Brilliant Disguise

Chapter Fourteen

Thorin shivered as he and Bard trod along the newly reconstructed wooden walkways that made up the streets of Esgaroth. The scent of freshly cut wood and sawdust mingled with the damp smell of the Long Lake and the lake's temperamental waters slapped at new pilings that had yet to grow slimy with algae. The sound of hammers striking wood, of workers shouting to one another (or at one another, as was the case with two in the midst of arguing over the placement of some pipes), of saws being put to use all jangled together in a cacophony that made his head ache before long.

"So, as you can see," Bard was saying, raising his voice over the din, "everything is coming along nicely."

"So why am I here?" Thorin shouted, wincing as someone, somewhere dropped a load of pipes and the resulting clang reverberated fiercely in his head. He couldn't wait to return to Erebor, to gather up Sophie and Heather and spend a relaxing evening in Dale.

"You requested to be kept in the loop," Balin reminded him as he finally caught up with them. "And it would seem everything is coming along nicely."

Bard nodded. "I thought so. Thorin?"

Thorin sighed softly as he moved to the far end of the walkway, which stretched well toward the center of the lake. The last time he'd been there, it was cold and snowy and while standing on the steps of the finest house in Esgaroth—the Master's house, of course—he'd promised the people of Esgaroth a share in the wealth to be found in Erebor if they would but help him and his Company. Bard had been the voice of skepticism, only to find himself overruled by an exuberant crowd and a greedy lakemaster with visions of adding to his own wealth. Although he'd meant the words when he'd spoke them, it wasn't long after they'd gotten into the mountain, that Smaug the Terrible had been defeated, that Thorin fell prey to dragon sickness and reneged on his word. Worse still, he'd allowed the Battle of the Five Armies to be fought because he declared he'd rather have war than return the White Gems of Lasgalen necklace to Thranduíl, as he'd demanded.

Since then, he'd made up for it, or so he hoped, by having Esgaroth not only rebuilt, but renovated into the city he remembered when he was a boy and it was the trading capitol in Middle Earth. As for the necklace, that remained tucked away in Erebor's vault, deep within the Lonely Mountain.

Of course, he had no idea that making up for everything meant he'd have to stroll the boardwalks, pretending he knew anything about the architecture or engineering that went into building a city on water, because truth be told, he had absolutely no idea what he looked at or how it was supposed to have been built. He smiled and nodded and made what he hoped were the right sounds, but all in all, he had no clue if any of it was right. He was a king by birth, a blacksmith by trade and knew nothing about architecture or engineering. All he knew was the buildings no longer leaned, the way they had before Smaug torched it after being basically angered enough to fly out of Erebor and wreak havoc elsewhere, so the city was already improved upon as far as he was concerned.

In the distance, he saw where the Forest River met the Long Lake and smiled as he remembered how he and his company traveled down that river to escape Mirkwood and an angry Thranduíl. It seemed like a lifetime ago, so much had happened since then.

The lake itself was calm, the surface sparkling in the pale sunlight. Somewhere in those depths, Smaug would spend eternity, but Thorin couldn't say for certain where and the waters were too deep and too murky for him to see much below the surface. Smaug had been somewhere near the center of the lake when Bard took him down with a Black Arrow, but again, Thorin was out on Erebor's ramparts, not paying much attention to the goings-on in Esgaroth, but far more concerned with the treasures hidden within the mountain's depths. Treasure that had since been divided and Erebor's share tucked away into the vaults deep within the city.