The Last Ringbearer (20 page)

Faramir smiled. “I remember when you asked to explain, on a ‘stupid broad level,’ what philosophy is. Well, your musings 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 could that be?

The man who entered wore a sergeant’s black parade uniform of the Gondorian Guards of the Citadel (this has 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 were about to discuss directly involved Her Highness, too.

“First, allow me to introduce myself, Prince, albeit a little late. I don’t have a name, but you can call me Cheetah. I’m actually 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 totally misunderstand the nature of my responsibilities. 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 squarely to His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone else’s bills? On the other hand, I must avert any attempt to persuade you to break your vassal’s oath. Imagine that some 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 straight – he had reasons to wince. “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 shouldn’t he remember the officers and sergeants? I repeat – this man has a distinctive 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 outfit didn’t come home to Gondor. Especially noteworthy 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 indifferently. “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 remain in 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 to officially introduce himself and apply to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond unnatural, but, rather, exceedingly 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 hatching plans for your ‘liberation’. I think we’ve already established what would happen then.”

“Your inferences are very interesting, Captain, and have their own logic, but if they are the only proof of Beregond’s treason that you have …”

“Please, Prince,” Cheetah frowned, “we’re not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns me now is the actual degree of the guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than legal niceties. Immediately a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only ever served in Minas Tirith with the Guards of the Citadel, contact Sergeant Runcorn, the free shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien’s forests? Someone had to introduce them, even if indirectly, and you’re the prime suspect, Prince … So which was it: 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’ll pay will be different: I’ll go on being an honored prisoner, while the captain will die a tortuous death. The most horrible thing is that I really can do nothing for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the indelible knowledge of my evil. It’s a stupid illusion that there can be any negotiations with the victorious enemy. One can gain nothing in such negotiations, either for himself or others; they’re always conducted under the principle of ‘what I have is mine and what’s yours is also mine.’ Which is why there’s an ironclad rule of clandestine warfare: in all circumstances, either be silent or deny everything, up to and including your own existence. Should I admit any role in these contacts, I will not save Beregond and only speed up the destruction of Grager and his men …

All of these thoughts went through the prince’s mind like a whirlwind, and then he raised his gaze to meet Cheetah’s and said firmly: “I have not the slightest idea of the Commandant’s contacts with the members of the Ithilien regiment, had those indeed taken place. You very well know that we have not exchanged more than a dozen words during this time; after all, this man killed my father.”

“In other words,” the counter-spy summed up drily, “you do not wish to spare your man the torture, if not death?”

He knew what he was risking, Faramir thought, and responded: “If, indeed, there is treason involved – of which you have not yet convinced me! – then Captain Beregond must be punished severely.” Then, choosing his words carefully, he concluded: “As for myself, I am ready to swear by the thrones of the Valar that I have never considered breaking my word, nor will ever consider doing so: duties to the suzerain are sacrosanct.”

“All right,” Cheetah drawled thoughtfully. “What about you, Éowyn? Are you ready to betray for the sake of your goal and toss your man to the wolves? Actually,” he sneered, “what am I saying here? So a mere officer, a commoner, will go to the rack; big deal for someone of royal blood, who in any event is safe!”

An ability to control her facial expressions was not one of Éowyn’s many fine qualities – she paled and looked helplessly at Faramir. Cheetah had inerringly zeroed in on the chink in their armor: the girl was physically incapable of pretending indifference when a friend was in danger. Faramir tried to warn her with a look, but it was too late.

“Now listen to me, both of you! I’m not interested in confessions – I’m a counter-spy, not a judge. All I need is information about the locations of the Ithilien regiment fighters. I do not intend to kill these people; I really am trying to prevent bloodshed. You’ll have to take my word for it, since you’ve lost and have no other options. I will get this information out of you whatever the cost. Certainly no one can interrogate in the third degree the sister of the King of Rohan, but you can be sure that I will make her watch the torture of Beregond, whom you betrayed, from the beginning to the bitter end, by the silence of Mandos!”

In the meantime the prince was absent-mindedly playing with a quill atop an incomplete manuscript, as if not noticing that his left elbow had nudged an unfinished goblet of wine to the very edge of the table. In another moment the cup will crash to the floor, Cheetah will involuntarily glance at it – then he’ll vault over the table and go for the counter-spy’s throat, and devil may care … Suddenly the door opened without a knock and a White Company lieutenant strode swiftly into the room; two soldiers appeared in the gloom just beyond the threshold. Late again, Faramir thought with a sense of doom, but the lieutenant paid him no heed, instead whispering something apparently very surprising into Cheetah’s ear. “We’ll continue our conversation in ten minutes or so, Prince,” the captain said over his shoulder, heading to the door. The lock clanged, the sound of marching boots rapidly faded into the distance, and quiet fell – a kind of uneasy, confused quiet, as though it realized its fleeting quality.

“What’re you looking for?” She was surprisingly calm, even serene.

“Anything that can serve as a weapon.”

“Yes, that’s good. For me, too, I hope?”

“See, baby, I got you into this and couldn’t save …”

“Nonsense, you did everything right, Far; it’s just that luck was on their side this time.”

“Shall we say goodbye?”

“Yes, let’s. Whatever happens, we’ve had this month. You know, it must be Valar envy: we’ve had too much happiness …”

“Are you ready, love?” Now, after those few seconds, he was a totally different man.

“Yes. What should I do?’

“Look carefully. The door opens inward, the doorposts are inside, too …”

CHAPTER 27

M 
eanwhile, Cheetah was leaning on the battlement over the gates, his gaze fixed on Grager’s hard hawk-like face, which he had previously known only from descriptions. The spot in front of the gates was lit by a dozen torches held aloft by riders in Ithilien regiment’s camouflage cloaks from the Baron’s entourage. The talks proceeded with great difficulty, if at all; the ‘esteemed treating parties’ agreed on the need to avoid bloodshed and naught else. With good reason, neither trusted the other worth a damn (“Suppose I simply capture you right now, Baron, thus solving all my problems?” “You’ll have to open the gates to do that, Captain. Go ahead – open them, and we’ll see whose archers are better.”); neither budged an inch from their preconditions. Grager demanded that the Ithilienians be let inside the fort to stand guard over Faramir. Cheetah wanted to know the locations of their forest strongholds (“Do you think I’m an idiot, Captain?” “Well, you’re the one suggesting that I voluntarily let armed opponents inside the fort.”) After about fifteen minutes of this back-and-forth they finally agreed that the White Company would request orders from Minas Tirith while the Ithilienians would let the courier through, and adjourned the talks.

Someone else might have been fooled by this show, but not Cheetah. The moment he went up the wall and assessed the situation, he turned to the accompanying lieutenant and gave a murmured order: “Raise a quiet alarm. All available men to the courtyard. Everyone freeze and watch for an intruder; any minute now someone from the Ithilien regiment will scale the wall, most likely in the rear, under the cover of all the talk-talk. Capture him alive – I will personally take apart whoever produces a corpse.”

He was absolutely correct but for a couple of small details. The infiltrator chose the front rather than the back wall. Soundlessly he tossed a tiny grapple on a length of weightless elvenrope over the shoddy stockade (less than a dozen yards from the group at the gates, where the dark pushed away by their torches seemed thickest by contrast), flew up like a spider on a strand, and then slid into the courtyard like a breath of night breeze right under the noses of sentries on the wall, who kept their attention and arrows trained on Grager’s well-lit men and expected no such impudence. Another small detail that Cheetah got wrong was that the man who was now trying to free the prince (an impromptu attempt conceived less than an hour ago of hopelessness and desperation) was not of the Ithilien regiment, but of the Cirith Ungol Rangers.

It rates a mention that Sergeant Tzerlag’s unit identification had caused a greatly animated discussion at Blackbird Hamlet, both as to essence and as to appearances. “My friend, are you totally nuts?” was Grager’s first reaction to Tangorn’s sudden suggestion to use the ‘visiting Mordorian professional’ rather than an Ithilien Ranger to infiltrate Emyn Arnen. “An Orc is an Orc! To trust the Prince’s life to one … Sure, it’s tempting that he knows the fort layout – from when they were stationed here, right? – and can pick locks. But dammit, Baron – to let an armed Mordorian into the Prince’s bedchamber with your own hands?” “I’m willing to trust my own life to these two guys,” Tangorn explained patiently. “I can’t tell you about their mission, but please believe me: it so happens that we’re fighting the same enemy on the same team, at least for now, and they’re as interested as we are in getting Faramir out from under the White Company.”

Be that as it may, working in intelligence had long ago taught Grager that a temporary alignment of interests can sometimes produce a totally unbelievable alliance and that oftentimes one can trust a former enemy more than certain friends. In the end he assumed all responsibility, formally enlisted Tzerlag into the Ithilien regiment ‘for the duration of the raid on Emyn Arnen’ and handed the Orocuen the appropriate paperwork in case he got caught by the Whites. The sergeant only snorted – a captured Orc will get short shrift in any case; better to hang as a Mordorian insurgent than a Gondorian conspirator – but Haladdin told him to mind his own business.