They walked down to the fifth level of the city. Broneron's house looked as forbidding and gloomy as any grand house on the level above that had been empty for generations. Only the smoke rising from the chimneys indicated this house was occupied.
There was a heavy brass knocker on the front door, well out of Frodo's reach. Beregond took it in one hand and rapped it loudly three times.
A servant admitted them. They were expected; Beregond did not explain their business, and the servant did not ask, but bowed and showed them into a dimly lit room. Their host stood waiting before a single window that overlooked a small, enclosed courtyard. At their entrance, he turned and Frodo could see that he was a heavy-set Man of middle-age with black hair well oiled and combed back straight from his brow.
"I've brought him," Beregond said simply.
"So I see," Broneron replied. "Leave us, please, Captain. If the King's halfling investigator would question me, I'd prefer that we conduct our interview privately."
Beregond glanced at Frodo, concerned for his safety, but the hobbit said, "It's all right, Captain. I'd rather we speak in private too." Broneron was more likely to be frank with him if they were alone and, even if this Man were the murderer he sought, Broneron would gain nothing by threatening him now.
"As you wish," Beregond consented. "I will wait in the hall outside. You've only to call when you need me." He went out and shut the door.
Broneron laughed. "The good captain is sure I mean to throttle you as soon as he's out of sight! But you're not afraid of me, are you, little investigator?"
"No," said Frodo. "Even if you meant me harm, you wouldn't be so foolish as to try anything when the captain of the citadel Guard stands armed just beyond the door."
"True, I am no fool," Broneron answered. A tray with a pewter pitcher upon it sat upon a table. The Man refilled a goblet with wine from the pitcher and offered, "Will you have a drink with me?"
"No, thank you."
This polite refusal made Broneron laugh again. "You're no fool yourself, little halfling. Never accept a drink from a suspected poisoner. You do think I'm responsible for Carathir's death and the death of his son, don't you? I assume that's why you've come here, to accuse me."
"I make no accusation," Frodo replied. "I've learned that you and Lord Carathir were at odds in the last war, and I wanted to hear what it was all about, by your own account."
Broneron sipped his wine, then lifted the goblet as if to show Frodo that the drink was harmless. "Carathir was a traitor," he said bluntly. "That is my account of the matter. He was one of a treacherous pack of nobles who worked behind the back of our late Steward, countermanded his orders, and undermined his authority."
"They were trying to save the city."
"They had no right to do so against the Steward's orders. It was my lord Denethor's business, not theirs--nor was it the wizard Mithrandir's place to take the defense of Minas Tirith upon himself when my lord would not do as he wished. Well, they've been amply rewarded for their treachery, while I am paid for my loyalty to my lord as you see... a life of exile, within the city. I do not go where those who know me might see me. I hadn't seen Carathir since I was dismissed from the Council and left the citadel for the last time. You may take me at my word, or not, as you choose."
"It wasn't necessary for Carathir's murderer to have seen him," Frodo pointed out.
"Since he was poisoned, you mean?"
"Yes, and that a confederate might have actually dispensed the poison while the one who ordered it was far away."
"I see." Broneron nodded. "Well, I won't lie and say I grieve for Carathir or his son. I do not, but that doesn't mean I ordered their deaths. There's no reason why I should hold Carathir in particular contempt. He was only one traitor among many--or do you think I mean to murder Larengar, or Thressildis, or the wizard next? If I strike at them, I might as well seek revenge against the King, for rewarding them and dismissing me."
"The others who stood with you," said Frodo. "Do they feel as you do?"
"No doubt."
"Would any of them have particular reason to hate Carathir for his part in the city's defense, or their dismissal?"
"I couldn't say. You'd have to ask them."
"I'd like to. Will you tell me where they are? Do you still see them?"
"Occasionally," Broneron answered, and smiled again. "Do you wish me to tell you where to find them? What if I refuse? My friends like their privacy as much as I do. Besides, one of them may be the poisoner you're looking for, little investigator, and I won't betray the one who paid out treachery with its just deserts." He chuckled. "I am nothing, after all, if not loyal."
"I can easily find them in other ways."
"You will have to do so. Call for Beregond to take you away to seek them. I've said all I intend to."
"What a wretched, loathsome Man!" Frodo said after he and Beregond had left Broneron's house and hastened up the street. "He sounds as if he regrets that the city still stands--and that he lives! I believe he would rather Denethor let it all be pulled down by Sauron's army, as long as he died by his lord's side. He thinks more of what he calls loyalty than lives."
"Do you think he had Carathir and his son poisoned?" asked Beregond.
"He spoke as if he wanted me to think him dangerous, but I doubt he truly is. I don't believe he had Carathir killed, but I wonder if he knows or guesses who did. He shields his friends most carefully. He wouldn't even tell me their names or where they live." Frodo looked up at the captain. "You know them, don't you?" It couldn't be a secret; surely, the members of the Council in Denethor's last days were a matter of public knowledge. Anybody in the Council now, or even Aragorn himself, could tell him who'd been dismissed. "Are they all still within the city?"
"Yes, I assume so," Beregond answered. "Do you wish to seek them out?"
"I want to, but not today. Right now, I'd like to go back to Gandalf's and rest." Frodo suddenly felt unaccountably weary; it was more than a lack of sleep or the strain of this investigation. "Perhaps Gandalf was right-" he spoke, when his head began to spin. It seemed as if the street rocked beneath his feet, and the tall buildings that rose on either side of him swayed. At his next step, his legs folded beneath him, and he tumbled to his knees.
He heard Beregond cry, "Frodo!" as he fell to the cobblestones. The last thing he was aware of was being lifted up into the captain's arms and being borne swiftly away...
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