She had moved away from the campfire. She was sitting on a crate and drowsing with a mug of ale. Her eyes turned under a thick flock of golden brown hair as she glanced at her surroundings.
Ranesora had advised her to avoid making contact with the Rangers in their camp. Ranesora didn't believe she could get any information that would lead to results from them. He had advised Hellrien to snoop around on her own and keep a low profile. Ranesora was likely worried that if somebody spotted her conversing with the Rangers, nobody would talk to her anymore. The Rangers and the 'new recruits' were pretty segregated to their own camps and kept their distance. Both sides regarded each other with a degree of distrust and resentment.
Hellrien's thoughts were revolving around Bill Tripper - the man who had killed Stewart Sturm, who had said before his death that 'Ernil will take care of him' and 'from the gardens I can see his tomb'.
She wanted to get more information about this Tripper.
Perhaps Sturm had been too careless with his money, talked too much - maybe he had become a liability?
Hellrien loaded her pipe for the fifteenth time. She listened to a talkative fellow who made his audience roar with laughter with his drunken ramblings. She figured she would likely not get any more information out of anyone tonight.
Returning to her tent she had to dodge drunkards weaving and stumbling helplessly about. The whole camp seemed to be drunk. Some of the men shouted coarse suggestions at Hellrien, and most of the remarks sent shivers of revulsion down her spine.
Somebody was standing by the entrance of her tent. Instinctively her fingers went for the hilts of her swords.
”You're up late”, said a gravelly voice. It was the same big man with a broken nose Hellrien had spoken with earlier.
”What do you want?” Hellrien asked - though she knew the answer already.
”I spoke to Thilda earlier. You told her Sturm was your cousin?”
Hellrien just looked at him.
”I know something about Bill Tripper.”
”You do?”
”You bet.”
Hellrien didn't say anything.
”Well, you interested?”
She said: ”What will it cost me?”
The man didn't blink an eye. ”Nothing, if you want it so.”
”Let's get inside the tent.”
Hellrien crouched below the tent flap, stepped inside the tent and removed her cloak. The man looked at her swords. Hellrien removed her scabbard belt and the swords dropped down on the mattress.
”Those are mighty fine-looking blades you're carrying”, he said.
Hellrien dug up a bottle of brandy. ”Want some?”
The man took a sip. His eyes stared at Hellrien.
”So what do you know about Bill Tripper?”
”I know where he's at. He's residing in one of the ancient Dúnedain estates in Parth Aduial.”
”And how do you know this?”
”Does it matter?”
Hellrien's eyes narrowed. ”Do you know the name of the place? And what he's doing there?”
”It's called Tham Varan.”
”What is he doing there?”
”I'm not sure of that. Nobody is. But he's got company there. Unsavory characters.”
”Tomb-robbers?”
”Maybe.”
They took another sip from the bottle. A rowdy group of drunks walked past the tent.
”It's late”, said Hellrien.
The man's grey eyes gleamed as he stared at her. Hellrien knew what he wanted. She looked at him. He was ruggedly handsome. The broken nose made him appear roguish. She remembered what he had said outside: ”Nothing, if you want it so.” She liked that. He had more class one would expect to find in a place like this.
”Alright”, she said dryly.
The man grunted and laid his hands on Hellrien's shoulders.
Later Hellrien lied awake in the darkness, listening to the snoring next to her. But she couldn't sleep herself. When the dawn broke, she dressed up and went outside to watch the sun climb up to the sky behind the great Colossus.
