír far more than I have felt necessary, and the more so as his own attention was claimed elsewhere. And you are certainly right that he grieves the absence of Lord Iorhael, and of the Lords Elrond and Mithrandir. But though he is my kin I had not put it together as you just have, not by a long road. Leithor i-Guruthos indeed.”

“Tchaa.” Sam shook his head again. “Don’t you start. Having elves at it is bad enough, when all I want’s a bit of advice about elanor or niphredil. And it’s plain as mud anyway, once you think about it. Banning his own Messengers from the East Road? Where’s the sense in that?”

“He did suggest a track be made to the north, for Messengers going to Mithlond or such Men as had reason to journey to the Ered Luin.” Halladan’s voice was dry and Sam’s reply scornful.

“Route wagons through the bog above Long Cleeve? He’s not thinking at all, no more than a Baggins in a mood.” Halladan blinked again, several times. “So the question is, how do we put a stop to it without hurting him more than we must?”

“We have to hold the vote he asks for at the Fair, Sam.” Saradoc shrugged. “Will Whitfoot thinks it’ll go against the proposal, so long as we can get folk to think it through, and so do Pal and I, but we’ll have to wait and see how it tallies.”

“They’d better think it through is all I can say.”

“Are many in favour, Master Saradoc?”

“We’ve not announced it yet - Will’s doing that today, I think - but some will be, yes. The ones who want yesterday back and nothing they don’t already know all about. I don’t think they’ll persuade a majority, but we’re going to have to make the case against loud and clear.”

“Not hard to do.”

“Even so, Sam. Tell me what it is from your point of view, my Lord, if you will.”

Halladan sat back. “Difficulty of enforcement and the obstacle to trade, primarily. I don’t have the resources to strengthen patrols round your Bounds by much, and though most folk using the East Road are elves or dwarves, there are men involved in the trade through Mithlond. This would come close to forbidding that, in practical terms anyway, when we’ve been trying to develop it. And there’s the question of the spur road from Sarn Ford - is that in the South Farthing or its Bound?”

“Bound at first, then it crosses in. Waymoot’s certainly in the West Farthing.”

“So by rights that way would become forbidden to men too.” Halladan shook his head. “Worse and worse.”

“So there isn’t anything it solves for you that we don’t know about?”

“No. It’s true there have been some who’ve come north I could do without - that tinker who caused all the fuss likes his drink rather too much, and there’s some trying to peddle shoddy wares as well as honest traders. The wealthier folk who just come to see the long lost north are a bother too, as they must be to you, but an outright ban is taking a smith’s hammer to a nut.”

Saradoc grinned. “We tell them clearly at the Bridge there’s no man-sized shelter or beds to hire for the next forty leagues. Mostly they stay a night or two at the Inn buying folk drinks and ride to Stock or Whitfurrows, or round Buckland a bit. The extra coin’s welcome enough, especially with so much more to buy coming up from the south.”

Halladan smiled. “So I’ve heard. And here too. But some of them go on to Hobbiton all the same, I gather. It’s one of the things the King gets angry about.”

“There’s no call.” Sam shook his head. “Noodles, most of them. But I can understand wanting to see the mallorn.”

“They don’t bother you?”

“They don’t recognise me.” Sam grinned. “Why should they?”

“Lord Gilminas did.”

“Him? He was sweet, in a daft way. Rosie got the door, and he goes to one knee in the rain and asks if he has the honour of addressing Lady Perhael before giving her some very wet flowers he’d bought in the village. She was quite taken with him, and my Elanorella thought he was wonderful silly.”

“And you?”

“I didn’t mind him. His verses, now, them I could have done without - bad rhymes and no tale at all, though that was probably a mercy. But he meant well for all he hadn’t the least sense. The mallorn was shedding and he wanted to buy a fallen leaf - offered me five gold pieces, I ask you! I gave him two leaves and told him to give the money to the Houses of Healing when he got back.”

Halladan was half-smiling, half-frowning. “I hadn’t heard that bit. And I don’t think the King has, either - he was furious about someone pestering your wife in her own home.”

“And how does he know about it at all, eh? Looking in that Palantír? He should look more carefully at what he sees, then. Rosie wasn’t pestered, nor upset, no more than I was.” Sam sighed. “He should calm down some now this Umbari thing’s been sorted out, and I’ll add something to my letter. But if you’re bespeaking him, tell him to talk to Mr Gilminas himself before he does any more shouting about it. He’ll see straight off he’s harmless. Still …”

A thoughtful look came to his face, and after a moment while Halladan refilled glasses Saradoc cocked his head.

“A penny for them, Sam?”

“I was thinking I’d let being cross with Strider get in the way of some common sense. If he’s been looking in on us, he’ll have seen there is something that needs fixing. Two things. One’s them as really are just passing through, and need food and a bed for the night. We could do with wayhouses for them at Waymoot and Frogmorton, as well as Michel Delving and the Bridge. And one in the South Farthing somewhere. And two’s that I know keeping the converted smial for official use has been a help, but those that come to Hobbiton still have to put their heads down somewhere - the stables at the Green Dragon and Ivy Bush, mostly. And we don’t want a whole lot of them coming at once, cluttering the place up. So suppose we had, what, two or three beds at the smial that were available, but they had to say in advance they was coming, and couldn’t stay but one night?”

“That’s an idea. How would it work, though?”

“I’m not sure, but … I was just going to tell Strider flat out no, it wasn’t possible, but suppose we tried suggesting changes? It’s usually better to tell someone Yes, butrather than No, if you can.”

Halladan nodded. “Indeed. You mean to make it a ban, but not an absolute one?”

“Something like that. So what we need’s a list of the changes. Then the vote should be a choice between with all of them or without any of them.”

“Yes!” Saradoc raised his glass. “That’s smart thinking, Sam. Can we make that list now?”

“Don’t see why not. Let me mull a moment.”

Halladan had paper to hand, and trimmed his quill as he watched Sam run through the fingers of both hands and sigh.

“It’s going to be more exceptions than ban, but there’s no helping it. Let’s start at the top - it shouldn’t apply to the King himself, nor the Lords Steward of Gondor and Arnor, nor their close kin. Merry’d have a fit if Lady Éowyn came north and wasn’t to be let in, I’d have one if Mr Faramir came, and keeping you out, Mr Halladan, don’t make any sense at all. We’d all have fits if he and Lady Arwen came to the Bridge and stopped. And we’d best add the princes of Gondor, as well, so as not to slight Mr Imrahil and his family, supposing he’d ever want to come this way. Are there any princes of Arnor?”

Halladan grinned. “Only you and Peregrin as the Ernil i Periannath. Though we might get round to it some day, I suppose.”

“Tchaa. And any future princes of Arnor, then, so it’s consistent. And then Éomer King and his family. They don’t have princes either but there’s the Marshals of the Mark - Merry wouldn’t like keeping one of them out. And King Brand, I suppose. I can’t think he’d come this far west but if he did we’d not keep him out, and his folk were very polite in Minas Tirith, asking after Mr Bilbo.”

Halladan nodded thoughtfully. “I remember that. So we have the kings and close royal families of Arnor and Gondor, Rohan, and Dale, with the Princes and Lords Steward of Arnor and Gondor and Marshals of the Mark. Who else?”

“Them as wear any of those Kings’ uniform or bear a personal warrant - Rangers, Messengers, soldiers, Rohirrim serving up here, those engineers up at Annúminas who visit the quarries at Scary, and anyone they choose to give a warrant when there’s need.” The quill scratched over the paper. “Then there’s men here who are in Bree’s Shire trade.”

“Mmm. The population here’s growing, though, and anyone can say they’re hoping to trade.”

Saradoc nodded. “Men born in the Breelands, then.”

“Bill Ferny was born in Bree, and he was a stinker. And there’ll be honest incomers too. How about men who’ve lived in Bree at least two years and the hobbits on the Bree Council will vouch for as honest?”

“That might work.” Halladan made a note. “What of men passing through on the Roads, though?”

“They stay on the Roads and use the roadhouses. Else they need permission.”

“From?”

“Master, Thain, or Mayor, of course.” Sam grinned at the look on Saradoc’s face. “Or whoever they choose to deal with it.”

“It’s all very well you grinning, Sam, but that could be a lot of work I don’t have time for.”

“So let’s put it back where it belongs. We want the honest traders, not the rogues, and decent craftsmen and bards, not slapdash ones, so if they come from Gondor they need something with the King’s seal to say they’re honest and skilled as they claim. They can show it to the Bounders at the Bridge or Sarn Ford and get a note saying they’ve done so and can trade or sing in the Shire.”

There was a gleam in Halladan’s eye. “I wouldn’t mind putting some of the work back on the King, I must say. And Éomer King’s seal if they’re from Rohan, King Brand’s for Dale, and mine if they come from within Arnor?”

“Works for me. And as for them as just want to gawk at the mallorn, I don’t know. Though … what if we asked Mr Butterbur to keep the list of places at the converted smial? They have to come here first. Then once a week a Messenger drops it off at the Bridge, and if their names and descriptions are on it properly they can collect a pass from the Bridge minders when they come. I don’t suppose Mr Butterbur would mind well-paying guests for longer.”

“And I could make sure someone had a look at them as well.” Halladan thought about it. “That might work too. Let’s see - those mortal men and women neither of royal nor princely person in the Kingdoms of Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, and Dale, nor duly wearing a King’s colours, nor bearing a royal warrant, nor a warrant of the Breelands Council, may enter the Shire outside the East and Sarn Ford Roads only with the written approval of the Lord Steward of Arnor and the leave of Master, Thain, or Mayor.”

“Now that’s neat.” Sam nodded approvingly. “Very neat. Sounds nice and forbidding, but means we can let in who we want. But that’s the version for Strider. For the Shire vote we’ll want the list as long as possible, so anyone voting for a complete ban knows they’re voting to keep out Strider and you and Merry’s sword-sister and Mr Éomer who’s been sending us the wergild and the men working with the dwarves at Scary and all the men who helped with the Ruffians and partners in the Bree Trade and the tinker they bought a needle or a bit of ribbon from last month and the bard whose song they couldn’t stop humming.”

Saradoc laughed. “For the Moots, yes. And you know, Sam, I’m starting to look forward to them, if only to see Merry, Pippin, and you explaining it all.”

“Me?”

“Yes of course, you. How many hobbits have even heard of Dale, never mind met its king’s emissaries?”

“I’ll be minding the bairns once the new one arrives, Sara, not traipsing about the Shire. And if we’re setting off bright and early tomorrow, which we are, I’d best finish my letter to Strider and get my head down. I’ll give it you in the morning, Mr Halladan, for the next Messenger.” Sam smiled. “There’ll be an enclosure, too - Elanorella’s letter.”

“She’s writing already?”

“A bit wobbly still, but she has been from a year back. Sindarin too.”

“Remarkable. May I ask what she has to say?”

“Tells him he’s being a ninnyhammer, of course. Has a good question for him, too.”

When the door had closed behind him Halladan let out a breath and looked at the Master. “Dealing with Samwise is something of an education, I find. I cannot recall anyone ever calling Aragorn a ninnyhammer before.”

“Isn’t it just? He’s an amazing hobbit. But what he doesn’t know, and you should, is that Will Whitfoot has decided to stand down as Mayor. He’s served five terms, and his knee’s never recovered from the injury he suffered in the Lockholes, during the Troubles.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear it. Who will replace him?”

“That’s another thing Sam doesn’t know, but Pal, Will, and I are determined he will.”

A smile spread slowly across Halladan’s face. “Are you now? That sounds wise of you. Do tell.”

Saradoc did, and if he regretted the lateness of his night when he had to rise before dawn, he was very satisfied all the same.