f the
bed, sat down there, naked and cross-legged, and began putting her ripe-wheat hairdo in
order, glancing at him from time to time from under lowered eyelashes. He told her on one
of their first nights, only half-joking, that looking at his beloved brushing her hair in the
morning is one of the most intense and exquisite pleasures available to man, so now she kept
polishing and perfecting this little ritual of theirs, jealously observing his reaction: do you
still like it, darling? He smiled to himself, remembering how Prince Imrahil used to insist
that northern women, for all their beauty, are a cross between a dead fish and a birch log in
bed. I wonder if it's my good luck or his bad one for all those years?
     "I'll make coffee for you."
     "Now that is certainly a blow to public morals!" Faramir laughed. "The Princess of Ithilien
in the kitchen -- an aristocrat's nightmare!"
     "I'm afraid they'll have to put up with my lack of refinement and manners. For example, I
intend to go hunting today and prepare some real baked venison for supper, and let them all
blow their gaskets! I can't abide our cook's fare any more; the guy apparently knows no
spices other than arsenic and strychnine!"
     She should go, he thought, and perhaps we'll start the Game tonight? Lately he and E:owyn
were allowed to leave the fort one at a time -- enough to be grateful for; the hostage system
has its advantages.
     "Will you read to me tonight?"
     "Certainly. About Princess Allandale again?"
     "Well... yes!"
Those evening readings were another of their rituals; E:owyn had a few favorite stories
which she was ready to hear again and again, like a child. Like most of Rohan's elite, the
girl was illiterate, so the magical world that Faramir laid open before her astonished her
imagination. That was the beginning of their relationship... or perhaps it started earlier?
...On the day of the battle for Pelennor fortifications the prince was commanding the right
defensive flank; he fought in the front line, so it was bewildering that a heavy armor-
piercing arrow struck him from behind -- in the trapezius muscle, to the left of the base of his
neck. Its three-sided tip had channels for poison, so by the time the good knight Mithrandir
got him to Minas Tirith the prince was in a bad way. For some reason he was carried to a
far room in the hospital, and, most astonishingly, forgotten there. Completely helpless, he
lay right on the stone floor -- the poison had caused blindness and paralysis, so that he could
not even cry for help -- feeling the cold of the grave spreading through his body from the
already numb left arm and neck. His brain still functioned normally, and he understood
clearly that he was believed to be dead.
     An eternity passed, full of loneliness and despair, and then he felt the sharp taste of some
oily liquid on his lips; the sensation seemed familiar, dredging up a half-forgotten name:
athelas. The cold retreated a little, as if unwillingly, and a commanding voice floated out of
the darkness: "Prince, if you're conscious, move the fingers of your right hand."
How was he supposed to move fingers he couldn't feel? Perhaps he should remember a
movement in all its details... here, he's taking his sword out of the scabbard, feeling the
supple leather of its grip...
     "Very well!"
Did it work? Apparently, yes.
     "Now, a bigger challenge. One movement will mean `yes', two mean `no'. Try saying
`no'."
     He tried to imagine making a fist twice... whatever for? Oh yes: here, he's taking a pen
from the table, writes down a word, puts it down; now he has to pick it up again to make a
correction...
     "Wonderful. Allow me to introduce myself: Aragorn, son of Arathorn. As the direct
descendant of Isildur, I wish to express my royal gratitude to you: the dynasty of Stewards
of Gondor, of which you are the last heir, had maintained my throne well. Now this arduous
task is over: I have come to relieve your dynasty of this burden. From now on your name
will be the first of the glorious families of the Reunited Kingdom. Do you understand what
I'm saying, Faramir?"
     He understood it all perfectly, but moved his fingers twice -- `no' -- otherwise it would mean
that he implicitly agreed with this nonsense. A descendant of Isildur, right -- why not
Il  vatar himself?
     "You have always been an alien to them, Prince." Aragorn's voice was quiet and
compassionate, as if he was a bosom friend. "It's quite understandable that they greatly
resented your studies, that's not a royal pursuit. However, they even blamed you for
creating the Ithilien regiment and setting up an intelligence network beyond Anduin, didn't
they?"
     Pride would not let him answer `yes,' honesty precluded answering `no:' all this was true,
this Aragorn really did know his Gondorian politics. When the war broke out, Faramir,
himself an excellent hunter, formed a special unit for forest combat out of free shafts (and
not a few outlaws) -- the Ithilien regiment; the famous Cirith Ungol Rangers soon discovered
that their monopoly on lightning raids through enemy's rear was over. The prince
personally commanded the Ithilienians in a number of skirmishes (for example, the one that
trapped and destroyed a whole caravan of m  makil) and even had time to write something
like a manual for what would much later be called `commando warfare.' As a result, the
aristocrats in the capital joked that he was about to add a flail and a black mask to his
familial coat of arms. And long before the war Faramir, who had an honest and profound
love of the East and its culture, had set up a regular collection of military and political
information in its countries through volunteer efforts of like-minded people -- the first real
intelligence agency in Western lands. Making his case on its reports, the prince argued in
the Royal Council for cooperation with states beyond the Anduin, earning himself the
`defeatist' label and almost getting branded as an enemy collaborationist.
     "Your father had always thought you a softie, so much so as to openly start looking for ways
to disinherit you when Boromir died... But this didn't bother you in the least; you even
joked back then that since the pen had callused your finger, the scepter would wear your
palms to the bone -- very well said, Prince, short and to the point! So -- " suddenly
Aragorn's voice became dry and hard, "let's say that we're simply back to the starting point:
you still have no claim to the throne of Gondor, but the new king will be me rather than your
wayward brother, the Valar rest his soul. Are you listening?"
`Yes'
     "The situation, then, is like this: Denethor is dead; this is a hard blow, but I think you'll
survive it. There's a war on, the country is leaderless, and therefore I, Aragorn, the heir of
Isildur, having today defeated the hordes of the East on the Field of Pelennor, accept the
crown of the Reunited Kingdom at the army's request. This is set; alternatives exist only as
far as your own fate, Prince. Option number one: you abdicate the throne (remember that
yours is a dynasty of Stewards, rather than Kings!) and leave Minas Tirith to become a
prince of one of the lands of Gondor; I think that Ithilien will suit you just fine. Option
number two: you refuse, but then I will not treat you -- whatever for? -- and will assume the
crown after your imminent demise. By the way, nobody but me knows that you're still
alive; the funeral is set for today, and I will simply let it proceed. After a few hours you'll
hear the tombstone seal your family crypt... I'm sure your imagination can fill in the rest.
Do you understand, Faramir?"
     The prince's fingers were silent. He had always had the cool courage of a philosopher, but
the idea of being buried alive can instill crushing dread into any soul.
     "Oh no, this won't do at all. If you don't give me a clear answer in half a minute, I'll leave,
and in a couple of hours, when the athelas wears off, the undertakers will come. Believe me
that I much prefer option one, but if you would rather have the crypt..."
`No'
     "No -- meaning yes? You agree to become Prince of Ithilien?"
`Yes'
     "We have a mutual understanding, then; your word is quite sufficient -- so far. Some time
from now you'll regain your ability to speak, and I will visit you with Prince Imrahil, who is
the temporary regent of the town and country after the passing of Denethor. By then Imrahil
will have examined my royal credentials and will confirm them to you; you, in turn, will
confirm your decision to resign as Steward of Gondor and move to Ithilien. The entire
Gondor knows of the Prince's nobility and his friendship with you, so I expect that the
people will duly accept his announcement. Do you agree? Answer: yes or no?!"
`Yes'
     "By the way, I'll answer your unspoken question: why don't I do away with you, option two
being both simple and reliable? I'm being quite pragmatic here: an alive, abdicated Faramir
in Ithilien is harmless, whereas his dead body in a crypt of the Stewards of Gondor would no
doubt spawn a legion of pretenders -- false Faramirs. Oh, and another thing: I'm certain that
you would not go against your given word, but just in case, bear this in mind: no one but me
in the entire Middle Earth can heal you, and this healing will take a long time yet and can
take unexpected turns... do you understand me?"
     `Yes' (What's not to understand? A simple poisoning would be the least of his worries;
what if he were turned into a vegetable, to drool and soil himself for the rest of his life?)
     "Excellent! I'll say just one more thing in conclusion, because I believe that it's important
to you..." To the prince's considerable amazement, there was genuine emotion in Aragorn's
voice now. "I promise to rule Gondor in such a way that you, Faramir, will never have a
single occasion to think that you would have done it better. I promise that the Reunited
Kingdom will prosper and flourish like never before. And I also promise that the story of
the King and the Steward will be so treated in all the chronicles as to glorify you forever.
Now drink this and sleep."
     He came back to conscience still in the thrall of darkness and speechlessness, but the terrible
cold had retreated to the location of the wound, and -- happiness! -- he could feel pain and
could even move a little. There were voices nearby, but they fell silent... And then She
appeared.

     <h3>Chapter 21</h3>

     First there was only her hand -- small but unwomanly strong; the hand of a rider and a
swordswoman, as he immediately determined. The girl did not possess the habits of a real
nurse, but it was obvious that treating the wounded was nothing new to her. Why is she
doing everything one-handed, though -- an injury of her own, perhaps? He tried estimating
her height from how far she could reach sitting on the edge of his bed -- it worked out to
about five and a half feet. Once he was incredibly lucky: she leaned over him, and her silky
hair brushed the prince's face. Thus he learned that she was not wearing her hair up (that
meant a woman of the North, from Rohan); but most important was that now he would never
confuse this smell with any other, an aroma like that of a steppe breeze, mixing the dry heat
of the sun-kissed earth with the pungent refreshing smell of sagebrush.
In the meantime Aragorn's medicine was working; the very next day he could speak his first
words, which were, unsurprisingly: "What's your name?"
     "E:owyn."
E:owyn. Like the sound of a bell -- not a regular brass bell, but one of those porcelain bells
that are sometimes brought from the Far East. Yes, the voice fit her owner quite well -- at
least it fit the image he had put together in his mind.
     "So what's the matter with your left arm, E:owyn?"
     "Oh, you can see already?!"
     "Alas, no; this is just a conclusion I've reached in my musings."
     "Really? Explain!"
     He described her appearance as he had put it together from the scraps of information he had.
     "That's amazing!" she exclaimed. "All right, tell me -- what kind of eyes do I have?"
     "Most certainly large and wide-set."
     "No, I mean the color?"
     "The color, hmm... Green!"
     "I've believed you!" there was genuine disappointment in the girl's voice, "but you must've
simply seen me somewhere before."
     "I swear by anything, E:owyn, I've simply named my favorite color. So I guessed right?
But you still haven't told me about your arm. Have you been wounded?"
     "That's only a scratch, believe me, especially compared to yours. It's just that men have a
habit of brushing us aside when dividing the spoils."
     E:owyn described the Battle of Pelennor Field clearly and crisply, like a professional warrior,
all the while taking care of him, now giving him medicine, then changing the dressing on the
wound. It seemed to Faramir that she radiated some kind of special warmth; it was this
warmth, rather than medicines, that chased away the deathly chill tormenting his body. But
when, moved by gratitude, he covered E:owyn's hand with his, she took it away politely but
firmly and left her charge, saying: "This is quite unnecessary, Prince," and instructing him to
ask for her should a real need arise. Saddened by this strange rebuff, he dozed (this was real
sleep now, healing and refreshing), and upon awakening heard the tail end of a conversation,
recognizing E:owyn as one of the participants and Aragorn -- much to his surprise -- as the
other.
     "...so you'll have to go to Ithilien with him."
     "But why, Ari? You know that I can't be without you now."
     "It's necessary, dear. It won't be for very long -- three weeks, perhaps a month."
     "That is very long, but I will do what you need, don't worry. You want me to be by his
side?"
     "Yes, you will complete his treatment, you're good at it. Plus you will check out how he
does in the new place."
     "You know, he's very nice."
     "Of course! You will have excellent conversation, I think you won't be bored with him."
     "Bored? Oh, you're too kind!.."
     "Forgive me, I didn't mean it to sound like that..." The voices went away, a door banged,
and Faramir thought that although this was none of his business, nevertheless... Suddenly
he cried out from an abrupt pain: previously unseen light flooded his eyes and seemed to
burn the retina that had grown unaccustomed to seeing. She was already by his side,
holding his hand in alarm: "What's wrong?"
     "Nothing, E:owyn -- I think I'm getting my sight back."
     "Really?!"
     Everything around him swam in rainbow areolas, but the pain subsided quickly. When the
prince finally managed to wipe away tears and take his first look at E:owyn, his heart stopped
for a moment and then poured a heat wave through his body: he was looking at the girl he
had pictured in his imagination. Not a similar girl, but that exact one, from the color of her
eyes to the way she brushed her hair aside. I've created her myself, he thought in
resignation, and now I will never get away.
     ...The fort of Emyn Arnen, now the official residence of His Highness the Prince of Ithilien,
was not, strictly speaking, a fort. It was a log house of monumental proportions, with three
floors, an unbelievably labyrinthine plan, and a cornucopia of architectural excesses: all
sorts of turrets, dormers, and outside galleries. Nevertheless, the whole thing looked
surprisingly harmonious. One could see the hand of the master craftsmen of Angmar in the
construction -- it is there, in the forests of the far North, that this wood-building technique
flourishes. The house was impeccably positioned from the landscaping standpoint, but
horribly from a military one, not protecting anything. Besides, the unknown fortification
`experts' that had built the stockade around it had done it in such an obvious revulsion for
their craft that it could only serve as an exhibit for the relevant course at the Academy of
Military Engineering: "How not to build external fortifications: find eight mistakes." This
must have been why Emyn Arnen had been abandoned by the Mordorians without a fight as
indefensible, and passed to its current owners intact.
     It was not quite clear, actually, who these new owners were. The Prince of Ithilien could
only be called such in jest, as he was not permitted to even leave the fort alone. Much to her
surprise, his guest E:owyn, the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan, had discovered that
she shared the prince's weird status. She had asked for her sword back without a second
thought, adding jokingly that she didn't feel quite dressed without it, and got a joke in
response: "A pretty girl looks even prettier underdressed." E:owyn frowned in irritation:
even by her uninhibited taste this compliment by a lieutenant of the White Company (forty
men tasked by Aragorn to their protection) bordered on a faux pas. She made a note for
herself to be on more official terms with this bunch from now on, and requested a meeting
with the company's commander, Captain Beregond.
     After all, every joke has its limits: they are not in Minas Tirith any more, walking these
woods unarmed, while there may still be goblins about, is simply unsafe. -- Oh, Her
Highness has nothing to fear in this respect; the goblins are her bodyguards' problem. --
Does the Captain mean to say that those four thugs are going to accompany her everywhere?
     -- Yes, certainly, and this is by direct order of His Majesty; although they can be replaced, if
Her Highness dislikes these four. -- By the way, Aragorn is neither her sovereign nor
guardian, and if this is how it's going to be, she's coming back to Minas Tirith right away...
actually, to Edoras, not Minas Tirith! -- Unfortunately, this would be impossible without a
written order from His Majesty. -- So... not to put too fine a face on it, is she a prisoner? --
Why, Your Highness! Prisoners stay under lock and key, whereas you can ride anywhere
you want. Even to Minas Morgul, if you wish, but only with bodyguards and unarmed.
Strangely, only now did E:owyn realize that Faramir's lack of a sword could be due to
earthly reasons rather than the prince's poetic disposition.
By process of elimination it would seem that Beregond was the real master of Ithilien, but
one only had to see him move charily through the corridors of the fort, avoiding eye contact
with his prisoner, to understand that this was rank nonsense. The captain was a ruined man,
because he knew that he had guarded Denethor's chambers on that tragic day and that he
was the one who announced the King's suicide to the public -- that is, he knew, but he could
not remember a thing. His memory of that nightmarish day sported a large charred hole, in
which Mithrandir's whitish shadow flitted sometimes; the knight seemed to have had a hand
in those events, but Beregond could not figure it out. It is hard to say what prevented the
captain from taking his own life; perhaps he realized that by doing so he would have
accepted the guilt for the crime, to the delight of the real murderers. In Minas Tirith a wall
of scorn had surrounded him since that day -- few believed the self-immolation story -- so
Aragorn could find no better man to lead the White Company. The job required a man who
could not possibly conspire with Faramir -- and here Aragorn had made a mistake: for all his
knowledge of people, he had not foreseen that the prince, whom Beregond had often
dandled on his knee, would be perhaps the only person in all of Gondor to believe in the
captain's innocence.
     As for the men of the White Company, who not only guarded the fort but also filled all the
housekeeping jobs (from majordomo to cook), they did not talk to the prince much at all.
`Yes, Your Highness; no, Your Highness; I don't know, Your Highness' -- that was the
extent of the conversation, with `don't know' a clear favorite. They were ordered to guard,
so they guarded; were they ordered to kill him, they would undoubtedly do that, too.
Faramir could not figure out whose orders those cutthroats obeyed, but he did not believe
even for a moment that it was Beregond. At the same time, there seemed to be no messages
from Aragorn, either, unless they had clandestine communications with Minas Tirith without
the captain's knowledge -- but then why make it so complex?
Indeed it was a strange crowd that made its home in Emyn Arnen that spring, and the
funniest thing was that all the participants of The Prince of Ithilien and His Court show
made a touchingly united effort to keep that strangeness from becoming the subject of
discussion outside its walls, where real life went on.
     In real life it was a rare day that Faramir did not bless a new group of subjects -- yet another
group of settlers from Gondor. Many of those were not at all eager to show themselves to
the court, preferring instead to huddle in the farthest reaches of the forest; it was clear that
they regarded tax collectors as a much more harmful and dangerous threat than the `goblins'
that supposedly infested those thickets. During the war those people have learned to wield
weapons expertly and got out of the habit of bowing to landlords, so the Prince of Ithilien
would not have been able to control the fortified forest hamlets these people were building
even if he wanted to, which he did not. All he did was try to convey to the newcomers that
they would not be fleeced in his demesne, and the message seemed to be getting through:
lately grim armed men from the far hamlets have been showing up at the main Settlement,
with pointed inquiries about prices for honey and smoked venison. That year axes and
hammers sounded throughout Ithilien: the settlers built houses, cleared forests for fields, put
up mills and dry distilleries. They were settling the forests beyond Anduin for good.

     <h3>Chapter 22</h3>

     More than a month has gone by since the end of the Mordorian campaign, and still E:owyn
had no message from Aragorn. Well, who knows what the circumstances are... If she had
reached any conclusions already, she kept them to herself and her behavior had not changed
a bit. The only difference was that she no longer asked Beregond daily for news from Minas
Tirith. It also seemed to Faramir that her remarkable gray-green eyes have acquired a new,
colder, bluish tint, but that would have been really supernatural. The girl treated the prince
with genuine warmth and sympathy, but she had channeled their closeness into nothing but
friendship from the very beginning, and he had to accept that.
They were sitting at the dinner table in the Knights Hall of the fort, unwelcoming because of
its large size, when a Gondorian lieutenant in a dusty cloak showed up, accompanied by
several soldiers. Faramir immediately offered the messenger wine and venison, but the man
shook his head. His business is so urgent that he will only change horses and ride back. He
has the King's orders to pick up E:owyn from Emyn Arnen (the girl leaned forward and her
shining face seemed to dispel the gloom of the hall) and escort her to Edoras, to the court of
King E:omer.
     He followed up with some Minas Tirith news of which Faramir had only consciously
registered an unfamiliar name: Arwen. Arwen -- sounds like the tolling of a gong, he
thought fleetingly; I wonder what fight this gong announces... The prince looked up at
E:owyn and his heart fell: her face was a bloodless mask of pain, her eyes seeming to take up
half of it -- a child who had just been cruelly and mercilessly tricked and is now about to be
publicly mocked to boot.
     But this show of weakness lasted for only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of
steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave
like a miller's daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile
held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), E:owyn told
the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who
called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they are presently outside the
Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) does not object, she
would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.
The Prince of Ithilien had no objections, of course, and the only thing that really upset him
about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn's men were under orders to
remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he has just
used to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last heir of the ill-fated Anarion dynasty! At
least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style... The prince glanced at
Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled by an astonishing
change that had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and his hand
rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to understand
that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir's side.
Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not
include any violence against royal persons. E:owyn smiled again -- with real charm this time --
and firmly took the upper hand:
     "I'm afraid that you'll have to stay after all, Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it's especially
good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too." She addressed the butler: "Gunt! See the
King's men to the kitchen and make sure they're well fed after their journey. Oh, and
arrange for their baths!"
     E:owyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the conversation:
     "Please pass the salt... Thank you... So what's the news from Mordor, Lieutenant? We're
quite cut off, here in the boonies..." It was clear, though, that she was holding on with the
last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-tempered glass he once
saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into tiny pieces with a tiny
flick.
     Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting by the lamp, he kept futilely wracking his
brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in philosophy and pretty
well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he knew little about the
intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a knock and there was
transparently pale E:owyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was completely bewildered. She
was already inside, though, stepping like a somnambulant; then the nightshirt fell down at
her feet, and she ordered, head held high but eyelashes down: "Take me, Prince! Now!"
He picked up her light body -- goodness, she's shivering like crazy, must be nervous shakes! --
carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else do I have here?
He looked around -- aha, Elvish wine, just what she needs.
     "Here, drink this, it'll warm you up."
     "Wouldn't you rather warm me up in another fashion?" She spoke with her eyes closed; her
body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.
     "Certainly not now. You'd hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason."
Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry... So she cried, with abandon, like
a child, while he was hugging that shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and
whispering something into her ear -- he never could remember what he said, nor did it
matter; his lips were salty with her tears. And when she was done pouring out her pain and
disgust, she crawled back under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: "Please tell me
something... nice." So he recited the best poems he knew, and every time he stopped she
would squeeze his hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable
child's intonation: "More! Please, a little more!.."
     She fell asleep in the early morning, still holding his hand, so he waited by the side of the
bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and removed
himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise and
immediately heard an angry "Please turn away!" and then a plaintive "Listen, give me
something to put on -- I can't walk around like this!" a few seconds later. Then, standing in
the door (with his hunting jacket on), she suddenly spoke quietly and very earnestly: "You
know, those poems... It's something amazing, I've never experienced anything like it. I'll
come this evening, and you'll read me some more of that, all right?" To make a long story
short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras inquiring whether E:omer had any
objections to his sister's decision to become Princess of Ithilien, evening readings were an
indispensable part of their family life.
     "...Are you listening?"
E:owyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince, upset.
     "I'm sorry, baby; I've been thinking."
     "About something sad?"
     "More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Arnor sends
us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic."
By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn inside
these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did E:owyn say (abruptly and
with no connection to the preceding conversation): "If you want to know what he's like as a
lover," she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest, "I can utterly
honestly say: nothing much. You see, he's accustomed only to taking, all the time and in
every thing; a real macho, you know..." Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Of course, most
women want nothing else, but I'm not one of them..."
     She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as if
making some final conclusion: "Yes, he totally could... Do you have a plan for how to
avoid such a gift?"
     "Yes, I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us."
     "Forgive me if this is not my business, but... this man killed your father. And a father is a
father, no matter who he is."
     "I think that Beregond is not at fault. What's more, I intend to prove it today, first and
foremost to himself."
     "Why today?"
     "Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved recklessly. I
haven't spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White Company guys
might have, but now it looks like it's now or never. In other words, please ask him to come
see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public -- we have no
secrets! And when you go hunting, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask the
people about a certain forest hamlet..."
     There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond's eyes when he entered -- perhaps not all is
lost?
     "Hail, Your Highness!"
     "Hello, Beregond; let's not be so official. I would like you to help me contact His Majesty."
The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball of smoky
crystal on the table.
     "A Seeing Stone!" The captain was amazed.
     "Yes, this is a palant  r. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragorn doesn't
want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please, look into it..."
     "No!" Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. "Anything but that! I
don't want to see Denethor's charred hands!"
     "So you've seen them before?" The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness -- did he, in fact,
misjudge this man?
     "No, but they told me... Anyone who looks into his palant  r sees them!"
     "Don't worry, Beregond." There was relief in Faramir's voice. "This is not Denethor's
palant  r; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you."
     "Really?" With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked into it
for some time, then put it down with a sigh. "Forgive me, Prince, but I can see nothing."
     "You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of Denethor's
death; you can sleep calmly."
     "What?! What did you say?"
     "You are not guilty of Denethor's death," the prince repeated. "Forgive me, but I had to
trick you: this is, indeed, his palant  r. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it, but
only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw
nothing, so you're innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone's
powerful magic, most likely Elvish."
     "Is this true?" Beregond whispered. "Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is some
other palant  r..." (Please tell me it's not so!)
     "Think about it -- who would give me another palant  r? They only gave this one back to me
because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past
Denethor's hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don't even suspect
that people innocent of the crime can still use it."
     "So why did you tell me that it was another one?"
     "Well, you see... you're trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and
Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you'd convince yourself that you could see that
picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes... But now, praise Eru, it's over."
     "It's over," Beregond repeated hoarsely. He kneeled and stared at the prince with such
doglike devotion that the latter was embarrassed. "So you will let me serve you, just like
before?"
     "Yes, I will, but please rise immediately. Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of Ithilien to
you?"
     "How else, Your Highness?!"
     "If so, do I have the right, while remaining a vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace the
personal guard imposed on me by the King?"
     "Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally under
my command; I'm more of a quartermaster here."
     "Yes, I've figured that out. Who are they, by the way -- D  nedain?"
     "The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants -- those are all from the King's Secret
Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there're rumors --" Beregond shot
a glance at the door, "that they're living dead. Nor can I figure out who their chief is."
     "Well, well... in any case we should get rid of these guys, the sooner the better. So, Captain --
will you take the risk by my side?"
     "You have saved my honor; therefore, my life is yours with no reservations. But three
against forty..."
     "I think that we're way more than three." Beregond stared at the prince in amazement.
     "About a week ago the men from one of the forest hamlets brought a cart of smoked deer
meat to the fort and got into an argument with the gate guards -- those demanded that they
leave their bows outside, as is their procedure. There was a black-haired guy there who
made a big racket: how come noblemen can enter the Prince's residence armed, but the
merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet can't? Do you remember?"
     "Yes, I recall something like that; so?"
     "So that guy was Baron Grager, lieutenant of the Ithilien regiment and my resident spy in
Khand before the war. I'm inclined to think that he's not alone in that Blackbird Hamlet.
Your task is to establish contact with Grager, then we'll play it by ear. You and I will only
contact each other via a dead drop from now on -- if you stand on the sixteenth step of the
spiral staircase in the northern wing, there is a small crack on the left wall at elbow height,
just right for a note. One can't be seen using the drop either from the top or the bottom of
the stairs, I've checked. Now. Once you leave here, pretend to go on a drinking binge for a
couple of days, since I've asked you to try and contact Aragorn via the palant  r, and you
saw Denethor's hands in it. Don't overdo it, though: the White officers seem very
perceptive."
     That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement -- arson. Some idiot fired -- no,
not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who refused
to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone burned
down the pigeon coop belonging to a grim single blacksmith who had moved here from
Anfalas and apparently have kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons
beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The
local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood
upside down: knowing the mores of the Anfalasians, it was a safe bet that if the guilty party
were not jailed quickly, very soon they would have to investigate a premeditated murder.
Faramir listened to this crazy story with an eyebrow raised high -- he was very surprised.
More precisely, he really was surprised. There were only two possibilities: either the foe
had made his first major blunder, or, conversely, he has figured out the prince's entire plan.
Either way the Game has begun; it has begun earlier than he expected and not how he
expected, but there was no turning back.

     <h3>Chapter 23</h3>
     Mountains of Shadow, Hotont pass
     May 12, 3019

     "There's your Ithilien." The mountain Troll put down the sack and pointed forward, where
the thick chaparral of low scrub oak piled up in the gorge below like dense clouds of light-
green smoke. "I can go no further, but you won't get lost, the path is well-trod. You'll hit a
stream in about an hour; the ford is a bit downstream. Looks scary, but it's fine to cross.
The thing there is not to be scared and step right into the eddies, that's where the water is
calmest. Just re-pack and go."
     "Thank you, Matun!" Haladdin firmly shook the guide's shovel-wide hand. The Troll
resembled a bear in both looks and demeanor: a good-natured placid honey-eater capable of
turning, in a blink of an eye, into a deadly fighting machine fearsome even more in its
swiftness and cunning than in its monstrous strength. The bulbous nose, the unkempt red
beard, the expression of a yokel who just saw a carnival magician pull a gold coin out of his
ear -- all these concealed an excellent warrior, both skilled and ruthless. Looking at him,
Haladdin always recalled what he had heard once: peaceful family men make the best
fighters -- when a man like this one, coming home from work one day, finds nothing but
charred bones in the ruins of his home.
     He glanced once again at the snowy masses of the Mountains of Shadow looming over them --
not even Tzerlag would have been able to get their company through all these ice pools,
vertical moss-covered walls and vast rhododendron-covered slopes.
     "When you get back to the base, please take care to remind Ivar to meet us in this same
place in July."
     "No worries, buddy: the chief never forgets anything. We have an agreement, so we'll be
here through last week of July come hell or high water."
     "Right. And if we're not here by August first, drink one to the rest of our souls."
In parting, Matun slapped Tzerlag's shoulder so that he barely kept his feet: "Be well,
scout!" He and the Orocuen had become fast friends during the last few days. Of course, he
did not even nod at Tangorn; had he only leave to do what he wanted to this Gondorian
dude... Whatever, the officers know better. He had fought in Ivar the Drummer's guerilla
band since the beginning of the occupation and knew full well that one is supposed to wait
for a scouting team's return at the rendezvous point for no more than three days, and here
the orders were for a full week! A mission of special importance, see? So the Gondorian
dude must not be here just for show, either.
     Yes, Haladdin thought, looking at the rhythmically bobbing pack on the baron's back, it all
depends on Tangorn now: whether he can protect us in Ithilien the way we protected him up
to now. He's Prince Faramir's personal friend -- that's great, but we have to get to this
wonderful prince first. Plus it may very well turn out that this Faramir is nothing but
Aragorn's puppet, while the baron has rather peculiar relations with Minas Tirith authorities --
he may have already been declared an outlaw... In other words, we may easily hang
together, either in the forest if we run into a Gondorian patrol, or on the wall of Emyn
Arnen; the funniest thing is that in the forest the baron will hang with us, while in the fort
we'll hang with him. Yeah, the right company is key...
     Such gloomy thoughts must have bothered the baron about ten days ago, when they
confirmed that the route to Ithilien through Morgul Vale and the Cirith Ungol pass had been
sealed shut by Elvish outposts, which meant that they had to seek help from the guerillas in
the Mountains of Shadow. The worst fate would have been to run into one of the smaller
bands that acknowledged no authority and were seeking nothing but revenge; no talk about
any mission would have helped, as the guerillas now killed their prisoners with no less
cruelty than their enemies did. Fortunately, using Sharya-Rana's information, Tzerlag
managed to locate in the Shara-Teg Gorge a well-regulated company reporting to the main
command of the Resistance. It was led by a commissioned officer, one Lieutenant Ivar, a
one-armed veteran of the North Army. A native of this area, he had turned the gorge into an
unassailable fastness; among other things, he instituted a remarkable audible warning system
on all the observation posts, earning himself the nickname "the Drummer."
The lieutenant had weighed Haladdin's nazg  l ring fearlessly in his hand, nodded and asked
only one question: what can he do to assist sir Field Medic in his mission? Escort their
recon team to Ithilien? No problem. His opinion is that they should use the Hotont pass;
since it's considered to be impassable during this time of year, it's most likely unguarded
from the Ithilien side. Unfortunately, his best guide, one Matun, is away on a mission. Can
you wait three or four days? No problem, then; this will let you rest and fatten up a little,
too -- it'll be one arduous trek... Only when all three of them got back the weapons of
which they had been relieved by the forward guard did Tangorn return the poison he had
borrowed from the doctor.
     Haladdin had never been to this part of the country before, so now he observed the daily life
of the Shara-Teg Gorge with genuine interest. The mountain Trolls lived spartanly but
conducted themselves with truly princely dignity; to an outsider, only their hospitality often
went beyond any reasonable measure, acutely embarrassing Haladdin. At least now he
understood where the amazing ambience of the Barad-Dur house of his classmate Kumai
came from.
     The Trolls have always lived together in large tight-knit families, and since the only way to
put up a house big enough for thirty people on a steep slope is to build up, their abodes were
thick-walled stone towers twenty to thirty feet high. The stonemasonry experience
accumulated in the building of these miniature fortresses later made Troll expatriates into
the leading city builders of Mordor. Their other line was metallurgy. First they perfected
blacksmithing, making weapons cheap and therefore widely available; then they mastered
working with iron-nickel alloys (most of the ores in the region were self-legated), and since
then the swords worn by every local male over the age of twelve were the best in Middle
Earth. Not surprisingly, the Trolls never knew any authority other than their own elders:
only a total idiot will attack a Trollish tower and sacrifice half of the attacking force only to
gain a dozen scrawny sheep as booty (or church tithe).
     The Mordorian powers understood this well and therefore did nothing but recruit warriors
here, which much flattered the Trolls. Later, though, when mining and metal refining
became their main occupation, the sale of those commodities was hit with a stupendous tax,
but the Trolls did not seem to care -- their indifference to wealth and luxury was already
legendary, along with their stubbornness. This also gave rise to a popular legend that the
known Trolls were only a half of that people. The other half (mistakenly called `gnomes' or
`dwarves' in the Western countries, in confusion with another mythical race -- that of
underground smiths) supposedly were wealth-crazy and spent all their lives in secret
underground tunnels, searching for gold and gems; they were allegedly miserly, aggressive,
treacherous -- in other words, a mirror image of the real, above-ground Trolls. Be that as it
may, the fact remains: the Trollish community gave Mordor many outstanding personalities,
from generals and bladesmiths to scientists and preachers, but not a single merchant of note.
When the Western allies implementing `the final solution of the Mordorian problem' have
finished `mopping up' the foothills and went to work on the Trolls in their Ash and Shadow
Mountains gorges, they quickly discovered that fighting mountain men was rather different
from collecting ears in Gorgoroth. The Trollish villages have been decimated or worse --
thousands of men have perished in the march on Esgaroth and on the Field of Pelennor -- but
waging war in the confines of the mountains pretty much nullifies numerical advantages.
The mountain dwellers always had the option to give battle in the narrowest points, where
ten good warriors can hold back an entire army for hours, while catapults on the slopes
above methodically pound the paralyzed enemy column. Having thrice buried large
companies of the enemy under man-made avalanches in the gorges, the Trolls then
expanded their operations to the foothills, so that the Easterlings and the Elves alike did not
dare stir out of a few well-fortified outposts at night. In the meantime, people from the
plains kept arriving at the mountain villages which were now guerilla bases -- if the end is
near, better to meet it armed and not alone.

     <h3>Chapter 24</h3>

     There were many intriguing personalities among those arriving in the Shara-Teg Gorge in
those days. The doctor met one of them, a certain maestro Haddami, at Ivar's headquarters,
where the small parchment-faced Umbarian with inexpressibly sad eyes worked as a clerk,
from time to time offering Ivar highly interesting ideas for reconnaissance operations. The
maestro had been one of the country's leading crooks; during the fall of Barad-Dur he was
serving a five-year sentence there for a grandiose scam involving countersigned bank drafts.
Being a financial ignoramus, Haladdin could not appreciate the technical details, but judging
by the fact that the defrauded merchants (the heads of the three oldest trading firms of the
capital) have expended a titanic effort to keep the prosecution out of court and thus out of
the public eye, the scheme must have been very good indeed. With no opportunities to ply
his trade in the ruined city, Haddami dug up his secreted gold and headed south towards his
historical motherland, but the exigencies of war brought him to the guerillas instead of to
Umbar.
     The maestro was a fountainhead of assorted talents; having sorely missed learned
conversation, he willingly demonstrated those to Haladdin. For example, he could perfectly
imitate anyone's handwriting, which was certainly very useful in his craft. Nor was this
simple forgery of signatures; far from it. After studying a few pages of the doctor's notes,
Haddami wrote a meaningful text which Haladdin first thought to be his own -- I must have
written and forgotten it; now he had found it and is playing games with my mind...
It turned out to be simultaneously simpler and more complex. Haddami was a genius
graphologist able to put together a complete psychological profile of an author and then
morph into him, so that the texts he wrote in other people's names were authentic, in a way.
After the maestro told Haladdin everything he had learned about him from a few
handwritten lines, the doctor experienced bewilderment liberally spiced with fear -- this was
real magic, and not benign, either. For a moment Haladdin was even sorely tempted to show
the maestro some notes of Tangorn's, although he clearly realized that this would have been
even worse than simply snooping in someone's private diary. No one has the right to know
more about a person than he is willing to tell, and both friendship and love die together with
the person's right to privacy.
     That was when he had a weird idea to submit Eloar's letter (from the dead Elf's possessions)
to Haddami's analysis. He and the baron went through its contents with a fine-tooth comb
during their sojourn at Morgai, looking for any clues for entry into L  rien, but have found
nothing useful. Now Haladdin wanted, for reasons unclear to himself, to have the Elf's
psychological portrait.
     The results surprised him beyond belief. From the fine curlicues of runes, Haddami weaved
a portrait of an exceptionally noble and likeable person, perhaps too dreamy, and open to the
point of vulnerability. To Haladdin's objections the graphologist insisted that his analysis of
Eloar's other notes on topography and logistics only confirmed his conclusions; there was
no mistake.
     Finally, Haladdin lost his patience. "If so, your entire method isn't worth a damn!" he stated,
and then described to the startled expert what he had seen in Teshgol, sparing him no grisly
detail.
     "Listen, doctor," somewhat haggard Haddami said after a pause, "I still insist -- it wasn't
him there, in that Teshgol of yours..."
     "What do you mean, it wasn't him?! Perhaps he personally hadn't raped an eight-year-old
girl before slitting her throat, but he commanded the people who did!"
     "No, no, Haladdin, that's not at all what I mean! See, this is a deep, unimaginably deep (for
us humans) split of personality. Imagine for a moment that you had to participate in
something like Teshgol -- just had to. You have a mother whom you love dearly; with the
Elves, it can't be otherwise, since children are very few and every member of society is truly
invaluable. I suspect that you'd do everything possible to keep any knowledge of this
nightmare from her, and knowing the Elves' perceptiveness, simple lying or even
withholding information would not be enough. This would require you to really turn into
another person. Two totally different personalities in one creature -- for internal and external
consumption, so to speak. Do you understand me?"
     "To be honest, not really. Split personalities are not my field of expertise."
Strangely, apparently it was this conversation that pointed Haladdin towards the solution to
the main problem he has been working on, and this solution shocked him with its
primitiveness. It had been lying right there, on the surface, and now it seemed to him that he
had been deliberately looking away, pretending not to see it. That evening the doctor got
back to the tower to which they have been assigned late at night; the hosts were already in
bed, but the fire was still burning in the hearth, and he sat there motionless, staring fixedly at
the orange embers. He did not even notice when the baron appeared by his side.
     "Listen, Haladdin, you look upset. Want a drink?"
     "Yes... I suppose I do."
The local vodka burned his mouth and rolled along his spine like a spasm; he wiped his eyes
and looked for a place to spit. The drink did not make him feel better, but did add a measure
of detachment. Tangorn disappeared into the dark and returned with another stool.
     "More?"
     "No, thank you."
     "Did something happen?"
     "Yes. I've figured out how to plant our little gift on the Elves."
     "So?"
     "So now I'm pondering the eternal question of whether the ends justify the means."
     "Hmm... can be either way, depending on the circumstances."
     "Precisely. A mathematician would say that stated generally, the problem lacks a solution.
Therefore, instead of a clear directive the One in His infinite wisdom had decided to supply
us with conscience, which is a rather delicate and unreliable device."
     "So what does your conscience say now, Doctor?" Tangorn looked at him with faintly
mocking interest.
     "Conscience says clearly: no. Duty says, equally clearly: you must. So it goes... It must be
nice to live by the knightly ethic: do what you must and let the chips fall where they may,
right, Baron? Especially when someone had already let you know what you must do..."
     "I'm afraid that no one can help you make this choice."
     "Nor do I need any help. What's more," he turned away and, shivering, stretched his hands
towards the cooling embers, "I would like to free you from any obligation to participate in
our mission. Believe me, even if we win with my plan, it will not be a victory to be proud
of."
     "Really?" Tangorn's face went hard, and his gaze suddenly weighed like an avalanche. "So
your plan is of such a quality that to take part in it is a greater dishonor than abandoning a
friend in need -- and so far I have considered you to be one? Doctor, I greatly appreciate
your concern for my conscience, but perhaps you'll allow me to make this judgment
myself?"
     "As you wish," Haladdin shrugged indifferently. "You can listen first and decline later. It's
a fairly complicated scheme and we'll have to start from afar... What do you think is
Aragorn's relationship with the Elves?"
     "Aragorn and the Elves? You mean now, after they've put him on the throne of Gondor?"
     "Of course. I think you have mentioned knowing Eastern mythology pretty well; perhaps
you remember the tale of the Dwarves' Chain?"
     "I have to confess to forgetting it."
     "Well, it's a very edifying story. A long, long time ago the gods were trying to subdue
Hahti, the hungry demon of Hell, who could've consumed the whole world. Twice they
restrained him with a chain forged by the divine Blacksmith -- first of steel, then of mithril --
and both times Hahti tore it like a thread. So when the gods were down to their third and
final attempt, they had to abase themselves by turning to the Dwarves for help. Those came
through with a chain made from fishes' voice and the sound of cat's footfalls..."
     "Fishes' voice and the sound of cat's footfalls?"
     "Yes. That's why neither of those are found in the world -- all used up in that chain.
Actually, it seems to me that some other things got used up as well, such as gratitude of
kings. Speaking of which, how do you think the gods paid the Dwarves?"
     "By liquidating them, I suppose; how else?"
     "Exactly! Actually, they only intended to liquidate them, but the Dwarves were to be
reckoned with, too... but that's a different story. Back to Aragorn and the Elves..."
His tale was long and detailed, as he was also testing his logic. Afterwards, a silence fell,
disturbed only by the howling wind outside the tower.
     "You're a scary man, Haladdin; who would've thought?.." Tangorn said thoughtfully,
looking at the doctor with a new interest and -- yes, respect. "The job we have undertaken
brooks no timidity, but if we are, indeed, to win in this manner... In other words, I doubt
that I will ever want to reminisce about it with you over a cup of wine."
     "If we are to win in this manner," Haladdin echoed, "I don't think that I will ever want to
look at myself in a mirror." (In any event, he added to himself, I will never dare look Sonya
in the eye.)
     "Actually," the baron smirked, "allow me to take you back to earth: this discussion rather
resembles dividing spoils before the battle. First you win this fight, then do your soul-
searching. So far we see a light at the end of the tunnel, nothing more. I don't think that our
chances of survival are any better than one in five, so it's an honest game, in a way."
     "Our chances? So you're staying?"
     "What else can I do? Why, do you think that you can do this without me? For example,
how did you plan to approach Faramir? Your whole scheme will end before it begins
without his participation, albeit passive. All right... Here's what I think: this lure of yours
has to be dropped nowhere else but Umbar. I will undertake that part of the operation, you
and Tzerlag will only burden me there. Let's go to sleep now; I will consider the details
tomorrow."
     However, the next day they had another task: the long-awaited guide finally turned up, and
off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but the pass still hadn't
opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the sleeping bags made from
thickhorn skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a half in an igloo that Matun
fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick firn, they barely managed to dig themselves out.
In Haladdin's memory the whole trek was one thick, glutinous nightmare. Oxygen
deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all around him -- after every move all
he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling.
It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best way to go. The only time he broke
out of that half-dream was when a huge furry figure appeared from nowhere on another side
of a gorge about half a mile from where they were -- a cross between an ape and a rearing
bear. The creature moved awkwardly but preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the
boulders at the bottom of the gorge without paying any attention to them. That was the only
time he had ever seen a scared Troll, something he thought impossible. "Matun, what was
that?" The guide only waved a hand, as if warding against the Enemy: it's gone, and that's
good enough... So now they are walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying
the birdsongs, while Matun is going back, alone, through all those screes and firn fields.
...That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a stockade
around a couple of unfinished houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their bows and the
leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and approach slowly with hands
up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was heading to Prince
Faramir himself. The men shared glances and inquired whether the newcomer was from the
Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of the builders, who was sitting
at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and laughed heartily:
     "Well, well, Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!"
     "Guys!!" yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. "May my eyes never see if it ain't
Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn't recognize you; you look, you know... Hey, now
we're all back together, so we'll do that White Company like..." and, elated, he aimed an
expressive obscene gesture towards Emyn Arnen.

     <h3>Chapter 25</h3>
     Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet
     May 14, 3019

     "...So you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: `merry men from the Blackbird
Hamlet?'"
     "What else could I do -- wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze? Both the Prince and the girl can
only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can't exactly talk with those guys
present..."
     The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the
speaker's face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a mashtang bandit from the
caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally comfortable in
Khand caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth
dervishes, and in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago
who taught the newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of
intelligence work and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without
knowing which one will always remain a greengo, a permanent target of digs large and
small from every Southerner, from a street boy to a palace courtier.
The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine, caught
Tangorn's barely discernible `no' gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The emotional
encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.
     "How quickly did you get in touch?"
     "Nine days. The Whites ought to have forgotten that stupid episode already. The girl went
hunting once -- it's routine now -- saw a shepherd boy with his flock on a distant pasture and
lost her escort, very professionally, for not more than ten minutes."
     "A shepherd boy, eh? Did she give him a gold coin wrapped in a note?"
     "Nope -- took a splinter out of his foot and told him a story of how she and her brother, when
they were kids, had to defend a herd against steppe wolves... Listen, is it true that they do
everything themselves in the North?"
     "Yes. Over there even crown princes tend horses in childhood, and princesses work in the
kitchens. So what about the boy?"
     "She simply asked him to help in such a way that no one else finds out. And -- the word of a
professional -- were anything to happen, the boy would let himself be cut to ribbons before
giving anything away... Anyway, he found Blackbird Hamlet and brought an oral message:
next Friday Captain Beregond will be in the Red Deer tavern in the Settlement, waiting for a
drunk man who will slap his shoulder and ask whether he is the one who commanded the
archers of Morthond on the Pelennor Field."
     "What?! Beregond?"
     "Yes, if you can imagine that. We were no less surprised, believe me. You have to agree,
though, that Aragorn's people aren't likely to bait a trap with someone so noticeable, so the
Prince is doing everything right."
     "You must all be crazy here!" Tangorn spread his hands. "How can you trust a man who
first killed his suzerain and is now betraying his new lords, in less than a month?"
     "Quite the contrary. First, he's innocent of Denethor's death, we know that for sure..."
     "For sure? How? You looked into chicken entrails?"
     "Yes, we did, but into a palant  r rather than anyone's entrails. Long story short -- Faramir
fully trusts him now, and the Prince, as you know, is a good judge of people and not given to
sentimentality."
     Tangorn leaned forward and even whistled in amazement. "Wait! Do you mean to say that
Denethor's palant  r is in Emyn Arnen?"
     "Yep. Those folks in Minas Tirith have decided that it's broken. All they could see in it
was the murdered King's ghost, so when Faramir asked for it as a memento, they were only
too glad to get rid of it."
     "All right..."
The baron stole an involuntary glance at the door to the next room, where Haladdin and
Tzerlag were bedding down for the night. The situation was changing rapidly; they were
inordinately lucky recently, he thought fleetingly, not a good sign... Grager followed his
glance and nodded in the same direction:
     "Those two. Are they really looking for Faramir?"
     "Yes. They can be trusted, since our interests are fully aligned, at least for now."
     "Well, well... A diplomatic mission?"
     "Something like that. Forgive me, but I'm honor-bound..."
The chief of the Ithilienians contemplated this for some time, and then grumbled: "All right.
You deal with them yourself, I'm busy enough as it is. I'm gonna take them out from
underfoot to the most remote base, at Otter Creek, for the time being, and then we'll see."
     "By the way, why did you give away precisely this base, at Blackbird Hamlet?"
     "Because you can't approach it stealthily, so we can always beat it. Besides, we have only a
few guys here; it's more of an observation post than a base."
     "How many people do we have?"
     "You're number fifty-two."
     "And they?.."
     "Forty."
     "Can't storm the fort, then."
     "Forget a direct assault," Grager waved off the notion. "Whatever else, they'll anyway have
enough time to kill the Prince. Moreover, Faramir demands that his freedom be attained
with no bloodshed, so that no one can later accuse him of violating his vassal's oath. No, we
have another plan -- an escape from Emyn Arnen; and when the Prince of Ithilien is under
our protection, that's when we can change our tune and advise the Whites to get lost."
     "So -- do you have a concrete plan?"
     "Brother, you offend me -- it's almost fully implemented already! You see, E:owyn was our
biggest problem: they're only let outside separately, and the Prince won't go anywhere
without her, of course. So we had to solve this puzzle: where can we arrange for both the
Prince and the Princess to be, first, alone, second, with no eyes on them, third, outside the
fort?"
     "Hmm... the bedchamber comes to mind immediately, if not for the third condition."
     "You're almost right. It's the bathhouse."
     "Wow!" Tangorn laughed. "A tunnel?"
     "Sure. The bathhouse is within the stockade, but away from the main building. We're
digging from a nearby mill, about two hundred yards straight, quite a bit of work. The
biggest problem with tunnels, as you know, is what to do with all the dirt. With the mill
we're getting it out in sacks dusted with flour, it's all very natural-looking. The danger is
that the sentries might start counting the sacks from sheer boredom, and figure out that a lot
more are going out than are coming in. So we couldn't dig full-bore, but looks like we'll be
done this week."
     "And the White Company has no suspicions?"
     "Beregond swears that they don't. Of course, they don't tell him anything of the sort, but
he'd see some signs of an alarm."
     "Do they have informants in the Settlement and the hamlets?"
     "In the Settlement for sure, but not in the hamlets, I don't think. See, the White Company
has a real communication problem outside the fort. The locals avoid talking to them
(there're all sorts of crazy rumors about them, including that they're the living dead), which
helps us a lot: every settler contact with the Whites stands out. They've wised up now and
switched to dead drops, but before that they were giving away their agents every day."
     "Is the innkeeper working for them?"
     "Looks that way. Makes our lives very difficult."
     "What about the merchants who travel to Gondor?"
     "One. The other is my man. I've waited for them to try and recruit him, then we'd have
their communication channel, but no luck so far."
     "You're just watching them for now?"
     "Not just watching. Now that we're counting down the days, I've decided to cut their link to
Minas Tirith -- make them get a little busy. That'll distract them both from the miller and
our hamlets."
     "Speaking of a link -- anyone in the Settlement keep pigeons?"
Grager grinned. "One did, but his coop burned down. So it goes..."
     "Wasn't that too bold? They must've been furious."
     "Sure they were! But, like I told you, it's the final countdown, speed matters. Besides, two
sergeants investigated the arson, if you can imagine that, so now we know who's in charge
of counter-intelligence there... The only thing is," the former resident spy said thoughtfully,
keeping his gaze on the lamp, "I'm really bothered by how easily I'm figuring out
everything they do. Just put myself in their place: how would I build a network in such a
village? But this simply means that once they find out that we exist -- which they will, and
soon -- they'll figure my moves out equally easily. So what we must do is move first...
Aha!" His raised finger froze in mid-air. "Sounds like company! Looks like the boys from
the fort have finally risked direct contact with Minas Tirith -- I've been waiting for this for
three days!"
     ...The cart rolled down the highway in quickly gathering dusk, and its driver (the owner of
the local grocery) kept getting chills behind the collar and in his sleeves. He had almost
made it through the Owl Hollow -- the most dismal stretch of the route between the
Settlement and Osgiliath -- when four shadows materialized noiselessly out of the dark
chestnut bushes on both sides of the road. The merchant knew the rules well and
surrendered his purse with its dozen silver coins meant to purchase soap and spices to the
robbers without complaint. However, the robbers didn't evince much interest in the money,
telling the prisoner to disrobe; this was against the rules, but the blade against his throat
discouraged any discussion. The grocer was really scared -- cold-sweat scared -- only when
the leader, after poking his boot soles with a dagger, carefully felt his jacket, grunted in
satisfaction and cut open one of the stitches. Then he deftly extracted a small square of fine
silk, covered with runes barely visible in the dark.
     The merchant was an amateur, so when the robbers threw a rope over a sturdy branch, he
committed a gaffe of monumental proportions by claiming to be a King's man. What did he
expect to accomplish? The night assassins only traded puzzled looks: their experience
suggested that the King's men were just as mortal as all others, provided they were hanged
properly. The one who was fashioning the noose observed drily that espionage was not a
game of darts at the Red Deer, when only a couple of beers are at stake. Strictly speaking,
he further observed while carefully tying a `pirate's knot' in full view of the victim, the
merchant was lucky. A failed spy usually doesn't rate such a quick and relatively painless
death; it's his good fortune that he's only a courier and knows nothing about the rest of the
organization... At that, the unfortunate grocer failed to hold either his bodily wastes or
whatever he knew; as Grager's men supposed, he knew quite a lot.
The `robbers' traded satisfied glances: they have done their job flawlessly. The leader led a
horse out from behind a bush, gave a couple of curt orders and galloped away: Blackbird
Hamlet has been waiting for this bit of silk for a long time. One of the others gave the
shaking prisoner a look that was far from admiring and pushed his discarded clothing
towards him with his boot: "Over there, behind the trees, is a little stream. Go clean
yourself up and get dressed -- you're coming with us. I'm sure you can imagine what's
gonna happen if your White Company buddies catch up with you."
...The cipher used to encode the message was surprisingly simple. Upon discovering seven
instances of a rare G rune in a short letter, Tangorn and Grager understood immediately that
they were dealing with a so-called direct substitution, where one rune is always replaced
with only one other throughout the text. Typically, a predetermined number is added to the
number of all fifty-eight runes constituting the Kertar Daeron; for example, if the step is ten,
Y (number 11) replaces X (number 1), A (number 7) replaces q (number 55), and so on.
This cipher is so primitive that in the South it is used, at most, to encode secret love letters.
Having figured out the step on the second try -- fourteen, the date of the message -- Grager
cursed elaborately, reckoning it an attempt at disinformation.
The message was anything but disinformation, though. In it, one Cheetah, captain of His
Majesty's Secret Guard, was informing his `colleague Grager' that their game had reached
an impasse. Certainly Grager could roll up his intelligence network outside the fort and
impede communications with Minas Tirith; however, this would not advance his ultimate
goal even a little bit. Would it not make sense for the two of them to meet, either in Emyn
Arnen (with safe conduct guarantees) or in one of the hamlets of the Baron's choosing?

     <h3>Chapter 26</h3>
     Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
     Night of May 14, 3019

     "Listen, so you say that Princess Allandale didn't really exist, that this Alrufin dreamed her
up..." E:owyn was sitting in the armchair with her feet up, her slender fingers intertwined
over her knees and a funny frown on her face. The prince smiled and, perching on the arm,
tried and failed to smooth out the frown with his lips.
     "No, Far, wait, I do mean it. She's alive, you see -- really alive! When she dies to save her
friend, I want to cry, as if I had lost a friend for real... See, those sagas about ancient heroes
are also great, but they're different, very different. All those Gil-galads and Isildurs, they're
like... like stone statues, you understand? One can worship them, but that's it, while the
Princess -- she's weak, she's warm, you can love her... Am I making sense?"
     "Plenty, honey. I think that Alrufin would have loved to hear you say this."
     "Allandale must've lived in the beginning of the Third Age. No one but a few chroniclers
even knows the names of the konungs who ruled Rohan back then; so who's more real --
they, or this girl? Hadn't Alrufin -- scary to say! -- exceeded the might of the Valar?"
     "Yes, in a way he has."
     "You know, I just thought... what if someone as mighty as Alrufin writes a book about the
two of us -- this can happen, right? Then which E:owyn will be the real one -- I or the other?"
Faramir smiled. "I remember when you asked to explain, on a `stupid woman level', what
philosophy is. Well, your thoughts are just that -- philosophy, albeit a tad na  ve. 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 E:owyn in puzzlement: it's night already, who might want something?
The man who entered wore the black parade uniform of the Gondorian Guards of the Citadel
(this had always intrigued the prince: White Company wearing black uniforms), and Faramir
felt trepidation: they must have made some serious mistake. He told E:owyn to go into the
next room, but the guest politely requested that she stay: what they will be discussing
directly involves Her Highness.
     "First, allow me to introduce myself, albeit a little late. I don't have a name, but you can
call me Cheetah. I'm 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 understand my responsibilities incorrectly. 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 to
His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone else's bills? On the other hand, I must
avert all attempts to persuade you to break your vassal's oath. Imagine that a 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 open and
straight. "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 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 unit didn't come home to Gondor. Especially remarkable 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. "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 come to 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 officially to introduce
himself and ask to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond unnatural, but
rather 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 planning your `liberation'. I think
we've already established what would happen then."
     "These thoughts of yours are very interesting, Captain, and have their own logic, but if those
are the only proofs of Beregond's guilt that you have..."
     "Please, Prince," Cheetah frowned, "we're not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns me
now is the real guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than the legal niceties. Immediately
a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only served in Minas Tirith, contact
Sergeant Runcorn, the free shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien's forests? Someone
must've introduced them, even if indirectly, and you're the prime suspect, Prince... Now:
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 pay will be different: I will go on being an honored prisoner,
while the Captain will die a tortuous death. The worst thing is that I really can do nothing
for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the knowledge of this betrayal.
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 a cast-in-stone rule of clandestine warfare: in all circumstances, either be silent or
deny everything, 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 finished: "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 indissoluble."
     "All right," Cheetah drawled thoughtfully. "What about you, E:owyn? 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 E:owyn's many fine qualities --
she paled and looked helplessly at Faramir. Cheetah had 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 his gaze, 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 avoid 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 it costs. 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 his quill atop an incomplete
manuscript, as if not noticing that his left elbow had nudged an unfinished cup 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 quickly 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, heading to the
door. The lock clanged, the sound of marching boots faded quickly 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. Find anything for me?"
     "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 had too much happiness."
     "Are you ready, darling?" 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..."

     <h3>Chapter 27</h3>

     Meanwhile, 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 gate was lit with a dozen torches held aloft by riders in Ithilien
regiment's camouflage cloaks from the Baron's entourage. The talks proceeded with great
difficulty, or almost not at all; the `esteemed treating parties' agreed on the need to avoid
bloodshed and nothing 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 enemies 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
broke up 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
quiet 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 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, who kept their attention and bows trained on Grager's well-lit men and
expected no such chutzpah. 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 nice 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 interest 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.
     "...And remember, Sergeant: no killing when taking down sentries and such! Treat this as a
war game."
     "Very nice! Do those guys understand it's a war game?"
     "I hope so."
     "All right. I guess they'll hang me with a pretend rope..."
They say that there are werewolves-nin'yokve in the countries of the Far East -- a fearsome
clan of super-spies and super-assassins capable of mutating into animals internally, while
keeping their human appearance. Turning into a gecko, a nin'yokve can climb a smooth wall
against all laws of physics, slither into any crack after turning into a snake, and should the
guards catch up with him, he turns into a bat and flies away. Tzerlag had never had any
nin'yokve skills (despite Tangorn's possible suspicions), but the leader of a scouting platoon
of the Cirith Ungol Rangers knew quite a few tricks involving no magic.
In any event, by the time the White Company soldiers have been roused and took their
positions in the courtyard, he had already scaled one of the outside galleries and was now
working on its lock, trading the grapple for other tools. The Sergeant did not have the skills
of a real burglar, but he did know a few things about metalworking, and as he remembered
from last year, any lock in Emyn Arnen could be opened with a pocketknife and a couple of
pieces of wire. A few minutes later he was gliding noiselessly through the dark and empty
corridors (all the Whites are outside -- very convenient!); the Orocuen had admirable visual
memory and spatial orientation skills, but he saw that finding the Prince's bedchamber in
this three-dimensional maze was not going to be easy.
     ...Freezing before every corner, zooming through open spaces like a lightning, climbing
stairs sideways lest a step creak, Tzerlag had covered about a third of the way when his
inner sentry, which was the only reason he had survived those years, moved its icy hand
along his spine: beware! He immediately flattened against the wall and slowly moved
sideways toward the turn about a dozen yards ahead. He could see no one behind, but the
feeling of danger was still close and very clear; when the sergeant had made past the helpful
turn, he was sweating thoroughly. He crouched and carefully extended a pocket mirror past
the corner, almost at floor level -- the corridor was still empty. He waited for a few minutes
with no changes, and then he felt clearly: the danger receded, he could not feel it any more.
This did not calm him at all; he moved forward even more cautiously and ready for the
worst.
     ...When Cheetah caught a fast-moving shadow in the corner of his eye, he plastered himself
against the wall in exactly the same manner and cursed inwardly: they missed the intruder
after all, the bastards! The captain's position was not that great: only three sentries to cover
the entire huge building -- one guarding Faramir and E:owyn, another by Beregond, the third
at the entrance to the cellar. Go get help from outside? The intruder might let the prince out
in the meantime, and the two of them will screw things up thoroughly. Sound an alarm? No
good: the intruder will vanish into this damned maze and get ready for battle, so the only
way to take him would be with quite a few holes in him, which is highly undesirable. Yes,
looks like the only real option is to follow the guest and take him down personally, hand-to-
hand, something Cheetah knew very well indeed.
     Once he made the decision, Cheetah suddenly felt the rush of long-forgotten joyous
excitement, for what is more exquisite fun than hunting an armed man? He froze in
amazement, listening to himself: yes, there was no doubt -- he was feeling an emotion! So
this process has a certain order to it, then. He had his memory back first (although he still
could not remember what happened to him before he found himself in the second rank of the
gray phalanx marching across the Field of Pelennor), then he regained the ability to make
his own decisions, then he could once again feel pain and weariness, and now the emotions
were back. I wonder if I will be able to feel fear, too? At this rate I might become human
again, he chuckled to himself. All right, I have work to do.
Naturally, he did not go into the corridor the intruder had taken; quite possibly he had seen
him, too, and was now waiting behind the next corner. Much better to make use of being the
master here and being able to move much faster than the foe: no need to freeze and listen by
every turn. I can go around and still be there first. Where's there? If the unwelcome guest
is moving towards Faramir's room (where else?), then I should meet him at the Two Stairs
Landing -- he can't avoid it, and I will have at least three minutes to prepare.
As he expected, the counter-intelligence chief was the first at the landing; he took off his
cloak and started painstakingly setting up the trap. I must morph into my quarry; so -- if he's
not a leftie, he will be moving along the left wall. Would I look at the spiral staircase that
will suddenly appear on the right? Yes, definitely. Then I will be with my back to this
niche? Precisely. What a beautiful niche -- even up close it's hard to believe that it can hold
anything bigger than a broom. Here, let's extinguish this lamp, so it's more in the shadow...
wonderful, all set, that's where I'll stand. Now: I'm here, he's there, two yards off and
facing away. Sword hilt to the back of the head? Damn, don't feel like it... not sure why,
but intuition says no, gotta listen to intuition in this business. Hands, then -- a chokehold?
Right hand grabs the hair at the nape, pull down to raise the chin, a simultaneous kick to the
knee, left arm to the exposed throat. Reliable, but possibly lethal, and corpses don't talk
much. Hadaka-jime, then, but for that it's preferable that he expose his throat himself -- say,
by looking up. How can we make him look up? Think, Cheetah, think...
...When Tzerlag reached the dim weirdly shaped widening of the corridor at the end of
which he could discern stairs going left, the premonition of danger returned with such force
that he almost became dizzy: the unknown foe was somewhere very close. He watched and
listened for minute -- nothing; moved forward slowly, in small steps, noiselessly (damn,
maybe to hell with their orders, get out the scimitar?) and froze: a large opening appeared on
the right, with a spiral staircase through it, and there was definitely something behind those
stairs. He glided by the left wall, his eyes on the opening -- who the hell's there? -- and
stopped, almost laughing out loud. Whew! It's just a sword, leaned against the wall behind
the stairs by one of the Whites. A strange place to keep a personal weapon, though. Maybe
it's not leaned, actually -- judging by the angle, it might've slipped down from upstairs. By
the way, what's that there on the top step?..
     Tzerlag's inner sentry yelled: behind you! only a split second before the foe's hands locked
around his neck. The sergeant only had time to flex his neck muscles. Moving precisely,
like in training, Cheetah grabbed his throat with the crook of the right arm, then the counter-
spy's right hand locked on his left bicep, while the left pushed against the back of his neck,
crushing throat cartilage and pinching the arteries. Hadaka-jime -- unbreakable stranglehold.
Game over.

     <h3>Chapter 28</h3>

     Banal though it sounds, everything has its price. The price of a warrior is the amount of
time and money (which are really the same thing) it takes to train, arm, and equip another
one to replace him. In every epoch it is useless to increase the level of training beyond a
certain threshold where a basic competency is achieved, since total imperviousness is
anyway impossible. What good does it do to spend the effort to turn a regular infantryman
into a first-class fencer when this will not save him from a crossbow bolt or, worse, a bout of
wasting diarrhea?
     For example, take hand-to-hand combat. It is a very useful skill, but perfection takes years
of constant training, whereas a soldier, to put it mildly, has plenty of other responsibilities.
There are several options here; the Mordorian army approach was to teach only about a
dozen techniques, but to teach those twelve combinations of movements almost down to the
level of the kneejerk reflex. Of course, it is impossible to foresee all eventualities, but the
method for breaking a rear stranglehold is definitely among the said dozen techniques.
Step one! -- a swift move back; stomp heel into the top of the foe's foot, crushing its bird-
thin bones encased in myriads of nerve endings. Step two! -- bend the knees slightly, small
turn of thighs, slide out of the grip suddenly weakened by horrible pain, down and slightly to
the right, until there is room to drive the left elbow into his groin. Once the foe's hands drop
to his hammered genitals, there are a few options available; for example, Tzerlag's step-
three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent's ears: burst eardrums and a
guaranteed knock-out. This ain't no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern martial arts, where the
hieroglyphs of each position are but notation marks for the music of the Higher Spheres; this
is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple and to the point.
First he kneeled and pulled up the eyelid of the spirited White Company sergeant (good, the
pupil is reacting, Grager's order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to
lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to
swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote?
It'd've been the end for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did he
figure me out? Wait, this means that they'll be waiting for me at Faramir's door, too...
...The D  nadan sentry in the corridor leading to the Prince's bedchamber heard heavy
dragging footfalls on the stairs. A rustle, a muffled moan, then quiet... unsure footfalls
again... He quickly backed into the corridor and drew his sword, ready to sound the alarm
at any moment. The soldier was ready for anything, but when he saw Cheetah at the end of
the corridor, bent over double and leaning on the wall, his jaw dropped. Sword at the ready,
the sentry moved forward and quickly scanned the stairs which the captain just ascended --
nothing; Great Manwe, who did this to him? Is it poison? Meanwhile, the captain lost what
strength he still had, slid down the wall and was still, head down and still holding his belly;
it was evident that he had walked the last few steps on autopilot. The D  nadan looked at
Cheetah with mixed amazement, fear, and -- let's be honest -- some glee. The vaunted Secret
Guard! Homegrown nin'yokve, right... He looked at the stairs where the captain straggled
from once more time and crouched down to examine the wounded man.
Weird, but when the hood covering Cheetah's face fell back, the soldier's first thought was
that the almighty chief of counter-intelligence had for some reason known only to him
decided to turn into an Orc. That was his first absurd thought and he had no time for a
second one: the `tiger's paw' strike which Tzerlag had chosen for this occasion is very
effective, especially when administered from down up; nothing more was necessary. Pretty
cruel treatment, no doubt, but there was no ban on injuries, only on killing; maybe we're
playing a war game, but dammit, it's still not a picnic! After searching the sentry (no keys,
but Tzerlag was not really expecting any), the sergeant fished his goodies out of the pack
and got started on the lock.
     Pulling up the too-long sleeves of Cheetah's jacket, he thought as he worked: to think that
we made it through the entire war without this, but I had to do it now. Laws and Customs of
War, paragraph two -- using the enemy's uniform and medical symbols. This rates an instant
hanging on the nearest tree -- rightly so, by the by. Well, it'll come in handy now -- better to
show up at the prince's as a familiar jailer, rather than some Orc. Aha! Here's what I'm
gonna do: put the hood down again and hand him Grager's paper without a word. The lock
finally gave way, and Tzerlag breathed easier: halfway done! He had worked on the lock
kneeling, and opened the door from that position, before standing up. That was what saved
him -- otherwise not even the Orocuen's lightning reflexes would have been enough to block
Faramir's strike.
     It is fairly easy, obvious even, to hit a man entering a room from behind a doorpost
(provided that it juts far enough from the wall), but there is a catch. A man best perceives
whatever is happening at his eye level, so if you decide to hammer the visitor on the head
with something like a chair leg, this move will surprise only a total amateur. This is why
people in the know (such as the prince) do not go after brute strength. Instead, they crouch
and strike horizontally, rather than vertically. The blow, as mentioned, comes out weaker,
but it hits right where it counts; most importantly, it is exceedingly difficult to react to.
Faramir's script for the next scene was as follows: once Cheetah (or whoever enters first)
bends over with pain, the prince would pull him into the room, beyond the left doorpost.
E:owyn, standing behind the right doorpost, behind the opened door, would shut and block it
with all her weight. Those left outside would immediately try to break in, but their first
attempt would likely be disorganized, giving the girl a good chance to hold it for a few
seconds. Those few seconds should be enough for Faramir to knock Cheetah out and grab
his weapons. E:owyn would move aside then; those assaulting the door would by then get
organized enough to slam into it together -- "on my mark!" -- and tumble into the room,
possibly falling over. Faramir would immediately stab one of them -- no more joking
around. This would likely leave no more than two Whites standing, and since the prince is
one of the top twenty swords of Gondor, the royal couple's chances range from pretty good
to excellent should E:owyn manage to grab the second sw