The Last Ringbearer (32 page)

“Thunder and devils! That’s the same time as ours!”

“Precisely. I don’t have to tell you that in the last few days before deployment an army or a fleet is totally helpless, like a shedding lobster. They’re getting ready in Pelargir, we – in Barangar, practically head-to-head; the advantage will be a day or two, and the one who gains those few days will be the one to catch the other unprepared in his home port. The difference is that they’re preparing for war openly, whereas we’re hiding our work from our own government and have to waste two-thirds of our efforts on secrecy and disinformation … Flag Captain, can you speed up the preparations in Barangar in any way?”

“Only at the cost of some secrecy … but we’ll have to risk it now, there’s no other way. So the most important thing now is to throw 12 Shore Street off the scent, but that’s your job, as I see it.”

After the sailor made his goodbyes, the DSD chief looked questioningly at his comrade. The spies made a funny pair – the portly, seemingly half-asleep Almandin and the lean Yakudze, swift as a barracuda. Over the years of working together they have learned to understand each other with not even a few words, but a few looks.

“Well?”

“I’ve gotten our materials on the Gondorian station chief …”

“Captain of the Secret Guard Marandil; cover – second embassy secretary.”

“The same. An exceptional dirtbag, even compared to the rest of them. I wonder if they’ve shipped their worst dregs over here, to Umbar?”

“I don’t think so. These guys work the same way in Minas Tirith right now, except they dump the bodies into outhouses rather than the canals … Whatever. Stay focused.”

“All right. Marandil. A real bouquet of virtues, let me tell you …”

“Have you decided to recruit him based on a flower from that bouquet?”

“Not exactly. Can’t get him on anything from his past, since Aragorn had pardoned all their sins. On the other hand, the present … first, he’s appallingly unprofessional; second, he has no spine and can’t handle pressure at all. Should he make a really big screw-up on which we can pressure him, he’s ours. Our task is to help him screw up.”

“All right, develop this angle. In the meantime, toss them some bone to deflect attention from Barangar Bay. Give them, say … oh, everything we have on Mordorian agents here.”

“What the hell would they want with that now?”

“Nothing, really, but as you’ve correctly pointed out, they’re appallingly unprofessional. Shark reflex: swallow first, then consider whether it was a good idea. Surely they will now gleefully eviscerate the Mordorian network, which nobody needs any more, and forget everything else. This will also count as a goodwill gesture from our side; it will give us some breathing room while you set a trap for Marandil.”

The thick DSD dossier on the Mordorian network in Umbar was delivered to 12 Shore Street that same evening, causing a condition approaching euphoria. Among other tips it contained the following contact: ‘Seahorse Tavern, 11 AM on odd Tuesdays; order a bottle of tequila with sliced lemon and sit at a table in the back left corner.’

CHAPTER 41

Umbar, Seahorse Tavern

June 3, 3019

I 
t was a few minutes to eleven when Tangorn pushed open the door (crudely fashioned out of ship planking) and went down the slippery steps to the common hall that forever stank of smoke, stale sweat, and vomit. Few people were here this early, but of those present some were already well inebriated. In a corner a couple of waiters were unenthusiastically beating up a weeping bum: must have tried to leave without paying or else stole some trinket. Nobody paid any attention to the altercation – it was obvious that such performances were part of the service here. This Seahorse Tavern was some dive.

Nobody stared at the baron – his choice of disguise for the day (a gaudy player’s outfit) was perfect. Four dice-playing ‘skuas’ (minor port thugs) with enormous golden rings on their tattooed paws openly tried to estimate Tangorn’s relative position in the underworld, but having apparently reached no agreement, went back to their game. Tangorn leaned casually on the bar and scanned the hall, leisurely pushing an oar-sized sandalwood toothpick around his mouth. Not that he expected to figure out whoever was on watch here (he had enough respect for his Mordorian colleagues), but why not try? Two sailors were sipping rum at the bar, Anfalasians by the sound of them, one older, the other still a teenager. “Where’d you come from, guys?” the baron inquired good-naturedly. The older man, as was to be expected, looked through the landlubber and did not deign to answer, but the younger one could not resist the temptation to respond with the classic: “Horses come; we sail.” These two looked authentic.

Having thus satisfied the ‘talk with a sailor’ requirement, Tangorn imperiously tossed a Vendotenian gold nyanma on the bar: “Tequila, barman – but only the best!”

The barman, whose droopy moustache made him resemble a seal, sniggered: “We’ve only one kind, man – the best, same as the worst. Want some?”

“Hell, whatcha gonna do? … All right, slice me some lemon for a chaser, then.”

Right after he settled down at a table in the rear left corner with his tequila he caught a movement with a corner of his eye and knew immediately, even before identifying the foe, that he was busted. They certainly were here before he was, which meant they hadn’t tailed him here; therefore, the contact itself is compromised – they were waiting for a Mordorian courier and now their wait paid off. What a stupid way to blow the mission! The four ‘skuas’ split up, two taking up positions by the front door and the other two heading his way, smoothly navigating around tables, both with right hands inside their jackets. Had the baron had the
Slumber-maker
with him, he could have dealt with those characters easily and without even damaging them too much, but a sword would have been unharmonious with his chosen disguise, so now, unarmed, he was their lawful prey. So much for “real pros don’t carry weapons!” For a moment he toyed with a really crazy idea: smash the bottle against the table and … He restrained himself: what the hell are you thinking? A ‘rosette’ is no sword, it’s no good against four; no, you can only count on your head now … your head and your Fortune. But first, got to foul up their routine and buy time. Which was why he did not even rise to meet them; rather, he waited until an ominous “Hands on the table and stay seated” sounded right above his ear, and then turned slightly towards the speaker and spat through his teeth: “Idiots! To ruin such an operation …” Then he sighed and tiredly told the one on the right: “Shut your trap, cretin, before a nazgúl flies in!”

“You’re coming with us, and no fooling,” that one informed him, but there was discernible doubt in his voice: they had not expected the captured ‘Orc’ to speak with a chiseled Minas Tirith accent.

“With you, of course, where else? To administer an acid enema to the imbeciles that stick their noses everywhere without informing the HQ … But, with your permission,” the baron continued with mocking politeness, “I’ll still have my drink – to my captain’s badge, now nothing but a dream … Don’t stand over me like the White Towers! Where am I gonna go? Pat me down for weapons, if you want, I’m not carrying any.”

The ‘skua’ on the right looked ready to salute. The one on the left, however, either was not impressed, or was, but knew the manual better. He sat down across from the baron and motioned his comrade to take position behind their quarry.

“Keep your hands on the table, otherwise … you know.” With those words he poured Tangorn a shot of tequila, explaining: “I’ll serve you myself, just in case.”

“Wonderful!” smirked the baron (actually, there’s nothing wonderful about the situation: one foe is right in front, tracking his face and eyes, the other is invisible behind his back, ready to smash his head – can’t make it any worse.) “Will you lick my finger, too?”

When the man’s eyes flared with anger, Tangorn laughed conciliatorily, as if just now realizing his mistake: “Sorry, buddy, no offense meant. I just twigged that you must not have been in this town very long and don’t know how to drink tequila. You all probably think it’s moonshine, bad hooch, right? No, nothing of the sort. I mean, sure, if you drink it by the glass without a chaser, then yeah, it stinks; but really it’s great stuff, you just have to know how to drink it. The thing here,” Tangorn relaxed against the back of his chair and dreamily half-closed his eyes, “is to alternate its taste with salt and sourness. Watch this: you put a pinch of salt on your thumbnail – have to lick it for the salt to stay there.” With those words he reached towards the small salt-and-pepper bowl in the middle of the table; the ‘skua’ tensed and put his hand inside his jacket again, but did not yell “Hands down!” – apparently actually listening and learning. “Now you touch the salt with just the tip of your tongue, and whoa!” Damn, damn, damn – what rotgut they serve here! “Now the lemon, the lemon! Ni-i-i-ce! … Now, here’s another great method – pour me another one, since you’re my waiter today! This one is with pepper rather than salt.” Again he reached for the bowl, but stopped in mid-movement and turned to the other ‘skua’ in annoyance: “Listen, buddy, move back a bit, willya? I hate it when people breathe garlic in my ear!”

“My position is according to the manual,” the man answered crossly. Little fool, thought the baron, the manual says first and foremost that you must not talk to me. His ‘g’s are soft, he must be from Lebennin … actually, that’s totally unimportant; what is important is that he’s not directly behind me but rather a step to the left, and is six feet tall less a couple of inches … Is this it? Yes; the head did what it had to, now it’s Fortune’s turn.

A second later Tangorn, still carelessly slouched on his chair, reached the bowl of powdered red pepper with the fingers of his left hand and tossed it behind his back in a swift casual movement, without looking, straight into the Lebenninian’s face, simultaneously slamming the toe of his boot into the leg bone of his
vis-à-vis
.

It is a well-known fact that a startled person always inhales, so the peppered man was now out of commission for the foreseeable future; the one across from him gurgled: “Aw shit!” and collapsed under the table in a twist of pain, but not for long: the baron failed to break his leg. The other two were already charging at him from the door, one wielding an Umbarian dagger, the other a flail, knocking chairs over, while Tangorn was still fishing inside the jacket of the Lebenninian convulsing on the floor, thinking detachedly to himself: if he only has some toy like brass knuckles or a spring knife – game over … But no – praise Tulkas! – it was a large Umbarian dagger like the ones the mountain men of the Peninsula carry on their belts, a half-yard pointed blade good for both stabbing and slashing; not much, but still a weapon of a warrior rather than a thief.

He engaged the pair and quickly saw that he would not get away cheaply: these guys were no cowards and knew their short weapons almost as well as he did. When his left arm went slack from a glancing blow with the flail, while the third opponent came up from behind, limping but still in fighting shape, the baron knew that this was serious – really serious – and began fighting in earnest.

The sullen gondolier, paid with a silver castamir, tied up at a decrepit cargo pier and returned a few minutes later with new clothes for his passenger – rags compared to a player’s cockatoo garb, but with no blood on them. Tangorn changed on the run to save time, putting away the captured dagger and the silver badge he took off the neck of one of the ‘skuas’ – Karanir, Sergeant of the Secret Guard of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, had no further need of it. The third sword of Gondor had escaped, leaving a dead body and two wounded behind; actually, the wounded were most likely already dealt with, since the patrons of the Seahorse Tavern liked secret policemen no better than those of any port dive in any of the worlds.

He himself got away with two minor wounds – scratches, really; the numb arm was a bigger problem, but it was the least of the baron’s current worries. After all, he had a few remedies from Haladdin’s medkit with him. So what’s the situation? Four ‘skuas’ have disappeared without a trace; they won’t be missed for two or three hours, but this timing advantage is all he has. Pretty soon the entire Gondorian spy force will start hunting him, along with – and this is much worse – the local police. Horribly corrupted as they are, they know their business second to none; in less than two hours their informants will let them know that the performance at the Seahorse Tavern was given by none other than their old acquaintance Baron Tangorn, whereupon they’ll immediately stake out the port and start combing the city closer to evening. In spy slang his situation is known as ‘leper with a bell’: he has no right to either call on his old agents for help (his pre-war information on that network may very well be at the Gondorian station), or to appeal to the Umbarian Secret Service for protection (they will only cover him if he admits to being Faramir’s man, which is flatly impossible). The saddest thing is that he had lost all possibility of contact with the Mordorian network here – the only people who could have helped him reach Elandar. To make a long story short, he failed his task and is now marked for death; that none of it is his personal fault is totally irrelevant – Haladdin’s mission will now never be completed.

So now he has no agents, no contacts, no safe houses; what does he have? He has money – lots of money, over four hundred dungans in six caches – plus the well-hidden
mithril
coat that Haladdin gave him to sell in case he could not locate Sharya-Rana’s gold. He has a couple of reserve hideouts from the old times, which will be dug up in a couple of days at most; he has some old connections in the underworld, which could be stale. That seems to be it … He doesn’t even have the
Slumber-maker
– the sword is still at Alviss’ house, and returning to either Jasper Street or the Happy Anchor is absolutely out of the question.

By the time the gondolier let him off near the harbor warehouses, it was clear to him that the only sane tactic in such overwhelmingly appalling circumstances was to bluff without restraint – to mount an attack rather than crawl into a hidey-hole.