The Last Ringbearer (49 page)

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: Is that an order, o radiant Lord?

Lord Celeborn
: No, no, please don’t …

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: Thank you, o radiant Lord! It’s a strange thing: were I to start teaching the
clofoel
of Might how to arrange archers or cavalry for battle, he would have taken it as an insult, and he would have been right. Whereas when it comes to detecting criminals, somehow everyone here knows my job better than I do!

Lord Celeborn
: No, please don’t take it this way …

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: As for the truth potion, esteemed
clofoel
of Might, it has no problem cracking open a Man’s mind – as you have correctly noted, it’d take less than a quarter-hour. The problem is sorting all the garbage that will spill from that cracked mind; trust me, it will take more than a few weeks to sift the kernels from the chaff. The potion is great for obtaining confessions, but what we need here is information! And what if something is unclear at the first pass and explanations become necessary? We won’t be able to ask a second time, since he’ll have turned into a drooling cretin. Therefore, please allow me to use more traditional methods.

Lady Galadriel
: That was an excellent explanation,
clofoel
of Tranquility, thank you. I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I’ve just thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this investigation may uncover highly curious nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth than with the Enchanted Forests. Lord Celeborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to involve the
clofoel
of the World in the investigation, since she’s better acquainted with those specifics?

Lord Celeborn
: Yes, yes, that’s very reasonable! Isn’t it,
clofoel
of Tranquility?

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: I dare not debate the directives of the radiant Lady, o radiant Lord. But perhaps it will be easier to relieve me of this task altogether, since I am not trusted?

Lord Celeborn
: No, don’t even think about it! I’d be lost without you!

Lady Galadriel
: We ought to consider the good of Lórien ahead of our personal ambitions,
clofoel
of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always better than one. Do you disagree?

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: How can I, o radiant Lady!

Clofoel
of the World
: I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed
clofoel
of Tranquility. My knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they will prove useful.

Clofoel
of Tranquility
: I have no doubt they will, esteemed
clofoel
of the World.

Lady Galadriel
: This is settled, then; keep us informed,
clofoel
of Tranquility. What did the
clofoel
of Stars wish to tell the Council?

Clofoel
of Stars
: I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and esteemed
clofoels
of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire layout of magic in the Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady’s Mirror was delivered to Caras Galadhon.

Lady Galadriel
: Could your dancers be mistaken,
clofoel
of Stars?

Clofoel
of Stars
: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight …

Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but – alas! – he had nothing left to give.

“Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let’s get underway.”

There were three Elves – a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll’s. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something – obscene, to judge by her smirk – to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.

“Maybe you’d like to tell us something yourself, Troll?”

“Maybe I would.” Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for dizziness to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. “What do I get in return?”

“In return?!” The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. “An easy death. Is that not enough?”

“No, it’s not. Easy death is already there for me; I’ve had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it’ll end when it begins.”

The Elf gave a silvery laugh. “You lie beautifully and engagingly.”

Kumai shrugged. “Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?”

“We are the higher-ups, Troll.” The cloaked Elf sat lightly down on a chair just brought into the cell by the leather-jacket guy. “But please continue lying, we’re listening with interest.”

What’s there to lie about? He’s no child and understands his position. But he’s no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are … He’ll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time – but not for free. Do you promise to keep me alive? It’s such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?

“Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we’ll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?”

“Sure! Why not let him keep his life?”

Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn’t get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child – that brat Sonya came up with it, and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by … Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in Tzagan-Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that’s where Dad’s mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there … anyway, can’t come up with anything else that’d be consistent on the spot). Yesterday … wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry … Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to Lórien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy, never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal … What he looks like? An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow … yes, he’s certain, the left one …

“This is very naïve, Troll. I’m not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as everything else you’ve told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?”

That’s it, then – who would’ve thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his interrogators. The obsequious dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf’s eye in the process, not the thing to do.

The
clofoel
of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly transfixed Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist – why bother now, you dope? – and turned to his companion with a mocking smile: “So how about spending some time alone with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?”

“On the contrary – he’s magnificent, a real beast!”

“You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But not until after we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace – it could happen, you know – and take everything he knows with him … You’d be no less upset than I with such an outcome, wouldn’t you?”

CHAPTER 62

W 
ake up!” The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai’s chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles’ tendon, the pain immediately jerking the engineer out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.

“Where did you fly from, Troll? What was your mission?” That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner’s heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The blows were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen kicks the pain turned unbearable, making all his thoughts about avoiding the next inevitable one … Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far.

The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine – maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with his plot of the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I’m alive and in the Elves’ hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess – evacuate Dol Guldur? I don’t know … revelations and miracles are the One’s job, mine is to hold out and hope …

“Wake up!” This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silver-black cloak.

“Have you ever been told that you’re an incredibly lucky Man, Troll?”

He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep … This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick – something must’ve changed in their setup …

“Anyway, to continue: I don’t know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our barristers – may they burn in the Eternal Fire! – have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can’t be forced to break his oath and all that …” The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. “As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep.”

Kumai opened his parched lips: “I’m illiterate.”

“An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad … Print your finger, then.”

“Like hell.”

“Whatever, Man: I’ll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange. That’s it, you can go … I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies,
sir
– you’re a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee …”

When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the
clofoel
of Tranquility bit out in his back: “You’re real lucky, Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with you personally … Why did you fly to Lórien, eh?”

He only believed in his victory when he saw
lembas
on a small table in his cell, and – most importantly – a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large quivering drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it – a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so.

Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home – old wood, couch leather, Dad’s pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik – their carefree pre-war selves – were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you’d never believe …

Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.

He did not just talk – he answered direct questions posed by someone’s soothing even voice.