Work Text:
All dwarves had a craft which came from Mahal, and no calling was any greater or lesser than another. Or so the scribes said. In practice, every dwarf knew that warriors had the chance to do deeds worthy of song and story. Smiths could create work of such beauty that they would be valued until the breaking of the world. Meanwhile, anything crafted by a weaver or a cook would be lost within a lifetime. Perhaps the lowest order were the merchants, who never made anything but profit.
The only hope a merchant had of a respected position in life was to make enough money to buy one. Garag did not even have much hope of that. Especially not if he deviated from his intended route to go nearly a month out of his way. The rolling hills of the Shire were lovely, but he doubted the hobbits would buy enough of his wares to justify the trip.
Still, what choice did he have? The Burglar of Erebor, shield of the king, hero of the Battle of Five Armies, Lord Baggins himself had asked for a favor. Garag enjoyed traveling, but being homeless had been something quite different. If it cost him his last coin and sent him into debt besides, Garag would do as Lord Baggins requested.
He set up his tables at a market fair in a place called Buckland. Garag confirmed with some of the other vendors, all hobbits like Lord Baggins, that this was a place within the borders of the Shire. There seemed to be a great deal of history and some story about the river, but all agreed that his promise to sell in the Shire would be kept by selling there.
To attract buyers he set out his finest goods. Silks from Harad, golden jewelry from Erebor, and swords from the Iron Hills. In the center of all, he set the little wax packages of mushrooms. Unfortunately, all he attracted was stares. Garag did not give up. He called to the gawking hobbits in a gentle, enticing voice.
“Lady, would you not look upon the finest emeralds you have ever seen, set in golden earrings by the masters of Erebor? I dare suggest they may be worthy of even your beauty.” So he murmured in a voice pitched carefully to carry without being intrusive, but the hobbitess who had been looking at him blushed and turned quickly away.
“Test the blade, Good Sir,” he called to a young buck eyeing the swords. “You will not find a sharper edge this side of the Misty Mountains, I promise you.” Squeaking, the little fellow scurried away without speaking.
“Place your hand upon the silk, Matron,” he suggested to a mother who came closer than others as her child tugged at her wrist. “You have never felt such fabric. Cool in summer, warm in winter, and the dye will not come out in the washing.” She did not touch the silk, or meet his eyes, or stop walking as she passed.
As the morning turned to afternoon, Garag began to despair of even speaking to a hobbit that he did not directly confront with a question. Then finally a young fellow with a green coat and golden curls came up to the tables and introduced himself.
“Good afternoon, Master Dwarf. Merimac Brandybuck is my name, though my friends all call me Mac and I’d be obliged if you’d do the same. What is it you people say? Ah, yes! At your service.”
“Garag son of Bandag, at yours and your family’s,” the merchant said, returning the bow. “What can I interest you in Master Mac?”
“Oh, just Mac, thank you all the same. My birthday was in March, so I am not in the market for mathoms at the moment.”
“Mathoms?”
“Well, you know,” Mac gestured to the entirety of Garag’s wares. “Pretty things that you’d give as a birthday present. Not for everyday use. Anyway, I thought I might be of service to you. I noticed you fellows didn’t take a break for elevenses or luncheon, and old Beefy Boffin said you were setting up your tables before second breakfast. That is, I mean to say, would you like some pie?” The hobbit hefted a tray with a number of little pies designed to be eaten with one hand while walking through a market.
It felt like failure to stop for a meal without selling even one of the packets, but Garag had to admit the pies looked very good. Light golden crust clearly hid a piping hot meat filling, and the smell alone was enough to make his mouth water. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “How much?”
“Consider it the hospitality of Brandy Hall.” The hobbit blushed. “I expect this is your first time in Buckland, and I would not want you to think us unwelcoming.”
Garag stared at him. Then he laughed. “I do not need your charity Master Hobbit. If my ‘mathoms’ as you call them do not sell well here in the Shire, I assure you I will get coin enough for them in the Blue Mountains. If not there, then I will sell also in the cities of men, for they too value the crafts of my people.”
“I meant no offense,” the hobbit said, flushing even more until his face nearly matched the garnets Garag had on display.
“And none was taken! We are pleased to share a meal, but only if you would sit with us as a companion. Indeed, you are correct that it is our first time in the Shire.”
“Well then you might as well consult an expert about your plans,” Mac said, accepting the offered seat and taking one of the pies for himself. Garag took another and passed the plate to his caravan guards. “Tell me, what brings dwarven merchants to Buckland?”
“A service to Master Baggins, the hero of Erebor,” Garag said around a mouthful of the pie. “This is very good. Pork is it?”
“Indeed. One of Farmer Dagan’s prize pigs, as a matter of fact. The hero of Erebor, you say? That sounds very grand. Which Baggins is that then? I can't imagine any of the Hobbiton lot thinking mathoms would sell well here in Buckland.”
“Master Bilbo Baggins, and I believe he intended for us to begin in a place called Took Borough. We were turned aside on the road and decided to take our chances when we saw you setting up a market fair.”
“Bilbo?” Mac’s friendly voice was a whisper. “Bilbo’s alive? But no one has seen him in over a year!”
“Ah,” Garag said. “I believe that is part of my service to him. He asked that I carry a letter to a relative of his called Thain in the Took Borough, probably to let them know he is well.”
“The Thain in Tuckborough,” Mac corrected absently. “But Bilbo is well? You’ve seen him? Does he need help? Why has he been away so long?”
“As far as I know Master Baggins is very well, though I last saw him nigh three months ago. The road from Erebor is a long one, which is likely why he has not returned or sent other word. His mighty deeds in service to our king and the dwarven people were rewarded with the granting of land upon which mushrooms grow. As for help, he has many friends and many more dwarves like me who would do all that he might bid in our gratitude; however, I would ask your advice on his behalf. He has bid me bring these mushrooms here to the Shire for selling, but you are the first hobbit to speak to me at all. I thought to tempt buyers with rare goods your people would not have seen before, but even that seems to be failing.”
“Begging your pardon, but hobbits are wary of strange folk and foreign goods as a rule,” Mac said, a little apologetically. “Mushrooms might be a different story, though. Can I see them?”
Garag gestured to the four packages of Master Baggins’ mushrooms at center of his table. “There they are, in the place of honor, for all the good it may do.”
Mac lifted one of the packets to read the label. “Black Trilbies? Ten per bag! How much do you want for them?”
“Oh, ten silver pennies, I should think,” Garag joked, thinking of what it would likely cost him to feed his guards and stable his horses during the week they would spend in the Shire.
“Done!” Mac cried. Counting out forty silvers of the local currency from his purse, he poured them into Garag’s hands before quickly whisking all four packages of mushrooms into his coat.
Garag stared at the hobbit in surprise, then at the money in his hands. It seemed Master Baggins had not been exaggerating the worth of the mushrooms to his own people after all. And he had two full barrels of the little packets.
Perhaps there was a chance for profit after all.