Lady Galadriel: That was an excellent explanation, clofoel of Tranquility, thank you. I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I've just thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this investigation may uncover really interesting nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth than with the Enchanted Forests. Dear Lord Cereborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to involve the clofoel of the World in the investigation, since she's better acquainted with those specifics?
Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, that's very reasonable! Isn't it, clofoel of Tranquility? Clofoel of Tranquility: I dare not discuss the directives of the radiant Lady, o radiant Lord. But perhaps it will be easier to remove me from this task altogether, since I am not trusted? Lord Cereborn: No, don't even think about it! I'd be lost without you! Lady Galadriel: We ought to consider the good of L rien ahead of personal ambitions, clofoel of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always better than one. Do you disagree?
Clofoel of Tranquility: How can I, o radiant Lady! Clofoel of the World: I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility. My stores of knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they will prove useful.
Clofoel of Tranquility: I have no doubt they will, esteemed clofoel of the World. Lady Galadriel: This is settled, then; keep us informed, clofoel of Tranquility. What did the clofoel of Stars wish to tell the Council?
Clofoel of Stars: I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and esteemed clofoels of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire arrangement of magic in the Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady's Mirror was delivered to Caras Galadhon.
Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars? Clofoel of Stars: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight...
***
Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but -- alas! -- he had nothing left to give.
"Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let's get underway."
There were three Elves -- a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll's. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something -- apparently obscene -- to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.
"Maybe you'd like to tell us something yourself, Troll?"
"Maybe I would." Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for nausea to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. "What do I get in return?"
"In return?!" The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. "An easy death. Is that not enough?"
"No, it's not. Easy death is already there for me; I've had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it'll end when it begins."
The Elf gave a silvery laugh. "You lie beautifully and engagingly." Kumai shrugged. "Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?"
"We are the higher-ups, Troll." The Elf sat down on a chair just brought into the cell by the man in leather jacket. "But please continue lying, we're listening with interest." What's there to lie about? He's no child and understands his position. But he's no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are... He'll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time -- but not for free. Do you promise to keep him alive? It's such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?
"Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we'll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?"
"Sure! Why not let him keep his life?" Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn't get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child -- that brat Sonya came up with it and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by... Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in Tzagan- Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that's where Dad's mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there... anyway, can't come up with anything else that'd be consistent on the spot). Yesterday... wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry... Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to L rien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy, never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal... What he looks like? An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow... yes, he's certain, the left one...
"This is very na ve, Troll. I'm not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as everything else you've told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?" That's it, then -- who would've thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his interrogators. The dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf's eye in the process. The clofoel of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly frozen Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist -- why bother now? -- and turned to his companion with a mocking smile: "So how about spending some time alone with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?"
"On the contrary -- he's magnificent, a real beast!"
"You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But not until we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace -- it could happen, you know -- and take everything he knows with him... You'd be really upset with such an outcome, wouldn't you?"
Chapter 62
"Wake up!" The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai's chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles' tendon, the pain immediately jerking the Troll out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.
"Where did you fly from? What was your mission?" That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner's heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The kicks were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen hits the pain turned unbearable, making a
ll his thoughts about the next inevitable kick... Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far. The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine -- maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I'm alive and in the Elves' hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess -- evacuate Dol Guldur? Don't know; revelations and miracles are the One's job, mine is to hold out and hope...
"Wake up!" This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silver- black cloak.
"Have you ever been told that you're an incredibly lucky man, Troll?" He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep... This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick -- something must've changed in their setup...
"Anyway, to continue: I don't know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our lawyers -- may they burn in the Eternal Fire! -- have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can't be forced to break his oath and all that..." The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. "As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep."
Kumai opened his parched lips: "I'm illiterate."
"An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad... Print your finger, then."
"Like hell."
"Whatever, man: I'll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange. That's it, you can go... I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies, sir -- you're a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee..."
When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the clofoel of Tranquility bit out in his back: "You're real lucky, Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with you personally... Why did you fly to L rien, eh?"
He only believed in his victory when he saw lembas on a small table in his cell, and -- most importantly -- a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it -- a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so.
Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home -- old wood, couch leather, Dad's pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik -- their carefree pre-war selves -- were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you'd never believe... Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.
He did not just talk -- he answered direct questions posed by someone's comforting even voice.
...His superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: "Apparently he has miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree. Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved fruitful yet." The next day, following his instructions, Grizzly sealed the engineer's papers, including the flight maps, and sent it all to F Noanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without reading. L rien, Star Council
July 25, 3019 of the Third Age Clofoel of Tranquility: As you can see, it is quite possible to do without torture and the brain-busting truth potion.
Lady Galadriel: You're a real master of your craft, clofoel of Tranquility. What did you find out?
Clofoel of Tranquility: The dragon driver's name is Kumai, he is an Engineer Second Class. As we suspected, he flew here from Dol Guldur. Judging by his tales, it had been turned into a real snake nest where escaped Mordorian scientists are creating unheard-of weapons under tutelage of their intelligence service. His real mission here was from the Order of the Nazg l -- to drop a sack with some magical item, whose nature is unknown to him, onto the `sky' next to Nimrodel. I believe it is the presence of that item that the esteemed clofoel of Stars and her dancers have felt. My Guards have conducted a thorough search of the valley of the Nimrodel, but found nothing: someone had removed the sack. Therefore, o radiant Sovereigns -- please understand me correctly -- therefore, I insist that the esteemed clofoel of the World be removed from this investigation. Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe that the clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped from the sky was intended for her?
Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that, o radiant Lady. However, only the dancers and the clofoel of the Festival had access to the `sky.' Had the Troll's gift been there during the Dance of the Fireflies, they certainly would have sensed it, whereas the clofoel of the World was the only one there after they left...
Lady Galadriel: Could the Elves that gather up the phials at sunrise have found that Mordorian sack and taken it with them, out of ignorance?
Clofoel of Tranquility: They could have, o radiant Lady, and my Guards are working on that possibility. Which is why I am only asking that the clofoel of the World be temporarily removed from the investigation of `the case of the Mordorian sack' until this is ascertained, nothing more.
Lord Cereborn: Yes, this does seem a reasonable precaution, isn't it? Lady Galadriel: You're right as always, Lord Cereborn. However, as long as we allow the possibility of treason by a clofoel, why don't we suppose that conspiring dancers have indeed found the Mordorian sack that night and took it away for their own purposes? That would explain why they still haven't found the source of such a powerful magical disturbance...
Clofoel of Stars: How am I to understand your words, o radiant Lady? Are you accusing me of conspiring?
Lord Cereborn: Yes, Lady, I have to admit that you have lost me, too... A conspiracy of dancers -- is such a horror even possible?! With all that they're capable of... Lady Galadriel: There is no conspiracy of dancers, Lord Cereborn, please calm down! I was speaking hypothetically, as an example. As long as we're suspecting everybody, let it be everybody, with no exceptions; but I believe it's time for us to listen to the clofoel of the World.
Clofoel of the World: Thank you, o radiant Lady. First of all, I would like to defend the clofoel of Stars, strange as it may seem. She is being blamed for being unable to find a powerful magical source. However, I would like to suggest that this task may be akin to looking for last year's snow.
Lady Galadriel: Could you be more clear, clofoel of the World? Clofoel of the World: I obey, o radiant Lady! For some reason the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility keeps talking about a magical object dropped on the `sky' and surreptitiously removed from there as if it was a firmly established fact... Clofoel of Tranquility: It is a firmly established fact, esteemed clofoel of the World. You and I were not the only ones present at the Troll's interrogation -- at least three independent witnesses can corroborate his testimony.
Clofoel of the World: Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, your memory is playing tricks on you, as does your predilection to see conspiracies everywhere. The Troll testified that he had dropped a sack the contents of which he knew nothing about. Why are you looking for a physical object? Could it not have been swamp fire or some other intangible magical filth that simply melted in the sun and p
oisoned the countryside? Actually, I dare not discuss magical techniques in the presence of the esteemed clofoel of Stars. Clofoel of Stars: I find your suggestion quite likely, esteemed clofoel of the World. More likely than a conspiracy of the dancers, at any rate.
Lady Galadriel: Did you want to tell us anything else in connection with the investigation, clofoel of the World?
Clofoel of the World: Most assuredly, o radiant Sovereigns! The esteemed clofoel of Tranquility is convinced that Dol Guldur, whence the dragon came, is run by Mordor, but I have reached a different conclusion. Certainly the notion that the Troll was working on orders from the Nazg l is nonsense -- we know better than anyone that the Black Order is no more. This Kumai's history, however, is very interesting. He was captured at the Field of Pelennor and was rotting away at the Mindolluin quarry, as usual, when he was rescued precisely because he was a builder of mechanical dragons. The Troll is still convinced that it was his country's intelligence service that got him out, but it looks like the poor man has been swindled. Queen Arwen's entourage has reasons to believe that all those escapes from Mindolluin had been engineered by none other than His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, who desires Mordorian military technology. According to Arwen's data, he had set up a special super-secret service for this purpose, the core of which are the dead he had revived with the Shadow spell; the little that is known about these characters includes the fact that they are all named after predators. Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, why do you think the Troll gave the nickname Jackal to the supposed Mordorian intelligence agent when spinning his clumsy legend? Simply because all such agents he had dealt with at Dol Guldur had such names! I have no doubt that Aragorn's service controls Dol Guldur and had dispatched the dragon here. This prompts the following question to the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility: what did he talk about with Aragorn in private for over two hours, back during the latter's January visit to Caras Galadhon?
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