The Last Ringbearer (18 page)

“Listen, doctor,” said somewhat haggard Haddami after a pause, “I still insist – it wasn’t him there, in that Teshgol of yours …”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t him?! Perhaps he personally hadn’t raped an eight-year-old girl before slitting her throat, but he commanded the people who did!”

“No, no, Haladdin, that’s not at all what I mean! See, this is a deep, unimaginably deep – for us humans – split of personality. Imagine for a moment that you had to participate in something like Teshgol – just had to. You have a mother whom you love dearly; with the Elves it can’t be otherwise, since children are very few and every member of society is truly invaluable. I suspect that you’d do everything possible to spare her any knowledge of this nightmare, and knowing the Elves’ perceptiveness, lying or just staying mute would not be enough. This would require you to really turn into another person. Two totally different personalities in one creature – for internal and external consumption, so to speak. Do you understand me?”

“To be honest, not really. Split personalities are not my field of expertise.”

Strangely, apparently it was this conversation that pointed Haladdin towards the solution to the main problem he has been toiling on, and this solution horrified him with its crude simplicity. It had been sitting in plain view, and now it seemed to him that he had been deliberately looking away, pretending not to see it … That evening the doctor got back to their assigned tower late at night; their hosts were already in bed, but the fire was still burning in the hearth, and he sat by it motionless, staring fixedly at the spread of orange embers. He did not even notice when the baron appeared by his side.

“Listen, Haladdin, you look very upset. Want a drink?”

“Yes … I suppose I do.”

The local vodka burned his mouth and rolled along his spine like a long spasm; he wiped his eyes and looked for a place to spit. The drink did not make him feel better, but did add a measure of detachment. Tangorn disappeared into the darkness and returned with another stool.

“More?”

“No, thank you.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes. I’ve figured out how to plant our little gift on the Elves.”

“So?”

“So now I’m pondering the eternal question of whether the ends justify the means.”

“Hmm … can be either way, depending on the circumstances.”

“Precisely. A mathematician would say that stated generally, the problem lacks a solution. Therefore, instead of a clear directive the One in His infinite wisdom had decided to supply us with conscience, which is a rather finicky and unreliable device.”

“So what does your conscience say now, Doctor?” Tangorn looked at him with faintly mocking interest.

“Conscience says quite clearly: no. Duty responds: you must. So it goes … It must be nice to live by the knightly ethic: do what you must and let the chips fall where they may, right, Baron? Especially when someone had already let you know what you must do …”

“I’m afraid that no one can help you make this choice.”

“Nor do I need any help. What’s more,” he turned away and, shivering, stretched his hands towards the cooling embers, “I would like to free you from any obligation to participate in our mission. Believe me, even if we win with my plan, it will not be a victory to be proud of.”

“Really?” Tangorn’s face became stony, and his gaze suddenly weighed like an avalanche. “So your plan is of such a quality that to take part in it is a greater dishonor than abandoning a friend in need – and so far I have considered you to be one? Doctor, I greatly appreciate your concern for my conscience, but perhaps you’ll allow me to make this judgment myself?”

“As you wish,” Haladdin shrugged indifferently. “You can listen first and decline later. It’s a fairly complicated scheme and we’ll have to start from afar … What do you think is Aragorn’s relationship with the Elves?”

“Aragorn and the Elves? You mean now, after they’ve installed him on the throne of Gondor?”

“Of course. I think you have mentioned knowing Eastern mythology pretty well; perhaps you remember the tale of the Dwarves’ Chain?”

“I have to confess to forgetting it.”

“Well, it’s a very edifying story. A long, long time ago the gods were trying to subdue Hahti, the hungry demon of Hell, who could’ve consumed the whole World. Twice they restrained him with a chain forged by the divine Blacksmith – first of steel, then of
mithril
– and both times Hahti tore it like a thread. So when the gods were down to their third and final attempt, they had to abase themselves by turning to the Dwarves for help. Those came through with a really unbreakable chain made from fishes’ voice and the sound of cats’ steps …”

“Fishes’ voice and the sound of cats’ steps?”

“Yes. That’s why neither of those are found in the World – all used up in that chain. Actually, it seems to me that some other things got used up as well, such as gratitude of kings … Speaking of which, how do you think the gods paid the Dwarves?”

“By liquidating them, I suppose; how else?”

“Exactly! Actually, they only intended to liquidate them, but the Dwarves were to be reckoned with, too … but that’s a different story. Back to Aragorn and the Elves …”

His tale was long and detailed, as he was also testing his logic. Afterwards, a silence fell, disturbed only by the howling wind outside the tower.

“You’re a scary man, Haladdin; who would’ve thought it?” Tangorn said thoughtfully, looking at the doctor with a new interest and – yes, respect. “The job we have undertaken brooks no timidity, but if we are, indeed, to win in this manner … In other words, I doubt that I will ever want to reminisce about it with you over a goblet of good wine.”

“If we are to win in this manner,” Haladdin echoed, “I don’t think that I will ever want to look at myself in the mirror.” (In any event, he added to himself, I will never dare look Sonya in the eye.)

“Actually,” the baron smirked, “allow me to take you back to earth: this discussion rather resembles dividing spoils before the battle. First you win this fight, then do your soul-searching. So far we see a light at the end of the tunnel, nothing more. I don’t think that our chances of survival are any better than one in five, so it’s an honest game, in a way.”

“Our chances? So you’re staying?”

“What else can I do? Why, do you think that you can pull this off without me? For example, how did you plan to approach Faramir? Your whole scheme will end before it begins without his participation, albeit passive. All right … Here’s what I think: this lure of yours has to be dropped nowhere else but Umbar. I will undertake that part of the operation, you and Tzerlag would only burden me there. Let’s go to sleep now; I’ll consider the details tomorrow.”

However, the next day they had other business to attend to: the long-awaited guide finally turned up, and off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but the pass still had not opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the sleeping bags made from bighorn sheep skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a half in an igloo that Matun fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick firn, they barely managed to dig themselves out. In Haladdin’s memory the whole trek coagulated into one thick glutinous nightmare. Oxygen deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all around him – after every move all he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling. It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best way to go. The only time he broke out of that semiconsciousness was when a huge furry figure appeared out of nowhere on another side of a gorge about half a mile from where they were – a cross between an ape and a rearing bear. The creature moved awkwardly but preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the boulders at the bottom of the gorge without paying any attention to them. That was the first time he had ever seen a scared Troll, something he thought impossible. “Matun, what was that?” The guide only waved a hand, as if warding against the Enemy: it’s gone, and that’s good enough … So now they are walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying the birdsongs, while Matun is going back, alone, through all those screes and firn fields.

That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a stockade around a couple of unfinished log houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their bows and the leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and come closer slowly with their hands up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was heading to Prince Faramir himself. The men traded glances and inquired whether the newcomer had come from the Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of the builders, who was sitting at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and finally laughed heartily:

“Well, well, Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!”

“Guys!!” yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. “May my eyes never see if it ain’t Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn’t recognize you; you look, you know … Hey, now we’re all back together, so we’ll do that White Company like …” and, elated, he aimed an expressive obscene gesture towards distant Emyn Arnen.

CHAPTER 25

Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet

May 14, 3019

S 
o you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: ‘merry men of the Blackbird Hamlet?’”

“What else could I do – wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze over? Both the Prince and the girl can only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can’t exactly talk with those guys around …”

The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the speaker’s face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a
mashtang
bandit preying on the caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally at ease in Khand caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth dervishes, and in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago who taught the newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of intelligence work and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without knowing which one will always remain a
greengo
, a permanent target of veiled insults large and small from every Southerner, from a street urchin to a palace courtier.

The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine, caught Tangorn’s barely discernible ‘no’ gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The emotional encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.

“How quickly did you get in touch?”

“Nine days. The Whites ought to have forgotten that stupid episode already. The girl went hunting once – it’s routine now – saw a shepherd boy with his flock on a distant pasture and lost her escort, very professionally, for not more than ten minutes.”

“A shepherd boy, eh? Did she give him a gold coin wrapped in a note?”

“Nope – took a splinter out of his foot and told him a story of how she and her brother, when they were kids, had to defend a herd against steppe wolves … Listen, is it true that they do everything themselves in the North?”

“Yes. Over there even crown princes tend horses in childhood, and princesses work in the kitchens. So what about the boy?”

“She simply asked him to help in such a way that no one else finds out. And – the word of a professional – were anything to happen, the boy would let himself be cut to ribbons rather than give anything away … Anyway, he found Blackbird Hamlet and brought an oral message: next Friday Captain Beregond will be in the Red Deer tavern in the Settlement, waiting for a drunk man who will slap his shoulder and ask whether he is the one who commanded the archers of Morthond on the Pelennor Fields.”

“What?! Beregond?!”

“Yes, if you can imagine that. We were no less surprised, believe me. You have to agree, though, that Aragorn’s people aren’t likely to bait a trap with someone so noticeable, so the Prince is doing everything right.”

“You must all be crazy here!” Tangorn spread his hands. “How can you trust a man who first killed his suzerain and a month later is betraying his new lords?”

“Quite the contrary. First, he’s innocent of Denethor’s death, we know that for sure …”

“For sure? How? You looked into chicken entrails?”

“Yes, we did, but into a
palantír
rather than anyone’s entrails. Long story short – Faramir fully trusts him now, and the Prince, as you know, is a good judge of people and not given to sappy sentimentality.”

Tangorn leaned forward and even whistled in amazement. “Wait! Do you mean to say that Denethor’s
palantír
is in Emyn Arnen?”

“Yep. Those folks in Minas Tirith have decided that it’s broken. All they could see in it was the murdered King’s ghost, so when Faramir asked for it as a memento, they were only too glad to get rid of it.”

“All right …”

The baron stole an involuntary glance at the door to the next room, where Haladdin and Tzerlag were bedding down for the night. The situation was changing rapidly; they were inordinately lucky recently, he thought fleetingly, not a good sign … Grager followed his glance and nodded in the same direction:

“Those two. Are they really looking for Faramir?”

“Yes. They can be trusted, since our interests are fully aligned, at least for now.”

“Well, well … A diplomatic mission?”

“Something like that. Forgive me, but I’m honor-bound …”

The chief of the Ithilienians contemplated this for some time, and then grumbled: “All right. You deal with them yourself, I’m busy enough as it is. I’m gonna take them out from underfoot to the most remote base, at Otter Creek, for the time being, and then we’ll see.”

“By the way, why did you give away precisely this base, at Blackbird Hamlet?”

“Because you can’t approach it stealthily, so we can always beat it. Besides, we have only a few guys here; it’s more of an observation post than a base.”

“How many people do we have?”

“You’re number fifty-two.”