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.
Chapter 35
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.”