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…”
“Why, Baron, I’m extremely grateful to you,” Algali bowed with exaggerated ceremoniousness. “Were it not for your intervention, my end would’ve been tragic, indeed. Would you believe that these people have decided that I belong to some kind of an Elvish organization…”
“Now let’s look at this from my vantage point. Forgive me, but I’ll assume that my Gondorian ‘colleagues’ were not mistaken… Don’t interrupt me!” There was a commanding clang of metal in the mashtang’s voice. “So: I have come to Umbar from Ithilien on a special mission to establish contact with the Elves and convey certain vital information to them – for a price, of course. Unfortunately, Aragorn has learned about my mission and is trying to prevent the transfer of this information, since for him it’s also a matter of life and death. His Secret Guard is hunting me. Three days ago they tried to arrest me at the Seahorse Tavern, and we’ve been playing cat-and-mouse all around the city ever since. The mouse has turned out to be a scorpion, so these games have so far cost them seven dead – eight, including this one.” He nodded nonchalantly towards the jester. “Anyway, tonight I finally discovered one of their hideouts – 4 Lamp Street – and naturally decided to pay them a visit. What do I find? I find the Secret Guardsmen interrogating – so attentively as to neglect guarding the place – a man whom they believe to belong to the very same Elvish network I’ve been trying to locate for the last two weeks without success. So which of the two coincidences looks more suspicious to you?”
“Well, speaking theoretically…”
“Of course, purely theoretically – we have agreed to stipulate your membership in the Elvish network only for the purposes of this discussion. In any event, I’m inclined to believe your story; to be honest, I have no options. First, you need to hide…”