Lord Denethor stood, hands clasped behind his back, in the shade of the White Tree. He made no attempt to welcome the man in front of him, no effort to put him at ease; merely tipped his head, the merest fraction of a nod. "So. You are the famous Craban."
The man shrugged, seemingly entirely comfortable with standing in front of the Steward of Gondor unshaven, still dressed in travelling clothes. "That's what they call me," he said, his accent strange and harsh to Denethor's ear.
Not that the Steward would ever allow his distaste to show. He looked out over the White City, and the vast fertile plain of the Pelennor beyond. "It seems rumour has made your fame greater than it truly is, Master Craban," he said, allowing himself a thin smile. "No hosts of citizens turning out to greet you, whatever we may have heard."
The scruffy man smiled back, a defiant glint in his shadowy eyes. "The rich rarely welcome anyone who stands up for those they exploit... my lord."
Denethor felt his smile crystallise. "My people do not exploit one another, Master Craban," he said, locking onto the other's gaze.
Craban did not flinch away. "There's more to Gondor than Minas Tirith."
Denethor held the stare for another moment, then let it drop and turned towards the north-west. "As I well know. But you are not from Gondor, are you? You come to us out of the north - from Eriador."
Craban nodded. "Arnor, as was," he said, "and mayhap will be again."
"And in that forsaken land, your claims of abuse may hold some truth," Denethor allowed. "But this is Gondor. We are of fairer stock."
"So I have often heard, on my travels," Craban said with a slight nod. "Usually from the tongues of noble lords who care nothing for the poor and downtrodden outside their walls."
Denethor stiffened. Did this man have no sense of decorum? It seemed not - that he was unable to comprehend the Steward's subtle message. Time, then, for the sword to slip a little from its sheath. "Yes, the downtrodden. You are a great champion of the... mistreated, are you not, Master Craban?"
Craban eyed him, but nodded firmly. "That I am. All deserve a fair chance, whether they be born rich or poor."
"Indeed." Denethor turned again, facing west along the White Mountains, and held out his hand to indicate them. "Unless, of course, they happen to be Rohirrim."
The ragged man's brow furrowed deeply. "The Riders have just the same rights as any other."
"Oh?" Denethor affected an expression of polite surprise, and loosed his attack. "Then it is not true that you claim to have friends among the Dunlendings - those same wild men who daily ravage the western skirts of the Mark?"
Craban scowled as the hit went home. "There can be no peace without discourse," he said. "If Rohan wishes to put an end to the depredations of certain folk of Dunland, they must talk to them. There is no other way."
"Indeed." Denethor took the opening and thrust again, driving words of steel under the other's guard. "And I daresay the same can be said of the Orcs who even now hold all of Ithilien in their iron grasp?"
Craban bent forward a little, as if fighting against the wind - or doubling over as the Steward's sword took him in the belly. "If the goblin-kind can be brought to a treaty, surely that is better than constant war."
Denethor let his icy smile return. "If this is the wisdom of the north," he said, "then it is small wonder the kingdoms of old are no more."
Craban flinched as if physically struck, then straightened and took a deep breath. "Lord Denethor," he said, his voice firm once more, "I did not ask this audience to debate peace and war. I came on behalf of the poor among your people - to ask that you give them aid in this time of famine."
Denethor nodded sharply, angered that the Arnorian dared question his rule or try to dictate to him. "I have heard their plight," he said, "and have already acted to alleviate it. Lady Lothron - of Pelargir, Master Craban, not of the White City - has undertaken to support the nobles and merchants who are suffering. As they recover, so the poorer folk around them will be carried along with them, and all Gondor will be fairer for it."
Craban's mouth actually dropped open. "And if the rich do not choose to share their bounty?" he demanded. "What will you do then, when the people of Gondor lie dying in the streets?"
"Master Craban," Denethor snapped, "you forget your place. I rule in Gondor, not you." He reached up and touched a dry branch of the White Tree. "And Gondor endures, Master Crow. For thousands of years it has endured. When the North foundered, Gondor remained firm. My people are strong-willed; they will break this famine, it will not break them."
"Strong-willed," Craban repeated. "There is a fine line between strong-willed and stubborn, my lord Steward. Good day to you." And with no more than the most perfunctory bow, he turned on his heel and strode down into the city, leaving Denethor alone.
Craban is the singular of crebain, as in crow; I figured Corbyn was close enough to Corvid. Lothron is the month of May, as in the Prime Minister. And Denethor has no truck with socialism.
hS