Chapter 9: A Small Dwarf and Much More

Their life changed considerably after that. Thorin would now leave for the whole day and only appear in the evening, tired, with a soot-covered face; fresh burns appeared on his hands. Folco suffered in silence, but, despite all his searches, he could not find anything for himself to do. The Kid, on the other hand, didn’t give a damn, obviously believing that everything should be as it was.

However, fate favored the hobbit, and he found what he needed, and where he had not even thought to look at first.

Once - it was in the middle of October, a week after Thorin had started working - Folco and the Kid, having finished their lesson, went to have a snack in the tavern hall. While waiting for their modest food to be brought, Folco stared through the open kitchen door - there two servants were fussing with freshly brought mushrooms. The hobbit, who adored mushrooms, immediately began to salivate, he rushed to the owner and barely waited for his favorite seasoning to appear on the table. However, the very first spoonful brought Folco only bitter disappointment. They didn’t know how to cook mushrooms here, or rather, they didn’t know how to cook them properly. What the local cooks produced did not even remotely resemble the delicate dishes, gravies and sauces that came from the hands of hobbit housewives. Folco grimaced and secretly spat - but it so happened that the innkeeper, who was accidentally passing by, noticed this.

What is it, venerable hobbit, did you not like our mushrooms? - The innkeeper’s expression was very offended.
Why lie, I really didn’t like them! - Folco blurted out. - For the Big Folk, that is, people, it might still be acceptable, but in Hobbiton they would be ashamed to give such a thing even to dogs.
Is that so?! How do you think they should be made? Maybe you can teach us, you fool, dear master? - Out of resentment, the innkeeper even dropped his usual “you”.
I can teach you… if we agree on a price! - the hobbit narrowed his eyes, already ready to praise to the skies the wisdom of his uncle Paladin, who, with his endless nagging and slaps on the back of the head, had nevertheless accustomed his negligent nephew to kitchen work.

They shook hands with the innkeeper. Folco hastily tied on a trimmed apron and got down to business. First of all, surprising himself with his own assertiveness, he sent the servants to the market for special herbs, telling them to buy them from the hobbits who had come to trade, while he himself set about cutting and soaking. He fussed for a very long time, composing the most complex mixtures, soaking and squeezing, boiling and salting; Folco only left the stove at dawn. But the next morning, the innkeeper, who had cautiously and distrustfully put the first spoonful of the prepared dish in his mouth, could only roll his eyes - and then he himself did not notice how he had devoured the whole plate.

Listen, venerable master Folco, - he immediately pestered the hobbit after long oohs and aahs, - come work for me, eh? You can’t find such seasonings and pickles anywhere in Annúminas! And I’ll pay you fairly… I won’t offend you!

Folco feigned stubbornness for a while, driving up the price, then agreed, and soon the tavern “Horn of Aragorn” was overwhelmed with visitors.

Folco turned out to be an excellent cook - now he tried to remember everything his aunt had taught him, imperiously ousting the owner himself from the kitchen. And finally the day came when the hobbit, flushed with pride, was able to place a heavy bag of gold coins on the table in front of the stunned Thorin with the most imperturbable expression.

October passed in continuous labor; now Folco rarely managed to get out for a walk in the wonderful City, he barely found time for daily lessons with the Kid, who still did not even want to hear about any work. However, his idleness was redeemed by a light, cheerful disposition, an inexhaustible supply of funny stories and an incomparable fighting skill, which Folco was now mastering with such difficulty and sweat.

Their affairs improved, but the reception with the Steward was still delayed, and Folco, tired of living “not at home”, began to slowly think that it would be nice for them to buy some “little house” so as not to pay so much for lodging, which was earned with such hard work.

By that time, Folco had become friends with the owner of the “Horn of Aragorn”, who greatly valued his little assistant, and, having waited until the innkeeper was in a particularly good mood (after counting the day’s earnings), the hobbit casually asked if the venerable owner knew where one could find a modest dwelling for three at a lower price.

Folco, what are you doing, what? - the owner was immediately frightened. - Are you really thinking of leaving?.. Or did I offend you in some way? Then forgive me generously! Or did those woolly-ears in the “Star of Arwen” lure you away?

Having listened to the hobbit’s explanations, the innkeeper thought for a minute, and then suddenly slapped his forehead resoundingly.

Listen!.. Come with me!.. He led the hobbit to the tavern yard, where, away from the sheds and the warehouse, among the overgrown hawthorn, stood a small, slightly lopsided building, most of all resembling a slightly lopsided barn, only not of logs, but of stone.
Here! - the owner said with pride. - Why isn’t this a home for you? It will make a great little house, if you put your hands to it…

Folco cautiously looked inside. The dried-out door creaked pitifully, swaying on its last surviving hinge, the windows were broken, the floor was torn up. Instead of a stove - a pile of stones.

You need to put your hands to it, of course, who says it’s a palace, - the innkeeper appeared behind the hobbit. - But, if you finish it, I’ll sell it to you for good, for almost nothing… - and he named a really very low price.

Without thinking long, Folco rushed to Thorin. The seasoned dwarf even grunted in surprise, looking at the chaos reigning in the little house. Whistling, Thorin carefully searched all the corners, then silently slapped the hobbit on the shoulder and turned to the owner:

We’ll take it. We’ll do everything in three days. Winking conspiratorially at the uncomprehending Folco, Thorin walked quickly somewhere down the street. He was not gone for long, and when he returned, he had a very pleased look.
All questions later, later, - he waved away the hobbit who was persistently pestering him. - The night will pass, the morning will advise, as old Gandalf used to say…

The next day, when Folco and the Kid were finishing another lesson, the hobbit saw about a dozen dwarves walking down their street, looking around as if searching for something.

See? - Thorin approached the hobbit. - These are the eleven Gungnir brothers, I met them yesterday by chance. They will help us.

Folco looked with doubt at the brothers who were banging on the tavern doors: they looked very battered, and one was even being supported by the arms - he kept trying to lean against something and doze off; as soon as he succeeded, even for a brief moment, it was as if blacksmith’s bellows, old and leaky, began to work on the street: the dwarf’s snores could be heard throughout the house.

It’s nothing, don’t pay attention, - Thorin intercepted the hobbit’s distrustful gaze. - They are like that now, but when they get down to business - it will all be gone in a flash. And the one being led by the arms is the best connoisseur of the canons of carving I have ever seen. And the canons, brother hobbit, are such a thing… - The dwarf suddenly scratched the back of his head and fell silent, as if remembering something he had long wanted to forget.

Meanwhile, all eleven brothers had gathered around them in a friendly crowd. Apparently, they had managed to have a good time even that morning - a thick aroma of strong beer spread around them. Many had a drowsy, languid look; it was clear that they had torn themselves away from the table with great difficulty.

The eldest of the brothers, an already elderly dwarf with a half-gray beard and a fresh scratch on his ear, greeted Folco and Thorin noisily:

Thorin, without further ado, led the whole team to the little house the friends had bought. The brothers all scratched either the back of their heads or their beards, all uttered a vague, skeptical “well, well…”, after which they immediately began to untie their voluminous knapsacks, where they had everything necessary for work. Folco watched these preparations with bewilderment - in Hobbiton, such горе-masters would have been chased out of the yard long ago, not allowing those who were tipsy to even get down to business. However, Thorin did not even bat an eyelid.

And indeed, as soon as the brothers got to work, all the intoxication instantly left them. The sleepy look and battered appearance disappeared, their gazes, as if by magic, became clear, and the work in their hands literally began to boil. Only the connoisseur of the canons remained sitting, leaning his back against the trunk of an old hawthorn, categorically stating that he was not going to move stones, and it would be better if he did his direct business. The eldest of the Gungnirs whispered something in the ear of the two younger ones, they disappeared somewhere for a short time, and soon appeared, carrying a hefty oak log on their shoulders. They put it in front of their stubborn brother and, without further ado, joined the others.

What does he want to do? - the hobbit, who understood nothing, asked Thorin in a whisper.
What do you mean?! The dwelling of every true thain should be decorated with the image of the sacred beard of Durin. Har Gungnirling, I told you, is the best beard carver in the Blue Mountains! The beard must be depicted strictly according to the canon, every hair and every curl in it has long been calculated and consecrated… This is a great art! However, enough talk, let’s better get to work ourselves, brother hobbit, it’s not good for us to stand aside!

Later, Folco admitted to himself more than once that without the Gungnir brothers, they would never have been able to put their dwelling in order. The dwarves threw all the garbage out of the house, broke out the cracked pieces from the walls, then a cart loaded with stone drove into the yard, and the masters took up their stone-cutting hammers. Meanwhile, Har had covered everything around him with a layer of brown shavings, and the sacred beard of Durin had acquired the appearance of a long, flattened lizard with torn-off paws, as the hobbit thought of it not very respectfully.

Three days of continuous labor passed, only occasionally interrupted by the clatter of another beer barrel being rolled out of the cellar by the diligent Thorin.

Soon the pathetic ruin was unrecognizable. In the corner, the brothers had built an intricate hearth with a skillfully forged cast-iron grate, laid a new floor, inserted frames and glass, repaired the walls, brought huge boulders under the corners so that nothing would collapse or settle anymore, and on the new, again oak, door they solemnly placed the Sacred Beard of Durin, finished by that time by Har, almost half a sazhen long.

That same evening, Thorin, Folco and the Kid silently watched the dancing tongues of fire in the fireplace of their new home. A strange feeling possessed the hobbit - for the first time he had become a master, a full owner of property; it was pleasant, but some vague feeling, accumulating in his soul, told him that he was destined to own this new property for a very, very short time…