“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 before giving 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 Field.”
“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 is now betraying his new lords, in less than a month?”
“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 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.”
“And they?..”
“Forty.”
“Can’t storm the fort, then.”
“Forget a direct assault,” Grager waved off the notion. “Whatever else, they’ll anyway have enough time to kill the Prince. Moreover, Faramir demands that his freedom be attained with no bloodshed, so that no one can later accuse him of violating his vassal’s oath. No, we have another plan – an escape from Emyn Arnen; and when the Prince of Ithilien is under our protection, that’s when we can change our tune and advise the Whites to get lost.”
“So – do you have a concrete plan?”
“Brother, you offend me – it’s almost fully implemented already! You see, Éowyn was our biggest problem: they’re only let outside separately, and the Prince won’t go anywhere without her, of course. So we had to solve this puzzle: where can we arrange for both the Prince and the Princess to be, first, alone, second, with no eyes on them, third, outside the fort?”
“Hmm… the bedchamber comes to mind immediately, if not for the third condition.”
“You’re almost right. It’s the bathhouse.”
“Wow!” Tangorn laughed. “A tunnel?”
“Sure. The bathhouse is within the stockade, but away from the main building. We’re digging from a nearby mill, about two hundred yards straight, quite a bit of work. The biggest problem with tunnels, as you know, is what to do with all the dirt. With the mill we’re getting it out in sacks dusted with flour, it’s all very natural-looking. The danger is that the sentries might start counting the sacks from sheer boredom, and figure out that a lot more are going out than are coming in. So we couldn’t dig full-bore, but looks like we’ll be done this week.”
“And the White Company has no suspicions?”
“Beregond swears that they don’t. Of course, they don’t tell him anything of the sort, but he’d see some signs of an alarm.”
“Do they have informants in the Settlement and the hamlets?”
“In the Settlement for sure, but not in the hamlets, I don’t think. See, the White Company has a real communication problem outside the fort. The locals avoid talking to them (there’re all sorts of crazy rumors about them, including that they’re the living dead), which helps us a lot: every settler contact with the Whites stands out. They’ve wised up now and switched to dead drops, but before that they were giving away their agents every day.”
“Is the innkeeper working for them?”
“Looks that way. Makes our lives very difficult.”
“What about the merchants who travel to Gondor?”
“One. The other is my man. I’ve waited for them to try and recruit him, then we’d have their communication channel, but no luck so far.”
“You’re just watching them for now?”
“Not just watching. Now that we’re counting down the days, I’ve decided to cut their link to Minas Tirith – make them get a little busy. That’ll distract them both from the miller and our hamlets.”
“Speaking of a link – anyone in the Settlement keep pigeons?”
Grager grinned. “One did, but his coop burned down. So it goes…”
“Wasn’t that too bold? They must’ve been furious.”
“Sure they were! But, like I told you, it’s the final countdown, speed matters. Besides, two sergeants investigated the arson, if you can imagine that, so now we know who’s in charge of counter-intelligence there… The only thing is,” the former resident spy said thoughtfully, keeping his gaze on the lamp, “I’m really bothered by how easily I’m figuring out everything they do. Just put myself in their place: how would I build a network in such a village? But this simply means that once they find out that we exist – which they will, and soon – they’ll figure my moves out equally easily. So what we must do is move first…
Aha!” His raised finger froze in mid-air. “Sounds like company! Looks like the boys from the fort have finally risked direct contact with Minas Tirith – I’ve been waiting for this for three days!”
…The cart rolled down the highway in quickly gathering dusk, and its driver (the owner of the local grocery) kept getting chills behind the collar and in his sleeves. He had almost made it through the Owl Hollow – the most dismal stretch of the route between the Settlement and Osgiliath – when four shadows materialized noiselessly out of the dark chestnut bushes on both sides of the road. The merchant knew the rules well and surrendered his purse
with its dozen silver coins meant to purchase soap and spices to the robbers without complaint. However, the robbers didn’t evince much interest in the money, telling the prisoner to disrobe; this was against the rules, but the blade against his throat discouraged any discussion. The grocer was really scared – cold-sweat scared – only when the leader, after poking his boot soles with a dagger, carefully felt his jacket, grunted in satisfaction and cut open one of the stitches. Then he deftly extracted a small square of fine silk, covered with runes barely visible in the dark.
The merchant was an amateur, so when the robbers threw a rope over a sturdy branch, he committed a gaffe of monumental proportions by claiming to be a King’s man. What did he expect to accomplish? The night assassins only traded puzzled looks: their experience suggested that the King’s men were just as mortal as all others, provided they were hanged properly. The one who was fashioning the noose observed drily that espionage was not a game of darts at the Red Deer, when only a couple of beers are at stake. Strictly speaking, he further observed while carefully tying a ‘pirate’s knot’ in full view of the victim, the merchant was lucky. A failed spy usually doesn’t rate such a quick and relatively painless death; it’s his good fortune that he’s only a courier and knows nothing about the rest of the organization… At that, the unfortunate grocer failed to hold either his bodily wastes or whatever he knew; as Grager’s men supposed, he knew quite a lot.
The ‘robbers’ traded satisfied glances: they have done their job flawlessly. The leader led a horse out from behind a bush, gave a couple of curt orders and galloped away: Blackbird Hamlet has been waiting for this bit of silk for a long time. One of the others gave the shaking prisoner a look that was far from admiring and pushed his discarded clothing towards him with his boot: “Over there, behind the trees, is a little stream. Go clean yourself up and get dressed – you’re coming with us. I’m sure you can imagine what’s gonna happen if your White Company buddies catch up with you.”
…The cipher used to encode the message was surprisingly simple. Upon discovering seven instances of a rare G rune in a short letter, Tangorn and Grager understood immediately that they were dealing with a so-called direct substitution, where one rune is always replaced with only one other throughout the text. Typically, a predetermined number is added to the number of all fifty-eight runes constituting the Kertar Daeron; for example, if the step is ten, Y (number 11) replaces X (number 1), A (number 7) replaces q (number 55), and so on.
This cipher is so primitive that in the South it is used, at most, to encode secret love letters.
Having figured out the step on the second try – fourteen, the date of the message – Grager cursed elaborately, reckoning it an attempt at disinformation.
The message was anything but disinformation, though. In it, one Cheetah, captain of His Majesty’s Secret Guard, was informing his ‘colleague Grager’ that their game had reached an impasse. Certainly Grager could roll up his intelligence network outside the fort and impede communications with Minas Tirith; however, this would not advance his ultimate goal even a little bit. Would it not make sense for the two of them to meet, either in Emyn Arnen (with safe conduct guarantees) or in one of the hamlets of the Baron’s choosing?
CHAPTER 26
Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
Night of May 14, 3019
“Listen, so you say that Princess Allandale didn’t really exist, that this Alrufin dreamed her up…” Éowyn was sitting in the armchair with her feet up, her slender fingers intertwined over her knees and a funny frown on her face. The prince smiled and, perching on the arm, tried and failed to smooth out the frown with his lips.
“No, Far, wait, I do mean it. She’s alive, you see – really alive! When she dies to save her friend, I want to cry, as if I had lost a friend for real… See, those sagas about ancient heroes are also great, but they’re different, very different. All those Gil-galads and Isildurs, they’re like… like stone statues, you understand? One can worship them, but that’s it, while the Princess – she’s weak, she’s warm, you can love her… Am I making sense?”
“Plenty, honey. I think that Alrufin would have loved to hear you say this.”
“Allandale must’ve lived in the beginning of the Third Age. No one but a few chroniclers even knows the names of the konungs who ruled Rohan back then; so who’s more real –they, or this girl? Hadn’t Alrufin – scary to say! – exceeded the might of the Valar?”
“Yes, in a way he has.”
“You know, I just thought… what if someone as mighty as Alrufin writes a book about the two of us – this can happen, right? Then which Éowyn will be the real one – I or the other?”
Faramir smiled. “I remember when you asked to explain, on a ‘stupid woman level’, what philosophy is. Well, your thoughts are just that – philosophy, albeit a tad naïve. You see, lots of people have thought about these things, and not all of the answers they’ve come up with are worthless stupidity. For example… Yes, come in!” he called out to a knock on the door, and glanced at Éowyn in puzzlement: it’s night already, who might want something?
The man who entered wore the black parade uniform of the Gondorian Guards of the Citadel (this had always intrigued the prince: White Company wearing black uniforms), and Faramir felt trepidation: they must have made some serious mistake. He told Éowyn to go into the next room, but the guest politely requested that she stay: what they will be discussing directly involves Her Highness.
“First, allow me to introduce myself, albeit a little late. I don’t have a name, but you can call me Cheetah. I’m a captain of the Secret Guard, rather than a sergeant – here’s my badge – and I’m in charge of counter-intelligence here. A few minutes ago I have arrested the Commandant of Emyn Arnen on charges of conspiracy and treason. However, it’s possible that Beregond had merely followed your orders without thinking about them too much, which would lessen his guilt. This is what I would like to establish.”
“Could you please express yourself clearer, Captain?” Not a muscle twitched in Faramir’s face when he fearlessly met Cheetah’s gaze – empty and terrifying, like that of all White Company officers; whereas if one discounted the matter of the eyes, the captain’s face was quite likeable – manly and a little sad.
“Prince, it appears to me that you understand my responsibilities incorrectly. On the one hand, I must protect your life at all costs – I repeat, at all costs. Not because I like you, but because such are my King’s orders. Rumor will ascribe any misfortune that befalls you to His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone else’s bills? On the other hand, I must avert all attempts to persuade you to break your vassal’s oath. Imagine that a band of fools attacks the fort and ‘frees’ you in order to turn you into the banner of Restoration. Should even one of the King’s men die when that happens – and some will most certainly die – His Majesty would be unable to ignore such an event for all his wishing otherwise. The Royal Army will enter Ithilien, which will most likely plunge the Reunited Kingdom into a bloody civil war. So please consider my task here to be guarding you from possible folly.”
Strangely, something in Cheetah’s manner of speaking (the tone? No, more likely phrasing…) made Faramir feel that he was once again talking to Aragorn.
“I greatly appreciate your concern, Captain, but I fail to see what this has to do with Beregond’s arrest.”
“You see, some time ago at the Red Deer he met a tall slender man with a long scar on his left temple and one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. Perhaps you know who I mean? That’s a distinctive look.”
“Frankly, no, I can’t remember,” the prince smiled, trying to keep the smile open and straight. “Perhaps it’s easier to ask Beregond himself?”
“Oh, Beregond will have to answer a whole host of questions. However, Prince, your forgetfulness is truly surprising. I can understand that Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien regiment, may not remember all his soldiers, but the officers and sergeants? I repeat – this man has a d
istinctive look.”
“What does the Ithilien regiment have to do with this?”
“What do you mean: ‘what’? You see, after the war many of those who had fought in the ranks of that remarkable unit didn’t come home to Gondor. Especially remarkable is the total absence of returned officers and sergeants, about fifty in all. Some must have been killed in the war, but surely not all! Where do you think they all could’ve gone, Prince –perhaps here, to Ithilien?”
“Perhaps,” the prince shrugged. “But I have no idea.”
“Exactly, Prince, exactly – you have no idea! Please note that it’d be completely normal and natural for those people to come to Ithilien, where they had started their service and where their beloved Captain is now Prince; it’s no secret that you were truly beloved in that regiment. But somehow not one of them showed up in Emyn Arnen officially to introduce himself and ask to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond unnatural, but rather suspicious! It’s logical to suppose that the regiment is still a well-regulated fighting unit that has gone underground, and now these people are planning your ‘liberation’. I think we’ve already established what would happen then.”
“These thoughts of yours are very interesting, Captain, and have their own logic, but if those are the only proofs of Beregond’s guilt that you have…”
“Please, Prince,” Cheetah frowned, “we’re not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns me now is the real guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than the legal niceties. Immediately a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only served in Minas Tirith, contact Sergeant Runcorn, the free shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien’s forests? Someone must’ve introduced them, even if indirectly, and you’re the prime suspect, Prince… Now: did Beregond act on his own or did he, as seems more likely, carry out your orders?”
It’s over, Faramir realized. Why did they have to send Runcorn to make contact? He is indeed easy to identify from a description. Sergeants’ descriptions – these guys are really digging deep… The Red Deer, too, is apparently covered better than I thought. We lost completely, but the price we pay will be different: I will go on being an honored prisoner, while the Captain will die a tortuous death. The worst thing is that I really can do nothing for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the knowledge of this betrayal.
The Last Ringbearer (2011) Page 15