Chapter 10: The Steward

November was underway, a cold dry wind had long since torn the last brown leaves from the black branches of trees, and hundreds of bluish wisps of smoke reached toward the clear, clean sky. On the streets of Annúminas, carts loaded with firewood were now increasingly common - omens foretold a cold winter. In the mornings, rare puddles in the yard of the “Horn of Arachorn,” where three friends lived in their new house, began to be covered with ice. Their life had entered a calm channel. Thorin still swung his hammer in the forge, Folco sweated over the stove in the tavern. The Kid taught the hobbit the art of war and tested the merits of beer in various taverns of the capital. New cares completely absorbed Folco’s attention, he liked this new, free life, and to himself he smiled slightly, remembering the naive dreams that had overwhelmed him when he, with a sword at his belt, in a cloak fluttering in the wind, rode along the road going north, to the Gates of Buckland. Rogvold still appeared often; but their business was hardly progressing, and Folco was even glad of this. Everything is still ahead! Thorin talks about the coming campaign to Moria… Good, of course, but it’s better if this campaign is postponed for longer. Such a glorious city, Annúminas!

Folco was appreciated and respected in the tavern, his skill attracted many new regulars; the owner turned out to be fair, and the hobbit could not complain about lack of money. One day, the elders of the capital’s cooking guild came to them, tasted the food prepared by the hobbit, and soon he, having paid his share, became a full member of this glorious union, bypassing the rank of apprentice and journeyman. Folco now wore with some pride on the left side of his jacket and cloak the guild’s coat of arms - a tripod standing on fire on a black field of an oblong shield, supported on two sides by a bull and a ram.

In the city, the autumn fairs had died down, gathering people from all over the Kingdom - from the Blue Mountains to the Misty and from the northern edge of the Emyn Uial to the South Downs. Even more dwarves came - from the most diverse places, and some arrived even from Erebor. Hobbits came too. They timidly huddled in the corners of the huge Trading Square, having a very confused and funny appearance. Folco, who had approached to chat and show off slightly, in good Annúminas clothes, with the guild coat of arms, with a sword at his belt, caused a storm of admiring ohs and ahs. He learned that everything was in complete order in his homeland, and one half-familiar hobbit from Buckland said that his relatives had grieved greatly for the missing wayward offspring and his uncle had ordered all residents of Buckland, if they met Folco somewhere, to tell him that they were no longer angry with him and were waiting for his return.

It cannot be said that Folco remained indifferent to these words. No, at times sadness came over him too, when he remembered the old walls of Brandy Hall, the majestic Brandywine under the windows, the hospitable tavern in the Barns and comrades from neighboring farms. But this happened infrequently - the hobbit was drawn to a different life.

He remembered this day for a long time - November twentieth by the Annúminas calendar. In the morning, an excited Rogvold, dressed in his best clothes, rushed to them. - Get ready! - he said breathlessly from the doorway. - The Steward is waiting for us at noon!

They almost ran through the elegant streets to the center of the City, where on the shore of the lake stood the Steward’s palace, surrounded by a high wall with towers and a moat. Two steps away from it, the Trading Square was noisy with its usual life, but here a solemn silence reigned. The gates were guarded by numerous guards, dressed not in white-and-blue, but in gray cloaks with a single eight-pointed star on the left shoulder - in memory of the Dúnedain, who for decades had guarded the peace and tranquility of the northern peoples. Many who were among the Steward’s personal guard traced their lineage from them, and this explained their great height and some special expression in their eyes - the eyes of people bearing a burden invisible to others. One of the warriors, on whose helmet were also wings of a seagull on the sides, stepped forward. Rogvold gave the password. The tall warrior in a winged helmet bowed with dignity.

Please follow me. - His voice was clear and strong. - The Steward is waiting for you.

Having passed through a yard paved with black and white stone stars, they found themselves near the second wall. It rose to a height of three dozen feet, smooth, without a single window or ledge, but pointed, gleaming with polished copper roofs were visible on it. Folco looked around in surprise - in the blank wall along its entire length there was nothing like gates.

The warrior leading them stopped in front of the wall on a semicircle laid out with dark red smooth stone, and whispered something, and so quickly and indistinctly that the hobbit could not make anything out.

Our work! - Thorin hissed in his ear. - The gates open by spell!

And so it was. The solid stone body of the mighty wall was cut by black straight cracks, the stone slabs went into special grooves, turning on invisible hinges.

Having passed through a long tunnel, they found themselves in a small inner courtyard. The yard beyond the first wall amazed with its emptiness - beyond the ring of walls lay only a paved empty space - but here buildings crowded everywhere, intertwined with bizarrely curved stone and iron spiral staircases, long galleries stretched from one building to another, forming a complex interlacing above their heads. Directly above them, a wide grand staircase led upward, built of huge blocks of black stone; Folco immediately recalled Orthanc, but the dwarf wrinkled his nose slightly contemptuously.

Ordinary stone, just dark. There’s plenty of it in our mountains.

Several more guards appeared from somewhere on the side. The wings of seagulls on their helmets were slightly touched with silver, as if the feathers of a bird were ruffled by a fresh sea breeze, the facings were gilded. Their escort stopped and saluted with his sword. One of those who came out to them repeated his movement, quietly commanded something - he turned and walked away without even looking back.

The black staircase led them to the platform of the second tier, before wide three-leaf doors, from which galleries ran in all directions. The warrior in a winged helmet turned back and walked along the central gallery, stretched across the entire courtyard back to the gates and two high gate towers. Above their heads stretched more galleries, narrower than the one they were walking along, numerous spiral staircases led directly from the second tier upward. And even higher, at roof level, the sky was crossed by narrow watch passages, supported by thick chains and steel cables; and along these hanging paths, guards constantly walked.

They passed the gallery and now stood near an inconspicuous door in one of the gate towers. The door was so narrow and low that the dwarf and Rogvold had to squeeze through sideways and in addition bent in three deaths. Folco managed to notice that the huntsman’s eyebrows rose in surprise: before this he had the appearance of a man walking a long-familiar path.

A spiral staircase like a gigantic snake wound in the body of the tower, rising higher and higher. Its steps turned out to be so steep that the hobbit had to help himself with his hands. Behind him, Rogvold’s heavy breathing was heard.

But the steps that had seemed endless to the hobbit ended, the friends found themselves on a platform under the very roof of the tower.

We go here. - The guide pointed to a narrow passage to their right, between two loopholes.

In the corridor lit by natural light, Folco again saw steps, this time going down.

“Now here, now there… Why not directly to the place?” he thought with displeasure, diving after the warrior into the corridor.

However, this time it turned out to be not far to go. They passed another post and finally entered a small bright hall without windows, draped with white-and-blue panels. At the far wall from the entrance, on a small elevation, stood a black wooden chair with a high back and long armrests; above it hung the large coat of arms of the United Kingdom. Folco at first was surprised, seeing neither windows nor lamps, but, raising his eyes, understood that light here came through special slits cut in the roof. The hall was empty, only on the sides of the black chair, or perhaps throne, stood two guards in full armor.

Wait here, - the escort addressed them. - And I must go to my post. His Excellency will come out soon.

The warrior bowed ceremoniously and left, not paying attention to Rogvold, who had made an attempt to speak with him. The friends were left alone.

Beautiful! - Thorin said quietly. Throwing back his head, he looked at the carved stone beams supporting the stucco ceiling. Six beams stretched to the center were made in the form of writhing dragons, locked in death grips in each other’s jaws. The stucco on the ceiling depicted other beasts and birds unknown to Folco, bizarrely intertwined with long flower stems. They could not see the walls of the hall - they were hidden by fabric, and the floor was laid out with eight-pointed pearl-silver stars on a black background; the stone was worked so skillfully that the floor seemed luminous; Thorin even crouched down and began to examine it.
Amazing, - he muttered. - Ordinary granite, but what they did with it, I would like to know.

He did not manage to find the answer to his question. Steps were heard, the white-and-blue curtains stirred, and seven entered the hall. Thorin hastily jumped up. The three friends bowed in respectful greeting.

The man who entered the hall first slowly ascended to the elevation and unhurriedly lowered himself into the chair. A sigh was heard, and a calm, coldish voice of an elderly man sounded in the hall:

Come closer, don’t crowd by the doors. - Fatigue and indifference were heard in the voice.

The hobbit, who had straightened his back, naturally directed his first glance at the man in the chair. Folco was looking at a very old man, very tall, completely gray, long hair falling to his shoulders, caught, like the huntsman’s, on his forehead with a simple leather cord. Deep wrinkles cut across his face, an old white scar ran across his high forehead, clearly visible on the darkened skin. Thin old hands lay calmly on the armrests.

The Steward was dressed simply: a soft gray cloak, indistinguishable from the cloaks of the guards protecting him, no decorations, no jewels. Just as simple was the attire of the people accompanying him, also of advanced age. The only difference was that all six escorts wore weapons - rich, beautiful and diverse. Long swords in sheaths adorned with gems, maces, flails, axes - all in gold and silver, with delicate inlays. But what struck the hobbit most was the imprint of some eternal, permanent fatigue and equally eternal indifference that was clearly read on their calm, impassive faces.

The friends approached closer to the elevation. The Steward’s colorless eyes warmed when he addressed Rogvold:

Hello, old friend, you haven’t been seen in Annúminas for a long time. Was your hunt successful?
Come closer, don’t crowd at the door. - Weariness and indifference were audible in the voice.

The hobbit’s first glance as he straightened his back was naturally directed at the man in the chair. Folco was looked upon by a very old man, very tall, completely gray, long hair falling to his shoulders, bound, like the huntsman’s, on his forehead with a simple leather thong. Deep wrinkles cut across his face, an old white scar ran across his high forehead, clearly visible on the weathered skin. Thin old hands rested calmly on the armrests.

The Steward was dressed simply: a soft gray cloak, indistinguishable from the cloaks of the guards protecting him, no ornaments, no jewels. The attire of his companions, also of advanced age, was equally simple. The only difference was that all six companions wore weapons - rich, beautiful and varied. Long swords in gem-encrusted scabbards, maces, morningstars, axes - all in gold and silver, with fine inlays. But what struck the hobbit most was the seal of some eternal, abiding weariness and equally eternal indifference, which was clearly readable on their calm, impassive faces.

The friends approached closer to the dais. The Steward’s colorless eyes warmed when he addressed Rogvold:

Greetings, old friend, you have not been seen in Annuminas for a long time. Was your hunt successful?
The hunt was successful, Mighty One, but the meetings were even more successful… We have brought important information!
Yes, yes, I read your letter, - nodded the Steward. - But everything must be sorted out in order. So, where did it all begin?

Thorin nudged Folco with his elbow, but he remained motionless - it was too frightening to begin a conversation with this proud and majestic ruler. Thorin spoke himself.

He told how he and his friend present here, the valiant Folco Brandybuck, son of Hamfast, caught in the hobbit forest a dwerg who had violated the law of the Great King, and how they discovered that he had ended up in the Shire not at all by accident.

The Steward listened patiently and attentively, but the hobbit was again stung by the unpleasant thought that this was no more than the habitual mask of a man weary of countless petitioners. When the dwarf finished, the Steward’s eyes slowly turned to the hobbit.

Did all this happen as the honorable son of Dart says? Perhaps you would like to add something?

Folco shook his head negatively. The Steward nodded silently, exchanged glances with his associates, and spoke himself:

You see, we, of course, interrogated the dwerg. He, however, claims that he was treacherously attacked from ambush right on the border of the Old Forest, where he and five comrades had stopped for a rest. Do you insist on your testimony? Then tell me, what damage was done to your country, honorable hobbit? You are silent… No, there is nothing I can do here. There is no third party who could confirm the rightness of one of the disputants. And therefore, - the Steward straightened and raised his right hand, - In the Name of the Seven Stars I command: release the dwerg.
Release him?! - exclaimed Thorin. - He was sent to search for orcs!
I believe you, - the Steward answered calmly, - and I have taken measures. Our people visited the native village of this dwerg - no one there knows anything. But we, naturally, wrote about all this to the King, as well as to Elloras, for the matter is connected with Isengard.
But we are talking about our eternal enemies! - Thorin continued to press, not paying attention to Rogvold’s warning gestures.
About your eternal enemies, honorable dwarf! - The Steward’s eyebrows shifted slightly. - These are your underground affairs and your underground enemies. We do not interfere here. But I have already said that we will closely watch Isengard.

Thorin fell into stunned silence, and Rogvold deftly turned the conversation in another direction. Prompted by him, Folco, stammering, told of the murdered hobbit found on the West Road, and the Steward’s brow darkened.

Eh, Erster, Erster! In addition to that fight, now murder! He watches poorly, again under his nose there is banditry! Well, never mind, we’ll help. Kron! Two more hundred mounted to the Bree-land! Let Diz go as senior. And… let him take command.

One of the old men standing by the throne bowed and made a note to himself.

But that is not the main thing and far from all, - Rogvold continued meanwhile. - Passing by the Barrow-downs…

And he retold in detail all the events of that memorable evening and equally memorable day. The Steward frowned.

No one is forbidden to go to the Barrow-downs, - he said with a sigh. - Reports have already reached us that something untoward is happening there.
Those who went there were among those who opposed Erster, - Rogvold said quietly. - It seems to me they have something like a gathering point there. Should we not post a reliable guard there?
Reasonable, very reasonable, - the Steward nodded. - You, old friend, always reason soundly and advise wisely. We shall do so. Kron! Order to include in the instruction to Diz to place a chain of posts around the entire Barrow-downs and not take eyes off it. Detain suspicious persons entering there in large numbers and with weapons. Also strengthen surveillance of the Road! Special attention - to the White Downs and the heart of the Shire. The covenants of the Great King above all. Give hobbit caravans guards first of all! - He turned to his friends: - Well, are you satisfied?

The dwarf and Folco shifted from foot to foot.

But what about the wraiths? What about this sword that I picked up at the bonfire and which the wraith struck by the valiant son of Hamfast was heading for? - Thorin said with agitation.

The Steward sighed and spread his hands.

These forces are beyond the power of men, - he answered with regret. - They live by their own laws. No one has yet suffered damage from these creatures. What do you propose I do with them? The Arnor host cannot fight against a bodiless enemy.
But the hobbit destroyed one of them?
How do you know this? Such creatures cannot be destroyed by arrows, here we need the powers and knowledge of elves, who have now left us… Be calm, we will not leave this unattended, and if our arrows are truly capable of doing something here - may Great Elbereth bless the hand and eye of skilled archers! Alas, we now have to think more about fighting bandits, about enemies of flesh and blood. As for that sword, - the Steward suddenly raised his heavy eyelids, - keep it for yourself, honorable dwarf. Truth be told, we have no use for it now, and who better than you dwarves understands the form and soul of iron? If you extract anything from it, any indications about the whereabouts of these bandits or their accomplices who, contrary to decree, sell weapons to outsiders without special permission - then inform our Chancellery as soon as possible, and you will not be passed over by our attention and gratitude. But before we part, for urgent matters call me, I want to ask you. Where do you intend to go after our conversation? I do not ask out of idle curiosity. It is a rare, almost impossible case in our time for a hobbit and a dwarf together with a man to come specifically to Annuminas in order to warn us of danger! What brought you together?

Thorin scratched the back of his head.

Annuminas is only the first point on our long and difficult path, - he said. - We are troubled by recent events, and first of all by the fact that Cirdan has undertaken the construction of a new wall. What does he, the unconquerable, need it for?

The Steward smiled.

I know about this and was at first surprised myself, but since all our sea communication with Gondor goes through the Grey Havens, I soon learned from my people, and then received confirmation from Cirdan himself, that he feels weary of life in Middle-earth, he feels the call of the Sea and understands that someday he will still have to sail to Eressea, to the Blessed Land in the Uttermost West. He wants the peoples of the North - and not only the North - to have a good memory of him after he is gone. He considers such a memory to be that beautiful city which is now being erected on the shore of the Gulf of Lhun. Hence the wall! Have I satisfied your interest? Has your alarm not decreased?

Rogvold nodded, but Thorin shook his head doubtfully.

Perhaps so, perhaps otherwise, - he mumbled evasively and continued, again raising his gaze to the Steward: - But that is not the main thing that made me set out on the road. We have some strange rumors from Moria.

The Steward nodded again.

Yes, yes, I heard. Those whose duties include this have reported to me about it. I agree, the events are strange. And it is very good that among the dwarves there have finally appeared those willing to get to the bottom of this! I will not hide that I am interested in this, so let’s talk in more detail. What are your plans? Has a detachment already been assembled, or are you going to go as three? Are there means? Speak about everything boldly and without concealment. I will try to help you if it is within my power.
We intend to go to Moria in spring, when the snow melts in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, - Thorin answered, obviously rejoicing that he had met understanding at least in this. - Has a detachment been assembled? Both yes and no. About two dozen of my kinsmen have already agreed, and noble Rogvold, son of Mstar, has done us the honor of accompanying us to Moria, as well as Folco, son of Hamfast. But we have not yet set either a definite date of departure or other preparations. However, I hope that we will succeed in penetrating Moria and finally finding out what is happening there.
So Rogvold has decided to exchange the sword for a pickaxe? - the Steward smiled. - Well, that is good. His wise advice will always be useful to you. You will need money, weapons, tools - all this you can get here: money - in the treasury, everything else - in the arsenals. Trod, give orders! Honorable Thorin, you spoke of two dozen companions, but if volunteers are found among the Arnorians to keep you company, I will not object. Rogvold, you can apply directly to my guard - I am sure volunteers will be found.
I thank the honorable Steward, - Thorin bowed. - Do not take my words for mistrust of your brave host, but men are not the best helpers in underground affairs. In Moria it will be necessary to succeed by skill, not by numbers. Here dwarves are needed.
Well then, you know better, honorable Thorin, - the Steward did not argue. - I will give you safe-conduct through all Arnor. You will be given ponies, and horses, and wagons if needed. And yet, Thorin, departing, try to keep in touch with Annuminas. No one knows what awaits you in Moria, and men may be useful on the surface… I will not insist, however. So, the matter is decided. - He scribbled a few words on a small piece of parchment and gave it to the dwarf. - By this order you will be able to obtain everything necessary before departure, and then we shall meet again. Do you have any more questions for me?
Listen! - Folco suddenly grew bold and immediately became embarrassed. - And forgive me… I only wanted to know if you have ever met such a man - a hunchback named Sandello? He participated in tournaments and took prizes at them.

A gloomy, unkind smirk suddenly appeared on the Steward’s face, his gaze grew heavy.

How do you know him? - Colorless eyes stared at Folco without blinking, but the young hobbit held firm.
We met him by chance, on the road to Annuminas, - he answered as calmly as possible.
So you met Sandello? - Cold sparks flashed in the Steward’s motionless eyes, as if some long-forgotten events rose to the surface from the depths of memory. - Did you speak with him?
No, I only learned his name and that he handles weapons excellently.

Folco managed with difficulty to maintain composure. The Steward nodded unhurriedly, pondering something.

I know Sandello, - he answered. - Long ago he came to Annuminas as a very young man and unexpectedly for everyone took first prize in the swordsmen’s tournament. We have an old custom - the victor is awaited by honorable service in the Arnor host, and Sandello, no doubt, counted on this. I spoke with him, he is from the south, from beyond the South Downs, orphaned early. Where he learned the art of combat is a mystery to me, although he assured that he figured it all out himself. I did not take the hunchback into the host. He thinks only of himself, the fate of his homeland does not concern him. He directly asked me how much salary he would get as the tournament winner. And also - in his youth (for I have not met him for a very long time) he seemed to me full of cold, scornful malice and envy. He is a great master, but that is not enough. Then he appeared in Annuminas several more times, won tournaments three more times in different years, proudly refusing prizes and money. He interested me, I will not hide, I love masters who have achieved perfection in some craft. But… - the Steward spread his hands. - He disappeared, and I do not know what and how he lived all this time. So I cannot completely satisfy your curiosity, honorable hobbit. And now it is time for us to part. Matters await me! - The Steward rose and barely noticeably inclined his head. - And you, Rogvold, do not forget me, I am soon planning to get out for a hunt - so wait, I will notify you. May the Seven Eternal Stars and the Bright Queen keep you!

The guard escorted the three friends to the outer wall.

The audience was ended, and in Folco’s thoughts reigned complete confusion. What had their visit ended with? What truly important and urgent things had they managed to tell the Steward? He was not disturbed by the story of the dwerg, he calmly regarded the wraiths of the Barrow-downs as well! So why did they hurry to Annuminas, to whom was the information they brought needed?! Folco glanced sideways at Thorin. The experienced dwarf walked looking down at his feet. Rogvold, on the contrary, was cheerful and animated.

Well, are you satisfied? I hope he reassured you?
Reassured… - Thorin grumbled. - He is a master of talking, that’s clear. But my soul is still uneasy. No, no, I don’t want to say anything - help us, Durin, to deal with the bandits as soon as possible! But how does he not understand that the dwergs are only a link in some incomprehensible chain connecting many events together?
It’s not so simple here, - Rogvold objected. - What evidence do you have against the dwerg? Only the bad reputation of their tribe. But you can’t draw serious conclusions from this! You say - they were sent to Isengard for orcs. But how do you know that your imaginary villain, thirsting for power, sent them?
Can you offer another explanation? - Thorin squinted.
Please. The dwerg was bribed and sent by the orcs themselves, who somehow survived in the north and are now looking for a quiet place. Isengard suits them quite well, besides, their tribesmen live there… What’s wrong with that?

Thorin bit his lip.

I believe we must always count on the worst and prepare for it! - said the dwarf and stubbornly bent his head.
Then close the city gates tight, make the blacksmiths forge piles of weapons day and night, make everyone put on armor and take up swords, send all men and youths to the borders, start building defensive ramparts, turn the whole country into a huge military camp, - Rogvold spoke frowning, and anger was heard in his words. - After all, you call for preparing for the worst! So then we must resist with full might! Let’s see what comes of this… People will grab axes because they are used to living humanly, being responsible for their work and doing it primarily. All measures must be justified.
Do not twist my words, Rogvold! - Anger flashed in Thorin’s dark eyes as well. - I would not like to quarrel with you so stupidly, but preparing for the worst in my mouth meant only not brushing off alarming news, but trying at least to verify it!
The Steward has verified your words, do not doubt, - Rogvold said quietly and angrily, and was about to add something else, when the initially confused Folco rushed between the man and the dwarf standing face to face.
Friends, what are you doing, what are you doing?! - Folco looked imploringly from below at one, then at the other. - What are you talking about? Come to your senses! Stop it! Enough!

Red as a lobster, Thorin was the first to sigh and avert his gaze. Rogvold also fell silent, lowering his eyes. An awkward silence ensued. It was felt that both the dwarf and the man were ashamed and uncomfortable.

We probably all expected too much from this conversation, and each of us - his own thing, - Thorin finally squeezed out. - Forgive me, Rogvold, we both got heated.
You have the right to think and act as you see fit, - Rogvold coldly shrugged his shoulders. - But, Thorin, son of Dart, if you want to preserve our friendship, beware henceforth of uttering unreasonable words about the Steward. They may cost you very dearly.

The huntsman stood with arms akimbo and chin proudly raised. Folco noticed with renewed alarm how the dwarf’s cheekbones played and the color that had receded again flooded his cheeks.

I again propose to end this stupid quarrel, honorable Rogvold, - the dwarf said conciliatorily, obviously overcoming himself. - As Gandalf the Grey used to say, our strife will only amuse Mordor.

The haughty face of the old huntsman softened - Thorin’s good nature seemed to satisfy his somewhat naive old man’s pride. He in turn extended his hand to the dwarf:

It is good that you understood this, Thorin, son of Dart, - he said solemnly. - Let us forget our dispute, it will be better so. But what am I doing?! - He suddenly grabbed his head. - The time is already past noon! I must hurry home. Oddrun is waiting…

He hurriedly bowed and hastily strode away, sharply waving his left hand, very preoccupied and a little funny. The hobbit and the dwarf followed him with long gazes.

How he has changed here, in the City, - Folco said with a sigh. - No, Thorin, in my opinion, people like him are better off wandering through forests.
How do you know where he was real: now or then, on the border, helping me pull apart the fighters, - the dwarf grumbled gloomily. - All right, let’s stop in somewhere, my throat has completely dried out.

And again weeks dragged on. The first December blizzards already howled over Annuminas. At night snow arrows beat against the windows, special teams of cleaners set about removing snow from the city streets. Folco mastered all the delights of snowball fights, where he invariably emerged victorious, thanks to his accurate eye; because of the cold he had to sew himself boots. The light day had already shortened to a few hours, Rogvold had already introduced them to the first volunteers who offered to go with them to Moria, and if necessary, further, when a strange story happened to Folco.

During the time spent in Annuminas, he found many shops where they traded various antiquities, and became their regular visitor. The traders knew him well and for a small fee sometimes allowed him to read this or that ancient book. Folco was especially interested in manuscripts relating to the history of the Elder Days, as well as to the times of the founding of the Arnor state. More often than others he visited a shop located two blocks from their dwelling, where from its owner, gloomy and taciturn, one could get the most ancient books;

he even had copies of documents from the archive left to the Great King by Elrond himself.

On that day, Folco, returning from work, began preparing for his next expedition to the bookshops and suddenly discovered with chagrin that the clasp on his warm cloak had disappeared who knows where. After several unsuccessful attempts to fasten the cloak on his shoulder with makeshift means, he suddenly remembered the brooch found in the forest. Without thinking long, he climbed into his knapsack, and his fingers immediately felt a small hard disc. He pulled out the brooch, glanced at it briefly, once again surprised by its complex, unfamiliar pattern, fastened the cloak with it, took his bag with writing materials and went out, firmly closing the door. Thorin was still sitting in his smithy, and the Kid, as always, was drinking beer in some tavern.

Shielding himself with his shoulder from strong gusts of prickly and cold wind mixed with hard dry snow, the hobbit reached the familiar narrow door without any incidents, above which, creaking on a chain, swayed a fancifully forged dragon.

In the shop reigned the usual semi-darkness, only slightly dispelled by several candles. Folco habitually greeted the owner, habitually laid the pre-prepared silver on the counter, the owner just as habitually handed him from the shelf a thick folio in wooden binding. When Folco accepted the book, it seemed to him that the owner’s hands were trembling. However, the hobbit was looking at the book at that moment and therefore did not see the trader’s face.

Having settled in the corner at his usual place near a small table, Folco threw off his cloak and, anticipating the never-boring pleasure, opened the book, immediately immersing himself in the complex vicissitudes of the internecine struggle in Arnor in the middle of the Third Age.

He did not notice how the shop owner cautiously approached him and bent to the hobbit’s shoulder. The trader seemed very excited about something. He quickly and quietly muttered almost in the hobbit’s very ear several indistinct, meaningless words, something like:

“Dale and the Heavenly Fire!” Folco tore himself from the yellowed pages and looked at the shopkeeper in surprise.

What are you saying, honorable Arkhar? He flinched, and bewilderment appeared on his face.
Where did you get this thing, honorable hobbit?
Found it in the forest, - Folco answered briefly. - Why does this excite you so, honorable Arkhar?
You see, honorable Folco, this is very rare work. You know, I collect rarities, and I just happen to have similar things to it. - He dived somewhere under the counter and soon appeared, holding in his hands a silver buckle with a similar pattern and a heavy large earring, bronze, with several such, only small, silver overlays. - This is a definite style, which has occupied me lately. Tell me, do you value it greatly? Would you not like to sell it to me? I would pay so much that you could buy, for example, the complete “Extracts of Gerlad, made by him from the elvish parchments presented to our lord, the Great King Elessar, by Elrond Half-elven, ruler of Rivendell”! Eh? Well, how about it?

Folco was taken aback. To possess this book had been his long-standing dream, the owner treasured it greatly and was proud of it. And suddenly he offers to give it in exchange for some clasp, even if a rare one.

Folco became alert and in the same second suddenly clearly understood that he would not give up the brooch. The decision came from who knows where and seemed absurd, but instinct prompted the hobbit not to rush to part with his forest find.

Honorable Arkhar, I can hardly fulfill your request. After all, this thing is not mine, and the laws of the Shire forbid us to dispose of found things, to sell or exchange them. I still hope to find the owner of this brooch and return to him the lost property.

A strange smirk appeared on Arkhar’s face.

How will you find him?
Very simply, - the hobbit answered, surprised at his own resourcefulness. - I will wear it on my clothes, and if anyone recognizes it, I will gladly return the lost property to the owner.
And how will you know that you are not being deceived?
Only the one who really lost it will be able to correctly name to me the place where I found it.
Well then, honorable Folco, it’s your business. I dare not insist, though it’s a pity, of course. My offer remains in force, so as soon as you decide - you’re most welcome. - The owner bowed and stepped aside.

Just at this time the door creaked and a new visitor entered the shop. Arkhar busied himself with him.

This case did not leave the hobbit’s head for a long time. He told Thorin about it, and he approved his decision.

You did right, Folco. If this thing is so necessary to him, then perhaps it will be useful to us too, - he remarked.

So ended this story, and then no one could yet suppose what an unexpected continuation it would have.