The Last Ringbearer

Here, help me pick him up,” the gymnast crouched by the still stargazer, “I’ll manage the hundred yards to our door somehow.”

…The stargazer’s surfacing from his drugged stupor was slow and labored, but the moment he stirred he got his nostrils pinched and a draught of cola-based stimulant poured down his throat – time was short, the interrogation could not wait. He coughed and hacked (some of the burning liquid went down the wrong pipe) and opened his eyes. The first glance told him clearly enough the predicament he was in: a windowless room (but still more likely a ground floor than a basement), two men wearing carnival outfits of a gymnast and a jester; wait, wait… yes, these two had danced in the same procession with him, and then – right! – the gymnast gave him some wine to drink from a glass flask with merry eastern dragons on its sides. And an excellent wine it was, except two draughts knocked him out to then find himself who knows where with his arms securely tied to an armchair, with a nausea- inducing array of tools in a large tin bowl on a stool in front of him. A cold hand seemed to grab his guts at a mere look at them. How’s this possible – he remembers the gymnast drinking from the same flask? An antidote? Actually, who cares, the most important part is who these guys are – the Department or 12 Shore Street? He looked away, at the fire-lit masked face of the jester, who was busily stirring the coals in a large floor censer, and shuddered almost violently enough to spasm his back muscles.

The gymnast broke the silence: “Mister Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, if I’m not mistaken?” He was sitting a bit away, attentively looking at the prisoner.

“You’re not mistaken. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?” The Junior Secretary had gathered his wits and displayed only surprise with no outward sign of fear.

“My name will mean nothing to you. I represent the Secret Guard of the Reunited Kingdom and hope to work with you. The set-up here is not as diverse as the one at 12 Shore Street, of course, but the basement is almost as good.”

“Your recruiting methods are rather strange.” Algali shrugged, and something akin to relief showed in his face. “You should realize already that it’s much easier to buy than to rob here, in the South. You want me for your network? Sure! Why stage this stupid show?”

“The show was not as stupid as it might seem. The thing is, what we need is not the Khand- related information that you have access to at work, but something very different.”

The Junior Secretary raised a questioning eyebrow: “I don’t understand.”

“Quit mucking around – you’ve already understood everything, unless you’re an idiot. We need the Elvish network of which you’re a part – names, safe houses, passwords. Well?”

“Elvish network? Have you guys sniffed too much kokkaine?” Algali grunted nonchalantly – too nonchalantly, given the situation.

“Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I’d much rather not have to use any of this,” the gymnast gestured towards the bowl and the censer, “but there are only two options here. Option one: you tell us everything you know, then go home and keep working with us. Option two is you tell us everything you know with our help,” another nod at the censer, “but then you won’t leave here. You can imagine how you’ll look afterwards, so why traumatize your Elvish friends? I like option one better; how about you?”

“So do I, but I have nothing to tell you either way. You’ve made a mistake, I’m not the person you want.”

“Is that your last word? I mean – the last before we begin?” “Yes. It’s a mistake, I’ve never heard of any Elvish network.”

“You just blew it, buddy!” the gymnast chortled in satisfaction. “See, were you a regular Umbarian official, you’d either be having hysterics now or inventing this network out of your head on the spot. We’d be catching your inconsistencies, you’d then be lying anew… but you aren’t even trying to buy time. So even if I had any doubts about you before, I don’t now. Got any objections?”

Algali was silent – there was nothing to say and no need to say anything. Most importantly, a strange tranquility descended on him. The Power of which he was a part came to his rescue; he felt its presence almost physically as a touch of a mother’s warm hands: “Please endure it, son! It won’t be too terrible and you have to endure it for only a short time. Don’t be afraid, for I am here with you!” Amazingly, the gymnast detected the invisible presence of this Power, too: one glance at Algali’s serene smile was enough for him to understand that the damn kid has just slipped through his fingers. Once beyond his power, he could do anything to him now – the prisoner will die without saying a word. This happens rarely, but it does happen. Then he simply punched the man tied to the armchair in the face, putting all his fury into the blow: “Son of a bitch, Elvish whore!” thereby acknowledging his defeat.

“An Elvish whore? How interesting!”

Nobody had noticed when a fourth man, this one dressed like a mashtang bandit, slipped through the door. The mashtang’s sword, however, was definitely not of costume quality; an application of its hilt to the gymnast’s skull immediately put the latter out of commission. The jester had the time to back away and get his blade out, but this did not help him: he was hopelessly outclassed as a fencer, so in less than ten seconds the guest cut open the host’s chest with a long diagonal lunge, splattering blood in all directions, including on the stargazer. After carefully wiping the sword with a rag he picked up from the floor, the mashtang gazed at the prisoner with gloomy surprise:

“As I understand it, fair sir, these guys were trying to implicate you as belonging to the Elvish underground. Is that so?”

Chapter 46

“I don’t understand.” Algali’s diction left much to be desired; he was feeling his teeth with his tongue, trying to assess the damage.

“Damn it, young man, I’m not enough of an idiot to ask you whether you’re part of an underground! I’m asking – what did the men from Aragorn’s Secret Guard want with you?”

Algali was silently trying to assess the situation. The whole thing reeked of a badly staged play, complete with the valiant white-clad rescuer arriving out of a chimney at the precise moment when the princess is already in the hands of the hairy bandit chief but somehow has not yet been deflowered. At least, it would appear this way if not for a couple of things: the sword with which the mashtang has already cut his bonds was real, and so had the thrust to the jester’s chest been (judging by the sound), and the blood Algali wiped from his right cheek was real blood rather than cranberry juice. It did look like he got mixed up into someone else’s spat; in any case, it won’t get any worse than it already is.

“By the way, I am Baron Tangorn. What’s your name, fair youngster?”

“Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, at your service.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. Let’s analyze this situation. My sudden appearance in this house has to look staged – such coincidences happen only in books – so I look a very suspicious character to you…”