Lamedon Square Market

[Anguirel]

About to leave the Square behind him, Angelimar became aware of the twin urchins he had barely noticed earlier homing in. He came to a dead stop as they neared, assessing his surroundings. As luck would have it, close by was 'Nimloth's Stall of Sweeteries, white toffee apples, Bon Bons and wizard floss sold here' - perfect.

It was well equipped with a bag of treats that the sleight-handed popinjay prepared to meet his distinguished pair of challengers. For he was sure enough what they were up to...and quite curious, too, to find what would be in their pockets at this stage of the morning's routine. He strolled up to Garan and Goran, whistling with a competent enough harmony.

"Good day, lads. I just happen to have a bunch of sweeties here. Seem to have picked it up somehow, and don't have much of a sweet tooth myself, unfortunately...would either of you be interested in them?"

He surveyed the twins keenly, assessing the feelings that would be jangling in their heads. He had surprised them by seeing them, by stopping for them, most of all by speaking to them, and they were a little afraid. They were surprised at the sudden appearance of the treats - truth be told, Mistress Nimloth would have been even more surprised, and it was a good thing he had intercepted them out of her range of notice. But uppermost in the minds of the boys was greed, and, as they started to calculate the size of the bag and to turn their eyes on each other, envy, too.

"It'll be a hard time dividing them up," he confessed. "I only seem to have one white toffee apple, for example, and everybody knows they're the best ones. Perhaps you'd care to join me in a game of chance to determine the winner...?"

[piosenniel]

‘Some pigeon you picked!’ Garan hissed in a whisper to his brother. Goran shrugged his shoulders as he glanced from the proffered sweets to Garan. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his breeches and looked back at the gentleman.

‘Sorry, sir, you’ll have to eat that apple yourself, I guess.’ Goran sighed and looked quite sad at the thought. ‘Me and my brother got nothing to play with.’ He pulled out his pockets, both empty save for a bit of lint, a few old crumbs, and one broken wooden button. Garan pulled out his pockets, too – as empty as those of his brother.

‘And besides, our big brother’d give us both a hiding if he caught us playing games of chance.’ Garan nodded solemnly at this pronouncement.

Goran cocked an ear and furrowed his brow as if just barely catching some sound. ‘It’s Sis,’ he said, elbowing Garan . ‘I think she’s calling us.’

With a nod of their heads to the gentleman, and one last look at the bag of sweets, the two took to their heels and ran off . . . like little mice bent on escaping a wily fox.

[Anguirel]

The thieflings receded to the soft melody of the young man's laughter.

An object would rear over their heads in a neat arc. In this bright morning, its whiteness was not especially conspicuous, though the twins had, of course, much-practiced sight. With barely the mildest of thuds it came to rest, a yard or so ahead of them.

If the pair were to look back, they would find their new acquaintance's exit complete - but he had had the basic kindness to them, if not to Mistress Nimloth, to leave his white toffee apple behind him.

[Formendacil]

Having taken the early morning shift, watching the Market from the pinkish hours of dawn, Captain Formendur was technically off-duty once the bells rang from the Tower at noon, but he rarely left the Marketplace while it was still daylight--and sometimes not at night. He had given his early adult life to the Tower Guard and had never found a wife. Now that he had grown older--and larger--he had bestowed his pent-up paternal concern on the marketplace that formed the centre of his military ward.

As usual, once the bells rang, Captain Formy made a final, lazy loop of the marketplace, and then settled into one of his favourite pubs. The Bastion and the Badger Inn was one of the few inns that opened directly onto Lamedon Square, rather than one of the side-streets, and Captain Formy had established it as his base of operations in the afternoons largely because of its easy access to the street. The fact that they had one of the best tavern cooks in Minas Anor didn't hurt either.

IT IS NOW APPROXIMATELY 1:00 IN THE AFTERNOON

[blantyr]

Bragel wasn't entirely sure of mixing mountains and horses. On the good green earth, everything was much of a level. Everything was where it should be, and where you can put it.

But when you put a horse in a city and the city on a mountain, you had to move stuff. The people with money to ride wanted to live up high, while the room for pastures and barns was outside the walls. What went into the front of the horse had to constantly be moved higher, while what came out of the back would go lower. This was here, and that had to be there.

Furthermore, there was supposed to be some fair queen way up somewhere who enjoyed singing to a tree. Somehow, Bragel, with his shovel and his cart, was responsible to make sure the tree smelled good. Well, at least the part of the tree nearest to the Bastion and Badge. He'd do what he could, but it would take a lot of boys with a whole lot of shovels if the entire tree was supposed to smell good enough for this queen.

Bragel. Shoveler to the queen. Would the Queen of the Riddermark need so many shovelers?

But it wasn't all shoveling. They did really need people who knew horses. Even the city folk knew how to handle a shovel. They didn't know horses, not to speak of. Tree or no tree, queen or no queen, Bragel figured to keep busy. Keep busy, and one could have a full stomach and maybe even a roof to sleep under.

Meanwhile, he'd stand watch. In his pocket, a carrot. By his side, a shovel. And he wasn't watching just the horses. Those with two legs could make a mess too.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea looked about her. It was the quietest first day of open Market that she could remember. No whispers of thieves, no haggling over prices. Not even any good gossip, and after the hubbub of the morning with those silly young actor fellows, even Erchan was nowhere to be seen. But with the constant thump and thud of kneaded bread, she knew the boy was pounding dough for her, beating his small fists into the giant wooden bowls. She mixed the dough just after lunch, combining ingredients with her strong arms, and as it rose in the afternoon heat, blooming up like a fat pig's belly, the boy punched it back down.

Of course she could do it faster than him and still have time for the shoppers, but it gave him a project, and meant one less thing for Fea to do herself.

When the sound was off, a bit too wet and sticky, she yelled through the door, "More flour, boy!"

She leaned her round hip against the edge of her table and hurrumphed. It was a boring day.

But maybe now that the general shopping for necessities had gone by, and the household servants had brought wares back to their masters, the folk with more money and more time might start wandering with loose wallets and loose lips.

[Galadriel55]

The donkey walked along the wide street. He would have slowed down and looked around more if it wasn’t for Ghalakrìd’s mood and the cumbersome cart. He has never seen anything as big as this city before. It was grand; the white walls shone in the sun. It was such a warm and pleasant day. Why did his mistress want to hurry? And why was she in such a bad mood when the weather was so lovely?

Ghalakrìd scowled at her donkey, who showed every sign of turning around again to study some other traveler. “Move on, Mule!” she muttered with a smack on the donkey’s back.

Now what have I done to deserve being called ‘Mule’? the donkey thought indignantly, but trotted along obediently nonetheless, his feet making a regular clip-clop rhythm on the cobblestones. They soon came to a wide square where many colourful stands were set up, their owners advertising their goods in every way imaginable.

Ghalakrìd scowled again. This was why she tried to make haste: all the good visible spots near the center and along the streets were already taken by other merchants. There was space for her wagon in the farther corners, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sell half as many things there. People of Gondor did not buy that much from her as it was; they preferred to trade with their own kind. They trusted their own kind. They did not trust Ghalakrìd’s. Yet there was still smaller money when she was shunned off to the corners. If it only wasn’t for these wretched, rude, disrespectful children, these… – Ghalakrìd searched for a fitting description, and finding none, gritted her teeth. Nothing could be done to change anything now.

It begun with one lad. He had dark brown eyes that were unlike any other Gondorian’s. They were deep, but they were not grey; they had a true brown in them, with specks of gold. Grey for the treacherous waters, brown for the sure earth we stand upon… Ghalakrìd knew not why that simple village boy who didn’t even reach up to her waist made her heart feel warm. She almost smiled when she saw him. But then he said it, and her smile was cut short before it reached her lips. Rhûnwen. At first his voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Then he called louder. And again. He giggled. Other lads and lasses, big and small, came running out from every house, every door. They came in front of her, not letting her pass through. And all were laughing and shouting one word. Rhûnwen. Ghalakrìd looked at the boy whom she was fond of a minute ago, whom she trusted – he was laughing with the rest, jumping around her cart. In this land, even the earth is treacherous. Then came the sticks. At least they weren’t stones, though this did not give much solace. And then… Ghalakrìd did not quite know what happened. Apples rolled on the dusty road. The children stepped on them, giving them no heed. These were her apples. She picked them from the wild trees.

Rhûnwen. It was becoming unbearable. ’Tis the noise they are making, Ghalakrìd made herself think, though she knew that it was not the noise, but the name. It seemed like the whole world was filled with arms flailing and sticks flying and din; Ghalakrìd alone stood motionless, looking with bitterness and a speck of hatred on the crazed children. She thought she would not have gotten away from that village if an old man didn’t come out to see what was happening. He called the brood away, and they reluctantly obeyed. The man did not help her pick up the fruit, not dirty and bruised. He looked mistrustfully in her direction and turned away. Ghalakrìd heard him say to the children as they walked away, “As if they haven’t killed enough of our men during the War! Now ‘tis peace, but they are unhappy still! Accursed Rhûnhoth!” And yet he stopped the youngsters. Hounds, not human children!

Only the donkey seemed to have taken real pleasure in the outing. He did not understand what all the fuss was about, but he was happy to eat one of the apples that rolled around him. He would have eaten another one, but Ghalakrìd, noticing in time, smacked him on the muzzle. She collected all the apples and washed them in a small stream before hurrying on to the city. She arranged them carefully in the basket, so that the bruises didn’t show too much. She did what she could. But the time she lost she could not regain.

Ghalakrìd lead the donkey through the market by a rope that she used as reins. It used to be white once. Now it had the same indefinite hue as Ghalakrìd’s dress. They went past a stand with loaves of fresh bread loaded on the shelf. They smelled delicious and looked so rich and crisp! But there wasn’t the money. Ghalakrìd would have to wait.

The donkey was of different mind. While Ghalakrìd was concentrating on looking around for the right place where they would park the wagon, he took a step towards the bakery and grabbed one of the loaves that lay closest.