It was one of Beregond’s sergeants, returned from a few days’ leave, who’d come to them with a strange tale. He stood now before the Lord Steward and his Deputy with an expression on his face in which embarrassment was largely over-ridden by a palpable sense of unease. Twice the man had apologised for bringing such a trivial matter to their attention, but had he only known it was his own discomfort that spoke loudly to Boromir. The good sergeant had unknowingly interrupted a conversation between the men about something uncanny, a restless temper that seemed to be abroad in the lower levels of the city, manifesting itself in tavern brawls, raised voices behind closed doors, so that both men were alert for anything out of place.
Returning homeward from leave the sergeant had thought to bed for the night with a comrade who had retired from Imrahil’s service to take on a small tavern on the outskirts of Harlond. The Goblin’s Head was a plain establishment, no more than a large room, with a kitchen and storeroom attached at the side, but it was in a good spot, at a cross-roads and able to count on trade from those bound for the numerous jetties that were springing up along this bank of the Anduin and from river travellers taking their goods into the city.
When the sergeant had reached it in the setting sun he had expected to find old Hamm busy, but there had been no more than half a dozen idlers about the place, and they did not appear to the sergeant as free-spending sorts, huddled about the fire, or sat in small and silent groups, wreathed in pipe-smoke. Hamm had claimed that he was waiting on new supplies of ale. The sergeant had been struck by the vacant look in the man’s eyes and determined to tackle him on the morrow.
But the stew that the cook had served him was warming and tasty, his mug of beer was good and hoppy, his pillow soft and the sergeant had slept soundly, only wakened by a sunbeam that penetrated the shutters and played across his face. Stretching in his blankets, he could hear the noise of the road, a cart rumbling past, but the tavern was silent and silent it had remained, for although he had searched every room, every outhouse, eventually every cupboard and chest, not a trace of Hamm or the cook could the sergeant find.
Thinking that they might have stepped away from the tavern for a while on some errand he had waited most of the day, trading a couple of eggs from a goodwife going past with a basket over her arm for a piece of a cheese he’d found in the kitchen, and selling a few jugs of the dark beer to those customers who’d venture under the fearsome painted sign, but no-one had come to relieve him of his watch and eventually he had turned down the lamps and barred the doors before settling down to wait out an uncomfortable night in the taproom.
The following day, frustrated, he had locked the front door with the large iron key that hung beside the kitchen range and left it with the nearest neighbour, a cooper who did not look up from the barrel round he was hammering but told him to put it next to the forge.
Hamm often took off for a couple of days, said the cooper. He levered up the iron with tongs and plunged it into a trough of cold water where it hissed and spat. Amidst the clouds of steam, the cooper glanced up at him with soft blue eyes and the sergeant felt a shiver run on his skin and could not say why.
He had been returned to Minas Tirith for a few days and had asked a mounted patrol headed that way to call in at The Goblin’s Head, see if Hamm had appeared. They had returned at dusk as expected, reporting that Hamm had welcomed them to the tavern, apologised for his absence and worrying his old friend and stood each man a mug of ale on the house and truly it was the best ale they had ever tasted, the talk of the barracks and they would be sure to go back that way again. With that, the sergeant should have been content, but that from their description of mine host, he was fairly sure that this man was the cooper.
“I don’t remember this Hamm,” Boromir said reflectively, “but if he was in Imrahil’s service there were many I would not have known. Would you call him an honest man, sergeant?”
“I would,” replied the sergeant stoutly, “the man I served with is a hard-working and true-hearted man.”
“There are some who do not see the need to pay duty on liquors, sergeant,” Boromir said dryly. “Smuggling has been known along that stretch of the Anduin.”
The sergeant seemed to consider his answer.
“I do not believe,” he said slowly, “that Hamm would be party to anything against the King’s laws.”
“Do you want me to send out another patrol, my lord?”
Boromir ignored Beregond’s question for a moment to watch the sergeant as the man rocked uneasily from foot to foot.
“Did the cook come back?” Boromir asked casually.
The sergeant stilled and then reddened a little.
“I did not ask, my lord,” he said.
Boromir turned to his Deputy.
“Let us see what happened to the cook, Beregond,” he said quietly, “and the sergeant here will give your patrol descriptions of both men which they will verify against those they find in possession of this tavern.”
With that he had risen and left them, bound for a meeting with the King. As he passed through the corridors of the citadel Boromir thought he heard raised voices far off and set his jaw grimly. This place was not only the working heart of the kingdom but it was also a home and he would not have the household disturbed by brawls. Waylaying a passing guard, he gave precise instructions and carried on his way to the council.
King and Steward were passing down to the great hall to dine after the meeting when they were met by the returning guardsman, accompanied by one of the Healers. In reply to Boromir’s enquiries they had given the troubling news that the earlier disturbance had been occasioned by a young man, son of a courtier, who had seemed to suffer some kind of fit. It had taken several men to subdue him and take him to safety. He was now quiet and under Celond’s care. Boromir thanked them for their efforts, and as they turned to go the King, who had been listening intently, asked them whether they had seen the fit for themselves? The young guardsman, looking grave, nodded in reply.
“He was clutching his head between his hands, sire, and shaking, crying out.”
“He seemed to feel the cold, majesty,” added the healer, “but his skin was hot and dry.”
The King nodded and told them he would come down to the Houses of Healing later to see how the lad did.
“Do you have some notion of what it might be?” Boromir murmured to him as they walked away.
“It could be many things, love,” Aragorn replied, “and none of them good.”
The second patrol returned to report that, going by the sergeant’s description, it was Hamm himself who had welcomed them and they’d surely be returning in their free hours to sample some rare ale. The cook had not returned to his post. Hamm seemed to think the man had just wandered off; he was a good cook and worth more than he, Hamm, could pay. The lieutenant thought that the old man would be hard pressed to manage the place alone, for it was packed with customers and they’d conversed above the hubbub of a crowded taproom. The sergeant was glad to hear that his friend was apparently flourishing, but there was a nagging worry about the thing he could not put aside and the Lord Steward seemed to share his concerns, for he’d ordered additional patrols along that road.
It was some weeks later that Boromir invited himself along to see Beregond take action against a tavern in the lower town that was proving a source of regular disquiet. The Old Roan had never been more than a common tavern, but it had offered good ale and plain fare for a generation and never, that he could remember, caused his father a moment’s concern. Now there were fights spilling out from its tap and yard almost every night and far from being shunned, men seemed drawn to the place, so that there was a crowd milling about waiting for the doors to open each evening.
Boromir had decided that it should close for a while to let the temper of the town cool. There had already been too much violence and the Healers were close to petitioning that he should ban the wearing of blades within the city walls.
The landlord had not seemed concerned by the soldiers hammering on his doors, indeed Boromir thought he did not seem to be quite listening to what Beregond was telling him. Boromir was behind the bar looking at the barrels. One of them, a good broad cask, had a green stamp he did not recognise.
“Where did this ale come from, man?” he asked.
The landlord blinked at him, until nudged in the ribs by his wife and told sharply to answer the Lord Steward.
“That’s our best, my lord,” he said softly, “none so good.”
Boromir had bent down to pick up the jug set on the floor beneath the tap to catch any spillage; seen from this angle the green squiggle resolved itself into a head and if he did not mistake, a goblin’s head.
The ale when he tasted it was full and rich, almost honeyed, but some caution made him spit out the mouthful. He heard the landlord groan when the liquid hit the sawdust on the floor.
The gathering that the Lord Steward called that evening saw the King, Beregond, a couple of his captains and Celond for the Healers, seated about his great desk on which sat a jug of the Old Roan’s ale. Celond had produced some tiny glasses, no bigger than thimbles and they had all tasted it, barely wet their lips but the flavour lingered. It was making Boromir’s mouth water and he realised that for two pins he would have drunk the whole jug. Glancing upwards he saw the expression on the captains’ faces and suddenly he would not have the stuff anywhere near his men and snatching up the jug he went to the window, opened it and poured the ale out onto the flowerbeds below.
They had already heard from the sergeant and from the commanders of the patrols who’d visited the tavern at the crossroads. It did not seem possible that Hamm should be making ale in that place and selling it on, but Beregond’s men had confiscated barrels with the Goblin’s Head stamp from four inns, all of which had seen trouble in past few weeks.
There was a tap at the door and there entered a soberly-dressed man carrying a ledger who Beregond introduced as the Controller of Duty for that stretch of the Anduin. It was Master Orefal’s responsibility to see that all goods landed on the jetties around paid any customs monies due. Each barrel seized had been marked as ‘duty paid’ so it should be possible to trace their origins.
The Controller laid the book open upon Boromir’s desk, pointed to the entries for ale bound for the Goblin’s Head and explained how the duties were calculated and how he and his small staff tried to ensure that all trade was accounted for. There, their lordships would see the entries for the tavern in question, ale shipped down the Anduin come in as a part cargo along with other goods from Harad.
Beregond peered down at the ledger.
“There are over a hundred casks listed here, man,” he said incredulously, “did you think that might be over much for a small tavern?”
“I do not partake myself, my lord,” said Orefal comfortably, “but my colleagues tell me it is excellent ale and I believe that Master Hamm sells some of the barrels onwards, as he is entitled to do once the duty has been paid.”
Boromir knew Orefal for a scrupulous individual and had no doubt that his records would be seen to be meticulously kept, but he was beginning to think that perhaps the man lacked something in imagination.
Once the Controller had left, without his ledger which Boromir had held back, the King had asked after those hurt in brawls. They were progressing, but slowly, Celond said. Wounds seemed quick to knit but their spirits were low.
“And what of the young man who suffered the fit?”
“He is troubled, sire, lost in sadness, but you know what I think...”
Boromir looked up from the ledger at Aragorn whose head was bowed.
“Celond and I suspect,” Aragorn said at last, “that he may have drunk some type of orc liquor.”
Boromir felt the breath hiss from between his teeth. This was unexpected.
He remembered Merry once trying to describe what the stuff had tasted like and how it had burned as the orcs forced it down his throat. It was known that where the hobbits’ iron digestion could tolerate it, if they did not relish it, on men the effect was more damaging; once tasted a longing for more could overwhelm the strongest of individuals at the same time that it weakened, nay maddened, many. A ban on the sale of orc liquor had been one of the first injunctions that Elessar had made, because surviving orc bands had tried to trade their remaining supplies, but once orcs had disappeared from Gondor and Arnor there had been no need to do more than add it to a list of prohibited goods, and ensure that the quaysides were alert for anyone trying to import it from elsewhere.
“You think these things are connected?” Boromir asked sharply. Behind him Beregond and his captains were conversing in low tones.
“I think they are connected, yes,” Aragorn replied, “but the good Master Orefal will have had every cask of the Goblin's Head ale tapped to ensure it held ale. In any case,” he added, “orc liquor is thick and heavy and is normally only moved in leather sacks.”
“Sire, my Lord Steward,” Beregond’s tone was grim. “These men have heard of a new game much favoured amongst young men with funds,” and he gestured to one of his captains to take up the tale.
The man cleared his throat.
“There is a new dice game where the losers pay out in gold but the winners must drink a small glass of rich wine.”
“Have you played?” Boromir asked.
The captain shook his head.
“Games are held by invitation only, my lord, and invitations go to those with monies to spare.”
“Who organises these games, man?”
The young officer shrugged his shoulders.
“I believe that there is no one organiser. The principal winner in one game hosts the next.”
“And what is this game called?” the King asked as Boromir threw down the ledger in disgust.
“Goblin Gold.”
Drink by Alex Quine
Summary: Boromir is tracking down a threat to Gondor and Aragorn can not leave well alone.
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 7207 Read: 2246
Published: 03 Jan 2011 Updated: 03 Jan 2011
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."