The Last Ringbearer (41 page)

The Vice-Director’s voice was almost tender: a victory invites both magnanimousness and self-criticism. He remembered the little café on Great Castamir’s Square, the goblet of Núrnen he had drunk to the gondolier’s success, and his verdict: “He is, indeed, an amateur – a brilliant and lucky one, but he’ll be lucky once or twice and the third time he’ll break his neck …” Now is the third time – no one can stay lucky forever.

“How did you recognize him under the hood?”

“The hood? Oh, you think he’s one of the pilgrims?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Of course not. He’s a prisoner, the right one in the first pair. His face is covered with a bloody rag, and they all limp – the leg irons are no joke.”

“But the gendarmes …”

“The gendarmes are real, and he’s a real prisoner, that’s the point! An excellent and truly elegant solution. Don’t halt or gape – people will notice. Learn from the pros while they’re still around, girl … I mean him, not me.”

CHAPTER 51

I 
still don’t understand … I mean, I don’t understand fully,” Fay admitted, seeing that her chief was in a great mood and thus predisposed to explain.

“He figured correctly: the gendarmes were sure to attract our attention – a captured uniform is standard cover – but their catch, provided the gendarmes were real, were much less likely to do so. So he became their catch. I don’t know how yet, but it’s not really important. There are many ways … for example, he could come to Irapuato and spill half a mug of wine on one of them in the local tavern. They’d beat him up, of course – giving him an excuse to bandage his bloodied face – but then they’d take him into the city without hindrance, hiding him in the best possible hideout for a couple months; neither we nor Aragorn’s people would look for him in jail. That is, if he wants to lie low; otherwise he could contact one of his people – Alviss, say – through the criminals there, and she’d buy him out in a day or two. Except my plans don’t include letting him cool his heels in a jail cell.”

Following the gendarmes (who were, indeed, the ‘bandit hunters’ of Irapuato) at about fifty yards distance, Yakudze and his companion reached the harbor police station. The prisoners were divided at that point: four were herded on toward the Ar-Horan prison, just visible beyond the Ring Canal, while the team leader personally took Tangorn and the mountain man chained to him (Ras-Shua had already identified him as one Chekorello, Sarrakesh’s nephew twice removed) inside the station. After waiting fifteen minutes for propriety’s sake, Yakudze went inside, too. When the guard on duty attempted to stop two ragged beggars, he showed him a police commissar’s badge (he had plenty of badges on his person, from Admiralty flag captain’s to a customs inspector’s – the important part was not to mix them up) and drily ordered him to take them to the local chief.

“Commissar Rahmajanian,” he introduced himself once in the chief’s office. Its occupant, a mussed-looking fat man with hanging jowls who looked like a caricature of a police chief come alive, made a not-entirely-successful attempt to pry his expansive backside out of the chair and greeted his visitor: “Senior Inspector Jezin. Have a seat, Commissar. How can I help you? Is the girl from your staff, by the way?”

“Certainly.” Fay’s disguise had not fooled Jezin for even a second. A bunch of clues had already led Yakudze to conclude that the chief was, on the one hand, sufficiently perceptive (which was not surprising, given that the harbor station was a real gold mine, with plenty of contenders for that plum post), and, on other hand, blunt and unsophisticated: for example, the unopened bottle of Elvish wine sitting in plain sight on his table would have cost him about three months’ salary in the
Elfstone
store on the Three Stars Embankment. Way too brazen, Yakudze thought sadly. Fortunately, keeping police noses clean was not part of DSD’s duties.

“About half an hour ago two arrested mountain men were supposed to be delivered here …” he began, but the Senior Inspector protested vigorously: “You’re mistaken, Commissar, no prisoner deliveries here for the past couple of hours!”

This was so unexpected that Yakudze tried to explain to the fat man that arguing was useless, since it all happened in his plain sight.

“Then you must’ve been hallucinating, Commissar,” the man answered impudently, signaling the guard at the door. “The Corporal here will attest: we have no mountain men detained here and never had!”

Yakudze shook his head sorrowfully: “We’re misunderstood here, girl.” That was a code phrase. The next moment Fay stabbed the corporal in the base of the neck, straight between the clavicles, with her suddenly steel-like index finger; a second later the thick office door was locked from the inside, cutting the Senior Inspector off from his subordinates in the corridor. Meanwhile, Yakudze intercepted Jezin’s hand, which was going towards the nearest weapon, and with a single twist of the wrist made him collapse into the chair, choking on a scream. Looking around, the Vice-Director of Operations broke off the Elvish bottle’s neck with the edge of his palm and dumped its precious contents on the policeman’s head and neck; once the man came to, Yakudze pulled him up by the collar and inquired with all possible fondness: “Where’re the prisoners?”

The fat man shook and sweated, but remained silent. Having no time to spare – at any moment someone might start breaking down the door – Yakudze made his proposition short and to the point: “Ten seconds to think about it. Then I’ll start counting to five, breaking a finger at each count. On the count of six I’ll cut your throat with this razor. Look in my eyes – do I look like I’m joking?”

“You’re from the Secret Service, right?” the Senior Inspector mumbled mournfully, ashen with terror. It was clear as day that he had not earned his stripes risking his hide in the Kharmian Village slums.

“Six seconds gone. Well?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know! They ordered me to let them go …”

“Ordered?!” Yakudze felt the floor drop out from under him; there was a revolting feeling of free-fall in his stomach.

“They’re men of the King of Gondor, from his Secret Guard. They were on a secret mission in the Peninsula, but the mountain men figured them out and were about to execute them. They managed to escape to Irapuato through the woods, made contact with the city gendarmes looking for Uanako there, and ordered their commander to evacuate them to the city as prisoners … Here at the station they told me to get them some street clothes and let them out by the back door. They also said,” the man cringed pitifully, “that if I told anyone about this, they’d find me anywhere, even in the Far West … I understand that legally the Secret Guard of Gondor has no authority here, but … you know?”

“What made you think that they’re Aragorn’s men?”

“One of them is obviously a Northerner from Gondor, and he presented a Secret Guard sergeant’s badge.”

“Sergeant Morimir or Sergeant Aravan …” Yakudze muttered, not recognizing his own voice. What bout of insanity could have made him forget the badges Tangorn scored in his raid on 4 Lamp Street?!

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Morimir! So you know these people?”

“Yes, better than I’d like to. When this Morimir changed clothes, have you noticed whether he had anything in his pockets?”

“Just money, nothing else.”

“How much?”

“About ten castamirs and change.”

“What kind of clothes did you give them?”

The Vice-Director of Operations nodded mechanically while Jezin described the rags he had so obligingly given to his important guests in minute detail, paying only minimal attention – this information was already useless. Ten castamirs … He turned to Fay:

“Leave right now through the same exit they’ve used. Eruko’s store is on the left, towards the Ring Canal. It’s possible that they will buy new clothes there: it’s not a cheap store, but ten castamirs should be enough. If not, continue along the shore …”

“To the Flea Market?”

“Correct. Right now they badly need to change clothes, and soon – it’s our only chance. Move.”

He sat down heavily on the low stone wall by the entrance to the police station and held out a hand without looking. Ras-Shua, sitting down by his side, immediately put a flask of rum in that hand; Yakudze took a couple of swigs and stared fixedly at the setting sun. His head was achingly empty. Sure, they’ll pick up Tangorn’s trail eventually, but that won’t save him: Almandin’s deadline is in an hour. He felt no animosity towards the baron: the man played by the rules.

“I got them, chief!” Suddenly, a beaming Fay appeared before him, looking happy and winded – apparently, she ran all the way. “They’ve changed at Eruko’s, just like you said, and then went into the Seamen Credit Bank right next door!”

It could not be, but there it was. It looked like today Fate undertook a pointed demonstration of how little our efforts and skills matter compared to her whims. After all, he thought as he hurried after Fay towards the Seamen Bank (the girl had prudently engaged three street urchins to watch the place), after all it looks like I got away with a scare (knock on wood), whereas the baron is really unlucky today: he’s doing everything first-rate, good enough to include in the Operations Manual, and still …

By the time Tangorn and Chekorello left the bank, dressed now with understated luxury, the DSD’s finks have woven an unbreakable web around them. The friends embraced three times in the mountain fashion and then went their separate ways. The reason for the visit to the bank became clear as soon as one of the operatives, who had superb pick-pocketing skills, determined by touch that Chekorello was now “brimming with coin like a September trout with eggs.” Yakudze ordered everyone to forget the mountain man – let him go in peace – and concentrate on following Tangorn. Just then reinforcements showed up (a standby surveillance team), and the baron’s chances of escaping undetected became nil: no lone individual can beat an organization, provided it is a halfway decent one.

Tangorn spent the next two hours cruising around the city expertly and flamboyantly – melting into market crowds, hiding out in empty echoing open-ended courtyards, suddenly jumping into gondolas for hire – but utterly failing to either lose or even spot the surveillance. Unlike the Gondorian spies, DSD professionals were of the highest caliber. Only once did the Higher Powers warn Yakudze (who had calmed down and was now hanging back, like a mobile headquarters of the operation) that he should not relax prematurely. Observers reported that the baron, having painstakingly checked his surroundings, has entered the Green Mackerel restaurant; should they follow him inside and risk detection or simply wait outside?

“Is the back of the restaurant covered?” Yakudze asked for formality’s sake. In answer, the operative only paled and swallowed convulsively.

“Holy crap!” the Vice-Director roared, his stomach again in free-fall. “Don’t you know that the damn Mackerel’s restroom window is large enough to push a boar through? I’ll fire the whole damn lot of you idiots!”

While saying that Yakudze had time to reflect that if Tangorn had indeed spotted them and had already ducked into that restroom, then he, at least, won’t be doing any firing … But the scare blew over: it turned out that the baron was having a proper dinner in a private room with two gentlemen, one of whom the operatives identified as the missing Junior Secretary Algali.

CHAPTER 52

Umbar, the Green Mackerel restaurant

June 27, 3019

B 
y the way, how did that story with your cousin’s broken engagement end up?” Tangorn asked nonchalantly once the meal was over and Algali had left them for the common room at his companion’s barely discernible nod.

“Nothing much; I suppose Linóel is already seeing someone else. By the way, if you hope to impress me with your knowledge of Lórien’s high society gossip, then the effect is rather the reverse: this bit of news is really stale.”

Score one for me, Tangorn thought, else why did you volunteer an explanation right away? Maybe those Elves aren’t as perceptive as rumor has it. Aloud he said: “I just wanted to ensure that you are, indeed, Elandar: you mentioned the name Linóel, and that’s what I was looking for. Very primitive, of course, but …” He smiled a slightly bashful smile. “Actually, could you please remove your half-mask?”

“As you wish.”

Yes, his interlocutor was undoubtedly an Elf: he had vertical rather than round pupils, like those of a cat or a snake. One could also ask for a look at the tips of his ears, hidden under the hairdo, but there was no real need. He’s made it to his goal.
Through the mossy forests and churning rivers, through treacherous bogs and snowy peaks did the noble knight struggle, until the magic ball led him to the Uggun Gorge, with burned slag for ground, bile flowing in the streams, and not a blade of living grass. There did the Dragon abide in his lair under the granite boulders …
Actually, as long as we’re in the ancient ballad mode, let’s be frank: rather than the noble knight, you’re his tricky armor bearer whose only task is to steal up to the entrance to the lair, throw some bait inside and beat it immediately. It will be up to Haladdin to battle the great worm once he emerges, but the doctor will only have a chance if the monster gobbles the poison bait first: the well-sealed package you had retrieved two hours ago from the Seamen Bank vault where it had spent all this time together with the
mithril
coat and some other stuff. Sure, this is hardly knightly behavior, but our task is to rid the world of the dragon, rather than get to star in children’s books.

“You’re satisfied, I hope?” The Elf broke the prolonged silence. Scorn shone in the depth of his eyes like a pair of bluish swamp gas flames.

“I suppose so. I don’t know Elandar personally, but the verbal description seems to match.” That was pure bluff, but it seemed to have gone over smoothly; in any case there were no more ways to check. “Should you not be who you say you are, now is the best time to drop out, believe me. The thing is that the information I’m about to entrust to you may cost some of Lórien’s higher-ups their heads, so they will most likely hunt its keeper as vigorously as Aragorn’s men are hunting me.
Clofoel
Eornis’ son will be able to handle it appropriately while, importantly, staying alive, unlike any lower-placed Elf. It’s a well-known axiom that dangerous information is destroyed together with its carriers; I’m sure you understand what it means to learn something unsuitable to one’s position, even accidentally …” With those words Tangorn glanced meaningfully towards the exit Algali had used.