The Last Ringbearer (34 page)

CHAPTER 43

Umbar, Castamir the Great Square

June 5, 3019

H 
ow many have you counted, Yakudze?”

“Thirty-two.”

“I can only see twelve …”

“I’d rather not point them out.”

“Heavens, no! You, after all, are the operative, while I’m just an analyst, so you rule here.” Almandin relaxed against the back of a wicker chair, enjoying his wine. They were sitting under a striped awning of one of Castamir Square’s many small open cafes, almost directly under a rostral column liberally studded with the prows of captured Gondorian ships, lazily observing the milling of the idle evening crowd. “If there’s indeed thirty-two of them, then Marandil has brought out his entire staff, save the embassy guards. Do you see our performer, by any chance?”

Yakudze looked over the bustling embankment of the grubby round lake one more time. Gentlemen and naval officers, street vendors and gaudy street women, itinerant musicians and fortune-tellers, mendicants and knights of Fortune … He immediately recognized all the Gondorian spies among the throng (although some of them, to their credit, were pretty well disguised), but to his great displeasure he could not identify the baron. Unless, of course … no, that’s crazy.

“It looks like he had recognized these guys, too, gave up and tiptoed away.”

“That’s exactly what a professional would do,” nodded Almandin, “but the baron will do something else entirely … want to bet?”

“Wait a moment!” The Vice-Director of Operations glanced at his chief in surprise. “Do you consider Tangorn to be a dilettante, then?”

“Not a dilettante, my dear Yakudze, but an amateur. Do you understand the difference?”

“To be honest – no, not quite.”

“A professional is not the man who’s mastered all the techniques of his craft – the baron has no problems in this regard – but the one who always carries out his assignments, regardless of the circumstances. It so happens that the baron has never worked for hire; he is bound by neither oath nor
umberto
and is used to the unbelievable luxury of doing only things he himself approves of. Should an order contradict his notions of honor or run against his conscience, he will simply ignore it, and to hell with the consequences – both for himself and his goals. You can see that such a man belongs in a Vendotenian monastery, rather than in any intelligence service.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yakudze nodded thoughtfully. “The baron lives in a world of moral scruples and stereotypes that are unthinkable to you and me … By the way, I was refreshing my memory of his dossier the other day and came across an interesting tidbit of friendly banter over a few drinks. Someone asked him whether he could strike a woman if he had to. He had spent some time seriously thinking about it, and then admitted that perhaps he’d be able to kill a woman, but never to hit one, under any circumstances. His dossier is anyway a rather curious read – it’s more of a literary review than a dossier; about half of it is poems and translations. I even thought that no one outside of our Department has a more complete collection of Tangorn’s
takatos
.”

“Too bad that they won’t be published until a hundred twenty years from now under the declassification law … Aha! A gondola! So, would you like to bet that he’s going to pull some crazy stunt and fool all of these guys?”

“I think that it would be more appropriate for us to pray for his Fortune, or rather Marandil’s blunder …”

A small three-seater gondola touched shore at one of the stairways descending to the water to take on a gentleman in a scarlet cape and a hat with black plumage, and started to cross the lake leisurely. Suddenly a sleepy expression appeared on Yakudze’s face; he unhurriedly took out a gold-plated sandalwood pencil, wrote a few words on a napkin, turned it over and handed the pencil to Almandin, saying: “All right, it’s a bet.” The other man also wrote something on another napkin, and both returned to silently watching the developments.

The gondola described a not-quite-complete triangle and came back to the stair next to the one where it started. That spot was perennially occupied by a band of lepers, wrapped in head-to-toe striped robes, who solicited alms there. The so-called ‘cold’ leprosy is both fatal and incurable, but unlike the ‘hot’ leprosy it is almost non-contagious (the only way to catch it is by squashing one of the many pustules covering the leper’s face and hands, or by doing something like sharing his cup), so its sufferers were never expelled from human settlements. The Hakimians of Khand even considered them especially pleasing to God. Every day those mournful figures in their striped shrouds silently appealed to the citizens’ mercy, as if inviting them to compare the lepers’ plight to whatever they considered troublesome in their own lives. They were motionless to the point of appearing to be some architectural element like the gondola tie-up posts, so when one of those cloth-draped statues suddenly got up and headed towards the stair, limping slightly, it was clear that something was afoot.

The leper stepped on the top stair and took a purple kerchief out of his sleeve. Immediately a bunch of idle men surrounding a street performer who was juggling three daggers about twenty yards away split up – two headed left and right, cutting off the robed man’s escape routes, while the other two and the juggler himself, snatching the flying blades out of the air, went straight for the prey. It became clear that the man had miscalculated – he started his descent while the gondola was too far away, about fifteen yards from the shore. He might still have made it to the safety of the boat if not for the cowardice of the man in the scarlet cape: when he saw the three armed pursuers, he panicked, and the gondolier, obeying his frantic gestures, began pulling away, abandoning his partner. The man in the robe ran down to the bottom step and halted – there was no escape or help coming. A couple of seconds later the ‘idlers’ caught up with him and pinned his arms behind his back while the ‘juggler’ punched him in the liver, following up with a chop to the neck on the rebound. It was over, the prey bagged.

However, when they dragged the ‘leper’ up to the embankment, an enraged crowd gathered instantly: the locals were unused to sick people being treated that way. Two Hakimians in yellow pilgrim’s caps who happened to be nearby intervened for the ‘man of God’ right away, and the scandal began smoothly developing into a scuffle. Marandil’s men were fiercely pushing their way towards the scene through the thickening throng, and a police whistle was already trilling unnervingly somewhere close. Meanwhile, the man in the scarlet cape came ashore three stairways away from the fray, let the gondola go and left unhurriedly; it was obvious that the false leper’s fate was not of much concern to him.

“What do you think of the performance, dear Yakudze?”

“Excellent. Truly, the theater had lost a great director in Tangorn.”

The Vice-Director of Operations’ facial expression did not seem to change, but Almandin had known his subordinate for many years and could tell that the terrible tension that had gripped him for the last ten minutes was gone, and a hint of a triumphant smile was beginning to form in the corners of his mouth. Well, this was his victory, too …

Yakudze called on a passing waiter: “A bottle of Núrnen, my friend!”

“Aren’t you afraid of spooking our luck?”

“Not at all. It’s all over, and Marandil is as good as ours.”

Waiting for the wine, they watched the proceedings with interest. The fight ended abruptly, although the din only increased, and an empty space appeared in the middle of the throng; the robed man was lying there, trying in vain to get up. Meanwhile, the ‘idlers’ and the ‘juggler’ had suddenly lost all interest in their victim: not only did they let him go, but they were trying to melt into the crowd, one of them looking at his palms with abject horror.

“See, chief, they’ve finally figured out that the leper is a real one! This is definitely not a case of ‘better late than never.’ While apprehending him they must’ve squashed a dozen pustules on his hands and got smeared in ichor, so all three are dead men now. Can’t blame their emotional reaction; to learn that you’ve got only a few months to live (if you can call it living) must be quite, quite disconcerting.”

“The leper must have profited by all this, I suppose?”

“That’s for sure! I think that each blow must’ve netted him at least a silver castamir: Tangorn is not one of those idiots who try to save on minor details. What do they call it in the North: sweating the small stuff, yes?”

When the golden Núrnen bubbled in their goblets like a mountain brook, Yakudze asked impudently (today he had the right): “Who’s paying?” Almandin nodded, turned over the napkins, compared their notes, and acknowledged honestly: “My treat.” His napkin bore a single word
gondolier
, while the Vice-Director of Operations’ inscription was:
T. is gondolier; diversion onshore
.

CHAPTER 44

W 
hen the last vestiges of the scandal on the embankment died down and the leper regained his customary place, Almandin asked with curiosity:

“Listen, suppose you were planning this instead of that idiot Marandil. I’m not asking whether you’d capture the baron – that’d be an insult – but I’d like to know how many people you’d need as against his thirty-two?”

Yakudze spent half a minute considering this while scanning the embankment, and then concluded:

“Three. Not any kind of super-swordsmen or hand-to-hand experts, either; the only necessary skill is minimal facility with silk throw nets. Note that all three canals join the lake under low bridges, less than ten feet clearance. I’d put a man on each bridge; that the target was the gondolier was pretty obvious, but in any event we’d have prearranged signals. When he’s passing under a bridge, the operative would drop the net, then jump down straight into the gondola and jab him with a
mantzenilla
-smeared needle … You’re absolutely right, chief – this adventure of his was a total gamble, a trap for fools. The leper diversion was very good, but that doesn’t change the fact that no professional would have risked his neck like that. He is, indeed, only an amateur – a brilliant and lucky one, but he’ll be lucky once or twice and the third time he’ll break his neck …”

“Look at that,” Almandin interrupted, pointing with his eyes across the square, “our incomparable Vaddari already has poor Marandil by all the private parts in his rough hand! This one will get his every time … By the way, are you going to recruit the captain yourself or send somebody?”

The café looked exactly the same as the one where the DSD bigwigs sat – the same wicker chairs, the same striped awning – but the mood at the table was much less celebratory. The Gondorian station chief sat in stunned silence, staring at the badge on the table in front of him (Karanir, Sergeant of the Secret Guard of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone) and nodding dumbly to the phrases Vaddari was doling out:

“Today the baron was simply checking whether you mistook him for someone else back at the Seahorse Tavern, or were actually hunting him. Now it’s clear, so he’s sending you this badge and the following message, quote: ‘I never bothered you, but if you want war, you’ll get one. Since seven dead bodies isn’t enough for you, I’ll hunt your people throughout Umbar, and you’ll find out what a lone master can do to a bunch of fat bums.’ But these are your affairs, I don’t care about them. We have our own business.”

“What business?” It looked like Marandil did not care any more. Even his musclemen, watching from a table in another corner, could see that the boss was in bad shape.

“Very simple. If Tangorn failed to meet me, that’s one thing. Whereas if he did but you guys messed up and didn’t twig who the gondolier was – that’s quite another. Dunno about your head, but you’ll lose your officer’s cords for sure. I’m gonna have to write my report about the meeting now, since Tangorn’s letter arrived at our station by regular mail and was duly logged … Stop this crap! Signal your gorillas to sit down – I’m not alone here, either! You think offing me will save you? Good … yes, like that … sit down quietly. What’s with this northern habit of grabbing by force what you can buy? It doesn’t matter any for my report who the gondolier was … Well? Say something!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Man, this screw-up must’ve struck you dumb. It’s a simple deal – five dungans, and there was no gondolier. I mean, of course there was one, but he wasn’t Tangorn. Whaddya think – is your captain’s badge worth five dungans?”

By the time Vaddari got back to his inhospitable bachelor pad, he had had enough time to consider Tangorn’s offer. Of course, it was not to dispatch three Gondorian operatives and officially declare war on Marandil that the baron risked everything today. His real objective, strange as it may seem, was simply to meet Vaddari to offer him a certain delicate assignment. The job was to be fairly simple (although on a tight schedule – only a week) but extremely dangerous – a single misstep would land the inspector straight in the basement of 12 Shore Street, a place that would forever stink with blood, burnt flesh, and vomit. The baron was willing to part with a hundred fifty dungans for success, an inspector’s salary for twelve years of impeccable service. Vaddari weighed the risk and decided that it was worth it; he was no coward and always finished the job he started.

“Dear Yakudze, your expression suggests that congratulations are in order.”

“It was even easier than I expected – he broke immediately. ‘If we let Minas Tirith know about the escaped gondolier, it will demonstrate that you had Tangorn twice and twice let him escape. No counter-intelligence professional will believe in such a coincidence. The way it will look to them is that you’re working together with the baron and even had seven subordinates killed in cold blood covering for him. They’ll send you to the basement, wring a confession to working for Emyn Arnen out of you, and liquidate you.’ This logic seemed flawless to him and he signed the agency agreement. Please tell Makarioni to speed up the work in Barangar – the Gondorian spy station is now deaf and blind … Do you know what he wanted as his fee? It turns out that there’s another team working in Umbar now, reporting directly to Minas Tirith …”