The Last Ringbearer

by Kirill Yeskov

  What was that Haladdin used to say? "Do the ends justify the means? Stated generally, the problem lacks a solution."

  Chapter 45

  Umbar, Lamp Street

  Night of June 14, 3019

  The Umbarians all say that whoever has not seen the Big Carnival has not seen anything worthwhile in his life. Arrogant as it sounds, there are solid grounds for saying so. It is not the beauty of the fireworks and costumed processions, although they are magnificent. The most important part is that on the second Sunday of June all societal barriers crumble into dust: streetwalkers turn into highborn damsels and the damsels turn into streetwalkers, while a couple of comedians performing a skit making fun of famously slow-witted inhabitants of the Peninsula may turn out to be a senator and a member of the paupers' guild. It is a day when time runs backward and everyone can reclaim their wonderfully reckless youth, like the warm gentle lips of some girl in a black mask you just stole from her previous partner; it is a day when profiting is sinful and stealing is just d Noclass No. On that day everyone is allowed to do anything except breach another's incognito... In that sense the actions of two noble sirs who had fallen behind a bead-strung firecracker- popping procession making its way down Lamp Street at the Mint Alley intersection should be termed improper, although said actions were apparently well-intentioned. Those two persons -- one in a multicolored bodysuit of a circus gymnast, another decked out in jester's bells -- were bending over a third one, in a blue-and-gold stargazer's cloak, who was prostrated on the ground. Not too skillfully trying to revive him ("Hey, man, wake up!"), they have removed his silvery mask; it was plain that the would-be rescuers themselves were barely on their feet.

  A chirping flock of three girls in assorted dominos emerged from the alley straight onto the scene. "Partners, partners!" they chorused, clapping, "and just the right number! The gymnast is mine! Come along, pretty boy!"

  "Easy, sisters, easy!" the gymnast responded. "See, our third friend is kinda out of it..."

  "Oh, poor kid! Drink too much?"

  "Dunno. Just been dancing his feet off in the procession and then suddenly whoa! and he's down. Not as if he's been drinking much..."

  "Maybe I can bring him back to life with a kiss?" the blue domino purred coquettishly. The jester grinned: "Go ahead, baby -- maybe he'll throw up, it'd help for sure!"

  "Yuck! Jerk..." the girl was offended.

  "There, my beauties, don't get all upset, all right?" the gymnast said amiably, hugging the purple domino a bit below the waist with a steady arm (rewarded with an immediate sultry

  "Ah, the cheek!"). "You're all total hits, we love you all to death and all that. Got any wine?.. Too bad. Here's what we'll do: you take the Mint to the seashore, buy enough N rnen for all of us," with those words he handed the girl a small pouch full of small silver coins, "and, most importantly, stake out some seats close to the musicians. We'll catch up with you in a few minutes, as soon as we drag this character to that lawn over there, let him sleep it off on the grass... Imagine being saddled with this on Carnival!.." When the girls disappeared in the alley, their heels clicking loudly on the flagstones, the jester let out his breath and shook his head, as if disbelieving his luck: "Phew! I thought that was it and we'd have to off them..."

  "Yeah, I know you like swift and drastic solutions," grumbled the gymnast, "that's why I have to watch you like a hawk. Did you stop to think of how we'd get rid of three bodies here, eh?"

  "No idea," the other admitted honestly. "So what now, chief -- are we all right?"

  "Not sure, so -- no wet work, but following up on them is necessary. Who the hell knows who these girls are, though they don't look like cover. Track them to the shore and double back immediately if anything is amiss."

  "What about you, all by yourself?"

  "Mantzenilla is good stuff, the guy won't come around for at least an hour. Here, help me pick him up," the gymnast crouched by the still stargazer, "I'll manage the hundred yards to our door somehow."

  ...The stargazer's surfacing from his drugged stupor was slow and labored, but the moment he stirred he got his nostrils pinched and a draught of cola-based stimulant poured down his throat -- time was short, the interrogation could not wait. He coughed and hacked (some of the burning liquid went down the wrong pipe) and opened his eyes. The first glance told him clearly enough the predicament he was in: a windowless room (but still more likely a ground floor than a basement), two men wearing carnival outfits of a gymnast and a jester; wait, wait... yes, these two had danced in the same procession with him, and then -- right! -- the gymnast gave him some wine to drink from a glass flask with merry eastern dragons on its sides. And an excellent wine it was, except two draughts knocked him out to then find himself who knows where with his arms securely tied to an armchair, with a nausea- inducing array of tools in a large tin bowl on a stool in front of him. A cold hand seemed to grab his guts at a mere look at them. How's this possible -- he remembers the gymnast drinking from the same flask? An antidote? Actually, who cares, the most important part is who these guys are -- the Department or 12 Shore Street? He looked away, at the fire-lit masked face of the jester, who was busily stirring the coals in a large floor censer, and shuddered almost violently enough to spasm his back muscles. The gymnast broke the silence: "Mister Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, if I'm not mistaken?" He was sitting a bit away, attentively looking at the prisoner.

  "You're not mistaken. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The Junior Secretary had gathered his wits and displayed only surprise with no outward sign of fear.

  "My name will mean nothing to you. I represent the Secret Guard of the Reunited Kingdom and hope to work with you. The set-up here is not as diverse as the one at 12 Shore Street, of course, but the basement is almost as good."

  "Your recruiting methods are rather strange." Algali shrugged, and something akin to relief showed in his face. "You should realize already that it's much easier to buy than to rob here, in the South. You want me for your network? Sure! Why stage this stupid show?"

  "The show was not as stupid as it might seem. The thing is, what we need is not the Khand- related information that you have access to at work, but something very different." The Junior Secretary raised a questioning eyebrow: "I don't understand."

  "Quit mucking around -- you've already understood everything, unless you're an idiot. We need the Elvish network of which you're a part -- names, safe houses, passwords. Well?"

  "Elvish network? Have you guys sniffed too much kokkaine?" Algali grunted nonchalantly -- too nonchalantly, given the situation.

  "Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I'd much rather not have to use any of this," the gymnast gestured towards the bowl and the censer, "but there are only two options here. Option one: you tell us everything you know, then go home and keep working with us. Option two is you tell us everything you know with our help," another nod at the censer,

  "but then you won't leave here. You can imagine how you'll look afterwards, so why traumatize your Elvish friends? I like option one better; how about you?"

  "So do I, but I have nothing to tell you either way. You've made a mistake, I'm not the person you want."

  "Is that your last word? I mean -- the last before we begin?"

  "Yes. It's a mistake, I've never heard of any Elvish network."

  "You just blew it, buddy!" the gymnast chortled in satisfaction. "See, were you a regular Umbarian official, you'd either be having hysterics now or inventing this network out of your head on the spot. We'd be catching your inconsistencies, you'd then be lying anew... but you aren't even trying to buy time. So even if I had any doubts about you before, I don't now. Got any objections?"

  Algali was silent -- there was nothing to say and no need to say anything. Most importantly, a strange tranquility descended on him. The Power of which he was a part came to his rescue; he felt its presence almost physically as a touch of a mother's warm hands: "Please endure it, son! It won't be too terrible and
you have to endure it for only a short time. Don't be afraid, for I am here with you!" Amazingly, the gymnast detected the invisible presence of this Power, too: one glance at Algali's serene smile was enough for him to understand that the damn kid has just slipped through his fingers. Once beyond his power, he could do anything to him now -- the prisoner will die without saying a word. This happens rarely, but it does happen. Then he simply punched the man tied to the armchair in the face, putting all his fury into the blow: "Son of a bitch, Elvish whore!" thereby acknowledging his defeat.

  "An Elvish whore? How interesting!"

  Nobody had noticed when a fourth man, this one dressed like a mashtang bandit, slipped through the door. The mashtang's sword, however, was definitely not of costume quality; an application of its hilt to the gymnast's skull immediately put the latter out of commission. The jester had the time to back away and get his blade out, but this did not help him: he was hopelessly outclassed as a fencer, so in less than ten seconds the guest cut open the host's chest with a long diagonal lunge, splattering blood in all directions, including on the stargazer. After carefully wiping the sword with a rag he picked up from the floor, the mashtang gazed at the prisoner with gloomy surprise:

  "As I understand it, fair sir, these guys were trying to implicate you as belonging to the Elvish underground. Is that so?"

  Chapter 46

  "I don't understand." Algali's diction left much to be desired; he was feeling his teeth with his tongue, trying to assess the damage.

  "Damn it, young man, I'm not enough of an idiot to ask you whether you're part of an underground! I'm asking -- what did the men from Aragorn's Secret Guard want with you?" Algali was silently trying to assess the situation. The whole thing reeked of a badly staged play, complete with the valiant white-clad rescuer arriving out of a chimney at the precise moment when the princess is already in the hands of the hairy bandit chief but somehow has not yet been deflowered. At least, it would appear this way if not for a couple of things: the sword with which the mashtang has already cut his bonds was real, and so had the thrust to the jester's chest been (judging by the sound), and the blood Algali wiped from his right cheek was real blood rather than cranberry juice. It did look like he got mixed up into someone else's spat; in any case, it won't get any worse than it already is.

  "By the way, I am Baron Tangorn. What's your name, fair youngster?"

  "Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, at your service."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Let's analyze this situation. My sudden appearance in this house has to look staged -- such coincidences happen only in books -- so I look a very suspicious character to you..."

  "Why, Baron, I'm extremely grateful to you," Algali bowed with exaggerated ceremoniousness. "Were it not for your intervention, my end would've been tragic, indeed. Would you believe that these people have decided that I belong to some kind of an Elvish organization..."

  "Now let's look at this from my vantage point. Forgive me, but I'll assume that my Gondorian `colleagues' were not mistaken... Don't interrupt me!" There was a commanding clang of metal in the mashtang's voice. "So: I have come to Umbar from Ithilien on a special mission to establish contact with the Elves and convey certain vital information to them -- for a price, of course. Unfortunately, Aragorn has learned about my mission and is trying to prevent the transfer of this information, since for him it's also a matter of life and death. His Secret Guard is hunting me. Three days ago they tried to arrest me at the Seahorse Tavern, and we've been playing cat-and-mouse all around the city ever since. The mouse has turned out to be a scorpion, so these games have so far cost them seven dead -- eight, including this one." He nodded nonchalantly towards the jester.

  "Anyway, tonight I finally discovered one of their hideouts -- 4 Lamp Street -- and naturally decided to pay them a visit. What do I find? I find the Secret Guardsmen interrogating -- so attentively as to neglect guarding the place -- a man whom they believe to belong to the very same Elvish network I've been trying to locate for the last two weeks without success. So which of the two coincidences looks more suspicious to you?"

  "Well, speaking theoretically..."

  "Of course, purely theoretically -- we have agreed to stipulate your membership in the Elvish network only for the purposes of this discussion. In any event, I'm inclined to believe your story; to be honest, I have no options. First, you need to hide..."

  "No way! All these spy games of yours..."

  "Are you a complete idiot? Once you're on the list at 12 Shore Street, that's it -- you're doomed. You will only prove your non-membership in the Elvish network by dying under torture, whereupon they'll shrug and apologize for their mistake -- maybe. So even if you know nothing of this, you have to find some hidey-hole; and I'm not about to understand your problems and offer you one of mine, mind you. Whereas if you're indeed from the Elvish underground, then this miraculous rescue means that you have a long and elaborate debriefing by your own security service -- or whatever you call it -- to look forward to. In that case, you'll simply relate all you've witnessed so far and tell them the following: Baron Tangorn from Ithilien is seeking to contact Elandar."

  "I've never heard this name."

  "You couldn't possibly have, not at your level of clearance. So: if your commanders decide that this merits their attention, I'll be waiting for you at seven on Friday evenings at the Green Mackerel restaurant. Make sure to tell them that I won't deal with anyone but Elandar himself: I'm not interested in flunkies."

  After leading the stargazer out on the porch, into the night streaked with fireworks flashes, the mashtang halted his prot Nog No: "Wait up. First, remember this house, the address, and all that -- trust me, you'll need it. Second, once I find out from this gymnast why 12 Shore Street decided to target Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, I'll put his written testimony into a letter that I'll leave for you at Mama Madino's establishment in the Kharmian Village. All right, lad, go now. I'm going back to talk to our mutual friend while the coals are still hot in that censer."

  It did not look like the Junior Secretary took the mashtang's warning to heart. He wandered the night streets for a while (probably and laughably looking for a tail), and then went into the Shooting Star bar, the favorite haunt of the art and bohemian crowds; the place was always crowded and now, on Carnival night, positively packed. Here, in the light, one could see that Algali did not escape unscathed: his hands shook visibly. Waiting for the bartender to mix him a Forget-me-not -- a complex cocktail of eleven ingredients -- he kept mechanically stacking a few coins, but his disobedient fingers kept knocking the stack over. The bartender looked at this exercise, grunted and put the cocktail aside: "Lemme pour you some rum, buddy, it'll do you right..." He spent a couple of morose hours in a corner talking to no one, then suddenly ordered another cocktail, after which he left the bar, took some back alleys to the Bridge of Wishes-Coming-True, totally deserted at this predawn hour, and disappeared.

  Had someone been watching Algali then, he would for sure have referred to supernatural forces: the man simply vanished. Theoretically one could posit a jump into a gondola passing under the bridge, but the suspended span of the Bridge of Wishes-Coming-True is thirty feet above water; a Foreign Ministry clerk is likely incapable of such acrobatic tricks, plus the feat would require precise synchronization. At any rate, all other explanations would be no less fantastic. Of course, one could simply say meaningfully: "Elvish magic!" but those words do not explain anything; in other words, how Algali made it to a plain fisherman cabin on the shore of Barangar Bay remained a mystery. Two hours later he stood naked in the middle of the cabin, eyes closed and arms outstretched. A slight black-haired girl who somehow resembled a sad vivino bird was slowly moving her palms along Algali's back a hair away from it. Having examined his entire body in this manner, she shook her head negatively: "He's clean. No magic dust."

  "Thank you, baby!" The man who sat in the corner on an dried-out barrel had a firm, calm face
of a captain on a storm-shaken bridge. "Are you tired?"

  "Not very." She tried to smile, but the smile came out wan.

  "Rest an hour or so."

  "I'm not tired, honest!"

  "Go rest. That's an order. Then check his clothes once again, thread by thread -- I'm still concerned that they may have planted a beacon on him." He turned to a young man in a bat costume: "What's your story?"

  "Counter-surveillance detected no tail, at least from the Shooting Star to the bridge. I followed him, since anyway I had to remove the rope ladder he used to go down to the gondola, and it was all clear."

  "Any problems?"

  "None. We alerted a cover team the moment we got the danger signal -- the Forget-me-not plus the tumbling coins. Over the second cocktail the bartender told him which post had the ladder, and it all went down flawlessly."

  "All right, you're all dismissed for now. Algali, put something on and tell your story. You have my complete attention."

  ***

  With one last glance at the back of the Junior Secretary receding down Lamp Street, the man who called himself Baron Tangorn (it was him, in fact) returned to the first floor of the house. Work there was in full swing: the gymnast and the jester, both alive and well, were busy cleaning up the room. The jester was already out of his bloodied clothes (the baron's sword had pierced a bladder filled with pig blood and hidden on his chest) and was now taking off the mithril mail, grimacing with pain. Seeing Tangorn, he turned to show him his side, which sported a large purple bruise:

  "Look what you done, boss! Betcha you broke my rib!"

  "The dungans you got cover pain and suffering. If you're angling for a bonus, forget it."

  "Really, man -- whyn't you just stab me, careful-like? Why lay it on for real? What if that mail shirt of yours broke?"