Faramir took these conclusions to a special session of the Royal Council in another of his attempts to prove, facts in hand, that the much-belabored ‘Mordorian threat’ was nothing but a myth. The Council, as usual, listened respectfully, understood nothing, and ruled on the matter by addressing the prince with its by now familiar litany of reprimands and instructions. These boiled down to two points: “gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail” and “your spies have gotten lazy and do no real work.” Thereafter Grager’s memorandum was sent to the archives, where it gathered dust with the Faramir’s intelligence service’s other reports until catching the eye of Gandalf during a visit to Minas Tirith…
When the war began exactly following their script, Tangorn realized with horror that it was all his doing.
“…’The World is Text,’ eh, man – just the way you like it. What’s your problem?” Grager smirked woodenly, pouring yet another shot of either tequila or some other moonshine with an unsteady hand.
“But we wrote a different Text, you and I, totally different!”
“Whaddya mean – different? My dear aesthete, a text exists only in its interaction with a reader. Everyone writes their own story of Princess Allandale, and whatever Alrufin himself wanted to say is absolutely irrelevant. Looks like we managed to create a real work of art, since the readers,” the resident waved a finger near his ear, so it was impossible to say whether he meant the Royal Council or some really Higher Powers, “managed to read it in this rather unexpected way.” “We betrayed them… We got played like little kids, but that’s no excuse – we betrayed them…” Tangorn repeated, staring fixedly into the murky opalescent depths of his glass.
“Yep – it’s no excuse… Another one?”
He could not figure out which day of their binge it was – not considering themselves in any service, they did not keep track. They started the day the head of the trading house Algoran & Co. heard of the war and raced to Umbar, running down several horses, and learned the details from him. Strangely, they more or less held up when apart, but now, looking each other in the eye, they recognized clearly and at once – this was the end of all they held dear, and they have destroyed it with their own hands. Two well-meaning idiots… Then there was the nightmarish nauseating hung-over dawn when he awoke because Grager poured a pitcher of ice-cold water over him. Grager looked his usual self, quick and sure-footed, so his bloodshot eyes and several days’ growth of beard seemed a part of some not too successful disguise.
“Up!” he informed drily. “We’re in business again. We’ve been summoned to Minas Tirith to brief the Royal Council on the possibilities of a separate peace with Mordor. Immediately and with utmost secrecy, of course… Hot damn, maybe we can still fix something! His Majesty Denethor is a practical ruler; looks like he, too, needs this war like a fish needs an umbrella.”
They have worked on their document for three days with almost no sleep or food, running on coffee alone, putting all their souls and all their expertise into it – they had no right to a second mistake. It was a true masterpiece: a meld of unassailable logic and inerrant intuition based on an intimate knowledge of the East, expressed in a brilliant literary language capable of touching every heart; it was the road to peace with an exhaustive description of the dangers and traps lining that road. On his way to the port Tangorn found a minute to drop in on Alviss: “I’m going to Gondor – only for a short while, so don’t feel lonely!”
She paled and said almost inaudibly: “You’re going to war, Tan. We’re separating for a long time, most likely forever… could you not say a proper good-bye, at least?”
“What’re you talking about, Aly?” he was sincerely puzzled. He hesitated for a couple of seconds then decided to breach security: “To be honest, I’m going there to stop this stupid war. In any case I hate it and I’m not about to play those games, by the halls of Valinor!”
“You’re going to war,” she repeated despondently, “I know that for sure. I’ll be praying for you… Please go now, don’t look at me when I’m like this.”
When their ship had passed the gloomy stormy shores of South Gondor and entered the Anduin, Grager muttered through clenched teeth: “Picture this: we show up in Minas Tirith and they stare at us: ‘Who are you guys? What Royal Council – are you crazy? It must be some joke, nobody called for you.”
But it was no joke. Indeed, they were impatiently expected right at the Pelargir pier: “Baron Grager? Baron Tangorn? You’re under arrest.” Only their own could have taken the two best spies of the West so easily.
Chapter 39
“Now tell us, Baron, exactly how you sold the Motherland over there, in Umbar.”
“Maybe I’d sell it, on sober reflection, but who the hell would buy such a motherland?”
“Let the record reflect: suspect Tangorn admits planning to switch to the enemy’s side and didn’t do it only because of circumstances beyond his control.”
“Yeah, that’s it: maybe he was planning something, but didn’t manage to do anything. Put it down like that.”
“Just the documents you brought are enough to have you drawn and quartered – all those ‘overtures of peace’!”
“They were written at the direct order of the Royal Council.”
“We’ve heard this fairy tale already. Can you show us this order?”
“Dammit, I must have calluses on my tongue already from telling you: it came under the G- mandate, and such documents are to be destroyed after reading!”
“Gentlemen, I do believe it’s beneath us to plumb the customs of thieves and spies…”
This ‘investigation’ has been dragging on for two weeks already. Not that the spies’ guilt or their impending sentence were in any doubt on either side; it was just that Gondor had the rule of law. This meant that an out-of-favor nobleman could not be simply sent to the gallows with only a flick of the royal wrist; proper formalities had to be observed. Most importantly, Tangorn never had a feeling that what was happening was unfair. That traitorous feeling had sometimes undone many brave and straight-thinking individuals, causing them to write useless and demeaning pleas to the authorities. The spies were about to be executed not in error or on a false report, but precisely for what they did do – for trying to stop a useless war their country did not need; everything was honest and above board and no one was to blame. So when Tangorn was roused from his cot one night (“Out, with your possessions!”), he did not know what to think.
In the prison office he and Grager saw the Chief Warden of the Pelargir prison and Prince Faramir, dressed in the field fatigues of a regiment unknown to them. The Warden was glum and perplexed; clearly, he was being forced to make some very unpleasant decision.
“Can you read?” the prince was inquiring coldly.
“But your order…”
“Not mine – the Royal order!” “Yes, sir, the Royal order! Well, it says here that you’re forming a special volunteer regiment for especially dangerous operations behind enemy lines and are empowered to recruit criminals, like it says here, ‘even right off the gallows.’ But it doesn’t say here that this includes people charged with treason and collaboration with the enemy!”
“Nor does it say the opposite. What’s not forbidden is permitted.”
“Yes, sir, strictly speaking that’s true.” Tangorn deduced from the fact that a mere warden was addressing the heir to the throne of Gondor simply as ‘sir,’ rather than ‘Your Highness,’ that the prince’s fortunes were in real bad shape. “But that’s an obvious oversight! After all, I have a responsibility… in time of war… Motherland’s safety…” The official perked up a bit, having found something to fall back on at last. “In other words, I can’t permit this without a written approval.”