The Last Ringbearer

“You bored, lass?”

“Keep moving,” the girl responded indifferently in a husky but pleasant voice. “I’m not in the business, buddy.”

“Not in the business, or haven’t had a decent offer yet? Don’t you worry, I pay real well!” With a laugh, as if jokingly, he grabbed her hand with an iron grip.

The girl responded with a short tirade that would easily make a pirate bosun blush, freed her hand from the caravaner’s paw with one precise learned movement, and quickly stepped back into the alleyway between a patched tent and a rickety reed-mat pavilion. Actually, there is nothing difficult about that – you have to pull away strictly in the direction of the assailant’s thumb tip – but it is impressive the first time around and usually leads to proper conclusions. This time, though, the agitated caravan-bashi (some little whore will play hard-to-get with me?!) stampeded into the alleyway after his elusive prey.

Not half a minute later the Khandian was back to the plaza. He was stepping gingerly now, almost tip-toeing, hugging his right hand to his belly with his left and quietly moaning. Sorry, man, you screwed up. It is child’s play for even a rookie DSD operative to dislocate the thumb of a hand extended in a threat, and the girl was far from a rookie. A short time afterwards Fay (as she was known to her colleagues in the Department) was back to her assigned section of the plaza, but the unlucky caravaner would not have recognized her even were he to bump into her: the young whore was gone, replaced by a water-selling boy – ragged and dirty-faced, but with no sign of a black eye, and it is precisely such distinctive features that observers typically notice. She was back to her post just in time: the blind beggar sitting at the very entrance to the dam whined: “Help me if you can, kind folks!” instead of his usual “Kind folks, help me if you can!” – a ‘come here’ signal.

Of course, Fay remembered their quarry’s description (brown-haired northerner, six feet tall, gray eyes, thirty-two but looks younger, slight right limp) word for word, despite only working operation support today, reporting directly to the blind beggar who worked recognition. Of course, she had no idea that the blind beggar was the Vice-Director for Operations himself, just like she had no knowledge of the stern warning Jacuzzi had received the day before – that if his Tangorn-catching venture did not bear fruit within a day, he would not get away with just being fired without a pension. With a piercing “Water, water, cold water with ice!” the girl slipped expertly into the crowd, trying to figure out who had attracted the chief’s attention.

A cart loaded with what appeared to be sacks of corn was just entering the dam. A tall slender mountain man of about twenty-eight to thirty led a couple of mules pulling it; the gap between his raspberry fez and the pavement was exactly the required six feet. As for everything else… even discounting the lack of a limp (which could have been a distractive ruse like her erstwhile black eye), the man’s eyes were definitely not gray. What about the sacks? The sacks are a serious possibility, which is why the baron has no hopes there. To get past the dam in a barrel or a sack is too obvious a move; it is so overused, banal, and ridiculed that its very kitschiness might tempt Tangorn, who is known for his paradoxical solutions. This is why the customs inspectors are working especially hard today (a rumor about undercover Treasury auditors had been planted among them), and a specially trained dog surreptitiously checks every single cart (which move very slowly because of the road repairs).

Having thus ruled out both the sacks and their owner, Fay glanced sharply at a team of mounted gendarmes with their catch – six mountain men chained in pairs – that had cut into the line (“Watch out! Move back – want some whip?”), made sure they looked all right and looked beyond them. Ah, so that’s it!

A group of Hakimian pilgrims returning home from Shavar-Shavan – a traditional three- week pilgrimage to one of their mountain shrines. About thirty people with their faces hooded as a sign of contrition, almost a half of them either epileptics or handicapped, including lameness. A truly ideal cover – even if they recognize the baron (practically impossible), how will they extract him from the crowd of pilgrims? By force, employing the team of ‘road workers?’ That will start a melee that doesn’t bear thinking about, not to mention a possible deadly clash between Hakimians and Aritanians tomorrow in the city. Entice him to move aside? How? These thoughts almost caused Fay to miss the moment when ‘her’ blind man got up, yielding his lucrative spot to another member of the beggars guild, and followed the pilgrims, his cane clacking on the pavement; this meant that he had recognized Tangorn with certainty.

A few moments later Fay morphed from a water-carrier into a guide. The two mountain men that together with the hapless caravan-bashi had been ogling the dancer were following a little behind (one of them was Ras-Shua, DSD’s resident spy on the Peninsula), followed by a strange group of two shady-looking young men and a worn customs official. Lunch time had arrived for the road workers; they began heading into town, too. The trap on the dam had worked flawlessly, thanks to the old hand Jacuzzi.

“Girl, he did a great job. The idea is excellent, I applaud him. To be honest, it was pure dumb luck that I recognized him; the rest of our guys just plain missed him. Too bad he’s not playing on our side…” The Vice-Director’s voice was almost tender: a victory invites both magnanimousness and self-criticism. He remembered the little cafe on Great Castamir’s Square, the goblet of Nurnen he had drunk to the gondolier’s success, and his verdict: “He is, indeed, an amateur – a brilliant and lucky one, but he’ll be lucky once or twice and the third time he’ll break his neck…” Now is the third time – no one can stay lucky forever.

“How did you recognize him under the hood?”

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

“I’m sorry?”

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

“But the gendarmes…”

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

Chapter 51

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

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