Demrîng was standing on top of stairway to the Oldstone Ruins, keeping an eye on the Beggar’s Alley below. He preferred the solitude and the ancient poise of these crumbling walls over the constant noise and bustle of more trafficked areas in Bree. Only a few visitors ever came during daytime to admire the ruins and the past glory of Cardolan they reminded of; at nights the site was virtually abandoned. Even when an occasional occupant of the Beggar’s Alley used the Oldstones Gate to cut through to the West Gate, Demrîng’s dark gray cloak blended in the background of crumbling marble and sandstone, making him almost invisible when he didn’t want to be seen.
Like all Sauron’s messengers to distant lands, Demrîng was able to communicate with the Crebain, the large crow-like carrion birds of the north. The Crebain saw a lot, but their usefulness as spies was limited at best. They could give you a good picture of the lay of the land and were useful when you wanted to get an idea of enemy troop sizes and movements; they could even tail and follow a specific group or individual if you gave them good enough description of the target. But they couldn’t eavesdrop on conversations and were incapable of independent thought, so you had to be very specific about what kind of information you were after.
Though he had never mentioned it to Delioron, Demrîng was aware of the man called Navelwort and his connection with the dead Ranger, Hodhion. What he didn’t understand was the reason for Delioron’s presence in Bree and the nature of Hodhion’s information – the information that had cost him his life. He knew that Delioron had interrogated Navelwort, but didn’t know what he had learned from the man. Trying to glean it from Delioron was a waste of time, so Demrîng had decided he would have to interview the burglar himself.
The Crebain had told Demrîng of a house in the Beggar’s Alley where Navelwort had gone this afternoon. Demrîng had a good view of the house from where he was standing. It was starting to get late in the evening, but Navelwort hadn’t come out yet. From the sounds and noises Demrîng inferred that some kind of a private party was going on inside, with a lot of drinking and carousing and drunken bleating. A lot of shabby-looking men and women in varying degrees of drunkenness had entered and left the house throughout the afternoon and evening, but Demrîng had seen no sign of Navelwort yet.
Finally a small group of men exited the house, and Demrîng recognized one of them as Navelwort. The four men were engaged in a loud, rambling and inane drunken conversation that seemed to go on forever, until finally three of the men went in their own separate ways, leaving Navelwort alone. The hapless burglar leaned on the wall and urinated right there on the street. What a filthy animal, Demrîng though, but was pleased to note that Navelwort was now alone. He was even more pleased to see that after the burglar had finished watering the cobblestones he turned and started staggering towards the Oldstones Gate, where Demrîng stood waiting. Very good. It saved him the trouble of following the man.
As Navelwort clambered up the stairs Demrîng retreated into the shadows and hid himself in a recess of the wall. He allowed Navelwort to walk past him into the courtyard before he said:
”Good evening.”
Navelwort was visibly startled by the sudden voice from behind, but he didn’t seem scared as he slowly turned around to stare into the darkness.
”Who’s there?” he asked, grasping for a dagger or a knife.
Demrîng took a step forth and the moonlight revealed a cloaked and shadowy figure, almost black in the scant light of midnight sky.
”You can call me Demrîng”, he said. ”You won’t be needing that.”
”Another bloody southerner then, eh?” Navelwort asked. ”Bloody Bree’s been bloody teeming with bloody foreigners lately. Whadd’ya want?”
”I want to walk you to the Prancing Pony and buy you a pint”, said Demrîng. ”That’s where you were going, right? To the Prancing Pony for one more pint before going back home to wife and kids?”
Navelwort stared, mouth agape, at this shadowy specter who had seemingly spawned from the darkness and was now offering to buy him a drink for no reason he could think of. There was something wrong about this situation, but Navelwort was too drunk to care, or resist an offer of free drinks.
”Alright then. You caught me in a good mood, so I’ll let ya buy me a drink – even if y’are a fuggin’ foreigner!”
The foreigner stepped to his side, and together they crossed the courtyard, walked through the Ironmonger’s Gate and turned left to the street that eventually brought them to the Eastroad Street and finally to the Prancing Pony inn. The stranger didn’t say another word, and his silence annoyed Navelwort, who started singing lewd songs to entertain himself. The foreigner (What was his name again? Demdring?) didn’t interrupt him. Navelwort tried to get a good glimpse of him, but the foreigner’s face was hidden beneath the hood. The stranger had looked tall from a distance but now that they were walking side by side Navelwort noticed that he was actually shorter than himself.
Inside the Prancing Pony Demrîng bought two pints of Barliman’s best ale and ushered Navelwort into a shadowy corner table, away from the usual late crowd sipping at their ales. Navelwort took a long draught from his pint and looked at the stranger. He had a peculiar face, like a grown-up child’s face, round and smooth and pale like the moon. Navelwort realized that it was impossible to estimate Demrîng’s age.
”You know a man called Delioron”, Demrîng began.
”What? Yeah, well. I met the bloke once. Came to see me in me house one morning. Yesterday? Or was it the day before? I’ve been drinking a lot lately and it’s hard to keep track of days.”
Demrîng realized that Delioron had never introduced himself to Navelwort, at least not with his real name. He was talking about the false Delioron, the one Demrîng had killed.
”There was another man”, he tried again. ”You broke into his room here in the Pony. That ring a bell?”
Navelwort threw a leering glance at Demrîng. ”Was he named Delioron too? He even dressed the same. I swear, I don’t understand how you bloody foreigners know each other apart…”
”Mr. Navelwort”, Demrîng interrupted. ”Let’s cut to the chase. I am after information and willing to pay good money for it.” Demrîng produced a fat pouch and opened the strings. The pouch was bursting with copper coins. Navelwort stared at the money, eyes glazed.
”I want you to tell me what you told to Delioron. I mean the man who’s room you broke into, the one who gave you that broken nose.”
”It’s a complicated matter”, Navelwort said slowly. ”Y’see, I was working with another fellow…”
”I know about him. His name was Hodhion, and he is dead now.”
”And that Delioron killed him! The one who broke my nose, I mean. The other Delioron. He’s a cold bastard, that one.”
Demrîng thought about that. For some reason Delioron had left Navelwort under the impression that he was the one who had killed Hodhion, and Demrîng saw no point in correcting that impression for the time being.
”There are about sixty copper coins in that pouch”, he said. ”It is all yours if you tell me what you told him.”
”He – the first Delioron, I mean – already paid me a lot more than that in silver. Now why would I sell it to you for measly sixty coppers?”
”Because your information is now old and used.”
Navelwort kept looking at Demrîng with a sly and leery expression upon his face, as if trying to figure out how much more money he could squeeze out of the hooded stranger. Demrîng put his hand on the pouch and started pulling it away.
”Not so fast!” Navelwort exclaimed.
Demrîng waited. Navelwort looked hesitating now, looking from Demrîng to the pouch of coins, then back at Demrîng again.
”Can you promise me I won’t get into any trouble if I tell this stuff to you?” he finally asked.
”Absolutely.”
Navelwort told Demrîng everything he had told Delioron earlier. He told him about Sharkey and the unfortunate conditions under which he had met the Ranger Hodhion years ago and how he had become his informant; about Paladin Took and the plan to kidnap him and his family and demand ransom from the hobbits of the Shire. Demrîng listened in silence, never interrupting except to order more pints for Navelwort to keep his tongue loose and lubricated. When he was finished with his story, Demrîng made a few more probing questions, but the man didn’t know much else. Delioron had asked Navelwort to gather more information about the plot, but Navelwort had embarked upon a drinking binge and sort of forgotten the whole affair until he met Demrîng this evening.
Demrîng was disappointed. Instead of getting answers he had only found more questions. He couldn’t believe that Delioron had been sent to Bree for some hare-brained kidnapping sceme of local crooks. Demrîng had never even heard about hobbits before he came to Bree, and he couldn’t believe that Denethor or anyone else in Gondor would have heard about them either, or care if they did. Yet a group of Rangers from Ithilien had arrived here for some unknown purpose. Them and the honey trap woman and the false Delioron who had killed the Ranger Hodhion and tried to pin it on the real one and then kill him too. What the hell was going on around here?
”Is that all? You’re sure there’s nothing more to it?”
”More? What more could you want? That’s all I told this Delioron person, and he paid good money for it too – in silver, and certainly more than…”
”Delioron was not sent here for this reason. Hobbits, Tooks – they have no significance…”
”Well, he seemed disappointed too, but it’s not my fault. I told him all I know, just like I told you just now. I know there was more to it and Hodhion had put it all together, but now he’s dead and his secrets were buried with him.”
”Secrets?” Demrîng asked. ”Did Delioron – the one who broke your nose – get the secrets from Hodhion?”
Navelwort shrugged. ”He must have. That’s why he went to his house, didn’t he? That’s why he killed the poor bugger.”
Then he didn’t, Demrîng thought. The false Delioron had killed Hodhion so he wouldn’t reveal his secrets to the right one. Secrets – that had to be the reason for Delioron’s being here. But what about the other Gondorians? They seemed to know the secret, and be willing to go to great lengths to prevent Delioron from finding it out. Were there factions within Gondor at odds with each other? It seemed that way, and Sauron would be very pleased to know more of it. But what was the significance of the hobbits, petty criminals of Bree and a shadowy figure known only as ’Sharkey’, if any? Something told Demrîng all these things were connected somehow, but too many pieces of the puzzle were still missing to see the whole picture.
”I don’t understand you foreigners”, Navelwort suddenly said. ”I told this other Delioron – the one who broke my nose – the same things and he looked just like you now, like he had expected to hear something else. But the next morning the other Delioron came to see me in my house, asking these exact same questions, and he looked damn pleased that that’s all there was. Relieved, almost.”
Demrîng looked up at Navelwort and rubbed his chin. ”That’s interesting”, he remarked.
And it was.
