ord. Then they would change into
White Company uniforms and try to sneak out of the fort.
     This plan had some weak spots (mostly where coordinated action was concerned), but
overall it was pretty good, especially considering that its primary goal was death with
dignity, with escape to freedom a possible bonus. However, as already mentioned, the
Orocuen was kneeling when he opened the door, so Faramir's first blow hit him in the chest
and he managed to put up a block. Amazed by the prisoner's perceptiveness -- just imagine
recognizing an Orc under a White Company sergeant's hood! -- Tzerlag somersaulted back
into the corridor, but by the time he got to his feet Faramir was already out of the room and
had cut off his retreat, while his improvised club was a whirl of wood that was impossible to
block. When a moment later that blond wildcat slipped behind his back, the sergeant was
reduced to rolling around on the floor, dodging blows and calling out in the most
undignified manner: "Friendly, friendly, Prince! I'm with Grager and Tangorn! Dammit,
stop already!"
     Then again, Faramir had already guessed something once he noticed the sentry lying down
the corridor.
     "Stand up!" he growled. "Hands on the back of your head! Who are you?"
     "I surrender!" The sergeant smiled and handed the prince his `enlistment chit.' "This is a
message from Grager, it explains everything. You read while I drag this guy inside, we'll
need his uniform."
     "Cute," the prince grunted, handing Grager's paper back to Tzerlag. "So now I count an
Orocuen amongst my friends?"
     "We're not friends at all, Prince," the other objected calmly, "we're allies.            Baron
Tangorn..."
     "What?! He's alive?"
     "Yes. We had saved him back in Mordor. By the way, it was he who insisted that I go
rescue you. Anyway, the Baron asked that you take the palant  r when we leave the fort, as
we're gonna leave it now."
     "What the hell do they need it for?" The prince was surprised, but no more than that. He
had yielded the initiative to the Ithilienians and switched to `take this -- go there' mode. He
only nodded questioningly towards the D  nadan whose jacket Tzerlag had already liberated.
     "Yep, he's alive," the Orocuen confirmed, "just a little sleepy. The other one, down the
corridor, is also alive. We abide by your `no bloodshed' order very strictly." The prince
only shook his head: looks like this bloke is reliable.
     "You just mentioned having saved Tangorn. If so, I'm in your debt, Sergeant; that man is
really dear to me."
     "Whatever, we'll settle it," the other grunted. "Put on the uniform and let's go. We even
have an extra sword now."
     "What do you mean -- `extra'?" E:owyn finally spoke. "No way!"
The Orocuen glanced at Faramir questioningly, but the prince only opened his hands: no
persuading this one. "Will we climb the stockade or try the gates?"
     "Neither, Prince. The courtyard is chock-full of Whites, all in position and looking for
trouble; no free pass there. We'll try the tunnel."
     "The one in the wine cellar?"
     "I don't know of any others. Did Beregond tell you about it?"
     "Certainly. Its door opens out but is locked from the inside, so it can be neither unlocked
nor broken down from the outside -- as is standard for any tunnel out of a fortress. There's
always a sentry at the cellar door: nothing unusual about that, wine needs guarding.
Beregond didn't know where the key was and didn't dare ask directly. Have you found the
key?"
     "No," Tzerlag responded lightheartedly, "I'll simply pick the lock."
     "How?"
     "Exactly how I picked the lock to your door and a couple more on the way, and exactly how
I'll have to pick the lock to the cellar. That'll be the most dangerous part, by the way:
monkeying with the cellar door in full view. But should we quickly take down the sentry
and open that door, we're three-quarters done. You, Prince, will stand guard in your new
uniform, like nothing had happened, while E:owyn and I drag the knocked-out sentry inside
and I start working the lock in peace."
     "But that lock has to be hard to pick..."
     "I don't think so. It's most likely heavy and sturdy -- it has to be, if the door is to withstand
battering from outside -- which means not too complicated. All right, let's go! Prince, did
you take the palant  r? We have to make it while the Whites are still waiting for me in the
courtyard, and there's only one sentry by the wine cellar."
     "Wait!" E:owyn spoke again. "What about Beregond? We can't leave him here!"
     "Oh, so Beregond has been arrested? We didn't know that."
     "Yes, just now. They know everything about him."
     Tzerlag thought for only a couple of seconds: "No can do. We don't know where he's being
held and will spend too much time looking. Tonight Grager will grab every single one of
Cheetah's men in the village, so if we free the Prince, tomorrow we'll trade Beregond. But
if we don't get you out, he has no chance."
     "He's right." Faramir tightened the cinch of the sack with the palant  r and hoisted it on his
shoulder. "Let's go, in Eru's name!"
     ...The D  nadan standing guard at the wine cellar scanned the large dimly lit hall. The main
entrance to the fort was on his left, to the right were the three main stairs leading to the north
and south wings and to the Knights Hall. What a strange decision: putting the entrance to
the cellar by the front entrance, rather than in some hidey hole. Then again, everything in
this here Ithilien is weird and unnatural. Start with the Prince, who's not even a prince but
rather a who knows what, and end with the rules of their White Company: whoever heard of
passing officers off as sergeants and privates? It'd be one thing if it was a secret from the
enemy, the local terrorists, say (although no one has seen any yet), but it's from each other!
Allegedly we're in the same army, but we're not supposed to know that Sergeant Gront is
really a captain, while our Lieutenant His Grace Sir Elvard is passing as a private! Funny,
but the Secret Guard guys probably still don't know about Sir Elvard; like they told us at the
briefing: the Secret Guard has its business while His Majesty's Royal D  nadan Guard has its
own... I dunno, maybe the spies like this setup, but to an honest soldier it's like glass on
stone. What if it turns out that the chief here is the cook or the butler -- wouldn't that be
funny?
     The sentry looked up: he could hear the approaching footsteps of two people in the uneasy
silence of the deserted fort. In a few seconds he saw them: a private and a sergeant were
coming down the north wing stair at a quick clip, almost running. They were heading
towards the exit and looked very concerned; are they going for help? The sergeant was
gingerly carrying a sack with something large and round inside it in outstretched arms.
Almost abreast with the sentry they traded a few words and split up: the private kept going
towards the exit, while the sergeant apparently decided to show his find to the D  nadan.
What's he got there? Looks like it might be a severed head...
The rest happened so quickly that the sentry knew that something was off only when his
hands were in a viselike grip, while the private who showed up behind his shoulder (to his
astonishment, the sentry recognized Faramir) put a blade to his throat. "One word and
you're dead," the prince promised without raising his voice. The D  nadan swallowed
convulsively; deathly pallor covered his face, and drops of sweat rolled down his temples.
The two impostors traded looks, and the `sergeant' (gloomy Mandos! it's an Orc!) smirked
derisively: so this is the West's fighting elite? The smirk turned out to be absolutely
unwarranted: the young man desperately did not want to die, but in a couple of seconds he
overcame his weakness and yelled: "Alarm!!" so loudly that echoes and clanging of arms
rang back throughout Emyn Arnen.

     <h3>Chapter 29</h3>

     Cutting off the D  nadan's yell with one short chop (the man did not even moan -- just
sagged to the floor like a sack of meal), the Orocuen turned to Faramir and addressed a few
choice words to His Highness, the mildest of which was `damn idiot.' His Highness took it
in stride; it was he who was suddenly overcome with sentimentality and tried to simply scare
the sentry, rather than knock him out, as Tzerlag insisted. As usual, humanism only made
things worse: the soldier got his predestined share of bruises and internal injuries anyway,
but all for naught. Their situation seemed hopeless now.
     In any case, there was no time to decide fault. Tzerlag instantly ripped off the sentry's black
cloak, tossed it to just-arrived E:owyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: "Stand there,
both of you! Swords at the ready!" while he swiftly dragged the D  nadan to the center of
the hall. The six soldiers who burst in a few seconds later found the leftovers of a very
recent fight: the sentries at the cellar door stood ready to handle any further attack, while
another D  nadan was motionless on the floor; the sergeant kneeling by his side barely
glanced at them, pointed imperatively towards the south stair and again bent over the
wounded man. The soldiers ran where they were told to go, boots thundering, almost
kicking the Orocuen with their scabbards. The group had a break of a few seconds.
     "Shall we fight our way to the stockade?" The prince was clearly looking for a nice quick
way to lose his head.
     "No, stick to the original plan." Tzerlag got out his tools and began studying the lock.
     "But they'll immediately know what we're doing!"
     "Yep..." The pick went into the keyhole and began feeling out the pins.
     "So what then?"
     "Three guesses, philosopher!"
     "Fight?"
     "Good boy! I'll be working and you'll be protecting me -- just as our estates are supposed to
do..."
     Despite everything, the prince laughed: this guy was definitely to his liking. Right then,
there was no time for laughing any more. The brief respite ended the way it had to: two
confused D  nadans came back down the south stair -- who are we hunting, Sergeant? -- and
three real White Company sergeants appeared in the door. Those twigged to the situation
right away and yelled: "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" and everything else one is supposed
to yell in such circumstances.
     Tzerlag kept working on the lock with great concentration, detachment even, ignoring
everything happening behind his back. The conversation that started up was totally
predictable: "Surrender your sword, Your Highness!" "Try taking it!" "Hey, who's over
there -- come here!" He only glanced back, and then only for a moment, when the crossing
blades first rang out above his head. Immediately the three White sergeants fell back; one of
them, grimacing with pain, was carefully hugging his right hand under his arm, and his
weapon was on the floor -- the `magic circle' erected by Faramir's and E:owyn's swords
performed flawlessly so far. The prince, in turn, had no chance to glance back -- the half-
circle of Whites, bristling with steel, was drawing close, like a pack of wolves around a deer --
but a short time later he heard a metallic click and then Tzerlag's strange chuckle.
     "What's happening, Sergeant?"
     "Everything's fine, but just imagine this picture: the crown prince of Gondor and the sister
of the King of Rohan are covering some Orc's back with their lives..."
     "Indeed it's funny. How's it going?"
     "All set." Behind them, there was a creak of rusted hinges and a whiff of musty cold. "I'm
going in; hold the door until my word."
     Meantime, the Whites have erected quite a barrier around them and froze. The prince
clearly discerned growing confusion in their actions: where the hell is Cheetah and the rest
of the commanders? Nevertheless, he was sure that those surrounding them were not
attacking only because they were unaware of the tunnel's existence. Finally, a private with a
white band on his arm showed up and gave the prince a ceremonious bow:
     "My apologies, Your Highness. I am Sir Elvard, lieutenant of the D  nadan Royal Guard.
Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?"
     "What makes you better than the others?"
     "Possibly the Secret Guard had committed some offense against your honor. If that's the
case, His Majesty's Royal Guard, as represented by me, offers its sincere apologies and
guarantees that this will not happen again and that the guilty parties shall be punished. Then
we could conclude this unfortunate incident."
     "Fish don't swim backwards, Lieutenant. Her Highness and I have decided to leave this fort
as free people or die trying."
     "You leave me no choice but to disarm you by force."
     "Go ahead, Lieutenant. Just be careful -- you may cut yourself."
This time the attack was more determined. However, while a certain line had not been
crossed the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had an advantage: E:owyn and Faramir inflicted
stabbing wounds to the extremities without hesitation, whereas their opponents so far did not
dare do so. In a short time the attackers had three lightly wounded and the attack fizzled
out. The D  nedain fought unenthusiastically, and kept glancing at their lieutenant: give a
clear order already! Cut these two down or what? The Secret Guard had taken position in
the rear ranks, allowing Sir Elvard to take command (and responsibility), as the situation
appeared untenable.
     Then, just as Faramir congratulated himself on how good a job of buying time for Tzerlag
they were doing, the man suddenly showed up by his side, scimitar in hand, and said in a
lifeless voice:
     "It's a modern Umbarian lock, Prince, I can't open it. Surrender before it's too late."
     "It is too late," Faramir snapped. "Tzerlag, can we save you somehow?"
The Orocuen shook his head: "Unlikely. They sure don't need me as a prisoner."
     "E:owyn?"
     "We will face Mandos together, darling -- what could be better?"
     "Then let's at least have some fun first." With those words Faramir advanced recklessly
towards the ranks of the Whites, right at Sir Elvard. "Hold on, Lieutenant! By the arrows of
Orom  , we're going to splash your master's robes with our blood -- he won't ever wash it
off!"
     The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells (the fight was now such that it became
clear -- soon there would be first dead). That was when a voice sounded from somewhere on
the north stair -- seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the combatants:
     "Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!" There was something in that voice that
froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else's cloak, leaning on
something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant's shoulder with his right)
managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau and his voice
sounded a command: "Go, Faramir! Quick!" A small shiny object tossed by his hand
bounced off Tzerlag's chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-headed
Umbarian key.
     The freeze thawed immediately. At the Orocuen's command Faramir and E:owyn moved
back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had
finally understood what just happened, cried out: "Treason! They'll escape through the
tunnel!" The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed
at the prince with his sword and shouted: "Kill him!" Things got serious in a hurry. It
immediately became obvious that E:owyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more
than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the
captured D  nadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing
wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: "It's open,
Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!"
A few seconds later the prince followed E:owyn into the cellar. Right at the threshold he
managed to strike a good blow at the attacking D  nadan, broke contact and quickly backed
into the darkness, right into a narrow aisle between empty barrels stacked three high.
     "Faster, faster!" Tzerlag's voice sounded from somewhere above him. The Whites were
already in the door, their silhouettes clearly visible against the lit doorway, when there was a
wooden rumble resembling an avalanche, and then it was dark -- not a ray of light penetrated
from the door. Faramir halted in confusion, but then the Orocuen materialized from
somewhere by his side, grabbed his arm and pulled him further into the dark. The prince's
shoulders bumped the walls of the passage, D  nedain yells and curses filtered from behind,
and E:owyn was calling to them in alarm from up ahead. "What happened, Tzerlag?"
     "Nothing much: I simply rocked the top barrels and brought them down to block the
passage. Now we have at least a minute breathing room."
     The girl was awaiting them at a small, unusually thick door leading into a narrow and low
(about five feet high) tunnel. It was so dark that even the Orocuen could not see much.
     "E:owyn, in there, now! Take the palant  r! Faramir, help me... where the hell is it?"
     "What're you looking for?"
     "A beam. A small beam, about six feet; Grager's men were supposed to leave it on the other
side... Aha, here it is! Did you close the door, Prince? Now we secure it from the outside
with this beam... Come over, let's fit the other end in this hole here. Praise the One, it's an
earthen floor, this will hold well."
     A few seconds later the door shuddered under blows from the inside; they were just in time.
Upstairs in Emyn Arnen a major spat was in progress.             Sir Edvard, pale with anger,
screamed at the chief of counter-intelligence:
     "You're under arrest, Cheetah, or whatever your name is! Know this, bastard: up North we
hang traitors by their legs, so that they have time to think before dying!.."
     "Shut up, idiot, it's bad enough already," the captain answered tiredly. He was sitting on a
step, eyes closed, waiting patiently while another man fashioned a crude cast for his foot. A
grimace of pain contorted his face from time to time: a broken foot is a truly horrendous
injury.
     "Anyway, you're under arrest," the D  nadan repeated; then he glanced up at the Secret
Guard officers arrayed in a semicircle behind their chief and felt a sudden fear -- not that he
scared easily. The seven figures froze in a strange immobility, and their eyes -- usually dark
and empty, like a dry well -- suddenly shone with a scarlet shimmer, like a predator's.
     "No, don't even think about it," Cheetah said, turning to his people, and the scarlet shimmer
disappeared without a trace. "Let him consider me arrested, if that will make him feel
better; a fight among the White Company is just what we don't need right now..."
Suddenly a din rose in the courtyard, then the door opened, and in walked the man whom
they least expected to see, flanked by stunned sentries.
     "Grager!" Sir Elvard said in astonishment. "How dare you come here? Nobody gave you
safe conduct..."
     The baron smirked. "It's you who's going to need safe conduct now. I am here by the order
of my suzerain, the Prince of Ithilien," he stressed the last words. "His Highness is prepared
to forgive all the evil you've done him and were about to do. Moreover, the Prince has a
plan that will allow His Majesty to save face and you to keep your heads attached."

     <h3>Chapter 30</h3>
     Ithilien, the Settlement
     May 15, 3019

     The morning that day was wonderful. The watercolor blue of the Ephel D  ath (what idiot
had decided to cal then Mountains of Shadow?) was so transparent that their snowy peaks
appeared to float in the air above the boundless emerald stretches of Ithilien. For those few
minutes the fort of Emyn Arnen on a nearby hill became what its creators must have
imagined it to be: a magical forest dwelling, rather than a fortress. The rays of the rising sun
have magically transformed the meadow on the edge of the Settlement -- the plentiful dew
that had previously covered it like a coat of noble faded silver suddenly shone like a spread
of uncountable diamonds; perhaps the early May sunrise had surprised the gnomes who had
gathered here for their nightly vigil, so now they have fled to their mouse holes, abandoning
their painstakingly arranged treasures.
     Be that as it may, the three or four hundred people gathered at the meadow (mostly peasants
and soldiers) were not inclined to think of the dew poetically: it had drenched them all,
many teeth were close to chattering. Nevertheless, no one left; on the contrary, people kept
gathering. Men from the distant hamlets joined the inhabitants of the Settlement; news that
the White Company was leaving, changing the guard to the newly reconstituted Ithilien
regiment, have traveled with lighting speed, and no one wanted to miss the show. Now they
were looking at the two motionless ranks facing each other -- one black, the other green -- at
the officers saluting each other with complex movements of bare swords -- "I relieve you."
     "I stand relieved." -- and, amazingly, for the first time thought of themselves as Ithilienians
rather than settlers from Gondor, Arnor, or Belfalas.
     The Prince of Ithilien was a little pale and did not seem too comfortable in the saddle
(according to experts in such things); then again, there was no lack of pale faces and
beclouded gazes among the White Company, either. ("Guys, betcha the party in the fort last
night was a monster, eh?" "Yeah, see them three Whites in the back row on the right? You
could prob'ly get buzzed from their breath; they look ready to keel over, poor sods.") In the
meantime, Faramir thanked the White Company for faithful service, bid a ceremonious
farewell to his personal guard, and addressed a speech to his subjects:
     "Today we are seeing off our friends who have come to our aid in the hour of utmost need,
when the fledgling Ithilien Colony was defenseless against the bands of bloodthirsty goblins
and Wargs; our heartfelt thanks to you, Guards of the Citadel! ("Hey, cousin: bands o'
goblins... ever see any `round here?" "Well, cain't say as I had, but they say that the other
day at the Otter Creek...") The memory of this aid will remain forever in our hearts, just as
the Princedom of Ithilien will forever remain the vassal of the Reunited Kingdom and its
shield beyond the Anduin. However, we will defend the Kingdom as we see fit; we dwell
beyond the Great River, not in An  rien, so we have to live in peace and harmony with all
the local peoples, whether anybody likes it or not. ("What's he talking about, cousin?"
     "Well, I figger that, say, them Trolls in the Mountains of Shadow -- word is they have iron
like dirt, but not much lumber." "Yeah, I suppose...") Anyway. All hail the King of Gondor
and Arnor! ("Weird, cousin..." "Hey, dumbass, see them roll out the barrels over yonder?
For a free drink I'll hail even His Majesty... Hurrah!")
     ...The messenger from Minas Tirith (a lieutenant of the D  nadan Royal Guard) showed up
at the meadow when the ceremony was in full swing, his horse all lathered and breathing
hard. Sir Elvard, thoroughly cowed by the Secret Guard ("Oblige me by smiling, sir. Smile,
you hear?!"), now helplessly watching this unheard-of treachery -- surrender of a key
fortress without a fight -- looked up and a faint hope arose in his heart: His Majesty must
have somehow learned about this rebellion and has sent him an order to polish off all those
dyed-in-the-wool traitors -- from Faramir to Cheetah... Alas, the message was indeed from
Aragorn, but it was addressed to the captain of the Secret Guard. Cheetah broke the White
Tree seal right then and there and lost himself in reading; then he folded the message
unhurriedly and handed it to Sir Elvard with a strange chuckle:
     "Read this, Lieutenant. I think you'll find it interesting."
The letter was a set of detailed instructions on how the White Company was to proceed
under the new circumstances. Aragorn wrote that the preservation of the status quo required
identifying all the bases of the Ithilien regiment and destroying them in one fell swoop, so
that not a single man would escape. The strike was to be lightning-fast and absolutely
secret; as for who was to be blamed for this monstrous evil deed -- the mountain Trolls,
goblins, or Morgoth himself -- that was up to the captain. However, should there be any
doubts whatsoever as to the success of such an operation (for example, if critical time was
lost and there were already almost as many Ithilienians as the Whites), then it was to be
aborted. In that case they were to make virtue out of necessity: transfer the duty of guarding
Emyn Arnen to the officers of the Ithilien regiment in exchange for Faramir's confirmation
of his vassal's oath and return to Minas Tirith, leaving only their intelligence network
behind. His Majesty reminded that Faramir's life was sacrosanct in any and all
circumstances, and that anyone who would provoke an open confrontation between the
Ithilienians and the White Company (which event would immediately cause a civil war in
the princedom and tear apart the Reunited Kingdom) will be executed for treason. To put it
succinctly: once you start the job, finish it, but don't start if you're not sure.
His Majesty wrote in a post-scriptum: "There are many sovereigns in this world who love
cloaking their orders in hints in order to later blame those doing their will for
`misunderstanding orders.' Be it known that Elessar of Valandil is not one of them -- he
always accepts responsibility and calls things what they are, and his orders say only what
they say. Should there be found among the White Company any officers who -- motivated
by excess zeal -- would mistake explicit bans for a veiled desire of the King, Captain
Cheetah is to neutralize any such officer at any cost."
     "As you can see, Lieutenant, by letting you live during your escapades last night, I was
going against the King's orders, to some extent."
     "So you've known about this order?" Sir Elvard looked at Cheetah with superstitious fear.
     "You're overestimating my abilities. It's just that, unlike you, I can figure at least two
moves in advance."
     "...They're leaving! Look, they're really leaving!" Grager breathed finally, watching the
column of Whites take to the Osgiliath Highway. He kept the fingers of his left hand
crossed in a special way, just in case. "To be honest, I didn't quite believe it and kept
waiting for some treachery to the last moment... You're a genius, Your Majesty!"
     "That's `Your Highness,' Baron, and please keep in mind -- I absolutely will not tolerate any
joking in this matter."
     "My apologies, Your Highness."
     "However," Faramir looked over the Ithilien regiment fighters gathered around him with a
slight smile, "each one of you is hereby entitled to address me as `my Captain,' for old
times' sake. Obviously, this will not be a hereditary privilege. All right, guys. Her
Highness will show you to the castle -- the food is served and the bottles are uncorked --
while myself and the officers and... erm... our Eastern guests will catch up with you in ten
minutes or so... So what were you wishfully saying there, Baron Grager: you really think
that they've left?"
     "No, my Captain. Their spy network..."
     "Yes, exactly. What do you propose to do about it?"
     "Nothing, Your Highness."
     "Explain."
     "Sure. It makes no sense to prosecute those of Cheetah's people that we've identified: since
Ithilien was and is a vassal of Gondor, they've committed no crime by working for the
monarch of the Reunited Kingdom. Sometimes in such circumstance you do away with a
spy quietly, but that's an extreme measure: by doing so we'd announce to Minas Tirith that
we're at the very least openly hostile, if not at war with them. Most importantly, Prince, I'm
almost certain that we have not identified the entire network. Should we arrest the ones we
know, we'd allow them free use of any remaining agents. Whereas if we touch nobody, it'll
be impossible to figure out which ones we know about and which we don't, so they'll have
to consider the entire network compromised. Even if they don't simply abandon it, they'll
for sure put it to sleep for a long time. At least I wouldn't touch such a semi-compromised
network with a ten-foot pole."
     "Very well; this will be your call now, Baron Grager. I hereby promote you to Captain and
grant you the requisite powers."
     "Wow!" Tangorn laughed. "I see that the setup of the state of Ithilien is proceeding in an
unusual fashion -- its first institution is the counter-intelligence service!.."
Faramir shrugged: "With neighbors such as these... In any event, I doubt that this is of
much interest to our guests. Tzerlag, where are you?.. I have to admit to a certain difficulty:
your exploits of last night definitely make you worthy of a knighthood, but that would create
a host of technical problems. In any event, what use is Gondorian knighthood to a desert
warrior?"
     Tzerlag shook his head. "No use, Your Highness."
     "See? Well, I guess there's no choice but to fall back onto the ancient legends: ask your
heart's desire, Sergeant! But please keep in mind that I don't have daughters of
marriageable age yet, and as for the Prince's treasury... what do we have there, Beregond?"
     "A hundred thirty six gold pieces, Your Highness."
     "Yeah, not quite the Hoard of Vendotenia... Perhaps you'd like to think about it, Sergeant?
Oh, by the way, I have another debt to pay -- for your rescue of this fair sir."
The Orocuen was abashed. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but we... how should I put it...
we're kinda together, so our request will be mutual. Better let Baron Tangorn tell you;
consider that I gave my rights over to him."
     "Ah so?" The prince looked over the three comrades with gay amusement. "This just keeps
getting more interesting. I suppose it's a confidential request?"
     "Yes, Your Highness."
     "...As I understand it, Baron, you're going to ask for the palant  r," Faramir began after they
rode about twenty paces away from the rest of the group. He was gloomy, with no trace of
amusement remaining on his face.
     "So you've guessed already, Prince?"
     "I'm not a total fool; why else would you ask me to escape with it? I just couldn't imagine
that you're working together with these guys. So now I'll have to hand a magic crystal over
to Mordorians. A nice bind you got me into, no question."
     "That is not so, Your Highness. Haladdin is not in Mordor's service any more; he is acting
by himself and on behalf of entire Middle Earth, if I may be so bold. The sad thing is that I
don't have the right to let you know what his mission is, therefore I ask you to trust my
word."
     Faramir brushed it off: "That's not what I'm talking about. You know that I've always
trusted you; more than I trust myself, in some things. It's just that -- what if all three of you
are someone else's puppets and that someone is using you for his own gain? Try analyzing
this situation once more, this time as a professional spy, rather than a friend of Haladdin and
Tzerlag."
     "I've done so many times and have this to say: whoever had started this originally, Haladdin
will only play his own game, and this guy is very, very resilient -- take my word for it -- even
though he doesn't look the part. And another thing -- I really like him, and I will do what I
can to help him win."
     After some thought the prince grumbled: "All right. Let's consider me persuaded. How can
I help you three?"
     "First, please accept my resignation," the baron began, and explained to puzzled Faramir: "I
will have to visit Umbar for some time, and I plan to operate there as a private person, so as
not to put Your Highness in a false light..."

     <h3>Chapter 31</h3>
     Gondor, Minas Tirith
     May 17, 3019

     "Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Gondor and Arnor!" the master of ceremonies announced
and immediately vanished into thin air, like he hadn't been there at all. Palace servants
everywhere seem to have a sixth sense in addition to formal training. Aragorn had nerves of
steel (a necessity in his former profession) and concealed the true feelings that the
expression `Her Majesty the Queen' aroused in him perfectly well. Nevertheless, somehow
the rascal seemed to feel that every time those words were uttered His Royal Majesty
Elessar Elfstone had a fleeting desire to either turn the speaker over to the Secret Guard (the
Valar spare us), or simply unsheathe the And  ril and split the offender in half.
Gods, how beautiful she was! No human language has words to describe her beauty, while
Elves need no words. Actually, it was not her beauty as such, but her absolute star-like
unattainability that was the leash which was used to guide him all these years, ever since he
first got to the Enchanted Forest and met -- by pure coincidence, of course -- Arwen
Und  miel, the Evenstar of Imladris, the daughter of Ruler Elrond himself. No one can find
out now why the Elves picked him rather than any of the other innumerable D  nedain
princes (strictly speaking, almost every D  nadan thinks himself a prince, tracing his lineage
if not from Isildur, then for sure at least from E  rendur). Be that as it may, the Firstborn
chose well: Aragorn performed his task with excellence.
     Now he was looking at her with a feeling he had never had before: desperation. Any further
struggle is useless; how long can he chase a mirage? Yes, time to sum up, and there's no
reason to lie to oneself. So: an obscure chief of northern rangers had won the greatest of all
wars in the history of Middle Earth, ascended the throne of the Reunited Kingdom, and
became the first among Western sovereigns -- but none of that had brought him an inch
closer to possessing this woman.
     "What else do you want from me, Arwen?" He knew he was saying the wrong thing in the
wrong way, but could do nothing about it. "I crushed Mordor and laid the crown of Gondor
and Arnor at your feet; if that's not enough, I will spread our borders beyond the Rune Sea
and the mountains of Vendotenia. I will conquer Harad and the other countries of the Far
East and make you Queen of the world -- just give the word!"
     "Don't you want all that yourself?"
     "Not any more. Now I want only you... You know, it seems to me that I was closer to you
back then, in Rivendell..."
     "Please understand," her face once again assumed an expression of weary compassion, like a
teacher who has to explain a grammar rule to a dim student for the tenth time, "I may not
belong to any man; don't torture yourself for nothing. Recall the story of Prince Valacar and
Princess Vidumavi; your own chronicles say: `For the high men of Gondor already looked
askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir to
the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race.' No wonder it
sparked a civil war. Whereas compared with the nobility of my heritage there's no
difference even between Isildur and some black chieftain from Far Harad. But even that is
not much compared to the real obstacle -- our age difference. To me, you're not even a boy,
but a baby. Would you take a three-year-old to wife, even if she looked like an adult?"
     "So that's how it is..."
     "Of course, and you're even behaving like a spoiled child. Bored with the royal power in
just a few days, you now want a new toy -- Arwen, the Evenstar of Imladris! Think about it --
you want to trade even love for a handful of candy: the crowns of Men's kingdoms. After
all those years of dealing with Elves, have you not understood that none of us wants power
as such? Believe me, I see no difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup -- both
are just gem-studded pieces of silver."
     "Yes, looks like I'm just a baby. And you've tricked me, back then in L  rien, just like a
baby."
     "You have tricked yourself," she objected calmly. "Please remember how it happened."
In a moment a silvery fog covered the walls of the palace hall, blurry silhouettes of L  rien
mallorns showed through, and he heard again Elrond's soft voice right next to him: "Perhaps
my daughter will revive the rule of Men in Middle Earth, but no matter how much I love
you, I will tell you this: Arwen Undomiel will not change the course of her fate for a small
man. Only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become her husband..." The voice of the
Ruler faded away, and Aragorn again saw Arwen before him -- she had restored the hall to
its former appearance with a casual wave of her hand.
     "This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It's the honest truth: only the
king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did anybody
promise that he will actually become one?"
     Aragorn smiled crookedly. "You're right, as always. A baby such as myself could never
think of such a thing -- the Ruler of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he
can find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster."
     "You were paid for your work in honest coin -- the Re-forged Sword and the throne of the
Reunited Kingdom."
     "Yes, the throne I don't control!"
She frowned a little. "Don't demean yourself. You knew from the very beginning that you'd
get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne."
     "You mean a regent."
     "Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: L  rien sent you not just anyone, but
myself as the advisor, so that to your subjects it looks like a regular dynastic marriage. You,
on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now desire to add the daughter of the
Ruler of Elves to your collection of sluts!"
     "You know that this is not so." There was nothing but weary submission in his voice now.
     "Back in L  rien, when you accepted Barahir's ring from me..."
     "Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and L  thien? Understand
already that this is a legend, and a human legend, at that -- an Elf can only laugh at it."
     "Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf and a
Man to be bestiality, right?"
     "Let's end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to one's
agreements. Don't you think that a second `accident' befalling a man from my entourage in
as many weeks is a bit much?"
     "Oh, so that's what you wanted to discuss."
     "Precisely, my dear. If you have imagined that L  rien is incapable of protecting the people
working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they'll remember forever -- if
there's anyone left to remember."
     Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts helps a
man out of a swoon; the hex dispelled, and the D  nadan was becoming himself again -- a
white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. "Allow me to remind you, my dear, that you're
not the masters here -- not yet. Let's call a spade a spade: had your `entourage' been a real
embassy, all of them would've been expelled long ago `for activities incompatible with
diplomatic status.'"
     "You know," Arwen said thoughtfully, "sometimes you're undone by excessive logic -- it
makes you predictable. You wouldn't have resorted to such measures without a dire need;
therefore, the dead men have sniffed out something top-secret and extremely important.
Hence, all I need to do is determine what they were doing in their last days."
     "Any progress?"
     "Oh yes, quite a lot! If one can call it progress. I'll admit that we've tended to overlook
your games with the dead; to be honest, no one believed that a mortal could master the
Shadow Spell well enough to actually bring them back to life. But now you have decided to
inherit the black knowledge of Mordor, too; you're gathering those poisoned shards
everywhere you can and expect to get away with it. There's no denying that you're a top-
grade swashbuckler (that's what we were choosing for among very many): highly
intelligent, desperately brave, and totally merciless to others and himself. I know that you're
no novice at juggling live cobras, but believe me: you have never -- by the Halls of Valinor! --
never played a game as dangerous as this!"
     "I'm also very practical. The thing is, those games are as dangerous to you Elves as to me;
I'm glad that you've finally understood the danger. I am ready to undo it all if I'm properly
paid."
     "Ah so? What is your price, then?"
     "You already know the price, and there'll be no other."
     Arwen walked away in silence, like a vertical ray of sun piercing a dusty room; when she
looked back at his soft: "Wait!" it was a victory greater than Pelennor or Cormallen.
     "Wait," he repeated, then carelessly tossed up the silver cup she had just used to illustrate
her invective, caught and crushed it in a single movement like it was made of paper; the
encrusted rubies burst through his fingers like drops of blood and rattled across the marble
floor. "By the Halls of Valinor," he repeated her words slowly, "I, too, no longer see a
difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup; sorry that the crown wasn't to hand."
He tossed her the lump of silver so that she had to catch it and left without looking back. It
looked like for the first time ever a battle went to him. Yes, she's right -- he's playing the
most dangerous game of all and isn't about to turn back. He wants this woman, and he will
have her, whatever the cost. This will never happen while Elves are Elves? Very well, then
the whole foundation of their power must be crushed. This is a task of unimaginable
complexity, but a lot more fun than, say, the conquest of Harad...
The voice of the guard on duty abruptly brought him back to reality: "Your Majesty! Your
Majesty! The White Company is back from Ithilien. Shall I ask them in?"
...Aragorn sat silently, head down and arms crossed over his chest; Cheetah sat in front of
him in an armchair, bandaged foot awkwardly turned aside. He had finished his unhappy
report a few minutes ago and was now awaiting the verdict.
Finally His Majesty raised his gaze. "Under those circumstances your actions have to be
judged as appropriate, Captain. I would've done the same thing in your place. Well, that's
no surprise."
     "Yes, Your Majesty. Our shadow is your shadow."
     "You seem to want to ask something?"
     "Yes. While in Ithilien we were bound hand and foot by the order to preserve Faramir's life.
Don't you think it necessary to revise..."
     "No, I don't." The D  nadan rose and strolled around the room thoughtfully. "You see, I
have lived a turbulent life and am guilty of a multitude of sins, including some mortal
ones... but I have never been an oath-breaker, and never will be."
     "What relevance does this have to real politics?"
     "A very direct one. Faramir is an honorable man, so while I keep up my side of the bargain,
he won't abandon his, and I'm fairly satisfied with the status quo."
     "But now all who are unhappy with Your Majesty's rule will gather in Ithilien!"
     "Certainly, and that's wonderful! This will rid me of opposition in Gondor -- with no
bloodshed, mind you. It will be Faramir's problem now to make sure that those guys don't
do anything about restoring the old dynasty -- he's oath-bound, too."
     "So it doesn't concern you that the Prince of Ithilien has already started some sort of murky
dealings with the East?"
     "This wasn't in your report! Where did you get this information?"
     "You see, the man who broke my foot was an Orocuen scout; the same night an Umbarian
physician -- Haladdin, I remember his name well -- set it. Those men came from beyond the
Mountains of Shadow together with the well-known baron Tangorn..."
     "Hey! Describe this doctor to me!" Cheetah looked at Aragorn in surprise; the King leaned
forward and his voice cracked a bit.
     "...Yes, it's him, without a doubt," the D  nadan murmured and closed his eyes for a few
seconds. "So Tangorn had found Haladdin in Mordor and dragged him over to Faramir in
Ithilien... Damn but you've kept the worst news for last! Looks like I have seriously
underestimated that philosopher."
     "Forgive me, Your Majesty, for not yet knowing -- who is this Haladdin?"
     "Ah. You see, you're about to head a small top-secret group -- Task Force F ?anor; it is not
even part of the Secret Guard and reports directly to me. Its strategic task for the
foreseeable future is to gather knowledge left behind by Mordor and Isengard for our own
purposes. You can't make do with just the books in this business, you need the people, too.
A certain Doctor Haladdin is number eighteen on our list. Of course, it could be a
coincidence that he met Tangorn, Faramir's Umbarian resident, but I don't believe in such
coincidences."
     "Then you think... that Faramir is doing the same thing?"
     "Usually, clever thoughts occur to smart minds simultaneously; by the way, the Elves are
engaged in the same kind of search, to other ends, of course. The thing is that Faramir will
have a much easier time searching thanks to his old connections in the East. That list we
have is based on pre-war reports of his resident spies -- praise Manwe that we, rather than
the Elves, got the Royal archives... In any case, Captain -- find this Tangorn immediately
and get everything he knows out of him; then consider how to get our hands on whatever
Ithilien has. There's no task of greater importance now."
     "An abduction right out of Emyn Arnen?" Cheetah shook his head dejectedly. "But that
damned Grager has practically destroyed our network there, it can hardly handle such a
task."
     "Tangorn won't stay in Emyn Arnen. No doubt Faramir will send him to Umbar, where he
had so much success before the war: it's full of Mordorian  ?migr ?s now, plus it's the best
possible location for secret diplomatic missions. Certainly they've already hid Haladdin
somewhere... actually, that's easy to check. I'll send a courier to Emyn Arnen right away --
I owe the Prince of Ithilien my best regards anyway. Should the messenger find neither
Haladdin nor Tangorn there -- which is what I expect -- send your people to Umbar at once.
Get moving, Captain, and get well soon: there's plenty of work to do."

     ***

     "So where is Wolverine now?"
     "He's in Isengard, commanding a band of marauding Dungarians. His mission is obtaining
`blasting fire.'"
     "What about Mongoose?"
     "He's in Mindolluin, a prisoner in the quarry," answered the Task Force F ?anor member
tasked with briefing Cheetah, clarifying: "He's part of Operation Mockingbird, Captain. His
extraction is planned for next Tuesday."
     "Can we speed up the wrap-up of that operation?"
     "No, Captain, sir. Mongoose is working without cover, and that quarry is the Queen's men
bailiwick. Should we expose him, he'll be dead in five minutes or less: `escape attempt' and
finished."
     "Very well," he estimated a courier's round-trip to Emyn Arnen, "this will keep till Tuesday.
Send him to me the moment he shows up."

     <h3>Chapter 32</h3>
     Gondor, Mount Mindolluin
     May 19, 3019

     From bird's eye view the Mindolluin quarry which supplied limestone to Minas Tirith
builders looked like a chipped porcelain bowl, its inside covered by hundreds of tiny
persistent ants looking for traces of sugar. On a nice day like today the white cavity
functioned as a sunlight-gathering reflector, and its inner area, isolated from the winds, was
hot as hell. And this in the middle of May; Kumai tried not to think of what it was going to
be like in the summer. Sure, the prisoners who ended up in Anfalas, on the galleys, fared
much worse, but that was not much of a consolation. He was actually very lucky today,
drawing a work detail at the very top edge, where a refreshing breeze blew and there was
almost no chocking calcium dust. Of course, those working on the outer perimeter of the
quarry had to wear leg irons, but he found that an agreeable trade-off.
For the second week now Kumai's partner was Mbanga, a m  mak driver from the Harad
battalion, who did not speak Common. Over the last six weeks the overseers had kicked
into him the knowledge of all the words they considered necessary and sufficient (up, go,
carry this, roll that, hands on the back of your head); however, translating the expression
`lazy black ass' stupefied both sides, so they made do with `nigger.' Mbanga was in kind of
a permanent semi-dreaming state and did not seek to expand his vocabulary by
communicating with the other prisoners. Perhaps he still mourned his perished Tongo -- the
m  makil and their drivers develop a human-like friendship, far beyond anything between a
rider and his beloved horse. Or maybe in his mind the Haradi was in his unimaginably
distant South, where the stars over the savannah are so large that you can reach them with
the tip of your assegai if you stretch, where any man can use simple magic to turn into a
lion, and where every woman is beautiful and tireless in love.
...Once upon a time that area had been home to a mighty civilization, which left behind
nothing but stepped pyramids overgrown with lush tropical greenery and roads paved with
basalt plates leading nowhere. The modern history of Harad began less than a hundred years
ago, when a young and energetic chief of a tribe of cattlemen from the interior named
Fasimba swore to destroy the slave trade, and succeeded. It must be noted parenthetically
that the countries of the South and the East had slave trade since time immemorial, but not
on any serious scale; it was limited to selling beauties to harems, plus other exotica that had
no economic underpinnings. The situation changed drastically when the Khand Caliphate
`industrialized' the business, establishing a thriving trade in black slaves throughout Middle
Earth.
     A well-fortified Khandian colony candidly named Slaveport arose on the shore of a deep
bay at the mouth of the Kuvango, the main river artery of Eastern Harad. Its inhabitants first
tried hunting for slaves themselves, but quickly realized that this was a grueling and
dangerous task; as one of them put it, "much like shaving a pig: lots of squealing, little hair."
Rather than abandon the enterprise, they have established profitable alliances with chiefs of
the coastal tribes; one Mdikva became their main trading partner. From that point on, the
live merchandise was in steady supply in Khand's markets, in exchange for beads, mirrors,
and poorly distilled rum.
     Many people had pointed out both to the inhabitants of Slaveport and their respectable
agents in Khand that their method for making a living was dirtier than dirt. To that they
responded philosophically that business was business and as long as there was demand it
was going to be satisfied by one supplier or another (this line of reasoning is by now
universally known, so there is no need to cite it in full). Be that as it may, Slaveport boomed
and its businessmen got rich quickly, with the side benefit of being able to satisfy their most
exotic sexual fantasies thanks to the unlimited supply of young black girls (and boys) in
their temporary possession.
     Such was the situation when Fasimba successfully poisoned six neighboring chiefs at a
friendly party (actually he was the one supposed to have been poisoned, but he skillfully
struck first, as was his style), joined their domains to his own and declared himself Emperor.
After assembling the warriors of all seven chiefdoms into a single army and instituting both
a unified command and capital punishment for any expression of tribalism, the young chief
invited military advisors from Mordor, which jumped at the chance to establish a
counterweight to its Khand neighbor. The Mordorians fairly quickly taught the black
warriors, who knew neither fear nor discipline, how to function together in closed ranks, and
the result exceeded all expectations. In addition, Fasimba was the first to fully appreciate
the true battle potential of the m  makil; of course, they have been used in war since time
immemorial, but he was the one to standardize and streamline the taming of calves in large
numbers, thus essentially creating a new army service. The effect was similar to that of
tanks in our day and age: one war machine attached to an infantry battalion is a useful thing
to have, but no more than that, whereas fifty tanks gathered into a single armored fist is a
force that drastically changes the nature of war.
     Three years after Fasimba's military reform he declared a war of total destruction on the
coastal chiefs that were involved in slave-raiding and crushed them all in less than six
months; finally, Mdikva's turn came. Spirits were low in Slaveport when a messenger of the
coastal kinglet came with good news: Mdikva's warriors have met Fasimba's vaunted army
in a decisive battle and triumphed completely, and soon the town will receive a large
shipment of good strong slaves. The Khandians breathed a sigh of relief and complained to
the messenger that slave prices at the metropolis markets were down sharply (which was a
total lie). The man was not overly displeased: there were so many prisoners that there would
be enough rum to last half a year.
     The slave caravan, personally led by Mdikva, arrived at the appointed time -- a hundred
eighty men and twenty women. Despite the messenger's boasts, the chained men had a poor
appearance: worn-out, covered in bruises, their wounds haphazardly bandaged with banana
leaves. However, the women, paraded totally naked at the head of the column, were of such
qualities that the entire garrison crowded around them, salivating and unwilling to look at
anything else. This proved their undoing, for the chains were fake, the blood was paint, and
the slaves themselves were the Emperor's personal guard. The banana leaf bandages
concealed star-shaped throwing knives lethal up to fifteen yards, but the guardsmen could
have done without any weapons: every one of them could outrun a horse in a short sprint,
dodge a flying arrow, and break eight stacked tiles with a bare fist. The city gates were
captured in mere seconds, and Slaveport fell. Fasimba commanded the whole operation
himself: it was he who led the `slave caravan' dressed in Mdikva's leopard-skin cape, well-
known to the entire coast; the Emperor knew well that the members of the master race have
never bothered to learn to tell `all these blackies' apart. Mdikva himself had no further need
of the cape; by that time, the ferocious fire ants in whose path he had been staked (this was
now the punishment for slave-raiding) had already turned the coastal ruler into a well-
cleaned skeleton.
     Two weeks later a slave ship from Khand tied up at Slaveport. The captain, somewhat
surprised by the deserted piers, went into town. He came back escorted by three armed
Haradrim and in a voice shaky with fear told the crew to come ashore and help load the
cargo. To be fair, the nature of the cargo they were to take on would have shaken anyone.
It was 1,427 tanned human skins: the entire population of Slaveport, save seven infants
whom Fasimba spared for some unknown reason. Each skin bore an inscription made by the
town's clerk (who was paid honestly by being killed last with a relatively easy death) -- the
owner's name and a detailed description of the tortures he had to endure before being
skinned alive. The women's skins bore a notation of exactly how many black warriors have
thoroughly appreciated their qualities; the town women were few and the warriors were
many, so the numbers varied but were invariably impressive. Only a few inhabitants of
Slaveport were lucky enough to merit a brief note `died in battle.' The top of the bill was a
stuffed effigy of the governor, a relative of the Caliph himself. Professional taxidermists
probably would not have approved of the material used as stuffing -- the very beads the
Khandians used to pay for slaves -- but the Emperor had had his reasons.
Some will say that such monstrous cruelty has no justification; the chief of the Haradrim
must have simply passed off his personal sadistic tendencies as revenge on the oppressors.
Others will talk of `historical retribution' and blame the `excesses' on what the Haradrim,
who were no angels, have suffered over the previous years. Such a discussion seems
senseless on its merits, and is in any event irrelevant in this case. What Fasimba did to the
inhabitants of the ill-fated town was neither a spontaneous expression of the chief's cruelty
nor revenge for ancestral suffering; rather, it was an important element of an fine strategic
plan, conceived and carried out with a totally cool head.

     <h3>Chapter 33</h3>

     The Caliph of Khand, having received a gift of his subjects' skins and a stuffed relative,
reacted in precisely the way the Emperor was counting on. He had the captain and crew
beheaded (choose your cargo better next time!), publicly swore to have Fasimba stuffed in
the same manner, and ordered his army to Harad. His advisors, forewarned by the sailors'
sad fate, did not speak against this dumb idea; they did not dare to even insist on some
scouting first. Rather than supervise preparations for the expedition, the Caliph indulged in
devising the tortures he was going to inflict on Fasimba once he had him.
A month later twenty thousand Khand soldiers landed at the mouth of Kuvango next to the
ruins of Slaveport and marched into the country. It should be mentioned that in terms of the
amount of iron they had to carry (and especially the gold-plated doodads studding said iron)
the Khand warriors were unequaled in all Middle Earth. The problem was that their battle
experience was limited to putting down peasant revolts and similar policing actions. It
looked like this was quite enough to deal with the black savages -- the Haradrim fled in panic
the moment they saw the menacing gleam of the iron phalanx. The Khandians chased the
disorderly fleeing enemy through the coastal jungle and entered the savannah, where they
met Fasimba's patiently waiting main force the very next morning.
Too late did the Caliph's nephew commanding the army realize that the Harad forces were
twice the size of his and about ten times as effective. Strictly speaking, there was no battle
as such; rather, there was one devastating m  makil attack, followed by a disorderly rout and
chase of the fleeing enemy. The casualty tallies speak for themselves: a thousand and a half
killed and eighteen thousand captured Khandians versus about a hundred dead Haradrim.
Some time later the Caliph received from Fasimba a detailed description of the battle
together with an offer to trade all the prisoners for all the Haradrim enslaved in Khand.
Alternatively, the Caliph was advised to send to Slaveport a ship capable of taking on
eighteen thousand human skins; by now Khand knew well that the Emperor was not joking.
Fasimba made another foresighted move when he freed about two hundred prisoners, who
went home to inform the entire population of Khand as to the nature of Haradi offer. As was
to be expected, the people became restless and the smell of rebellion was in the air. A week
later the Caliph, whose forces have been reduced to his palace guard, gave in. The exchange
Fasimba offered took place in Slaveport, and the Emperor acquired a status of a living deity
among his people -- for to the Haradrim a return from Khandian slavery was only a little
short of resurrection.
     Since then, the fearsome Harad Empire (which had neither a written language nor cities, but
plenty of ritual cannibalism, gloomy black magic, and witch-hunting) had widened its
borders considerably. At first the black warriors expanded only to the south and east, but in
the last twenty years or so they have turned their gaze north and captured a significant chunk
of Khandian territory, approaching closely to the borders of Umbar, South Gondor, and
Ithilien. The Mordorian ambassador at the Emperor's court sent dispatch after dispatch to
Barad-Dur: unless swift measures are taken, soon the civilized states of Central and Western
Middle Earth will face a terrifying opponent -- untold multitudes of excellent warriors who
know neither fear nor mercy.
     Therefore, relying on a Khandian saying `the only way to get rid of crocodiles is to drain the
swamp,' Mordor began sending missionaries South. Those did not bother the blacks with
sermons about the One too much, rather spending their time treating sick children and
teaching them arithmetic and reading, for which purpose they have invented a written
version of the Haradi language based on the Common alphabet. When one of its creators,
one Reverend Aljuno, read the first text created by a little Haradi (it was a description of a
lion hunt, remarkable in its poetic qualities), he knew that he had not lived for naught.
It would be an obvious exaggeration to say that that these activities have resulted in a
noticeable tempering of the local mores. However, the missionaries themselves enjoyed an
almost religious reverence, and the word `Mordor' elicited the most white-toothed of smiles
from any Haradi. Besides, Harad (unlike some `civilized' countries) had never suffered
from selective memory loss; everybody there knew full well who had helped them against
the Khandian slave traders. That was why Emperor Fasimba the Third immediately
responded to the Mordorian ambassador's request for help against the Western Coalition
with a select force of cavalry and m  makil -- the very Harad battalion that fought so valiantly
on the Field of Pelennor under the scarlet Snake banner.
     Only a few black men survived that battle, including the head of cavalry, the famous Captain
Umglangan. Ever since that day he had a recurrent vision, bright as day: two ranks facing
each other in portentous silence upon a strange blue savannah, fifteen yards apart -- the range
of the assegai; both are comprised of the best warriors of all times, but the right line lacks
one fighter. It's time to start, but for some reason Udugvu the Fearsome has mercy on
Umglangan and is delaying the signal to begin this best of men's amusements -- where are
you, Captain? Take your place in the rank quickly!.. What is a warrior to do when his heart
calls him to the foot of Udugvu's black basalt throne while the commander's duty orders
him to report to his Emperor? It was a hard choice, but he chose Duty, and now, after
surviving a thousand dangers, he has already reached the borders of Harad.
He brings sad news to Fasimba: the men of the North who were like brothers to the
Haradrim have fallen in battle, and now there is nobody but enemies in the Northern lands.
But this is wonderful, in a way -- now there are so many battles and glorious victories ahead!
He saw the warriors of the West in action, and there's no way they will withstand the black
fighters when those are an army rather than a small volunteer battalion under the scarlet
banner. He will report that the cavalry gap which had so concerned them is no more: not so
long ago the Haradrim didn't know how to fight on horseback, and now they had acquitted
themselves well against the best cavalry of the West. Nor do the Westerners know anything
about Haradi infantry yet; of all he had seen there only the Trollish infantry could possibly
match it, and now no one. And the m  makil are the m  makil -- the closest thing to an
absolute weapon. Had we not lost twenty in that cursed forest ambush, who knows how the
tide might have turned at Pelennor... They're afraid of fire arrows? Not a problem, we'll
take care of that when training calves. The West had chosen its fate when it crushed Mordor
which stood between them.
     ...Mbanga the driver was concerned with a problem much less global in scope. Despite
having no knowledge of mathematics, ever since that morning he had been working on a
fairly complicated planimetric problem which Engineer Second Class Kumai (had he known
about his partner's plans) would have described as `minimization of the sum of two variable
distances' -- from Mbanga to the overseer and from the overseer to the edge of the quarry.
Of course, he is not Umglangan's equal to count on a place in the ranks of the best warriors
of all times, but if he manages to die as planned, then Udugvu in his boundless mercy will
allow him to forever hunt lions in his heavenly savannah. Carrying out the plan was not
going to be easy, though. Mbanga, weakened by six weeks of near-starvation and hard
labor, intended to kill with his bare hands a large man, armed to the teeth and far from
absent-minded, in less than twenty seconds; if he took any longer than that, the other
overseers would reach him and whip him to death: a piteous slave's demise...
It happened so quickly that even Kumai missed Mbanga's first move. He saw only a black
lightning hitting the overseer's legs -- the Haradi crouched as if to adjust his shackles and
suddenly lunged headfirst; so does a deadly tree mamba strike its prey, penetrating a tangle
of branches with astonishing precision. The black man's right shoulder struck the overseer's
leg full force exactly under the kneecap; Kumai imagined actually hearing the wet crunch of
the joint sack tearing and the delicate cartilage menisci snapping out of their sockets. The
Gondorian sagged down without even a moan in pain shock; in a flash the Haradi had the
unconscious man slung over his shoulder and hurried towards the precipice in a fast shackle
trot. Mbanga beat the guards converging on him from all directions by a good thirty yards;
having reached the coveted edge, he tossed his burden down into the shining white abyss
and was now calmly awaiting his enemies, captured sword in hand.
Of course, none of those Western carrion-eaters dared cross blades with him -- they simply
showered him with arrows. This, however, was of no importance: he had managed to die in
battle, weapon in hand, so he had earned the right to throw the first assegai in the heavenly
lion hunt. What's three arrows in the gut compared to such eternal bliss?
The Haradrim always die smiling, and this smile boded nothing good for the Western
countries, as some far-sighted men were already beginning to guess.

     <h3>Chapter 34</h3>

     "Bastard's dead!" the huge blond overseer concluded disappointedly after carefully crushing
Mbanga's fingers with his heel (no reaction); then he trained his bloodshot eyes on Kumai,
standing motionless to the side. "But devil take me," he tossed his whip from one hand to
another, "if his buddy won't pay with his whole hide for Ernie right now..."
Kumai instinctively blocked the first blow with his elbow, immediately losing a patch of
skin. Roaring with pain, he lunged at the blond man, and four others joined the fun. They
beat him for a long time, attentively and with a great deal of inventiveness, until it became
clear that further action was useless on the insensible Troll. Well, whaddya think -- someone
has to pay for the dead overseer, right?
     By then the guard chief showed up, yelled: "Enough fun!" and chased them all back to their
posts -- he certainly didn't want another deader on his report. See, the deal's like this: if this
animal kicks the bucket right here, then he'll have to deal with the master of the works
(another asshole!), but if it happens later, in the barracks -- then it's gonna be a `natural loss,'
no questions asked. He nodded for the nearest bunch of prisoners who had watched the
beating fearfully to come over, and a short time later Kumai was sprawled over the rotten
straw in his barrack. Anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this half-corpse
covered in tatters of bloody skin was not for this world for much longer. A couple of
months prior the Troll managed to cheat death after heavy injury in the Battle of Pelennor,
but now his luck seemed to have run out.
     ...When E:omer's riders broke through the South Army's defenses and panic ensued,
Engineer Second Class Kumai was cut off north of the camp, at the siege engine park.
Seven more engineers were bottled up with him; being the senior there, he had to assume
command. Not being an expert on either strategy or tactics, he saw just one thing clearly: in
a few minutes all the abandoned machinery would be captured, so the only thing left was to
destroy it. The Troll established order in his company with an iron hand (one of the seven
who blurted something like "run for your lives!" remained lying senseless by a bunch of
assault ladders) and ascertained that at least they had enough naphtha, the One be praised.
In a minute his subordinates rushed all around like ants, pouring it over the catapults and the
bases of siege towers, while he hurried to the `gates' -- the break in the ring of wagons
surrounding the park -- and ran smack into a forward troop of Rohirrim.
The mounted warriors treated the suddenly appearing lonely Mordorian without due respect,
and paid for it. Kumai was strong even by Trollish standards (once at a student party he had
walked a window ledge with dead-drunk Haladdin slumped in an armchair held in his
outstretched arms), so his weapon of choice right then was a large wagon shaft that came to
hand. Only one of the four riders managed to back off in time; the rest fell where they met
that monstrous spinner.
     Even so the Rohirrim were not discouraged much. Six more riders materialized out of the
deepening gloom and formed a semi-circle bristling with spears. Kumai first tried to block
the way with one of the wagons, turning it by the rear axle, but saw that he would not be in
time. Stepping back a little and keeping the enemies in sight, he called over his shoulder:
     "Fire it, by damn!"
     "We're not done, sir!" someone responded from behind, "the large catapults are still dry!"
     "Fire what you can! The Westerners are here already!" he roared, and then addressed the
battle-ready Rohirrim in Common: "Hey, who's not a coward? Who'll meet the mountain
Troll in honest battle?"
     It worked! The rank broke, and a few seconds later a dismounted officer wearing the white
plumage of a cornet stood before him: "Are you ready, fair sir?" Kumai grabbed the pole by
the middle, made a quick forward lunge -- and found the Rohani less than two yards away;
the only thing that saved the Troll was that the light Rohan blade could not cut through the
pole which took the brunt of the blow. The engineer hastily backed inside the park, trying to
gain precious seconds, but was unable to break away: the cornet was fleet as a ferret, and
Kumai's chances with his clumsy weapon were about zero in close quarters. "Fire and run
like hell!" he yelled, seeing clearly that he was finished. Indeed, the next moment the world
exploded in a white flash of blinding pain and instantly faded into comforting dark. The
cornet's blow split his helmet clean apart, so he never saw how the very next second
everything around turned into a sea of flames -- his people did manage to finish the job... A
few seconds later the Rohirrim, backing away from the heat, saw their reckless officer
trudging from the depths of that roaring furnace, bent under the weight of the unconscious
Troll. "What the hell, cornet?" "I must know the name of this fair sir! He's a captive of my
spear, after all..."
     Kumai came to only three days later in a Rohani hospital tent, lying side by side with the
three riders he felled; the steppe warriors made no distinction between the wounded and
treated them all equally. Unfortunately, in this case it meant `equally bad:' the engineer's
head was in bad shape, but the only medicine he got during that time was a flagon of wine
brought by Cornet Jorgen who had captured him. The cornet voiced hope that once the
Engineer Second Class was healed he would honor him with another fight, preferably with a
weapon more traditional than a pole. Certainly he can be free within the confines of the
camp, on his word as an officer... However, a week later the Rohirrim left on the
Mordorian campaign, to win the crown of the Reunited Kingdom for Aragorn, and that same
day Kumai and all the other wounded were sent to the Mindolluin quarry. Gondor was
already a civilized country, unlike the backward Rohan...
How he managed to survive those first hellish days, with a busted head and a concussion
that kept sending him into pits of unconsciousness, was a total enigma; most likely it was
simply Trollish stubbornness, to spite the warders. All the same, Kumai had no illusions
regarding his fate. In his time, as required by the tradition of well-off Trollish families,
Kumai had followed the entire career path of a worker in his father's mines at Tzagan-Tzab,
from miner to surveyor's assistant. He knew enough about mining to understand that no one
was concerned with economics here; they were sent to Mindolluin to die, rather than earn
the quarry owners some profit. The daily food-to-production-quota ratio for Mordorian
prisoners was such as to be bald-faced `killing on an installment plan.'
By the third week, when some prisoners were already dead and the others managed to more
or less adapt to this murderous cadence (what else could they do?), an Elvish inspection
team swooped in. What shame, what barbarity! those folks carried on. Isn't it obvious that
these people are capable of a lot more than driving wheel-barrows? There are plenty of
experts in all kinds of trades here -- take them and use them properly, damn it! The
Gondorian bosses scratched their heads abashedly: "our bad, your eminences!" and instantly
conducted a skill survey. As a result, a few dozen lucky ones traded the hell of Mindolluin
for work in their chosen fields, leaving the quarry forever.
Whatever, the One be their judge... As for himself, Kumai did not think it proper to buy his
life by building heavier-than-air aircraft for the enemy (that being his trade): some things are
not to be done because they must not be done, period. An escape from Mindolluin was
obviously a pipe dream, and he saw no other ways to get out of here. In the meantime,
undernourishment was doing its work -- he became more and more apathetic. It is hard to
say how long he would have lasted in this mode -- maybe a week, maybe even six months
(but almost certainly not a year) -- were it not for Mbanga, the One rest his soul, who
managed to slam the door on his way out so spectacularly as to also solve all of Kumai's
problems once and for all.

     <h3>Chapter 35</h3>

     Close to evening a stranger visited the Mordorians' barrack where the Engineer Second
Class was being wracked by a consuming fever. He was wiry and quick in his movements,
his swarthy Southerner's face marked by decisiveness -- most likely an officer off an
Umbarian privateer who by a quirk of fate wound up at Mindolluin rather than dangling off
the yardarm of a royal galley. He stood for a minute over the bloody mess already presided
over by hordes of fat flies and grumbled to no one in particular: "Yeah, prob'ly a goner by
morning..." Then he disappeared, only to re-appear a half an hour later and, much to the
surprise of Kumai's fellow inmates, begin treating him. Ordering them to hold the patient
down, he started rubbing a yellowish ointment smelling sharply of camphor right into the
bleeding welts; the pain was enough to jerk Kumai back from wobbly unconsciousness, and
had he not been so weakened, his fellows would not have been able to keep him pinned
down. Pirate (as the prisoners took to calling him) kept working calmly, and just a few
minutes later the wounded man relaxed, melting with copious sweat, and sank into a real
sleep like a stone in a pond.
     The ointment was truly miraculous: by morning the welts had not only closed but started
itching like crazy -- a sure sign of healing. Only a few inflamed, and the Pirate, who showed
up before morning call, got to work on those. Kumai, mostly back to life by then, greeted
his savior gloomily:
     "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but surely you could've found a better use for your
wonderful medicine. What use is saving the one who's going to die soon anyway?"
     "Well, a man has to do stupid things from time to time, or stop being a man. Turn a bit...
yes... Bear this, engineer, it'll be better soon... Oh yes, speaking about doing stupid things.
Forgive my curiosity, but why have you stayed to die in this quarry? You could have been
sitting pretty in the King's labs in Minas Tirith right now."
Kumai grunted: "It's the simple wisdom of prostitutes I've followed all my life: don't hustle
while under a client..." and cut himself short when it suddenly occurred to him: how does
this guy know about my trade when I've told no one about it and have concealed it during
that `skill survey?'
     "A commendable stance," nodded Pirate without a shadow of a smile. "The most interesting
thing is that in our case it's also the most pragmatically correct one; actually, the only
correct one. You see, all those who have hustled back then are already dead, whereas you
will soon be free, with a bit of luck."
     "Dead? How do you know?"
     "I buried them myself, that's how. I'm a gravedigger here, you see."
Kumai digested this in silence for some time. The most horrible thing was his first thought:
good riddance! And then: my God, whom did I turn into here? He did not understand
Pirate's next words right away:
     "In other words, you made the right choice, mechanic Kumai. As you can see, the
Motherland had not forgotten you and has set up a special operation to save you. I am one
of the participants in this operation."
     "How?" He was totally dumbfounded. "What Motherland?"
     "What, do you have several?"
     "You're crazy! Someone really is ready to sacrifice a bunch of people just to get me out of
here?"
     "We are following orders," Pirate answered drily, "and it is not our business to decide what
is more important to Mordor: a spy network that took years to create or a certain Engineer
Second Class."
     "I'm sorry... By the way, somehow I haven't asked your name yet."
     "You did right -- you have no need to know it. Your escape will begin in a few minutes, and
no matter what happens, we'll never meet again."
     "In a few minutes?! Listen, I'm a lot better now, but hardly enough to... how am I supposed
to get past the outer guard?"
     "As a corpse, of course. Remember that I serve on the burial detail. Don't worry, you're
neither the first nor the last."
     "So all those who were..."
     "Alas, that job was for real. That was Elvish work, there was nothing we could do...
Anyway: you will now drink from this bottle and `die,' to all appearances, for about twelve
hours; after what happened to you yesterday, no one will be the wiser. The rest is technical
details that do not concern you."
     "What do you mean, don't concern me?"
     "Very simple. I advise you to supplement your wonderful `don't hustle when under the
client' principle with another one: `the less you know, the better you sleep.' Whatever you
need to know you will know when it's time. Drink, Kumai, time is of the essence."
The liquid in the bottle worked in seconds; the last thing he saw was Pirate's swarthy face
with a myriad of tiny scars around the lips.
     ...Kumai never found out what happened later to his `corpse' (six beats per minute pulse, no
visible reactions). Nor was there any reason for him to learn how he rode the corpse cart
under a pile of dead bodies, or how he lay in the nearby abandoned quarry under a layer of
gravel, awaiting transport. He came to in total darkness; everything's in order -- if Pirate
was right about the twelve hours, it should be night now. Where am I? A stable, to judge by
the smell... The moment he moved, an unfamiliar voice with a hard-to-place accent spoke:
     "Congratulations on your safe arrival, Engineer Second Class! You can relax -- the road
ahead is long, but the biggest danger is past."
     "Thank you, ah..."
     "Superintendant. Just Superintendant."
     "Thank you, Superintendant. That man, back in the quarry..."
     "He's all right. You don't need to know more."
     "Can I send him my regards?"
     "I doubt it. But I'll report your request."
     "Permission to ask a question?"
     "Permission granted."
     "Am I expected to create new weaponry?"
     "Certainly."
     "But my specialty is completely different!"
     "Do you intend to teach your superiors, Engineer Second Class?"
     "No, sir." He hesitated. "I'm just not sure..."
     "But the HQ is sure." The Superintendant's voice thawed a little. "After all, you won't be
working alone. There's a whole group there. Jageddin is the boss."
     "The Jageddin?!"
     "The very same."
     "Not bad..."
     Say what you want -- but there is a certain charm in not having to think about much and just
doing what you're told...
     "So, you just lie there and get better. Were it not for this stupid incident with the overseers,
you could've gotten started right now, but as it is, we'll have to wait."
     "You know, I'm well enough to go home, to Mordor, as it is."
The invisible man chuckled: "Why do you think you're going to Mordor?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "It's very simple, really. You're a wanted man, or at least we're anticipating such an
eventuality; as you've seen, the Elves are very thorough. Whereas you must work, rather
than hide -- two very different tasks."
     "All right; where, then?"
     "Think. What's the best place to stash stolen goods? In a policeman's attic. What's the
darkest spot? Right under the lamp. Get it?"
     "You mean to say..." Kumai said slowly; he felt cold in his gut, because all the pieces of the
wonderful puzzle that was his miraculous escape began to fit into a very different picture: a
clever ruse. "You mean to say that I'm staying here, in Gondor?"
     "No. To be honest, it would be tempting to hide you in Gondor, nor would it be too difficult
in any other time. We were working on this option, but had to abandon it. The thing is,
right now the King and the Queen are jockeying for position in Minas Tirith; both have their
own secret services which spy on each other, so it would be real easy to attract their
attention purely by accident. So, unfortunately, no local option for us. But the world is not
limited to Gondor and Mordor... By the way, were it the Reunited Kingdom trying to use
you, they would most likely have sent you to Mordor: between them, the army and the
counter-intelligence service of the victorious nation could have set up an `ivory tower' for
you bar none. Do you agree?"
     Silence fell for a couple of seconds.
     "Damn! Is it so obvious on my face?"
     "Without a doubt -- although I can't see your face in this dark. In other words, let the
experts worry about such things and do the job you know how to do, all right?"
     "Please accept my apologies, Superintendant."
     "Don't worry about it. As long as we're on the subject: the people you'll be working with at
that `university' got there in a variety of ways; many are your good friends. You can discuss
anything your heart desires with them -- student parties, news of the Resistance, philosophy --
anything but the story of how you got there. Loose talk on the subject can cost a lot of
people their lives -- both my colleagues, like our mutual friend in Mindolluin, and your
colleagues still in the hands of the enemy. I say this with utmost seriousness and
responsibility. Do you understand, Engineer Second Class?"
     "Yes, Superintendant."
     "Very good. Get well soon and move on."

     ***

     "Congratulations, Mongoose." Cheetah straightened up in his armchair and looked over the
Secret Guard lieutenant standing there at attention. "I have examined your report on
Operation Mockingbird. Six men rescued -- great job. The Service thanks you."
     "His Majesty's servant, sir!"
     "At ease, Lieutenant. Sit down, this is no parade ground. So the retreat from Mindolluin
happened under the emergency option?"
     "Yes, sir. The last man I've watched -- engineer Kumai, number thirty-six on our list -- got
into a stupid mess the day before the planned escape. The local warders turned him into
chopped liver, and I had to fix him up real fast; to be honest, first I thought that there was no
hope. I did save and extract him, but this completely exposed me: the snitches reported the
healing, and... In other words, your boys from the backup team showed up just in time."
     "Yeah," Cheetah grumbled and looked at the shabby walls of the safe house with visible
disgust, "quite in time... Two dead bodies, three wounded, Her Majesty's entire Secret
Service is frantically looking for a Mordorian spy: a swarthy man with small scars around
the mouth. Meanwhile, the police is looking for an escaped convict of the same
description... I think, lieutenant, that it's high time you changed climates; get packing to go
South, to work in Umbar."
     "Yes, Captain, sir!"
     "Here, examine this dossier. Baron Tangorn, Faramir's Umbarian resident before the war.
We have reasons to believe that he is doing the same thing we are doing -- looking for
Mordorian experts and documents for his prince; there are indications that soon he'll show
up in Umbar. Your task is to capture Tangorn and get all the information concerning this
Ithilienian venture out of him. His Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional
importance."
     "May I treat him harshly to get the information?"
     "It won't work in any other way; judging by this dossier, the baron is not the kind to buy his
life with the secrets he's been trusted with. In any case he'll have to be disposed of after the
interrogation, since we're formally allied with Ithilien, so this whole story must not become
known."
     "How will he come to Umbar -- in an official capacity or?.."
     "Most likely `or.' You have an important advantage: it appears that Tangorn doesn't know
that he's being hunted. He may even stay openly in a local hotel, at least at first, and then
his capture will not be a problem. But the baron is an old hand; if he detects something
amiss, he'll disappear in that city like a frog in a pond."
     "Understood. Will I operate independently, alone?"
     "Independently, but not alone. You'll have three sergeants -- choose them yourself, out of
our people. If you find him quick, that should be more than enough. But if you spook
him..."
     "That can't happen, Captain, sir!"
     "Anything can happen to anyone," Cheetah responded in annoyance, involuntarily glancing
at his foot. "Anyway, while searching in the city you may not ask the local station for help,
which is a great pity: they have a lot of manpower, and, more importantly, excellent contacts
in the local police..."
     "May I know why?"
     "Because we have information that the Elves are very active in Umbar and there's a strong
pro-Elvish underground there. Under no circumstances may L  rien find out about your
operation -- this is the strictest order -- and I'm concerned with leaks: our people are in the
shortest supply, and all the resident spies in Umbar are regular people..." Cheetah hesitated
a little and finished in a humdrum sort of tone: "You will have a G-mandate, just in case."
Mongoose looked up at the captain, as if to confirm what he heard. So this is what `His
Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional importance' means. A G-mandate
allows a member of the Secret Service to act in the name of the King. In overseas
operations this can be necessary for only two reasons: to give a direct order to the
ambassador or to depose (or eliminate on the spot) the local chief of station...

     <h2>PART III -- The Umbarian Gambit</h2>

     He was a self-made counter-terrorist, "part soldier, part copper, part villain," as he liked to say,
     and he belonged to the fabled generation of his trade. He had hunted Communists in Malaya
     and Mau Mau in Kenya, Jews in Palestine, Arabs in Aden, and the Irish everywhere.
     John LeCarre

     <h3>Chapter 36</h3>
     Umbar, the Fish Market
     June 2, 3019

     The shrimp were excellent. They sat on the tin plate like battle-ready triremes on the dim
morning surface of the Barangar Bay: spiky rostrums in the tangle of rigging (feelers)
threatening the enemy, oars (feet) hugging the body, just like they should in preparation for
boarding. Half a dozen per portion -- can't really handle any more of these genuinely `royal'
shrimp that barely fit in the palm; besides, the tangy juice that gave such a charm to the
sweetish pink flesh was biting his out-of-practice lips and fingertips. Tangorn glanced at the
awaiting tray with large coal-fried oysters: heat had split the large mossy stones a bit along
the seam, shyly showing their swarthy contents; the effect was charmingly obscene. Say
what you want, but nowhere in the world can they prepare seafood like they can in the small
taverns around the Fish Market, not even at the fashionable restaurants on the Three Stars
Embankment! Pity the sea slugs are not in season... He sighed and tackled another piquant
juicy shrimp, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's chatter.
     "...surely you can agree, Baron: your countries are just a tiny peninsula on the far north-
west of Arda that's way overestimating its importance. Moreover, it's inhabited by
paranoiacs who have convinced themselves that the rest of the world can think of nothing
else but how to conquer and enslave them. Please! Who the hell needs your sickly
toadstool-studded copses, your snows that don't melt for half a year, or that foamy brown
sourwater that you drink instead of wine?"
     Not that this dope's elocutions insulted Tangorn's patriotic sentiments (especially since most
of what he said was true), but such statements sounded very strange coming from a high-
placed official of the Foreign Ministry of the Umbar Republic; particularly so considering
that their meeting was the official's idea. The baron was not very surprised when this
morning the appropriately obsequious proprietor of the Lucky Anchor hotel where he was
staying has handed him an envelope plastered all over with assorted state seals. Well, it has
been three days since he had showed up in Umbar, where he had acquired -- how shall we
put it? -- an ambiguous but indisputably colorful reputation; it was quite natural for the
Assistant State Secretary Gagano (at the urging of Alkabir, chief of the Northern Countries
section) to request a confidential meeting with the guest from Ithilien. As a result, Tangorn
has been `considering' this idiot's rude diatribes for a good quarter of an hour... Stop! he
told himself; is he really such an idiot as he pretends to be? Let's feel him out... try
something innocuous.
     "Well, `a tiny peninsula that's way overestimating its importance' -- that's pretty well said,"
the baron acknowledged good-naturedly, "but I have to take issue with the last point of your
indictment, regarding `brown sourwater.' Believe it or not, not half a minute ago I was
thinking about how nice it'd be to pair a couple of pints of our good old bitter with these
shrimp! One that's black and sour like pitch, with foam thick enough to hold up a small
coin..." He smiled dreamily and gestured at the other man with tired condescension.
     "Mister Assistant State Secretary, you simply can't imagine a real Gondorian bitter. The
first, longest swallow leaves a vanishing aftertaste of smoke on your tongue, like what you
can smell in a park when they burn last year's leaves in the spring; not for naught is it called
smoked beer..."
     Mister Assistant State Secretary responded to the effect that he knew his beers no worse than
the natives, having worked in the Northern Countries division for many years; he was
likewise conversant with all kinds of seal blubber so prized by the lossoths inhabiting the
banks of the Bay of Forochel. Yeah... many years in the Northern Countries division, right.
It's no crime to deeply despise foreigners, but why demonstrate these feelings to them so
brazenly? And as for the fact that the archaically top-fermented bitters and stouts have not
been brewed outside of Eriador for the last hundred years, and that the famous smoked beer
is not even a bitter, but a lager with specially caramelized hops -- no, a specialist has no right
not to know such things about a country he's supposed to work with! Say what you want,
but the exceedingly smart and cautious Alkabir has strange employees these days.
So why did they want to meet him? First guess: to get him out of his hotel room in order to
check his luggage for messages, letters of introductions, and such. Well, such cheap tricks
would be in style for the dumb boy scouts from the Gondorian station, but the Umbarian
Secret Service, as far as he could remember, worked in much subtler ways. Second guess:
Alkabir is letting him know on behalf of the Foreign Ministry that the Republic has
abandoned its age-old practice of temporary alliances balancing opposing forces, and has
decided to surrender to the strongest -- that'd be Gondor -- therefore it is pointedly refusing
meaningful contact with the Ithilien emissary (undoubtedly that's who they think he is).
Third guess, the most likely one: Alkabir is letting him know that while the Republic had
indeed abandoned the said age-old practice, there are powerful forces that disagree with this
decision, and the `Ithilien emissary' should deal with them, rather than with the Foreign
Ministry and other official channels, which the pompous ass Gagano is supposed to
personify. The main thing is that regardless of which of these guesses is correct, it's not the
right time to go to the Blue Palace waving his diplomatic papers (had he actually had any).
Here Tangorn had to laugh: so I don't believe that Alkabir sent Gagano without his choice
being a hidden message, while Alkabir doesn't believe that I'm really retired and not
Faramir's fully empowered representative, however unofficial. Both of these pictures,
though resting as they do on fairly tenuous assumptions, are internally consistent, so it's not
entirely clear which facts might convince either one of us otherwise...
     "What's so funny, Baron?" the Assistant State Secretary inquired haughtily.
     "Nothing much, just an amusing thought... Anyway, we've gone on talking for a bit too
long, you're probably expected back at the office. A simple traveler such as myself
shouldn't distract such an important person for so long. Thank you so much for the edifying
conversation. And, if it's not too much trouble, please convey the following to dearest
Alkabir -- literally, please, with nothing added -- I have fully appreciated his decision to
appoint specifically Assistant State Secretary Gagano to conduct talks with me, but I'm
afraid that the guys at 12 Shore Street are too simple-minded to appreciate such
subtleties..."
     Tangorn cut himself off because at the mention of the Gondorian embassy his interlocutor
glanced around furtively (as if expecting to find a couple of His Majesty's Secret Guards in
full parade black uniforms at the nearest table, their torture instruments arranged right there
on the tablecloth) and dashed for the exit, mumbling excuses. A solitary merchant-looking
gentleman thoughtfully consuming sea urchin eggs at a nearby table looked up at the baron,
his face an appropriate mixture of confusion, uncertainty, and fear. Tangorn smiled back,
pointed at the receding State Secretary and quite sincerely shrugged and sadly twirled a
finger next to his temple. Then he pulled the cooling oyster plate close (why waste good
food?), expertly pulled the mollusk from its apparently impregnable fortress, and lost
himself in thought.
     The grand building on Shore Street that now housed the Reunited Kingdom's embassy
(although it would have been more appropriate to label it the Umbar branch of the Secret
Guard) deservedly had the most ominous reputation among the citizenry. Minas Tirith
considered the imminent annexation of Umbar a done deal, calling it nothing but `a pirate
haven on the ancestral lands of South Gondor.' The ambassador was readying himself to
become the governor without much ado, while the people of the spy station already behaved
like they owned the place. They called themselves `spies' although in reality they were
nothing but a band of thugs; looking at them, Tangorn felt like a noble bandit of the classic
school next to a gang of underage punks. People disappearing and torture-disfigured
corpses surfacing in the canals were now commonplace; until recently the Umbarians could
console themselves that the victims were mostly Mordorian immigrants, but a recent attempt
on the famous Admiral Carnero dispelled those illusions.
     In other words, Aragorn's embassy was a formidable institution, no doubt about that, but
that its mere mention would so scare a high-ranking official during performance of his
duties... no, something's off here. Unless... unless this dude works for the Gondorians!
Aha! So he thought that I've figured him out and would turn him in. Man, that was a
propitious joke, pure fool's luck! But Aragorn's men's nerves are in bad shape for some
reason. I wonder where I could actually turn in a traitor in this city, where the police is
either solidly bought or else scared spitless, while the Gondorian embassy could issue direct
orders to administration officials if it so wished? Of course, there's also the local secret
service and the military, but amazingly those, too, are behaving as if nothing going on has
anything to do with them... Whatever, to hell with this Gagano, I have quite a few of my
own problems now! That my modest person is now of interest to the Gondorian spies is bad
enough.
     What the devil! he thought, sipping suddenly tasteless wine. Why do they all think that I'm
here with the mandate of an ambassador plenipotentiary of the Princedom of Ithilien sewn
into my pants, and an offer of a defense treaty? All right, suppose that my countrymen are
merely giving me a gentle warning not to contact the Republic's authorities officially. I'm
willing to abide by this warning religiously, seeing as how it doesn't impede my actual
plans. Damn, wouldn't it be lovely to let them all know the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth: guys, I really am not interested in getting involved in the Gondor-
Umbar mess! I have a totally different job: to establish real contact with the Elvish
clandestine structures here in under three weeks, knowing nothing but a single name we got
from Eloar's letter -- Elandar...
     Tangorn finished his wine, tossed his last Umbarian silver coin with Castamir's haughty
profile on the table (Sharya-Rana gave them the locations of several secret money caches,
but he avoided paying with golden dungans of Mordor) and headed for the exit, limping
slightly. The sea urchin connoisseur at the nearby table has also finished his meal and
unhurriedly wiped first his fingers and then his lips (thin and slightly puckered with a
multitude of tiny scars around them) with a handkerchief -- attention! Three sailors were
concentrating on their clam chowder at the table right next to the door; one of them casually
moved an open bottle of Barangar red to the edge of the table -- ready! Tangorn would
reach the tavern door in six or seven seconds, which was all the time that lieutenant
Mongoose of the Secret Guard had to decide whether to improvise and capture the baron
right now or stick to the original carefully worked out plan. Who would have thought that
his agent Gagano would blow it so stupidly?
     All he had to do was hint to Tangorn in the name of the Foreign Ministry that his official
accreditation would be untimely (the lieutenant had absolutely no desire to abduct a
diplomat of a foreign and nominally allied state); the assistant state secretary managed that
quite well. Unfortunately, he was cowardly (even his recruitment was accomplished with
blackmail over really trivial matters), so Mongoose's demand that he keep this assignment
secret from his case officer at the station plunged the Umbarian into utter dread. He knew
very well that at 12 Shore Street they would judge such `forgetfulness' as double-dealing,
with all proper consequences. Gagano shuddered with fear at the mere thought of either of
his Gondorian masters, and so fell apart after Tangorn's shot in the dark.
No, Mongoose said to himself, don't jump at it. Nothing terrible has happened yet. Yes, the
baron had surely figured out that his interlocutor is connected to Gondorian spies, but most
likely he will interpret that as Minas Tirith's desire to curtail Emyn Arnen's diplomatic
activity... All right, we'll let him go and stick to the original plan. The lieutenant put the
handkerchief back in his pocket -- rather than dropping it on the table -- and Tangorn went by
the sailors at the door without a hindrance. He mixed with the street crowds and unhurriedly
headed to the waterfront; he checked for surveillance twice but saw none.
Indeed, there was none: Mongoose took the sane view that right then it was most important
not to spook their quarry. In just a few hours they will be fully ready for the operation,
when they receive two genuine Umbar police uniforms. This very evening a police detail
will visit the Lucky Anchor hotel, present a properly executed warrant and ask him to come
to the local station to testify... and they will not let the baron die before he tells them
everything he knows about the Ithilienian intelligence service's accomplishments in the hunt
for Mordorian technology.

     <h3>Chapter 37</h3>

     Probably no one will ever know