It was already late in the afternoon when Delioron finally arrived at Greengage’s farm. It was surprisingly large farm in the northern part of town, an idyllic and rustic scene compared to the hum and bustle of the rest of the city. The farmhouse was fairly large with thatched roof, stone brick walls and large windows. A big black dog was barking in the yard. Delioron spotted two pigeon coops standing next to the door of a big stony outhouse on the western side of the yard.
It didn’t make any sense to him. Why would Hodhion think Parthadan would give a tinker’s damn about some hare-brained kidnapping scheme of local criminals against the hobbits, let alone pay two Double-Dragons for it? Parthadan barely knew such race even existed and was not interested in them the slightest. So was it all a bluff after all? Had it been Hodhion’s plan to rob the coins from Delioron after all?
There were a couple of details that made such scenario hard to believe. Firstly, there had been no ambush in place, as far as he could tell. Navelwort had been there just for support, in case something went wrong, and as far as Navelwort knew Hodhion had no other accomplices waiting outside. Secondly, who had killed the old ranger, and why?
Was there something more to it? Had Hodhion known something more, something that would have made Navelwort’s information more valuable? And who was Sharkey? Somebody was playing a long game in Bree, that much was clear, but what significance did it have for Gondor or Parthadan, if any?
Part of him wanted to call it quits. His mission had been to make contact with Hodhion, find out what he knew, and come back with the money if it turned out it was nothing. Strictly speaking the mission was over. He had talked to Hodhion, he had talked to Hodhion’s informant, he had found that his information was rubbish and he still had all the money to return to Parthadan.
But Hodhion was dead. Somebody had slit his throat from ear to ear in his home before he had had the chance to talk.
”Why are the coins cut in half?” Navelwort had asked him in his room in the Prancing Pony.
”They are Gondorian coins”, Delioron had explained. ”Very rare in this part of the world. If you can find a smith who can solder them together, collectors will pay you considerably more than just their worth in silver for them.”
This seemed to perk Navelwort up. He examined the coins in his hands, turning them over and trying to put them together. After a while he frowned.
”But… I can’t match them together…?”
”No”, Delioron agreed. ”Not those ones. But I have matching pairs for the ones I’ve already given you, the other halves. I would like to give them to you… but I need you to do something for me first.”
Navelwort’s frown deepened. ”How do I know you will be good on your word?”
”Haven’t I already given you all that silver? That’s worth 20 silver pennies as it is. A collector in Bree might pay you 50-60 silver pennies for whole Gondorian Tharni and Castar coins, two of each. At least that much. Cut in half they’re only worth their weight in silver. And all you need to do is get me a little more information.”
”All right then”, Navelwort sighed. ”What do you want to know?”
”I want to know the names of the people who are involved in the kidnapping scheme, the ones who are going to make it happen. I want to know who came up with the idea, and why. I want to know when it’s going to happen, and where. And most of all I want to know who is Sharkey and what’s his game.”
”I told you”, Navelwort protested, ”nobody knows Sharkey. Nobody knows for sure if he’s even real.”
”Very well then. How about the other questions?”
”I don’t know. It might be dangerous for me to walk around asking those kinds of questions.”
”It might”, Delioron agreed. ”It is up to you to weigh the risks and decide if it’s worth 50-60 silver pennies for you.”
”You really are a bastard, aren’t you? You never gave me your name…?”
”No”, Delioron said. ”I didn’t.”
And now it was late afternoon and Delioron was on his way to meet Greengage. Greengage the pigeon-handler, Parthadan’s ’man in Bree’. He tried to gather his thoughts, to formulate the report he would send back to Parthadan and his recommendations of what should be done about the situation. Ultimately it was Parthadan’s call though. Whatever his recommendations were, he would still have to wait for Parthadan’s response for a few days in Bree, so he could just as well spend his time trying to find out as much as possible about the kidnapping scheme.
Delioron knocked on the sturdy wooden door and waited. After a minute of waiting he pounded on the door again, this time with his fist. He was just about to go peer through the windows if there was anyone home when the door suddenly opened. A surly, middle-aged woman with an unpleasant manner looked at him like something the cat had dragged in. Delioron wondered if Greengage’s wife knew what her husband did for Gondor and showed her the pendant. Apparently she did, as she showed Delioron in without a word, showed him to a large kitchen and told him to sit and wait. The woman then disappeared into the back of the house, leaving Delioron to sit at the long kitchen table.
After ten minutes of waiting a cheerful, middle-aged man strode into the kitchen to greet him. His fair skin, gray eyes and dark hair revealed his Gondorian origins, but otherwise it was impossible to differentiate him from local men of Bree, down to his attire and dialect. He had a huge, protruding pot belly and dark mustache below his nose that arched ruefully downward. His nose was big and bulbous, and the red veins criss-crossing on his cheeks below his eyes told of a fondness for strong ale or wine. Delioron could also see from his eyes that he was somewhat tipsy, though the state of inebriation didn’t show in his movements or in his voice, as is often the case with people who stumble through their days in permanent alcoholic haze.
”Aah, Delioron, right?” Greengage gushed. ”I have been expecting you. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was in the the shed doing some… wood-work. Come, let’s go to the living room! Sit down, sit down!”
Greengage showed Delioron into a room with a big fireplace and two comfortable chairs and motioned him to take a seat in one of the chairs. There was a small table between the chairs, and on the table stood a tankard and a large jug of ale. Greengage tossed a couple of logs into the fire, fetched another tankard from a shelf above the doorway and filled both from the jug.
Greengage prattled on and on about the weather and the latest gossip in Bree. Delioron barely listened, he just grunted and nodded on occasion, mentally thinking about the letter he would have to write to Parthadan.
”Tell me”, Delioron interrupted Greengage’s monologue, ”how does the pigeon post work?”
”The pigeons?” Greengage repeated, slurping his ale. ”Well, what most people don’t realize is that you can’t train pigeons to fly in different locations, so it’s not as simple as they think. They can only fly back home, the place they were born in, you see? So I have two coops, one marked ’G.’ for Gondor and the other ’B.’ for Bree, and I have to make sure not to mix up the two. It really is the fastest way possible to maintain contact between such long distances. It will take you at least a month, maybe two, right, to ride from Minas Tirith to here, right? And the way is long and perilous. A pigeon can fly the same distance in just a day or two. But still, it’s not as simple as some would think. I have to breed pigeons here, and the pigeon-master in Minas Tirith does the same there, and a messenger with a cart-load of pigeons must still make the journey here once every year. To bring me all the ’G.’ birds from Minas Tirith and take the ’B.’ birds with him, otherwise we will run out pigeons eventually.”
Delioron nodded. ”What if a pigeon is intercepted by a hawk or a buzzard?”
”It happens sometimes. This is why we always make duplicates of each message and send two birds at a time. It’s of course possible for both birds to get unlucky on their way, but that has only happened to me two times in all my years in Bree. The system is very reliable.”
”How about if a message gets intercepted by… the opposition? Sauron’s spies?”
”We write them in code, one that only I and Parthadan understand. It would be complete gibberish to anyone else.”
”So… I will dictate the message to you, and you will write it down in code then? That how it works?” Delioron asked. He looked at Greengage’s disheveled and sloppy appearance somewhat incredulously. Greengage picked up on it and grinned.
”Exactly! And don’t worry, I’m not a spy for Sauron.” Greengage winked. ”And I’m very good at what I do. Parthadan trusts me just as much as he does you. It wouldn’t work otherwise.”
”Alright then. Can we get to work right away?”
”Certainly!” Greengage drained his tankard and dug up some parchment, pen and a bottle of ink from a drawer in the table. Delioron noticed how Greengage’s whole appearance suddenly seemed to change – from a happy, sloppy drunk to an attentive, vigilant scribe.
Delioron cleared his throat. Talking slowly, he filled Greengage in about all the things that had happened in the Prancing Pony and Hodhion’s apartment since his arrival. Greengage’s pen scratched through the parchment with lightning speed. Delioron gave a pause every time the tip of the pen rose from the parchment and dipped into the ink.
”My recommendations”, he said finally, ”One. I return home. The situation here seems to have no significance to Gondor whatsoever. My assignment was to make contact with Hodhion and return with either information worth two Double-Dragons or the money in it’s entirety. I will be coming back with the money. Two. I suggest that I will relay the information I received from Hodhion’s informer and the circumstances around Hodhion’s death to the Dúnadan of the North. Whatever is going on between the hobbits in the Shire, the criminals in Bree and this mysterious figure known as ’Sharkey’ is their business, not ours. Of course, I will come up with a suitable cover story to conceal the fact that we have been spying on them for the past ten years. End of message.”
There was a sheen of sweat on Greengage’s forehead when Delioron stopped his dictating, but otherwise he looked just as attentive and sharp as he had when Delioron had started. ”Did you get it all?” he asked.
Greengage nodded. Delioron took the parchment and studied it while Greengage took another sheet and started scribbling again with the same frantic pace. Delioron examined the strange letters in the parchment. In spite of all his knowledge in written languages and codes he couldn’t make sense of the code, not even when he knew the contents of the message. He looked at Greengage, who kept scribbling.
”Don’t you need the duplicate to copy from?” he wondered.
”No”, Greengage said. The pen didn’t stop even when he talked. ”It’s all in my head. Like I told you, I am very good at what I do.”
When Greengage was finished with his writing, Delioron took the parchment from the table and compered it with the first one. They were identical. Delioron raised an eyebrow and glanced at Greengage, suitably impressed by the man’s skills. Greengage had once again turned into his previous self, the unkempt, slovenly drunkard. He wiped sweat from his forehead and filled his pint.
”When can I expect a reply?” Delioron asked.
”In three days, four at most. You can wait here if you want. We have a room for guests. It’s very safe and quiet here.”
”No thank you. I’m a little restless. I prefer to stay in the Prancing Pony. But thanks anyway.”
