The Last Ringbearer (39 page)

“Totally true. Have you considered the back paths?”

“Well, can’t go through Irapuato now, we’ll have to go around …”

“Around? This is more serious than it seems. There’re those strange peddlers in Uahapan – four of them and armed to the teeth, while the tax collector with his
algvasils
is in Koalkoman three weeks early. And now Irapuato … I strongly dislike this.”

“Yeah, tough … Uahapan, Koalkoman, Irapuato – we’re totally surrounded. Unless …”

The baron waved the unvoiced suggestion aside: “If you mean the road to Tuanohato, forget it – bet you that it already has a presence. Most likely traveling circus men who show tricks like putting out candles with a crossbow bolt or slicing apricot pits in midair with a scimitar. But that’s all right; what bothers me is that we’re totally surrounded, like you say, yet there are no visitors in our village. Why would that be, eh?”

“Haven’t gotten around to us yet?”

“Nope – the only way to Uahapan is through Iguatalpa, right? Better tell me this: if such a team were to show up in our village, would they be able to take me?”

“No way! You’ve told us to watch out for strangers, and we have. Even if they came with a hundred gendarmes, I’d still have time to get you out of the village through backyards, and then good luck finding us in the mountains. Should there be dogs, I’ve got tobacco with pepper.”

“Right, and they know it as well as we do. So what does this mean?”

“You wanna say,” the mountain man squinted and squeezed his dagger’s hilt hard enough to whiten knuckles, “they’ve found out that you’re in Iguatalpa?”

“For sure. It doesn’t matter how at this point. That’s number one. Number two that I really don’t like is how crudely they’re working. It only seems like all those peddlers, bandit catchers, and tax collectors are a net tightening around us. In reality, it’s a bunch of noisemakers whose job is to chase the quarry towards the hunters.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s simple, actually. What did you immediately think about when you heard about gendarmes in Irapuato? Right – the back path through the mountains. Now, how smart does one have to be to station a couple of crossbowmen in camouflage gear by that path?”

Chekorello was silent for a long time and then finally managed to say the obvious: “So what’re we gonna do?” thus acknowledging Tangorn as the leader.

The baron shrugged: “We’ll think, and most importantly, we’ll not do anything rash, which is what they’re trying to make us do. So: Uahapan, Koalkoman, Irapuato – all these are the noisemakers. Let’s think of where the real hunters are and how to slip by them.”

It’s a standard problem, he thought. Once again I’m trying to catch a certain Baron Tangorn, thirty-two years old, brown hair, six feet tall, a Nordic complexion that really stands out around here, plus a recently acquired distinctive slight limp. Strangely enough, in reality it’s not as simple as it seems – where should I deploy my line of hunters? And who should these hunters be? That last is pretty clear, actually – operatives who can recognize him, and no weapon-clad muscle boys within a mile around. The baron will certainly be in make-up and disguise, so even those who know him will have a hard time. How many such people are there? Hardly more than a dozen, more likely seven or eight – it’s been four years, after all. Let’s say a dozen; divide them into four shifts, since an observer can’t be effective for more than six hours at a stretch. Not too many, is it? Makes no sense to split up this team, it has to be a fist, a squad of hunters; no way can any of them be a part of the noisemaking team, since by dividing them, we … Damn, but I’m stupid! No hunters among the noisemakers, who’re not expected to meet Tangorn at all – he’s not that much of a fool. Those teams actually have no need to know what this is all about; their job is just to rattle the bushes. So: key people are few, can’t disperse them, so they’ll have to be concentrated at … of course!

“They’ll be waiting for us at the Long Dam, which we can’t bypass,” he announced to Chekorello, who was going bug-eyed after half an hour of an unaccustomed mental effort. “Here’s how we’ll get past them …”

“You’re mad!” was all the mountain man could say after hearing Tangorn’s plan.

“I’ve been told that many times,” replied the baron, “so if I’m a madman, I’m a very lucky one. Are you coming with me? I won’t insist – it’ll be easier for me to do it alone.”

“It all checks out, milord. Men from 12 Shore Street did try to capture him both at the Seahorse Tavern and at Castamir Square. He escaped both times. Four dead at the Seahorse, three infected with leprosy at the Square; too expensive to cover a one-time diversion, to my taste. 4 Lamp Street is indeed a Gondorian Secret Guard safe house, and he did raid it: one of the sergeants keeping that house was grievously wounded in the chest, his physician confirmed Algali’s account. The Secret Guard badge is genuine; that Aravan guy’s handwriting matches the one he’s even now using to write explanations at the police headquarters. Plus the entire Gondorian station is turning over stones looking for Algali. In other words, it doesn’t seem to be a ruse.”

“So why didn’t he show up at the Green Mackerel on the twentieth?”

“Possibly he had detected our backup team next to the restaurant and quite reasonably decided that we were violating his terms. That’s the best case; the worst is that Aragorn’s people got to him. Let’s hope for the best, milord, and wait for next Friday, the twenty-seventh. We’ll have to skip the backup team, lest the deal fall through again.”

“True enough. But he must not leave the Green Mackerel under his own power …”

CHAPTER 49

Umbar, 12 Shore Street

June 25, 3019

M 
ongoose walked unhurriedly down the embassy’s corridors.

Not crept along the wall like a fleet weightless shadow, but walked, his every step echoing throughout the sleeping building, the wall lamps periodically illuminating his black parade uniform with silver officer’s cords on the left shoulder. Actually, Marandil realized almost immediately that this was a trick of the weak light: the lieutenant was wearing civilian clothes, the silver on his shoulder and chest being spots of some kind of whitish mold … No, what mold – it’s frost, real frost! Frost on clothing – how, from where? Just then a weak but clearly discernible breeze – like an icy breath from a crypt – touched the captain’s face, and the flames in the lamps dipped together, as if confirming to dash all hope: no, this is not an illusion! The walls of the embassy, long an unassailable fortress, two layers of slavishly devoted guards, DSD’s famed hunting skills – everything had failed …

He could physically feel the deathly cold emanating from the approaching figure; this cold froze Marandil’s boots to the floor and turned the panicked flurry of his thoughts into gel. This is it. You knew all along that this was how it was going to end … After Aravan’s testimony you knew when, now you know how, that’s all … In the meantime, the lieutenant was turning into a real mongoose leisurely approaching a cobra – a flat triangular head with flattened ears, itself resembling a snake’s head, ruby eye beads and blinding white needle teeth under raised whiskers. He, Marandil, was the cobra – an old tired cobra with broken venomous fangs … Any moment now those teeth will sink into his throat, the blood will spurt from the torn arteries, the delicate neck vertebra will crunch … He backed away, futilely trying to shield himself from the approaching nightmare with his hands, and suddenly sprawled flat on his back: his heel caught the upturned edge of a carpet runner.

The pain from a badly bumped elbow rescued the captain, snapping him back into reality. His terror somehow switched modes, turning from paralyzing to hysterical; Marandil jumped up and sped down the corridor so fast that the wall lamps turned into a blurred fiery line. Stairs … down … over the railing to the next landing … again … there’s supposed to be a guard here – where is he? … corridor before the chief’s office … the guards, where the hell are all the damn guards?! Footfalls behind – regular, as if measuring the thick silence of the corridor. A-a-a-argh! it's a dead end! where now? The office – no other choice … the key … doesn’t fit in the keyhole, dammit … idiot, it’s the key to the safe … calm down … Great Aúle, help me – this damn lock catches often … Footfalls getting closer, like an icy water drip on a prisoner’s shaved head (why isn’t he running? Shut up, idiot, don’t jinx it!) … calm, now … turn the key … yes!

Squeezing through the barely opened door like a lizard, he pushed it closed with his entire body and locked it at just the moment the werewolf’s footfalls reached the threshold. The captain did not strike up the light, having no strength; shaking and sopping wet with sweat, he sat down on the hardwood floor right in the middle of the office, in a large square of moonlight crisscrossed by the shadow of the window frame. Marandil understood that the nightmarish pursuer was still there, but strangely, he somehow felt safe here, sitting on this silvery carpet, as if he was a child who had just ‘touched base.’ He glanced distractedly at the pattern of moon shadows on the floor next to him and only then thought of checking out the window itself. Looking at the window, he almost howled in terror and desperation.

There, on the ledge, with his face almost against the windowpane, was a man with an uncanny resemblance to a hyena. Obviously it would be easy for this second werewolf to knock out the window and leap into the room, but he did not move, just stared at Marandil with round faintly phosphorescent eyes. A faint sound of metal scratching metal came from behind – Mongoose was working on the door lock. At least the key is still in the hole, Marandil thought fleetingly only a moment before a terrible blow hammered the door. A jagged hole six or so inches wide appeared beside the lock; faint light from the corridor streamed through it but was immediately cut down to a few rays when something obscured it. Then, suddenly, the lock clicked and the door opened wide. Only then did Marandil understand that the lieutenant had simply slammed his fist through the door panel, stuck his hand in, and turned the key still in the lock. The captain dashed to the window (the hyena-man on the ledge scared him less than Mongoose), and then two more figures slipped out of the deep shadows in the corners of the room with silent grace; somehow he recognized wolves immediately.

They dragged him out by the feet from under the table where he tried to duck and stood over him, fangs bared, the sharp smell of dog and raw meat wafting over the captain; having realized the manner in which he was about to pay for his treachery, he could only whine on the floor, trying to cover his throat and crotch … Suddenly the entire apparition blew away at the sound of Mongoose’s dispassionate voice: “Captain Marandil, you’re under arrest in the name of the King. Sergeant, take his weapons, badge, and keys to the safe. To the basement with him!”

No! No! No-o-o-o! It’s untrue, this can’t be happening – not to him, Captain of the Secret Guard Marandil, the chief of Gondorian station in Umbar! Yet already they are dragging him down the steep chipped stairs (out of the blue he remembered that there were twenty of them, with a large hole in the fourth step from the bottom); once in the basement, they shake him out of his clothes and hang him up by the tied thumbs off a large hook in the ceiling beam. Then Mongoose’s face appears in front of his again, eye to eye:

“I’m not interested in your games with the Umbarian Secret Service right now. What I want to know is who advised you to point the Elves to our team by siccing their underground on His Majesty’s Secret Guard? Who in Minas Tirith are you working for – Arwen’s people? What do they know about Tangorn’s mission?”

“I know nothing about that, I swear by anything!” he croaks, twisting with pain in dislocated joints, understanding full well that this is just a warm-up. “I gave no orders to kidnap that Algali – Aravan is either crazy or working for himself …”

“Please begin, Sergeant. So who told you to reveal me to the Elves?”

They know their job well and dose the pain just so, not allowing him to slip away into unconsciousness, and it lasts an infinitely long time … Then it is all over: the mercy of the Valar is truly boundless, and Vaira’s gentle palms pick him up and carry him to the safest refuge – the shadowy halls of Mandos.

The sun was shining straight into Marandil’s eyes – it was almost noon. Groaning, he raised his head (heavy like he had not slept at all) off the rolled-up cloak he had used as a pillow, trying either to swallow or spit out the scream still stuck in his dry throat. Habitually he felt for an unfinished bottle of rum by the couch, pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a few large swigs. Actually, alcohol did not help any more; he had to sniff
kokkaine
to really wake up. Over the last few days fear ate up the station chief from the inside, leaving only a pitiful shriveled shell. The captain did not step outside the embassy now and slept only during daytime, in his clothes: for some reason he had convinced himself that Mongoose was going to come for him at midnight, just like in his nightmares.

Those nightmares were varied and diverse. In them, Mongoose’s special ops team would now slip into his office like shadows,
nin’yokve
-style, then arrive ghost-like right out of the large Khandian wall mirror (when he woke up after that one, he smashed it first thing), or simply break down his door like a regular police squad, uniformed and armed with official papers. His most vivid recollection was of a dream in which he was attacked by four cat-sized bats. Fleet and impervious, they chased the captain all over the building, chirping angrily and slapping his head with their leathery wings, going for the eyes; the palms with which he had shielded his face and the back of his head were both already torn into bloody pulp by their tiny sharp teeth, and only then did the usual ending come: “Captain Marandil, you’re under arrest in the name of the King. Sergeant, take his weapons, badge, and keys to the safe. To the basement with him!”

“Mister Secretary! Mister Secretary, wake up!” Finally he realized that he did not wake up by himself – there was a courier shifting from foot to foot in the door. “Sir Ambassador is summoning you right now.”